#new women (derogatory) and ‘but those are men’s clothes!!’

[millidew]

rip lucy and mina you would’ve loved farcille. rip marcille you would’ve loved westenray (falin lost interest and fell asleep before finishing the book)

[talisidekick]

"your trans daughter is having her first makeover" lmfao you are so rightwing it's revolting. girls shouldn't be using make up full stop. none of them. makeup is capitalist misogynistic nonsense. any trans women in makeup needs to be shot for choosing to join in with a humiliation ritual forced upon the female sex. all makeup must be banned, all high heels must be banned, all shapewear and cosmetic surgery and foundation and shaving and tight clothing and femininity must be banned. there is no place for performances of femininity in a liberated world. femininity is a y chromosome invention and no woman enjoys it without being brainwashed to fear social punishment for not doing it. trans women choosing to do it makes them rightwing traitors and in a fair world they'd be put on the terrorism register for their obvious anti-woman politics.

Okay, so let me just rephrase this in point form:

You think transgender women should die for participating in femininity because,

Femininity is an oppressive tool against cisgender women (as defined by your use of 'female sex') created by those with a Y chromosome (by earlier stated logic, this means men).

Meaning ...

You think transgender women are men (because you define men and women by rigid sex definitions) that are participating in gender stereotypes to be derogatory towards cisgender women, and thus all transgender women who act and look like feminine women and not act and look like masculine men should be killed to let cisgender women (as defined solely by chromosomes to grossly include transgender men and transmasculine individuals) be the only women.

You are not only transphobic, you're sexist, and intersexist. You're hiding behind terms like 'liberation' despite clearly not valuing freedoms like self-expression, self-determination, and individual agency (the freedom of choice) which are liberalist and by extension leftist values, and levelling accusations of right-wing leaning politics despite you yourself promoting the rigid sex-based definitions that conflate concepts like gender and sex commonly upheld in right-wing politics as a means to oppress, and upholding the right-wing framing of men (as defined by solely by sex) as stronger and women (as solely defined by sex) as weaker.

As for defending my post on not being shitty to your trans children, I don't think I need to because you aren't faithfully interacting with what I said. It shows because there's underlying context in that conservative parents who uphold and restrict activities based on sex-based divisions of gender are more likely to exhibit the behaviour I described. Meaning, engaging in gender stereotypes that oppose the sex-based restrictions conservative families impose on gender would be new and unexplored territory for a transgender child living with such parents. This is clear to anyone engaging honestly with my post. It would take a weird and fucking creepy ass individual to miss that and then decide it's me upholding sex-based gender stereotypes instead of me dismantling the idea of sex-based gender ideals to allow a child (of any age) the freedom to explore, express, and self-identify.

Can someone please send me an ask thats a question and not just more shittily veiled transphobia. Please.

[coochiequeens]

This is the perfect example of how transwomen have male socialization. He does something tasteless and gets criticized by women. And instead of looking inward and asking himself if there are more productive ways of breaking down gender roles (like maybe showing himself doing laundry and how to take care of clothes instead of collecting more props) he calls the women hateful.

A controversial male social media influencer is sparking backlash after an Instagram video he made scolding women began to circulate on social media. In the video, Jeffery Marsh, who identifies as non-binary, addressed a past sponsorship he had been offered to promote tampons and other feminine hygiene products.

Last month, Marsh posted a video to his Instagram page speaking to “the ladies of Twitter, especially” over “hate” he received for a tampon ad campaign he took part in. After being uploaded to other social media platforms, the video began to spark backlash, amassing hundreds of critical comments from women concerned about female erasure.

In the video, Marsh addresses the “hate” he received for a paid campaign he took part in with feminine hygiene product brand This is L. The partnership had actually taken place in 2020, but had recently begun receiving new attention after images from the photoshoot with Marsh were shared on Twitter once again.

As new comments began to pile under his campaign photos, Marsh filmed a video addressing his reasons for taking part in a tampon promotion. 

“I made the video for 2 reasons. So that women would feel less stigmatized, so that people who menstruate would feel less stigmatized,” Marsh said, noting that menstruation is often seen as “gross, disgusting, a joke” by “cis” men. 

Calling himself a “non-binary person who does not menstruate,” Marsh claimed his intentions behind taking the paid gig were to help end the stigma associated with periods. He continued: “And then the hate came for me,” and scolded the women who took issue with his participation in the tampon promotion, claiming that they were “policing” gender by criticizing him.

“We should be working together. The more you police your gender role the more you are policing the idea that one gender role is the best. I will keep fighting for your rights even if you hate me to my core because women are not second class citizens.”

Marsh’s claimed reasons for his participation in the ad campaign fell flat on social media, with many pointing out that Marsh frequently uses the term “TERF” when addressing women who vocally support the basic rights and safeguarding of women and children. TERF – an acronym standing for “trans exclusionary radical feminist” – is often used in a derogatory fashion and coupled with threats and abuse.

Jeffrey Marsh is well-known amongst advocates for women’s rights and child safeguarding due to his catalogue of videos denying the existence of biological sex, as well as those where he directly addresses the “kids” in his audience. Marsh has advocated people to go “no contact” with families or relatives who invalidate their gender identity, and has advised parents to provide“gender affirming care” for their children.

Marsh’s most recent video on his past collaboration also referenced popular trans-identified male influencer Dylan Mulvaney, who similarly defended his decision to become a spokesperson for Tampax last year. Both Tampax and This is L, the brand Marsh promoted, are owned by mega-conglomerate Proctor & Gamble. 

In 2020, This is L partnered with the Phluid Project in a promotional video featuring individuals of varying “gender identities” to spread the message that periods are not specific to females. Amongst the “queer” influencers who shilled their “gender neutral” menstrual products were Blair Imani and Alok Vaid-Menon. 

Phluid is a “gender free” clothing and lifestyle brandbased in New York which also often involves itself in trans activism. On its website, Phluid states that it “…support[s] the most at risk of the LGBTQIA+ community [by] supporting trans-led organizations.” Phluid has provided direct support to the Sylvia Rivera Law Project, which provides assistance to incarcerated males who wish to change their gender or be moved to a women’s institution. 

Among the inmates the SRLP has worked with are convicted child murderer Synthia Chyna Blast, who was invited to be part of their prisoner action committee, and Xena Grandichelli, who raped a toddler yet assisted with SRLP’s community outreach. 

This is L also features multiple partners on their site, most of which equally propagate that women are not the only ones who menstruate. In particular, the Period Project, which strongly advocates for “gender neutral” language around menstruation.

On its website, the Period Project writes: “Not all women menstruate, and not all menstruators are women. At The Period Project, we are dedicated to supporting all menstruators, and we want to make sure our fight for menstrual equity is gender inclusive. We use the term ‘menstruators’ to refer to all people who experience menstruation, including cisgender, transgender, nonbinary, and genderfluid individuals.”

[paganminiskirt]

LEGION PRIESTESSES

(Much of this was influenced by a collection of headcanons by @fanthings which you can check out here.)

Within most major settlements in the undisputed territories of Caesar’s Legion, an order of priestesses can be found. Residing in stone temples and dressed in white, Legion priestesses practice midwifery, keep public records, translate Latin, and communally raise children who are too young to begin training. During large scale battles, they hold public prayer services which men of soldiering age are excluded from, and perform death rites for people of note afterwards. 

The young women selected to serve in holy orders are always childless, and are usually orphans themselves. Priestesses are considered to be both children of the goddess Venus and spiritual mothers to all legionnaires. To encourage devotion to this symbolic bond and discourage sympathy for their enslaved countrymen, they rarely have families outside of the college, with the exception of female relatives of high-ranking officers who voluntarily take the cloth. If a priestess doesn’t already have a latin name, she is assigned one at the end of her schooling, the meaning of which can range from the distinguished to the subtly derogatory, depending on how she performs as a student.  

More bloodthirsty than their agrestic counterparts are the red-robed priestesses of New Mexico, a subset created for the fighting pits in the Legion’s first established cities. Their chief role is to tend to those gladiators who win enough matches to become mainstays of large arenas - dressing their wounds, keeping them armed and armored, and occasionally forming illicit relationships with the fighters they serve. When a successful gladiator finally meets their end, their corpse is burned in a ceremonial pyre as a sacrifice to the god Mars, with whoever killed them often coming to take their place in the priestesses’ care. When not acting as attendants, these women breed and slaughter sacred animals, and perform religious services before fights on festival days. Though not officially recognized as a part of their duties, priestesses have been known to listen in on the chatter of traders, mercenaries and couriers visiting arenas while passing through Legion territory for information significant to the war effort, sometimes going so far as to personally detain, torture or even kill those they deem enemies of the state. In the event that a pit-fighter continues to survive matches, but is wanted out of the public eye by the local government for potentially contradicting the ideas upheld by Legion propaganda, the arena’s priestesses will quickly, quietly dispose of them, being at an advantage to do so after gaining their trust as caretakers. 

Seated in the heart of Arizona is the most secretive and authoritative branch of the college. Dressed entirely in black and decorated with gold jewelry, the high priestesses communicate exclusively in Latin, and typically either cover their hair, keep it short, or shave their heads entirely, as a symbolic rejection of the company of men in favor of service to Mars. Their primary purpose is to elect elders to lead the larger temples spread throughout Legion territory. Individual members of this order are tasked with educating the children of the Legion’s most exalted soldiers, sons and daughters both, though female children are never taught how to fight (at least in public) and priestesses are only allowed to observe the combat training of male children without participating. The wives and mothers of these elite families are often also assigned a high priestess to occupy a private temple and act as a spiritual advisor. In these cases, a priestess can exercise considerable control over the running of a household and the administering of estates, while also being able to covertly pursue the college’s interests through their influence on officials and their families. These efforts have enabled the college to subsist even as the borders of the empire itself fluctuated, and they remain the only organization of women to be legally recognized since the Legion’s founding.

[the-expose-on-girls]

Characteristics of Toxic Office Women

The girls who think being a receptionist makes them upper class, the heads of HR who think they rule the world, and everyone in between.

Either goes overboard with her fashion or dresses like a future Karen

There is no in between. On the one hand is the girl who thinks the office is her own personal runway. Probably has one favored aesthetic that she sticks to, which can seem very costume-y at times: like vintage bitch or old money. Or the less common type gets straight to the point by dressing as sexy as she can get away with to manipulate men and intimidate women.

Then on the other hand are the women dressing old while still young, but they don't seem to realize it. They probably buy their clothes for the office at Maurices, Walmart, Kmart, or Ralph Lauren. Most outfits are comprised of unflattering billowy tops in floral print or blah colors, cropped pants like old ladies wear, and flats that only accentuate their stubby legs and make it look like they have duck feet. (Can we make that a new term? "Office Ducks") They think ankle "booties" are SUCH a power move.

EXTREMELY POWER HUNGRY!

Will claw her way to the top of the office ladder, preferrably in a position like HR, marketing, or accounting, then squeeze every last drop of sadistic pleasure out of her authority. Usually makes coworkers miserable in the process. Has bullied at least one woman out of the office (either covertly or openly), yet men in the office will still be shocked then doubtful when women come forward with stories of how awful she is. Relishes every opportunity to correct others, exact punishment, appear more knowledgeable, show off, etc. She has no power in her personal life, so she pursues it at work to make herself feel better.

A legend in her own mind

Thinks her job is SO upper echelon, but all she actually does is answer phones, push around trivial papers that accomplish nothing, and gossip by the copy machine. Genuinely thinks she's a high power business woman of Wall Street or making a positive difference in the world, but she's just another cog in the machine.

Those in a marketing department post way too much and overshare on their personal social media, thinking they are demonstrating their marketing talent by doing so. No ma'am, you're not a high profile influencer or popular blogger; you are just a loud mouth with an Internet connection and narcissism issue. The promotions you design are lackluster at best.

Hypocritical, mediocre, and lacking all self awareness

Likes to make derogatory jokes about how hard work is, how ready she is for "Friyay", and how terrible her boss is (only if she is not the boss, herself). But will turn around and act like her job makes her a class above others, the mere peasants.

Mediocre life goals. Work her way up the office food chain to the end goal of something like HR, have an average-looking husband, drive an ugly SUV, live in a cookie cutter house, and have no more than 3 children, all with the most basic names. Once she achieves this, she thinks she's queen of the world and all must bow low before her. She sits in her little office with her "inspirational" Instagram font wall art and spends all day savoring the little kingdom she has carved out for herself.

Genuinely believes she is a "wine connoisseur" and that she's classy for it. LOVES wine, wine humor, and cheesy wine accessories. Not so subtly drinks wine on work video calls. Drinks heavily over her weekends and it definitely shows on Mondays.

Climbing the corporate ladder

The younger toxics might be promiscuous cheaters. They know full well that their womanly qualities can get them moved up the office food chain. Oh, their poor boyfriends/husbands and the wives of the male coworkers they toy with!

GOSSIP is the top weapon in her arsenal for dealing with "competition" and other girls she is threatened by---other girls who have no ill will toward her and aren't actually trying to compete with her. She takes catty and passive aggressive to a whole new level.

Not all toxic women will exhibit all of these traits at the same time. But even having one of these characteristics can be enough to make everyone else in the office miserable. Be on the lookout!

[nothorses]

hello!

i can't send this anonymously because idk tumblr's just like that (although i think there may be a very good reason that anons can't send pictures BUT that's irrelevant) so anyway hi i hope you're doing well

saw this post and the last reblog is so extremely weird (as is the second one idek if that's sarcasm or what) BUT,, there's just something about the tone and phrasing of serious textposts on tumblr and twitter where it is very difficult for me to tell what aligns with my political/social views and what doesn't (probably because of the use of big words and long-winded vague explanations) - and this is a perfect example of that

a) what are your thoughts on this? where are these people's opinion coming from, do they have real basis, do you agree, etc.

b) i'm PRETTY sure that the last reblog is very transphobic rhetoric but i do not have enough faith in myself to know if that's actually correct so... could you maybe outline/identify a few red flags that indicate TERFy, radfemmy, and/or transphobic ideologies that i could look out for in general? i don't mean like the literal blatantly oppressive and gross things people say - the more subtle signs that give away problematic ideologies when the person is trying to cover those up.

This is, to me, pretty obvious TERF shit.

Some of the tells:

“Cis isn’t real”: They’re trying to invoke a bit of plausible deniability, but there are approximately zero people who both hate that cis people aren’t just presumed default, and are actually trans allies.

“Gender is just a social construct”: TERFs say this a lot, and what they mean here is that gender doesn’t exist; only “biological sex” does.

The implication that “woman” as a gender was created “to subjugate women”: How is it that she believes gender doesn’t exist, but women are oppressed for their genders? She’s arguing that women are only women because of their “biological sex”.

“Transactivists”: This should be a huge red flag. a) Why are people who care about trans rights the “other” and the “out-group” to anyone, unless they’re transphobic b) The word itself is very close to “TRA” (Trans Rights Activist), which TERFs tend to use as a derogatory term for just... all trans people. “Transactivists” smushes two of those words into one, something TERFs will often do in an attempt to distract from and dilute the individual meaning of the words.

“Why does ‘fucking with gender’ always equate to trying out new makeup, hairstyles, and clothing?”: This entire argument is just another way of phrasing “men in women’s clothing are still fundamentally men”, a common transmisogynistic refrain among TERFs. Notice how she singles out aesthetic/presentation choices, and ignores things like pronouns, names, and the experimentation folks often do with the way we internally think of ourselves.

“Gender-havers”: She’s essentially saying biological sex is real, but gender is something only trans people do.

“They cling to gender because they don’t have real personalities”: The implication that trans people are only trans for clout is just basic transphobic rhetoric.

“Being trans is socially regressive”: This is the core of most TERF arguments: being trans is actually misogynistic, homophobic, lesbophobic, racist, etc.

You can also check these folks’ blogs: the first commenter regularly reblogs from TERFs, and it took about 30 seconds of scrolling to find some TERF shit. The second commenter openly identifies as a radfem in her bio. 

I don’t think there’s much of a way to really evaluate what they’re saying here from a gender theory perspective, because on a fundamental level, they’re not saying what we think they are. This isn’t about what gender is, where it comes from, or how and why people experience it the way they do.

This is a very basic argument about whether trans people exist at all, and I very much believe we do.

[maggotmouth]

          hillo sexthy legends !!   i’m nora and i’ll be writing margo colby n probs sm1 else bcos lets be real, i lack self-control. u can find her pinterest here n some info abt her sexy self below the cut. plot with me on discord ( hot girl midsommar#8664 ) or in my ims !!  x o x

     * CAMILA MORRONE, CIS WOMAN + SHE / HER  | you know MARGO COLBY, right? they’re TWENTY-THREE, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, ELEVEN YEARS? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to SCRAWNY BY WALLOWS  like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole BLEACH WHITE SNEAKERS POUNDING ON A GYMNASIUM FLOOR, USING THE SAME BLUNT SCISSORS TO HACK THE SLEEVES OFF AN EXES T-SHIRT THAT YOU USE TO CUT YOUR 3AM FRINGE, A WALNUT-SHAPED ACHE IN THE PIT OF YOUR STOMACH FOR THE PERSON YOU COULD HAVE BEEN thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is AUGUST 8TH, so they’re a LEO, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( nora, 25, gmt, she/her )

CLICK ANYWHERE ON THIS SENTENCE FOR SEXII GOOGLE DOC!!

bullet point summary of margo.

—   born margaret but NOBODY calls her that. its colby, coach or margo, and go to the privileged few. margo grew up in the creek commune n then dropped out of school cos of a teenage pregnancy so she was a bit of a cautionary tale back in’t’day (said tht in my yorkshire accent). she now works for summer camps coaching pee wee soccer and pee wee cheer, as well as helping out her beekeeper dad on his honey farm, which is jst north of abernathy creek, and working at scuba on the off seasons.

—  its just her and her dad, and has been for as long as she can recall !! everything she knows about her mum could fit on the back of the weathered passport photo she keeps in her wallet of a stranger who shares her face - her name’s melody, or at least tht was name she used when working as a dancer, she’s from argentina and dropped mag’s dad as soon as someone w more money came along.

—  margo’s father is a beekeeper with his own organic honey company. margo and her dad moved to irving in the early 00s, the summer between grade school and middle school, because her dad had heard about the communal living in abernathy creek and wanted to lend his skills there and live off the fatta the land in a very lenny from of mice and men kinda way.

—  for a few years of middle school margo was bullied for living with the ‘freaks from the creek’, but when they realised how chill her dad was with underage drinking, margo ‘keg-bringer’ colby soon gained popularity among the more renegade students. every so often, the high school parties would happen at her end of town, occasionally with members of the commune even offering the high schoolers a spiritual experience they’d never forget (often in the form of mushrooms) which meant people tried to stay on her good side. to get an invite to a margo colby party handed you a free pass to make up the most ridiculous shit about the commune you liked and nobody else could say anything, because they’d never been to the creek.

—  at school, margo had a lot of ‘behvioural issues’ bcos of undiagnosed adhd, she found it difficult to sit still for hours n write down huge chunks of information n her restlessness was seen as laziness. she was encouraged to do sports, as were most of the kids who weren’t that academically inclined, but she turned out to be pretty hot shit at sprinting, because she grew up surrounded by bee houses and he who runs slowest gets stung, baybeyy!! so yea, in school sports became her LIFE. she was gonna get a sports scholarship to college but ended up dropping out of school in senior year n becoming one of those kids who could have had it all but lost it.

—  she had sex with sutter at a house party when she wasnt really ready because it felt like the right thing to do at the time and everybody else was doing it. she’d attended health class, she’d seen the corny videos. she knew about all the statistics, but she also knew that it had never happened to anyone she knew and the pull out method was basically safer than the morning after pill and way less expensive.

—  a teenage pregnancy knocked her out of the runnings for prom queen and meant she had to leave school early. she didn’t go to college when her friends did, instead she spent the time interviewing potential foster candidates and eating her weight in lindt chocolate while marathoning love island in her room.  

—  she had a son, who she passed off to someone else a couple of towns away.  it was a closed adoption which seemed like the best idea at the time, but she now wishes she had access to his life.

—  after peaking in high school and jumping between jobs for a few years, she got a more permanent role at scuba which she loves with all of her heart and soul, but unfortunately a bar job doesn’t pay the rent.  

—  she works at summer camps coaching  junior soccer and netball on the side. she’s extremely competitive and takes it very personally if her team lose. the kids all call her, coach colby n write her longwinded letters about how they’ll never forget this summer camp before they go back to their suburban picket fence houses n she keeps all the letters in a drawer n takes them out to read when she’s feelin depressed.

—  enjoys surfing and worked for a number of years on resorts like mila kunis’ job in forgetting sarah marshall. she went on to work 18-hour days as a stewardess on luxury yachts which is a part of her backstory i added after watching season one of below deck because i guess i really am that fucking impressionable. met most of her surf friends doing tht but said she’d never in her life do it again bcos it was mostly just picking up after rich white ppl for shit pay. she came back to irving n thats when she started doing the summer camp jobs so she could move out of the creek n get her own apartment. 

—  she never actually finished senior year so she’s currently going to night school at the community college to get through her exams and is trying to save to go to college or open university. she wants to major in criminology. she’s super ambitious but also super adhd so she fluctuates between thinking she can achieve anything to just feeling like a failure n thinkin whats the point

—  used to shoplift to feel joy and as an act of resistance to her hippy commune routes, but now sees herself as a reformed, bin-diving freegan (sims 4 eco living can i get a hell yaaaa). also she thinks it’s totally wrong to steal when you have enough money and clearly don’t need to steal to survive, ppl risk imprisonment for basic necessities, so for her to do it for a brief thrill and some new shades felt a bit derogatory

—  was raised jewish. became a vegetarian as a child because it seemed, at the time, easier than having to explain which foods she was and wasn’t allowed to eat together, so she just cut out meat entirely. still a vegetarian now and dabbles in veganism, although its become less about not eating certain meats in the milk of their mother and more about her global impact / carbon footprint

—  nurses little animals to health in her garden. has a hedgehog name OJ short for orange juice not the other one filthy pig. her and her dad have always been huge animal rights activists and existed on a vegetarian diet. the only one in their house who isn’t vegetarian is their cat, auggie. (short 4 augustus gloop)

—  has a lot of stupid ass stick and poke tattoos. there was a phase during her years as a barmaid where she wanted to train as a tattoo artist n would mostly practice on herself or any friends who would let her

—  she doesn’t form many long lasting friendships cos she tends to be super excited when she makes a new friend and just see them all the time but then it wears off and she can ghost a bit. she’ll always coming pinging back but she’s not the most predictable or loyal friend, sometimes she’ll sleep in your house every night for a week and then you won’t even get a text from her for a month. her best friends are elderly neighbours and houseless people she meets when volunteering at the foodbank. she thinks they’re more authentic than most of the ‘fake posers’ she meets down the vela pier

—  calls herself a butch lesbian but still has sex with men when she wants validation. sexually attracted to some men, especially effeminate men, but only romantically attracted to women. very possessive of the gals in her life.

—  stopped giving a shit about getting older or adhering to anyone elses bullshit standards, realised it was all fake p much as soon as she dropped out of school and one by one her friends just stopped texting her

—  lives in one of the lofts in port apartments. it’s open plan with rugs and lava lamps everywhere. she has a palette bed. its all very ‘sustainable chic’. like, oh wow, a pallet bed that im supposed to think you made from scratch but i KNOW you got it  off ebay because you thought it looked trendy

—  constantly says shes poor but still buys clothes from urban outfitters. sus.

—  frequently found at fannies flirting with the cute bisexual bartender with a choppy black bob.

general vibe / personality

vibrant, vulgar, self-absorbed, tenacious, veers bewteen apathetic and dogmatic, temperamental, flighty, unreliable, magnetic, charismatic, passive aggressive, likes to play devil’s advocate, takes the moral high ground. estp and a leo

likes: 70s music, john wayne movies, black mirror, philosophy, cowboy chic culture, dc comics, the smell of locker rooms,, deep red lipstick, lacrosse sticks, smoking weed from a bong, dogs, karaoke, pet rats, kate moss, late-night strolls, hawaaiian shirts worn open over a bralette, skinned knees, thai food, picking the apples at the very top of the trees, zip-lining, cigarettes, the idea of pegging but not the practical application of it, decorative lamps, LGBTQ+ pin badges, worn-out furniture, twangy electric guitars.

dislikes: girls who call other girls ‘pick me’ girls, woody allen movies, mental mathematics, wealthy children, quentin tarantino, ironing, institutionalised misogyny, the imaginary future, french literature, ‘dump him’ feminism, wes anderson films, spoken word poetry nights, college-educated bar staff who act like they’re better than you,  indie softbois, the general mentality of cheerleading squads.

aesthetics

orange peel, the smell of bleach, skeleton drawings in the margins of a journal, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, bleach white sneakers pounding on a gymnasium floor, setting dumpsters on fire for the hell of it. a hit flask of vodka decorated with hello kitty stickers, split knuckles, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, a child in an oversize bee keepers suit, scabbed knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your dad wouldn’t take you,  a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

hoo boy this is getting LONG AS FUCK but here are my wanted plots

wanted plots

ok margo’s been in irving since she was like 10. she’s quite a vivacious person?? she dresses completely instinctively without any sense of cohesion so she stands out. a guy once told her she was wearing the ugliest outfit he’d ever seen and he thought that was so cool and brave of her. but anyway where was i going.. she grew up in the abernathy creek so stuck out like a sore thumb,,,, maybe ppl who were super interested in the creek or maybe poked fun at her bcos of it idk.....

b4 she dropped out, margo used 2 b in with the cool kids at school bcos her dad would buy them booze and rarely ask for the money. maybe a fun plot cld b with some of the ‘it girls’ she used to hang around with b4 she got pregnant n dropped out and they all went off to college n stopped texting her.

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! some1 she feels like she knew before irving ???

since margo literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships. fwbs. enemies with benefits. all the angst. all the slow burn mutual pining we hate each other narratives

locals who play sports. margo wld be all over community soccer n take it way too seriously. maybe ppl she plays hockey with. girls who she’s like, weirdly intimate with but its not a thing cos the other girls straight !!! what do u mean !! aha just fun !

she works part time at scuba. i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry.

she's also a surf instructor and occasionally works as a lifeguard!! gal has like 7 jobs ik but regular swimmers hmu

ppl she coaches at the gym !! she wants to be a personal trainer

i reckon she might have recently started meditating to try and calm down her mind cos its always bustling with thoughts, n i think she’s p interested in buddhism so if anyone’s a buddhist hmu

someone she’s trying to make a zine with on female empowerment and women in film and art, etc. just a very feminist zine. 

TLDR:  angry sports gay, former high school track prodigy turned drop out, who likes feminist literature, wearing leather jackets over slip dresses, and smudged red lipstick.

this was so long !!! im sorry !! if you’ve read this far have a biscuit, love x

[itseivwhore]

~/Assassins as different literary movements' poets/~

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I am a lover of literature,of all genres and movements (but without a doubt,like everyone else,I have my own favourites,and I will not stay here to explain and motivate my personal choice,because we are not here for this reason!¡!¡).

Today I finished reading 'Notre Dame de Paris' (by Victor Hugo),and I immediately started another book, 'The picture of Dorian Gray' (by Oscar Wilde)

And as soon as I started reading the first few lines,I immediately thought...what if the Assassins were poets,writers?What literaly movement would they be part of?

And I think it's a good idea to share this with both other well acculturated fans of Assassin's Creed and literature's fans too.

~~~

I took in consideration only (yes,only) two specifics literaly movements:Romanticism and Decadent movement. Why only these two?Because (totally not a coincidence I swearrr),the books I have were respectly written by a romanticism writer (Victor Hugo),and by a decadent writer (Oscar Wilde). And also because there are A LOT of various literaly movements,and A LOT of Assassins (that's why I only made some of them):so since I didn't want to make a super long speech,I had to choose the literaly movements I am more accustomed with,for then linking them with some of the Assassins that I assumed would go well with the Romanticism and/or with the Decadentism.

Now let's get into it,shall we?

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Firs of all,let's start with the main definition of the two literaly movements (shout out to the ols books I have at home,and to some research on Internet wowee!!)

•Romanticism:

artistic,musical,cultural and literary movement that developed in Germany towards the end of the eighteenth century and then spread to the rest of Europe in the nineteenth century.Romanticism focuses on the imagination,the instinctive side of men and their tormented relationship with nature and what surround them.Romantic men and women are courageous,stretched towards an unreachable desire:grasping the soul of things,to merge with nature and to be part of history.An arduous thing,to say at least impossible.Perhaps this is why romantics are always a little melancholic,but never apathetic.It's the melancholy of those who know they'll fight to the end for a 'batte' they already know they have lost...maybe.It's the melancholy of those who fight with an ardent,relentless passion,pursuit,against a society which is blind to the true essence of things in life.Yet,apart from being melancholic,Romanticism keep some faith,looking at the nature and trying to understand it at its best,denying any kind of rules,there are no limits.

•Decadentism:

very important literary movement of the second half of the 19th century.It may be similiar with the movement we talked up there before,but the Decadentism borns by the ashes of the Romanticism,but by being more extreme.The men of the decadent movement,in Europe,are dissatisfied with the rationalism of Positivism (a previous movement),but they are a bit nauseated by the bourgeois world,by the society that imposes rules and labels (and let's face it,hypocritical too),and they react by seeking in art and literature a way to feel better and to scandalize the well-thinking minds of the bourgeois that they despise so much.(little note to make things more interesting and less boring;definition of the term Decadentism:'décadent' is a French term,used in France in those days to define,in a derogatory meaning,artists who lived in a scandalous way,between drugs,luxury and other excesses.After a while,a magazine was founded by these scandalous writers who,in a provocative way,chose to call it "Le Décadent". Hence the term Decadentism will be used to indicate the decadence of the society that no longer had true values and that is disappointing them so much).But in which way they want to scandalize the high society?They're extremely spontaneous,there is no rigor in their speeches but just a lot of feeling.Plus,they tell rough episodes:they talk about sex,drugs,homosexual experiences too (obviously they're not experiences they make for the sole purpose of shocking;they're exuberant,rebellious and passionate characters and showing their life is the way they provoke the audience).Let's say,they are jus a bunch of cheeky,cocky people.

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Ezio Auditore: Romanticism.

sweet smiles,calm glances,warm yet fervent eyes,gentle touches,low soothing voice,deep speeches,enjoyment;red ribbons,leather coat,glass of red wine;sunny days,grass field,soft cool breeze,spring afternoons,clear sky,smell of trees in bloom;instinct,nostalgic thoughts,family,fogged memories,strenght,faith,hope,truth,battle;reading poems,candlelight,incense,summer evenings;hearty laughters,reserved whispers,red cheeks,passional kisses.

~~~~~

2. Arno Dorian: Romanticism.

dark circles under the eyes,emotional veiled dark eyes,messy hair,scars,tears,deep sighs,love letters,desperation,lost memories,longing,tormented,melancholic bitter smiles,empty bottles of wine,insomnia,late nights,yet rising from the ashes;new pursuit,shiny sparkling gazes,charismatic grins,brilliant ideas,fancy clothes,red scarf,rolled up sleeves,golden bottons;early autumn cold mornings,old books,smell of fireplace,paintings on the wall;time,desire,nostalgic grimaces,humming a song,candid murmurs,promises.

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3. Edward Kenway: Decadentism.

intense blue eyes,sunkissed skin,wide smiles,free will,clever glances,sharp gaze,messy blonde hair,loud confident tone,heavy accent,renegade;deep sea,salty wind,clear water,warm sunrises,calm sunsets,violent waves,morbid sand,cloudy sky,starry nights,stargazing,gold,treasure,tongues of the fire;rough insults,impertinent voice,arrogant speeches,drunk rambles,lost in luxury,tempting tone;ambition,fantasizing,dreaming,seeking the unbelievable,opposing,living.

~~~~~

4. Jacob Frye: Decadentism.

cocky smirks,hazel glimmering eyes,cheeky grins,nonchalant tone,laid back,mocking glances,loud voice,quick charming winks;slicked back hair,messy tie,black leather coat,strong cologne;confident,proud,wild,carefree,small of a egocentric,reckless brash actions,sarcastic comebacks,excited shouts,resolute answers,authoritative spirit,leader,louds amused laughters;full mugs of beer,playing cards,money,bets,late evenings in pubs,secret reunions;smell of fireplaces,foggy late London nights,rainy days,grey clouds;vintage Victorian house,wodden messy desk,king size bed,sound of muffled sweet moans,countless days of passional pleasure.

[alysemeadfad]

𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖔𝖓

Most would say its easy for a teenager to rebel at any point in time, but I find it hard to rebel in any way, most teens get tattoos, piercings, cut and dye their hair to rebel against their parents, but growing up with a mom who is tattooed, hair in fun dyed styles and piercings, I’m really just following in her footsteps she practically encourages. 

The only thing I rebel against is tidying my room and making cups of tea, cant really say I could start a world changing rebellion on that.

Rebellions i find important

1903–18 — Women’s Suffrage Movement The foundation of the Women’s Social and Political Union by Emmeline Pankhurst in 1903 began a more militant phase of the call for votes for women, which had been growing through the end of the 19th century. The Suffragettes used militant tactics like vandalism, arson, bombing and hunger strikes, with one member committing public suicide by throwing herself under the King’s horse at a race in 1913. The movement was wound up when some women were enfranchised in the 1918 Representation of the People Act, before all women over 21 were given the vote in 1928.

Suffragette Vera Wentworth in 1909, and the dress by Vaquera that it inspired

Stonewall riots 28 Jun 1969 – 3 Jul 1969 The Stonewall riots were a series of spontaneous demonstrations by members of the gay community in response to a police raid that began in the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, at the Stonewall Inn in the Greenwich Village neighborhood of Manhattan, New York City.

It is said that Marsha P. Johnson was the one who started the rebellion. Supposedly, throughout the bustle of the raid, Marsha threw a shot glass into a mirror and shouted, ” I got my civil rights!”.  With this inspiration and resistance against the police, other patrons began to follow.

Present day- Me Too movement.The Me Too movement, with variations of related local or international names, is a social movement against sexual abuse and sexual harassment towards women, where people publicize allegations of sex crimes.

The Punk Rebellion

the punk involved no protests or riots, it impacted people, fashion, music, society and everything to be honest.

The punk subculture advocates a do-it-yourself (DIY) ethic. During the subculture's infancy members were almost all from a lower economic class, and had become tired of the affluence that was associated with popular rock music at the time. Punks would publish their own music or sign with small independent labels, in hopes to combat what they saw as a money hungry music industry. The DIY ethic is still popular with punks.ideology's of punks

Ideology

Punk political ideologies are mostly concerned with individual freedom and anti-establishment views. Common punk viewpoints include individual liberty, anti-authoritarianism, a DIY ethic, non-conformity, anti-collectivism, anti-corporatism, anti-government, direct action and not "selling out".

Some groups and individuals that self-identify as being a part of punk subculture hold right-wing views. The belief that such views are opposed to the original ethos of the punk subculture, and its history, has led to internal conflicts and an active push against such views being considered part of punk subculture at all. Two examples of this are an incident during the 2016 American Music Awards, where the band Green Day chanted anti-conservative, anti-racist, and anti-fascist messages, and an incident at a show by the Dropkick Murphys, when bassist and singer Ken Casey, tackled an individual for giving a nazi-style salute and later stated that nazis are not welcome at a Dropkick Murphys show. Band member Tim Brennan later reaffirmed this sentiment. The song "Nazi Punks Fuck Off" by hardcore punk band Dead Kennedys has come to be considered an anti-nazi anthem.

VIV WESTWOOD

Rejecting the hippie ethos that was fashionable towards the end of the 1960s, Westwood and McLaren created clothes that referenced youth culture's recent past, selling rock'n'roll fashion in a shop unit at 430 King's Road in Chelsea. In 1974, the shop took on its most notorious identity: SEX, with Westwood and McLaren designing fetish wear that they sold to prostitutes, those with 'underground' sexual tastes, and young proto-punks brave enough to take a seriously edgy look out onto the street. The pair enjoyed shocking people, designing garments and shoes that referenced 'deviant' sexual practices, including rubber dresses and stilettos bristling with spikes.

How punk influenced me, because it influenced the world

My take on rebellion

Westwood inspired tights.

after watching a documentary on vivien westwood and the birth of the punk revolution i created some westwood inspired tights as a little spontaneous brainstorm, did not develop any further on the tights.

i used a pair of brand new white tights and put holes all in them, this is non conformist as if a regular pair of tights had a hole you would bin them as they were no good any more, but purposely putting holes in is quite rebellious in that aspect, i used sharpies to draw triggering symbols and words such as a swastikka and ‘punk fag’ .

crayon drawings

i used crayons to create these images as i thought it was a more rebellious medium and its created for kids so that is non conforming and it gives a rough diy finish look making it look slightly unfinished

i created a lesbian nun, this was a spur of the mind thought whats socially good and respected? a nun? whats the opposite of what a nun preaches, homo behavior. 

here i did a little barbie series drawing from observational on one and on another from mind and another from an image which i created by burning a barbie ehich is quite a rebellious act in a way. 

Collages

i decided to do some collages as its a way of just slapping ideas out in a visual format, my first one was using a fashion magazine and i realized this was the way to go so i printed some punk imagery and even used my own crayon drawings to create more collages.

photo shop

i wanted to mess with these collages more on a digital format so i put them in to photo shop to play with them and generate more ideas this was giving me a poster vibe which reminded me of punk posters.

 Final ideas

i used images from the new york trip to create a vision on photo shop, using a light of the american flag,sign posts, bins with posters on them.a clip art image of a chain and lock,street art and stickers i saw on poles in the street which is another form or street art which is quite rebellious as its not socially acceptable to vandalize and graffiti on public areas.

i took a few elements from the last board and included them in this vision board, i really wanted the main focus to be on the pipe that says “the rich killed nyc” i feel like it has a deep meaning behind it and it is quite rebellious as it reminded me of the punk rebellion in the uk as it was mostly lower class working people who used art, music and fashion to rebel against society and social constructs and actively non conform to the “rules” in a way. i also used a sticker that says jesus loves you and i crossed it out and wrote hate you over the loves you part as that is fitting to my rebellious visions.

in this board i again used “ the rich killed nyc” pipe as that’s my main surrounding element, i uses another pole with stickers on though you cant really tell what the stickers are, it just fits the aesthetic. i used a statue of liberty as she is known as a symbol of freedom, and along side it i used a photo of a photograph i saw in the modern art museum where this person had dyke tattooed on their neck which is a derogatory word to gay women, and that’s quite rebellious to take a bad word and own it by tattooing it on your body .

in this board i moved away from “the rich killed nyc” pipe as i felt i needed to come away from that one element for one board and to broaden my ideas. in this one i used a sky line image i took when on the ferry to liberty island, i changed the colour to black and white as the original colours of the image are quite blue and orangy, i used a sign post that says one way as it for some reason reminded me of like ��one way to hell” or something and that there feels like there is no choice or individuality in the phrase “one way” . i used text over the sky line that says “the rotten apple” as new york city is known as the big apple and i thought, when i was there it did not remind me of a big fresh beautiful apple as the homeless people on the streets and the graffiti that has no artistic intent, so it was more of a rotten apple in a way. i used an image of the american flag i took on liberty island as i used an image of an american flag light, so i thought i could link back to that idea and use an actual flag, as its to represent freedom. i also used a art piece from the modern art gallery which was just a male mannequin wearing a bra which does not fit the social constrict of what men should wear there for its quite rebellious and opposite to the one way system. 

in my final board i included the american flag, a chain over it completely doing the opposite of what the flag means which is freedom, i used the bun that says don’t be afraid of anyone with an edited red paint drip on it which kind of looks like blood, i used text that says “ the rich killed nyc” as i loved that phrase bit i over used the pole in the other boards and i liked that my main message is that the rich killed nyc, i used an image of my dr martens that i took while my feet were up against a pole as i sat on a tube, showing anti social behavior basically which is stereo typically rebellious,and also dr martens were quite fashionable in the uk punk rebellion so i’m hinting to my idea that was inspired by the uk punk rebellion, and finally i have a set of traffic lights which are about order and control, the light is also on red which signifies danger, and the word stop which fits to my idea.

[creepingsharia]

“Burned Alive”: Muslim Persecution of Christians, June 2020

This report fails to note the continued shut down of churches in the U.S. by tyrannical governors, and the bombing/arson of churches by leftists and anti-maskers.

07/27/2020 by Raymond Ibrahim

Cutfitri Handayani, Indonesia woman whose children were taken from her for converting to Christianity

The following are among the abuses Muslims inflicted on Christians throughout the month of June 2020:

The Slaughter of Christians

Nigeria:  The jihad on Christians continued unabated in the West Africa nation. In what police described as a “brutal assault,” suspected Muslims raped and slaughtered Uwaila Vera Omozuwa, a 22-year-old Christian girl who was studying inside Redeemed Christian Church of God in Benin City. “We are all devastated by her death,” a spokesman of the church said, before explaining: “She [had] decided to do some private studies during the lockdown because the church was peaceful. She’s been taking the key from the parish pastor and returning it after her studies.”  The slain girl’s mother described what happened after she heard of the attack on the church:

I ran [to the church] but before I got there, they took her to a private hospital and when I saw my daughter, I cried. They raped her; the dress she was wearing that morning was white. The white had turned to red; all her body was full of blood….  My daughter was very kind and very intelligent and disciplined. We had just celebrated her admission to university.

In a separate incident, Muslim Fulani herdsmen entered a Christian owned mini-store and shot to death its owner and four other Christians. They did not steal anything from the store or the victims’ bodies.  Despite the presence of armed security, the terrorists were able to open fire for a full ten minutes, before absconding without a trace.  In response, Ibrahim Agu Iliya, a Christian man, assembled and led a team of unarmed civilians to apprehend the murderers.  He said,

These Muslim Fulani herdsmen have been attacking our communities because we are Christians.  Their desire is to take over our lands, force us to become Muslims, and if we decline, they kill us….The government’s inability to stop these Muslim Fulani herdsmen is because the government is being controlled by Fulani political leaders headed by Muhammadu Buhari, Nigeria’s president, who’s also a Fulani man.

Sunday Samuel—who witnessed and survived the attack, and whose 42-year-old slain sister Asabe Samuel was the store owner—agreed:

I strongly believe that some of these security personnel who are Muslims are conniving with these armed men to attack our people. These killings of Christians here are just too much of a pressure on us, and the sad reality is that our people have made representations to the government at both the state and federal levels and nothing has been done.

In another massacre on June 3—fresh on the heels of a May terror attack in the same region, where “more than 30 corpses of slain Christians still lay in nearby villages”—Muslim Fulani herdsmen shot or hacked to death with machetes nine Christians, most of them church-attending women and children; a three-year-old was seriously wounded.  Seven other Christians were kidnapped at gun point.

Burkina Faso:  “Christians were among those targeted and killed,” a June 5 report found, after “armed jihadists launched three separate attacks … that left at least 58 dead,” including children; dozens were also injured.  A “contact reported that it was clear from the testimony of a survivor that the militants were targeting Christians and humanitarians taking food to an internally displaced people camp, where many mainly-Christian villagers had taken refuge after fleeing prior jihadi violence.”  Any of their intended victims which the terrorists discovered were Muslim were spared.  A survivor recalled how the driver of his truck had cried “forgive, forgive, we are also followers of the prophet Muhammad!” This caused one of the terrorists to turn to the others and say, “They have the same religion with us,” which prompted an end to the attack on that vehicle. “Jihadi attacks on Christians in the African nation have been on the rise,” the report added:  “Last December, at least 14 people were killed when gunmen stormed a Protestant church service… Last April, gunmen killed a Protestant pastor and five other Christians who were leaving a worship service.”

Mali: During near simultaneous raids on three Christian majority villages, “suspected Islamic radicals killed at least 27 people, some of whom were burned alive,” a June 4 report said:

Mali has been in chaos since 2012, when al Qaeda-linked jihadists seized the northern two-thirds of the country. French forces intervened the following year to drive them back, but the militants have since regrouped and expanded their operations into neighbouring countries such as Burkina Faso and Niger.

A separate report elaborates:

Mali suffered its worst year of extremist violence in seven years in 2019. Jihadi militants carried out murderous attacks in the north and central area, laying waste to Christian villages and causing hundreds to flee with only the clothes on their backs. In one of the worst attacks, in June 2019, at least 100 men, women and children were slaughtered in Sobame Da, a mainly-Christian village in the Mopti region of central Mali.

Pakistan:  On June 4, Muslim neighbors attacked a Christian family for purchasing a home in what they claimed was a “Muslim neighborhood.”  Despite being operated on five times, the father, Nadeem Joseph—who along with his mother-in-law was shot—succumbed to his wounds and died in a hospital on June 29.  Prior to the attack, the Christian family’s Muslim neighbors had regularly harassed them—including by damaging their home, riding loud motorcycles in front of it, and calling them “chooras,” a derogatory term meaning “unclean Christians.”  Before he died, Joseph had made a video from his hospital bed explaining what happened: “I am feeling scared even in the hospital,” he said. “I fear [for] my life and my family[’s]….  A month ago, I purchased a house in TV Colony. I still have to make the final payments to the seller, but Salman Khan, a Muslim in the neighborhood, has started harassing my family.”  After asking him to leave the neighborhood, because it was “meant for Muslim residents only,” Khan exclaimed: “How dare a Christian family live amid Muslims?…  Christians and Jews are the opponents of Muslims.  Therefore, you cannot stay in this house.”   It was then that Khan opened fire on Joseph and his family; he was shot twice in the stomach, and his mother-in-law in the shoulder.

In a separate incident, police killed a man after he cited his Christian faith as reason not to falsify his testimony, which they were urging him to do.  On June 22, police broke into the home of Waqar Masih.  According to the Christian:

Arif Jutt, a policeman, along with his others illegally barged into my house.  They searched for my father [Younis] and threw him down from his bed. They beat my father with their guns and continuously kicked him in stomach. My father could not survive the torture and breathed his last immediately.

Police were trying to get Younas to recant his eyewitness testimony against a Muslim family accused of murder.  When beating him did not yield results, they tried to bribe him.   “I am a Christian and I will never cheat and get bribed,” Younis had responded.  “My father’s deep commitment to his faith made the policemen aggressive,” Waqar continued. “During the attack, one of the officers shouted, ‘We will teach him a lesson for insulting us!’”

Sudan:  On June 6 in Omdurman, a number of mosque leaders called on the faithful to rid their “Muslim area” of South Sudanese Christians, prompting Muslims to rise up against and beat—and in one instance, kill—Christians. According to the report, “The mosque leaders told those at the evening prayer that the South Sudanese were infidels, criminals and brewers of alcohol, which is forbidden in Islam.”  In one of the attacks to follow, “three young Muslim men with rods, sticks and rifles subsequently beat two Christians.”  According to a source, “The attack left one of the two Christians [an 18-year-old] in critical condition after sustaining injuries on his head.  The Muslims who consider the area Muslim territory were shouting, ‘They [South Sudanese Christians] must leave this place by force.’”  Later, “mobs of young Muslim men” set fire to 16 make-shift shelters of plastic sheeting that had sheltered South Sudanese Christians, causing them to flee; 10 were injured in the assault, including one woman. Speaking afterwards, she said, “Muslim men have long harassed Christian women…  This issue is disturbing us, and it is not acceptable—but what can we do, oh God?”

Then, on June 20, near the capital of Khartoum, “young Muslim men shouting the jihadist slogan ‘Allah Akbar [God is greater]’ stabbed a [35-year-old] Christian to death in a street assault on him…  Mariel Bang is survived by his wife and four children ranging in age from 1 to 4 years old.”  Four other Christians who were traveling with Bang—three of whom were women—were also beaten, one left in critical condition.  “We will burn this place,” one of the assailants was heard to say.

Mozambique: “It was fierce, cruel and lasted three days,” a nun said of a jihadi raid on the town of Macomia that began on May 28 and continued for three days. She and the other Teresian Carmelite Sisters of Saint Joseph, who have served Macomia for 16 years, had temporarily fled their school and boarding house.   They returned on June 4, “even though the danger had by no means receded,” said Sister Blanca Nubia Castaño, because they were hoping, “at the very least to be able to visit (our) employees and their families and help them and give them new courage”:

As a result of this barbarism, the town center was completely destroyed, the majority of the administrative infrastructure was damaged and the commercial and shopping center was reduced to ashes….  We still don’t know the number of civilian victims or those of the security forces. On June 3, people slowly began to return to their homes, some of which had been burned, while others had been looted…. Our mission was saved because it is situated in the hills, close to a military base.

According to the report, “Since the end of 2017, violence in the region has claimed the more than 1100 lives” and “caused the displacement of some 200,000 people.”

Attacks on Apostates

Indonesia:  On June 17, Cutfitri (or Zulfitri) Handayani, a woman who converted from Islam to Christianity, uploaded an impassioned video recording (with English subtitles) describing her ordeals at the hands of her family, while regularly asking, “Is it wrong to have another religion? Is Christianity wrong?”  Among other abuses, her Muslim family and that of her ex-husband took custody of her two young sons, and falsely claimed that she had been kidnapped.  During her pleading, which was interrupted by uncontrollable weeping, she begged her sister to “please leave [at least] one of my children, don’t take them both….  How can you, my own family, seize my own children—are you happy at my condition, suffering without my children?”  She said that her sister would eventually surrender the young children to their father, who, Handayani hinted, is engaged in illegal activities.  “I beg you sister, reveal the truth, don’t slander [innocent] people.” She revealed that she was told that, in order for her children to be returned to her, she would first have to “return to Islam,” to which she replied, “even if it means I be murdered, I will never return there, because my faith belongs here, in Christianity!”

Uganda:  Muslims beat a Muslim convert to Christianity and his wife for refusing to recant, and torched their home.  Marijan Olupot, formerly an Islamic sheikh, had secretly embraced Christianity on Christmas Day 2019.  Later in May, he confessed his conversion to his two wives.  One joined him, the other refused—and reported the matter to a local Muslim leader, who publicized the apostasy among the local Muslim population. Accordingly, on June 8, around 11:30 pm, Muslim villagers surrounded and torched the convert’s home.  He, his wife, and three children—10, 12, and 14—barely managed to escape from the rear exit door.  “Unfortunately as we were fleeing in the night, the attackers managed to get hold of my wife and beat her with sticks, injuring her left hand and back and the right leg, but thank God my Christian neighbors rescued her,” the fugitive apostate explained:

As we were fleeing, I heard one of the Muslims, named Hamuza, calling out that the house should be completely destroyed [at which point the house was set on fire]…. We need prayers at this trying moment, as the Muslims are out to kill me.  My other wife is scheming for my death.

In a separate but similar incident, Muslims “beat a Christian convert with sticks and burned his home for refusing to renounce Christ,” a June 22 report said.  According to the 27-year-old apostate from Islam, he refused to open his door after area Muslims came knocking at night.  So, “[t]hey destroyed the door and made entry, but I escaped through the rear door.  They followed me and got hold of me and began beating me up. Neighbors came when I screamed for help.”   After a neighbor took him to, and while he was being treated in a hospital, the same Muslims “returned to his house and set it on fire,” he said.

General Abuse of Christians

Pakistan:  A Christian man and his family were essentially enslaved and abused “for their Christian faith,” a human rights activist said in a June 24 report.  Earlier in 2015, Bashir Masih, a Christian man, had agreed to be Ali Babar Waraich’s servant for an advance sum equivalent to $2,397 USD.  After five years of labor, not only did his Muslim “master” refuse to release Bashir and his family from their indentured servitude, but it was revealed that he had been abusing them.  According to Dr. Riaz Aasi, who is closely acquainted with this case,

During Waraich’s custody, Bashir and his wife were beaten and abused for their Christian faith.  However, Bashir [was] never hesitant to proclaim and practice his faith….  As a result of continuous years of abuse, Bashir’s legs have twisted, and he can’t walk without support.  Bashir has never been provided with medical aid for his legs….  Christian victims of bounded labor are voiceless.  They are extremely pressurized and threatened in the villages by landlords, resulting in the loss of their courage to speak against injustice. They prefer to suffer rather than raising their voices for justice. Therefore, victims in most cases keep silent to protect their families. Bashir went through the same experience.

In a separate but similar incident, a Christian teenager was sexually assaulted by his Muslim employer in early June; the boy’s father and brother were also beaten for trying to seek justice for him.  Saim Masih, 13, began working for Muhammad Tauseef to pay off his father’s loan from the Muslim (equivalent to $2,128 USD).  After a year’s worth of work, Saim’s father argued that the debt had been paid and that his son’s salary would need to be raised if Muhammad wanted the youth to continue working for him.  The Muslim “got irritated and rejected the demand,” a human rights activist explained.  He beat the father while calling him “a ‘choora,’ a derogatory term used to denote Pakistani Christians as untouchable.”  He then “began beating and sexually assaulting” the 13-year-old boy, to quote his older brother, Saqar.   However, when Saqar went to police to register a complaint against Muhammad, “police refused the application and abused Saqar,” who “was then pressurized to withdraw the application, but he refused.”  As a result, on June 5, the older brother went “missing for about 30 hours. When he was found, his body was covered with multiple injuries.” Masked men also threatened the father and other family members to drop the complaint.  “To date,” concludes the June 19 report, “local police have done little to protect Saim or his family. This is likely due to the religious bias faced by Christians in Pakistan.”

Finally, in a June 14 report, Hannah Chowdhry, a Pakistani human rights activist, offered more details concerning a church attack that occurred on May 9, when a Muslim mob trying “to take advantage “of the coronavirus lockdown … attempted to break into the church in a bid to illegally wrestle the property from its rightful owners.”  She elaborated:

There were two mafia gang members who brought five or six other men with them with guns and pistols….  They broke down the outer wall of the church. There was a cemented cross as well that they broke down and threw on the floor and they tried to break into the church….   Although the people are terrified about what has happened, they have started up services in the church again …. This happens on a regular basis and we just have to make people aware of what is happening around the world…. It’s devastating that this is still happening even during the pandemic.

Another rights activist added that authorities should but rarely take action against such land-grabbers; this “creates fear in local congregations and takes away their freedom to practice their faith.”

Iraq:  On June 2, “suspicious fires” consumed over 240 acres of mostly Christian land in the Nineveh district; they severely damaged “the livelihoods of those who are attempting to rebuild their lives following displacement from the Islamic State (ISIS).”  According to the report,

This is not the first instance of crop fires being set in Nineveh. Many residents are quick to blame either ISIS or the PMF (Popular Mobilization Forces), an Iranian-backed militia which controls the territory. The PMF is also a strong supporter of the Shabak, an ethnic [but Muslim] minority who also suffered persecution under ISIS but emerged from the genocide in a position of strength. There are often tensions between the Shabak and Christians, especially as the Shabak have moved into Christian areas in a sometimes forceful manner.

Separately, according to a report, Turkish airstrikes ostensibly targeting members of the Kurdish Workers’ Party (PKK) “impacted [several] villages” which are “home to Christian communities”: “Hundreds of Christian families who fled Mosul and the Nineveh Plains during the 2014 ISIS attacks now live in Zakho, one of the areas targeted by Turkey’s raids. Many of these Christians have been displaced once again.”

Syria: According to a June 17 report, an Aramean Christian woman “became terrified” when she discovered that two Kurdish militiamen had dug a tunnel that ended up in the backyard of her house.  “Aramean Christians across Northeast Syria have been complaining more than once about this military strategy that is being employed by the PYD/YPG [People’s Kurdish Protection Unit’s] Kurds.”  The brothers of the woman, “a respected deaconess in one of the local churches in Qamishli,” met with local Kurdish leaders in an effort to “get them to close the hole and find another tunnel exit.”

After the request was approved, one of the Kurdish representatives in Qamishli frightened the family, telling them: “These are our houses. In ten years, none of you will be left here and then your homes will be ours anyway.” This latest case has shocked the vulnerable Aramean woman who is afraid to stay at home alone and can’t sleep peacefully. The Arameans, who in the last years have been living under the Kurdish yoke in occupied Northeast Syria, have frequently been victims of the YPG’s scare tactics, intimidations, threats, oppression and (lethal) violence.

Commenting on these Kurdish tunnels that often presage the confiscation of Christian properties, a representative of the World Council of Arameans, said,

Everyone knows about it, but nobody knows whether or not a tunnel has been dug under their own house….  YPG Kurds target the native Arameans and their ancestral lands so that the latter will be turned into war zones from which the defenseless Christians will inevitably want to flee.

Raymond Ibrahim, author most recently of Sword and Scimitar, Fourteen Centuries of War between Islam and the West, is a Distinguished Senior Fellow at the Gatestone Institute, a Shillman Fellow at the David Horowitz Freedom Center, and a Judith Rosen Friedman Fellow at the Middle East Forum.

About this Series

The persecution of Christians in the Islamic world has become endemic.  Accordingly, “Muslim Persecution of Christians” was developed in 2011 to collate some—by no means all—of the instances of persecution that occur or are reported each month. It serves two purposes:

1)          To document that which the mainstream media does not: the habitual, if not chronic, persecution of Christians.

2)          To show that such persecution is not “random,” but systematic and interrelated—that it is rooted in a worldview inspired by Islamic Sharia.

Accordingly, whatever the anecdote of persecution, it typically fits under a specific theme, including hatred for churches and other Christian symbols; apostasy, blasphemy, and proselytism laws that criminalize and sometimes punish with death those who “offend” Islam; sexual abuse of Christian women; forced conversions to Islam;  theft and plunder in lieu of jizya (financial tribute expected from non-Muslims); overall expectations for Christians to behave like cowed dhimmis, or second-class, “tolerated” citizens; and simple violence and murder. Sometimes it is a combination thereof.

Because these accounts of persecution span different ethnicities, languages, and locales—from Morocco in the West, to Indonesia in the East—it should be clear that one thing alone binds them: Islam—whether the strict application of Islamic Sharia law, or the supremacist culture born of it.

Previous Reports :

[balkanradfem]

shit I can no longer endure and reasons I can't wait to live in separatism:

men yelling outside, in the middle of the fucking day, usually at women

drunk men, anywhere

male voices in public, men laughing in mocking voices, men talking about women in derogatory tones

locker room talk, everywhere

men abusing their children in public

men harassing women in public

men creepily staring at me and other women

men catcalling me and other women

men talking down to me and other women

men trying to provoke women

men trying to force me and other women in conversation when we obviously want to be left alone

men filling all the cafes, bars, clubs and other public places, making it very visible how much free time they're having because their wives are doing all the work

men making the social scene strongly male-dominated and making no space for women in it except for their entertainment and predation

men harassing women in their workplace, when women can't leave

men looking absolutely disgusting outside

seeing a woman dressed in revealing or sexualized clothing then realizing with a horror she's a child

knowing men will have rape fantasies about that child, and praying they wont follow thru

seeing women with all of their body hair missing

seeing women and female children looking so starved and fragile anyone could break them

fearing for those women and what will happen to them, and what already has

being judged for body hair

being judged for non-conforming appearance

hearing news about men attacking, raping, and brutally murdering women every day and having everyone act like that’s just how things are and nothing can be done

fearing for lives of women around me 

never feeling safe from male violence and sexual violence

cement and concrete everywhere! I need to live surrounded by plants!

It's traumatizing for any woman to live in this community, until all of this is changed do not tell us we shouldn't separate and live where all of this shit can't touch us. We do not have to carry the burden of all of this on our back, it's not worth being a part this society.

[lingbooks]

Wordslut: A Feminist Guide to Taking Back the English Language

While I know a lot of linguists who are feminists, there is some tension between feminist ideals and the anti-prescriptivist approach that linguists take towards language. Linguists, as a general rule, aim to document and examine language as it is used, without providing their own opinions on how they think language should be used. This approach to language allows linguists to show that certain forms of language, from split infinitives to singular they, are not bad or wrong or “grammatically incorrect.” However, when it comes to sexist language, it’s a lot harder to say that there’s no such thing as “bad” language use. 

Some of the questions that arise are easily answered. It is fairly easy to distinguish between using slurs and splitting infinitives, as slurs are meant to hurt or disparage people, while split infinitives only offend the sensibilities of some long dead men who desperately wished English were more like Latin. But what about less malicious language use that still has sexist undertones? What about calling ships or storms she? What about using the word guys to refer to groups that contain women?

 I thought a lot about this contradiction while reading Wordslut: A Feminist Guide to Taking Back the English Language by Amanda Montell, a book that attempts to cover a wide variety of topics related to language and gender. Montell’s background in linguistics admittedly isn’t particularly extensive—she has a bachelor’s degree in linguistics, but she’s primarily a journalist who only occasionally writes about linguistics. (I should probably also state that, depending on how you count my graduate work in a related field, I have the same amount of linguistics education, so I’m not going to make any judgments on who “really counts” as a linguist.) That said, Wordslut is definitely a linguistics book—and a pretty good one at that.

 Wordslut covers a broad variety of topics in sociolinguistics. Some are expected. The first chapter discusses the variety of (often derogatory) slang words used to describe women, while another chapter discusses the ways women speak to each other. Other chapters cover topics I see less frequently. One chapter, for example, looks at how women swear, while another looks at the vast array of slang words used to refer to genitalia. (I’d warn you that this book is NSFW, but if you’re reading a book entitled Wordslut at work in the first place, you’re a braver soul than I am.) One of my favorite chapters focused on how gay people speak, including both discussions of gay slang as well as examining why there’s a “gay voice” but no real “lesbian voice.” While I already was familiar with some of the topics in the chapter, I was not aware of Polari, a sort of code once used by British gay men as early as the 1500s that gave us such words as twink, camp, and fantabulous, and now I definitely want to know more about it. On a similar note, throughout the book, Montell makes sure to discuss queer, trans, and nonbinary experiences when relevant, which provides perspective that’s usually lacking in older writing about language and gender.

I did find that the quality varied from chapter to chapter—or even within the same chapter. Consider, for example, the chapter on catcalling. One section of the chapter compared catcalling behaviors with linguistic studies on compliments, breaking down precisely why catcalling is not a compliment. I thought this was a really interesting analysis, but I found the rest of the chapter fairly dull; some of it discussed facts I (and most other feminists) already know about how men dominate conversations and interrupt women, while other parts talked about the act of catcalling more generally. (A problem I found throughout the book is that Montell sometimes chose to discuss general feminist issues without really tying them back to linguistics.) While some of this unevenness is to be expected in a book with such a broad scope, one pattern emerged: I generally enjoyed the portions discussing how women speak, such as the chapter about conversational norms in groups of women or the section about the many uses of like, more than the portions discussing how women are spoken about. Perhaps this is because the former read like a celebration, while the latter was more of a rant. Montell is not happy about how our culture talks about women, and while I don’t disagree with her, I often found myself more frustrated than properly fired up.

It is worth noting that Montell is not an impartial voice throughout the book. She wants our language to become more equitable. Mostly, her ambitions are good. (And in her defense, she notes that certain approaches to making language more equitable, such as attempts in 70s to create a “women’s language” or storming a dictionary headquarters to demand the word slut be removed, are unlikely to be successful.) But in doing so, sometimes her own linguistic biases shine through. Consider, for example, an anecdote from the intro of the book, where Montell gives the following speech to a woman who critiques her use of the word y’all:

I like to see y’all as an efficient and socially conscious way to handle the English language’s lack of a second-person plural pronoun. I could have used the word you to address the two girls, but I wanted to make sure your daughter knew I was including her in the conversation. I could also have said you guys, which has become surprisingly customary in casual conversation, but to my knowledge, neither of these children identifies as male, and I try to avoid using masculine terms to address people who aren’t men, as it ultimately works to promote the sort of linguistic sexism many have been fighting for years. I mean, if neither of these girls is a guy, then surely together they aren’t guys, you know?

 It’s a nice “take down the prescriptivist” story in some ways, but while I agree that y’all is a perfectly acceptable and useful word, Montell tries to argue that she chose to use y’all not just because her geographical and linguistic background make it the natural choice for her but because it’s the best choice, thereby turning an anti-prescriptivist argument into a prescriptivist one. Later in the same speech, she dismisses the option of using the pronoun yinz because it “doesn’t roll off the tongue nicely.”  I’m more intrigued, however, by her insistence that it would be sexist to use you guys. Montell notes, “Many speakers genuinely believe guys has become gender neutral. However, scholars agree that guys is just another masculine generic in cozier clothing. There’d be no chance of you gals earning the same lexical love.”  However, she provides no real evidence that guys isn’t truly neutral to speakers who use it, only that it is less marked than gals and that only masculine terms can ever reach this level of unmarkedness. I can’t help but wonder if it’s speakers who are excluding women when using phrases like you guys or if Montell simply hears it that way due to her own linguistic background.

 Another issue I had with this book is that it heavily focuses on English. While the topics discussed throughout the book are fairly universal, only one chapter provides any non-English examples. However, given how Montell handles these non-English examples, especially those from non-Western languages, in that one chapter, that might be for the best. The chapter examines how grammatical gender affects speakers’ perceptions of natural gender, as well as the political consequences, and at points, it’s very effective. I was particularly intrigued by her discussion of French feminists’ attempts to introduce feminine terms for certain jobs in a language where words like doctor are obligatorily masculine (and l’Académie Française is trying very hard to keep them that way). A few pages later, Montell moves onto talk about more complex gender and noun class systems. She gives the now famous example of Dyirbal, where most animate nouns belong to one noun class but “women, fire, and dangerous things” belong to another. She then concludes that this demonstrates that this shows something about Dyirbal speakers’ worldviews—that they see everything as masculine unless it could “literally kill you.” It’s a compelling argument in some ways, but it’s hard to discuss Dyirbal speakers’ worldviews without remembering one thing: Dyirbal is an indigenous Australian language with a single-digit number of native speakers. Yes, it has an interesting—and perhaps problematic—approach to gender, but it’s tied to a very specific (and mostly eradicated) cultural context, and it simply isn’t problematic in the same way as l’Académie Française. 

Overall, while I had my issues with Wordslut, I had a good time reading it . It’s not a must read, but if you’re looking for a fun, modern source on gender and language, it’s certainly entertaining and informative. It’s also a book that can definitely be enjoyed by linguists and non-linguists alike; there’s not much jargon that would trip up a non-linguist, but it covers a wide enough variety of topics that linguists (at least those who don’t specialize in sociolinguistics) won’t already know everything it covers. In general, if you’re interested in linguistics and feminism, you’ll probably have a good time and learn something new.

TL;DR

Overall rating: 3.5/5 Good for linguists? Yes, unless you’re already an expert in sociolinguistics Good for non-linguists? A definitive yes, since this assumes no background in linguistics Strong points: Broad scope and a fun, modern overview of the intersection between language and gender Weak points: Very English-centric, and the author’s outrage overshadows the actual information sometimes

[iamkatehardy]

Only One (Alfie Solomons x Reader) - Pt 1

Request:  Anon: “Hello would you mind writing an Alfie who really likes this shy girl who works in some shop near him. She already has s boyfriend but Alfie doesn't care and goes to her work a lot just to get to talk & flirt with her but she always gets embarrassed and shyer when he flirts and he loves that. She catches her boyfriend cheating on her and now Alfie can make his move😉 could u use smut prompt list #64 #37 please you can change any of this however you need to whatever works for you.”

Warnings: Cursing ; Cute Alfie

A/N: I’m splitting this in 2 parts, because I don’t want you to wait any longer! There is no smut yet, I need to polish Alfie x Reader relation! 😏 

Leave your feedback, me and your favourite Jew will be very thankful!❤

  Only One (Alfie Solomons x Reader)

The role of the ideal housewife was never enough for you; you always wanted much more, to feel entirely fulfilled, and you thrived.

You had the work bug, plus your dexterity with the needles and creativity put most of the other dressmakers to shame. In no time, you had one of the busiest stores in town, so you expanded the business to serve your growing clientele, moving to a roomier shop in Camden Town and hiring an Italian tailor to be able to work with men’s clothing too.

Although it was a huge success, perhaps not everyone had noticed it yet. As one of the rulers of most part of Camden, Alfie Solomons used to pay local businesses a visit, not only as a reminder of who was in charge , but also most likely to demand a share, “for operating in his town”. Your turn hadn’t come yet; he was busy with his own expansion plans, involving a strategic partnership with some old friends, to make it through the crisis after the Italians’ attacks.

“I’m not sure I trust Elazar, but I have no choice, a’ight? Aside from him having a shitload of money, all the others are eating in his fuckin’ hand, for whatever reason. He’s not an honorable man, that’s one thing I’m sure about! Can you believe that cunt is even living in concubinage with some Shiksa?! (derogatory word for non-Jewish women) – In a sudden fit of anger and frustration, Alfie swept the paper off his desk with his left hand, throwing all the work of the past few days to the floor. His fingers ran through his messy hair in desperation, he couldn’t stand not have control.

“Alfie…” – Ollie bent down to pick the papers up and placed them on the desk again.

“Not now. Not today.” – The burning wrath in his eyes could reach a person’s soul in second, but he soon acknowledged the fact that the situation wasn’t Ollie’s fault. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, his fingertips rubbing his throbbing temples. – “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, mate? I can’t look at these anymore. We think about it tomorrow, with a clear head.”

Ollie merely nodded in assent, but when he was about to leave he turned to his boss again.

“Will you be ok?” – The hardships in Alfie’s life always made Ollie worry, almost like a son; despite the filthy temper and all the outbursts, Alfie was his mentor and they cared for each other.

“Stop worrying, little boy.”- Alfie chuckled lowly. - “Fuckin’ Solomons always find a way, even when it seems there isn’t any, innit?” – Narrowing his eyes, his hand came to his chin and he stroked his beard thoughtfully. -  “Now go, live a little. You’re at the right age for it.” – With a wave of his hands, Alfie shooed his assistant away.

“You should live a little too. Anyway, have a good evening.”

“You cheeky little…” – Alfie shook his head, watching him disappear in the distance, but deep down he knew maybe Ollie was right.

Maybe he should really live a little too, before it was too late.

After gathering his things, he grabbed his coat and left the office, heading outside. The street was busier than usual, more than he expected, as it was cold and getting later I the day.

“Hey! Come here, little boy.” – Alfie called a little kid over; children were honest most of the time and too young to be afraid of him, unlike most people in Camden.

The boy approached slowly. Eventually, he stood near Alfie’s feet. The gangster looked down at the kid, who was looking up at him with big innocent eyes. After searching in his pockets for a long time, Alfie held a wad of cash in his hand. With the other hand on his lower back to hold the pain, he crouched down until he was at the kid’s height and handed him a note.

“What is all this fuss about, little man?” – He knitted his eyebrows together, almost imperceptibly, pointing at the crowd.

“The store that opened down the street, I think.” – The kid shyly took the money out of Alfie’s hand, bowing thankfully.

“What kind of store?” – Alfie’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not sure, Sir. But they give you chocolates; maybe that’s why people go there.” – The kid shrugged and Alfie couldn’t help quirking his lips up in response.

“A’ight, thank you for your help.” – Alfie rubbed the kid’s head and stood up slowly, with a groan of pain.

After stuffing the money on his pocket, the kid ran happily down the street.

“These bastards will learn the hard way to think twice before they do anything without my fuckin’ say-so!” – Annoyed, he cussed under his breath and moved faster, scanning the street for the new store.

The sky had turned black and the rain was starting to pour down heavily, but it didn’t stop him. Slightly limping down the street, his expression was menacing, it seemed as if he was determined to start a fight with whoever challenged his power; maybe he just wanted to take his problems out on somebody else, either way, it was the perfect excuse.

Finally he saw an unfamiliar elegant store and just stormed inside, looking really pissed. The furniture looked new and luxuriously comfortable and the collection of antique artwork that adorned the place seemed to be priceless. There was a soothing record playing and a pleasant floral smell on the air, that somehow made him go back to his childhood days.

The store was already closed by then; you were working on the sewing room in the back, to get a head start on next day’s work. When you heard the door open, you popped through the velvet curtains the two parts of the store.

Beholding the man before you, you smiled and approached the counter. It was after hours already, but you weren’t willing to lose a costumer.  His attire made you immediately think he was probably Jew by birth and upbringing.

“Shalom.” – You greeted him softly, and then cast your eyes down shyly, dropping your gaze to the ledge under your hands.

“Shalom.” - Alfie raised a brow as his eyes moved to you. – “I would like to speak to the owner, personally.”

“That’s me.” – When your eyes met, a smile formed on your lips and Alfie’s blood seemed to warm. – “How can I help you, Sir?”

All his courage to scold and fight the owner of the shop immediately disappeared. Rubbing his lids with the back of his hands, he stammered indecipherable words that sounded to you like Yiddish.

As you tilted your head, studying him, your eyes widened a bit and shone brighter than he had ever seen in his life. Noticing his soaked clothes and speechlessness, you wondered if maybe he just wanted shelter from the heavy rain and entered a random store. You picked up a towel and handed it to him, for him to wipe out his wetness.

“Thank you. Thank you, dove.” – He put his hat aside and took the towel, drying his head and face.

“Would you like a cup of tea, while you decide?” – You watched him drying himself and took the towel when he finished. - “Here, have a bonbon! These are kosher.” – Smiling encouragingly, you offered him a plate of assorted bonbons to choose from.

He put the candy in his mouth, letting it melt slowly.

“These are really sweet.” – He furrowed his eyebrows. – “But not as sweet as you seem to be.”

Although you opened your mouth, no word came out; you felt a furious blush flaming on your skin.

Trying to come up with an excuse for the situation he found himself in, he looked around him, letting out a loud breath and straightening his posture. Before saying anything else, he took another moment to watch your embarrassment, how your face was still burning in shame after the compliment; it was pretty adorable and it somehow amused him.

“I was wondering, do you sell hats here?” – He didn’t actually need the thousandth hat, but it was the first thing he came up with, so he’d stick with that excuse until he’d come up with something better.

“Yes, do you have anything in mind?” – Looking down to cover up the blush, you bit your thumb shyly.

“Lots of things, love.” – He came closer with a smile on the corner of his lips. - “As about the hat, something inconspicuous, but with a little style. Black, wide brim, preferably resistant.” –Shrugging, like the hat was actually no big deal, he constantly kept his eyes glued on you.

The first of his answer might have been innocent, but you blushed even more. No matter what words he spoke, his voice was enough to make a woman weak at the knees.

“I… I’ll see what I can get, just give me a minute. In the meanwhile, please, make yourself at home.” – You nodded to the sofas before you disappeared behind the curtains again.

He sat on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head and chuckling in a low tone.

“Composure, (Y/N), composure…” - In the backroom, you sat on the edge of a table and cleared your throat, putting your lightly shaky hand on your chest. After taking a sip of water, you searched in the boxes, trying to find those that met his requirements.

A few minutes later you returned with a half dozen boxes pilled in your hands and put them on the sofa, next to him.

“At the moment I have these. If you’d like something else, I can order it for you, it’ll take only a couple days.” – You gracefully sat on the arm of the couch, crossing your legs and arranging your skirt, before you opened the boxes one by one and started handing him the hats for him to try them on.

“How do I look?!” – Giving you a cocky smile, he turned his head to give you a profile view.

“Great!” – Leaning closer, you adjusted the hat into a slightly crooked position. – “Well, that’s more like it. Perfect.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” – Watching you with great interest, he blinked slowly. – ��I’m taking them all.” – He took the hat off, putting it back in the box and got up, extending his hand to help you up.

Why the hell would someone buy so many hats that look almost exactly the same?

You looked at him in surprise and took his hand, getting up. Your hand lingered on his for a few seconds and the pad of his thumb rubbed your knuckles soothingly, sending a shiver through you, before you finally pulled it away, with a sheepish smile on your face.

“What name should I put on the receipt?” – You went behind the counter again.

“Alfred Solomons.” – Leaning against the counter, he paid for the hats and watched you write his answer down. He had gotten so close he could feel your warmth and your delicate fragrance with every intake of breath. – “But you may call me just Alfie, a’ight?”

“Deal.” – You gave him the receipt.

“It’s raining cats and dogs. I don’t think it’s a good idea to take all those boxes home in these circumstances, innit darling? Can I swing by tomorrow to get them?”

“Of course, Mr. Solomons.” – You intertwined your hands together and nodded cordially.

“Alfie.”

“I think you’re going to need this.” – You giggled and handed him an umbrella. – “So long, Alfie.”

“See you around…” – He tilted his head lightly to one side and lifted his brows. – “ Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“(Y/N).”

“(Y/N).” – He nodded. – “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman, right?” – With a warm half-smile, he turned on his heel and left.

The next day, you waited for him to show up, constantly checking when a new client made it through the front door. It was half-hour to closing time and he still hadn’t shown up.

Alfie was at the bakery, in a meeting with Elazar, scrambling with last minute details on their settlement.

“Let’s make this quick, Elazar. I have an appointment, mate.” – He looked at his pocket watch to check if he still had time to go to your store; he did, but not much.

“Relax Alfie, I have an appointment too, maybe  two, or three.” – Elazar grinned maliciously.

“With your missus? Doesn’t count as an appointment.”

“Alfie, Alfie, Alfie… I wouldn’t expect you to understand, you’re not a ladies’ man after all, but your missus is your choice of pleasure if, and only if you have no other option available.”

“What… Excuse me?” – Alfie put his glasses down, giving him a nasty look.

“Think of a relationship as if it was just any other business; if you have the chance to have some side action and make a profit, you go for it, without blinking an eye.”

“How can you fuckin’ do that, mate?!” – Slightly irritated, Alfie swung his arms on the air.

“It’s really quite simple; women are very naïve when it comes to love.” – Elazar proudly started explaining. – “Tell her you love her and she’s the only one; make her believe that and she will be at your feet, which will basically make her buy any excuse you come up with. But keep her busy, so she won’t have much time to think about them, some women are smart enough to figure out the truth … Give her a small business, or let her teach little orphans, something like that. Use your imagination! Propose to her, if necessary, it will keep her in your hands until you are done with the little brat and find a better one.”

“I wasn’t asking how do you do it! I was asking how you can be such a cunt, actually. You give a woman goods and she will give you a heart cooked meal… You give her your house and she will make it your fuckin’ home… You give her your fuckin’ cum and she will return you your offspring! If you give her some affection, she will give you her fuckin’ heart! What is wrong with you?!”

“What is wrong with you, Alfie? That’s why you don’t get any action. Have you gone soft or what?”

“No, I simply respect women!” – Alfie’s unblinking eyes were fixed on the man ahead and his jaw was tight. – “You know what? If it’s alright with you, we can finish this another day.”

“As you wish. Call me later and let me know when.” – Elazar promptly picked his things up and left.

“What has this world come to? Thank you for everything  eema. (Mom, but I’m not sure of this) “ – Alfie pressed a hand to the medallion in his chest, before he checked his pocket watch again and hurriedly left the bakery, heading to the flower shop.

 Tag List: @carmen-kray , @titty-teetee , @iv-nyc , @but--dear-this-is-not-wonderland , @eap1935 , @ellar21 , @tiredoffeelinglost , @original-krays , @marvelgirl7 , @captstefanbrandt , @evilispretty-dead , @mollybegger-blog , @bignastyfan-nz , @scarrasco1325-deactivated201905 , @miidailyinspiration , @harleyquinns , @haroldpain , @marvelslut16 , @willowick13 , @outofbluecomesgreen , @elemeph , @my-little-lucky-scissors , @overitall2018 , @innerpaperexpertcloud , @matoki-darkpanda

[ijustwant2write]

The Other Woman (Part 2)-Jon Snow x Reader

(GIF credit to @joneryswarrior)

Request by @feelingsandemotionsnotexplored

Part 1

Summary: ‘Hi, I was reading The Other Woman-Jon Snow x Reader One Shot again and was wondering if you could write a continuation in which feelings begin to be born by the two and who know up to a fluffy smut that results in a baby and a possible happy ending maybe? (Sorry for my English and I will understand if you do not want to write it)’

Characters: Jon Snow x Reader

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: derogatory talk against women, sadness, anger, jealousy, light smut, fluff

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Henry, get back here now! My lady, I am deeply sorry!” a woman fretted as her child ran into my legs, holding onto my dress as he fell backwards.

“It’s alright. He’s only having fun.” I giggled as I bent down, scooping my hands under his arms to stand him up.

He was just the cutest, big, innocent eyes, messy hair and rosy cheeks from running around all day. He smiled at me as he stood, his tiny hands clutching onto mine.

“Thank...you.” he managed to say.

I pushed his long hair out of his eyes, gently pushing him back towards his mother. He stumbled towards her, the woman gratefully smiling at me as she bowed her head. I continued my walk, trying to not think too much about the adorable child. It was heartbreaking to face crowds of families when you didn’t have your own, and knowing you probably never would. I understood a little more about Jon after our deep conversation about his past lover. And although I was happy about him opening up, it made me realise how inexperienced I was compared to him.

He had made love to a woman (god knows how many times), whereas I had never even kissed a man. He had said I was beautiful, but would he find me attractive when he realised how little experience I had? I didn’t want to think of Jon like that, it was my mind playing games on me. However, since we had never spoke of it since, I felt that it would be awkward to bring it up out of no where. How was I supposed to explain all of this? How was I supposed to bring up wanting a child again when nothing came of it the first time?

As we sat with the banner men for our monthly meeting, eating and drinking whilst rejoicing in the peace that we had kept, I felt Jon’s hand ghost over mine before he properly held it. He had never done this before. I found myself staring it in shock, especially when his thumb tenderly stroked the back of my hand. Glancing at the other men, they were too busy getting drunk to notice, not that they would anyway. I looked back to Jon, who was happily smiling, taking small sips of his mead. He finally turned his head to me, his expression not changing. I wanted to say something, ask him about the sudden affection; but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, wanting to relish in the sentiment.

I noticed small differences like this over the coming weeks. He would be with me more often, hold my hands in public, I even found him sleeping closer to me in bed. At first I tried to not let it get to my head, not wanting to fool myself that he was actually caring for me. No one had ever shown this sort of affection towards me, all I had ever done was daydream of experiencing love, or something close to that. So to stop any hurt coming my way, I played it off as a public display, something to keep our peers believing in our alliance. 

“You don’t seem too pleased about this trip we’re taking.” I stated as I sat on our bed, removing my shoes.

He too started to take off his heavy clothes.“I’m not pleased that you have to come along. Lord Adley is not a respectable man.”

“How so?”

“He does not care for other people’s things, especially wives.”

“Oh, so now I’m a thing?” I teased him.

He chuckled, walking towards me.“Definitely not. But he won’t see it that way.”

“Jon, I have to come. That’s just the way it is.”

“It will be hard to stay in line around him. I hope he doesn’t offend you.”

I flopped onto my back.“Well if he does I’ll just have to hold my tongue, as women always do.”

He was still stood over me, looking down with a smile.“As will I.”

After an hours ride away from Winterfell, we arrived at Lord Adley’s castle, although small it bared a striking image; the walls were dark, though there were new bricks filling in where the wall had crumbled...or been attacked. There were more men than women here, though his guards and soldiers held no poise; they were slouched, leaning up against walls, slumping in chairs. As we entered the hall with some of our own banner men, instead of them rising in respect, they took their time to stand, seeming smug about it. Jon’s jaw clenched, sharing a glance with our own men as we continued to walk forwards. Lord Adley sat proudly in his chair, opening his arms out as he spoke.

“Welcome Lord and Lady Snow!” he bellowed, his voice gruff and deep.“My, what a pleasure it is to see you again. How long has it been? Two years?”

“Thank you for having us here. And yes, it has been quite a while.” Jon politely replies.

“My, my, Lady Snow, you are even more beautiful than when I last saw you. Surprised this one has been able to keep his trousers on around you.”

His men roared into laughter, clutching at their fat bellies and wheezing. My face remained neutral, deciding not to reply, even when they calmed themselves. It seemed that it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because he carried on talking.

“So, we shall have our meeting, discuss these matters, and that will be all. But I do believe it would be a good idea to have your wife there. Not for her opinion obviously! I couldn’t imagine anything funnier! No, no, she’s just nice to look at.”

It was plain to see that Jon was desperately trying to contain his anger.“With all due respect, I do think that-”

“Come on! Let’s get on with it!”

I held into Jon’s arm, making him look at me. He huffed as Lord Adley’s heavy footsteps bounded towards us, coming between us. I tried to not recoil as he wrapped his arms around us. He was a mad man, not caring what others thought, he was always right. And I saw more of this throughout the meeting. He wanted me to sit right next to him, but Jon got between us before he had the chance. Before Adley could protest, Jon warned him that I was still his wife, and that respect was supposed to be on both ends. He reluctantly agreed, though the fury was in his eyes.

I couldn’t help but watch Jon intently, noticing more and more things he was going for me. He continued to hold my hand, leaning slightly in front of me to block the view of those gawking. If it weren’t for Jon, I wouldn’t feel safe, these men were unpredictable, you just never knew what their reaction or action would be. Luckily, Adley didn’t want to talk for long, and the gathering was wrapped up sooner than we thought, all problems or worries now resolved. Jon couldn’t drag me out of there fast enough if he tried, stern and silent as we rode through the evening. It put me slightly on edge, hoping that his bad mood was down to Adley and his men, and that I hadn’t unintentionally done anything. 

“Jon, you can relax now, you don’t need to be so tense.” I told him as I slipped into bed.

He was slumped in a chair, deep in thought, half dressed.“How can men be like that? They knew you were my wife yet they disrespected that notion.”

“Because they couldn’t give two shits about respect or nobility. That’s the way it’s been with them and it always will be.”

“Did you feel uncomfortable?”

I decided to answer, knowing he would see through me anyway.“Yes, but I felt safe with you there.”

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Thank you Jon, I’m lucky to have such a respectful and caring man such as you. Imagine if I had been forced to marry one of them. Or even Adley!”

Jon stood from the chair, and we held eye contact as he climbed onto the bed, laying by my legs as he placed a hand on it.“Do you ever think of what might have happened if you didn’t marry me?”

“I used to. Though everyone does, I’m sure you did. But I was lucky with you as a choice, you’ve never done me wrong. I just had such a picture in my head of love, and all the experiences that came with it; that’s why I was angry with you. But then that wasn’t fair, because I was then pressuring you.”

He sat up, inching closer to me.“(Y/N), I know it has taken time, but I feel like we have grown closer. You’re my wife, and I should treat you as such, not because I have to, but because I want to.”

His face was so close to mine, I could feel his breath on mine. I had never been so close to a man like this before, and suddenly my heart was racing. Jon’s beautiful eyes were soft, not afraid to look right into mine, though mine were wide and scared. It was agony as he kept on leaning in, until he kissed me. Though awkward at first, I easily melted into it, especially when his hand clutched onto the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. We flowed together, hands roaming, his gentle and conservative, mine nervous and shaking. My mind was yelling that this was different, it was scary, pull away now before something happens that you can’t control, but my heart easily out shouted it, wanting to experience this new feeling feeling building in my stomach.

“Don’t be scared.” Jon whispered.

“I’m not.” I lied.

“If there’s anything you don’t want to do, tell me. I’ll respect your wishes.”

I nodded, taking a shaky breath as he laid me down. I had never put much thought into how this would actually feel, or how I would feel about the person I was doing it with. However, this somehow felt right, even though I had never done this before. Jon was the right man, he was my husband, not a regret.

For two people who said that they had no love for each other, who were forced into this marriage, the sex was filled with passion, or at least I thought so. Jon had been so gentle, so kind, so loving; I had been overwhelmed by all the new sensations, both physically and mentally. Though there was a completely new experience I was about to face, and I wasn’t sure how Jon would feel.

Just like those few weeks ago (and quite a few times after that), Jon was holding me in his arms as we lay don in bed, and I felt those same nerves I did the first time. Rolling over to face him, I almost leapt onto him after seeing the look in his eyes.

“Jon,” my voice was quiet,“I have to tell you something.”

He waited for me to carry on.

I took his hand, placing it on my belly.“There’s no easier way of saying this than...well I saw the maester today and he has confirmed that...I’m pregnant.”

His eyes widened, lighting up at the same time, a gasp escaping his lips as he smiled.“W-what? We....we’re going to have a child?”

Tears rolled down my cheeks quickly, relieved that he was happy.“Yes. After all that time nagging you.”

We laughed, kissing as we cried.“I’m so happy. I cannot believe I am having a child.”

“You deserve family Jon, you deserve so much more than you think.”

“And I have everything now, right in front of me, in my arms.”

[victoodles]

Fleur Sauvage

yeehaws but softly. back again, read it on AO3 and i hope you enjoy

Arthur is uncomfortable.

The sleeves of his stupid tuxedo are too tight and the cotton of his stupid bowtie is too itchy against his neck. But mostly, it’s because he’s surrounded on all sides by pompous displays of how the other half live.

Arthur has been encircled by wolves before, ravenous beasts of varying shapes and sizes. Unfortunately this time around he can’t shoot his way through the pack. If he had a say in the matter, he would take fangs and claws over coiffed hair and expensive suits any day of the week.

But he doesn’t. He rarely does, so here he stays.

The air is heavy with cigar smoke and foreign chatter. Arthur always presumed other languages would have an essence of beauty to them. Though as he overhears these gentlemen prattle on, cackling at their own self-proclaimed witticisms, he finds it to be extremely grating. Dutch insists though, as he is prone to do, that they continue to meet with the true master of Saint Denis.

Angelo Bronte.

A man with all the charm of a cottonmouth snake and twice as deadly. Every word that falls from his mouth is dripping with so much venom, Arthur is surprised listening to him hasn’t been fatal. Among those words is the promise of money; a key to freedom from the shackles of a modern word.

Now Arthur is the one to insist that Dutch reconsider his faith in this “parasite", as Arthur so fondly described. Dutch disregards it, telling him that home is just “one more score” out of reach. Arthur thinks that these grandiose fantasies are going to get them in over their heads more so then they already are. Hosea shares the sentiment but their unconditional loyalty has them tethered to this plan for the time being.

Angelo cackles from his perch on the manor’s balcony. He finds himself (both literally and figuratively) above the party-goers and that seems to fill him with malicious glee. They are merely bugs under his expensive shoes, and he’ll go well out of his way to stomp on them.

He sorts through the crowd one by one, expressing his contempt and expansive knowledge of Saint Denis’ denizens. Each one has a filthy secret that Angelo pours forth like fine wine. A jeer follows every name until his gaze falls upon a certain young lady, arm secured around Hosea’s.

“And who is this? I’ve never seen her before,” Angelo turns to his men with a smirk, “I’d certainly remember one so pretty.” Arthur tracks Angelo’s leering gaze to you, and his ire is sparked like flint. Taking a step forward to act, he aims to silence this lecherous cretin permanently.

Unfortunately, he is promptly stopped by Dutch’s hand, a silent plea to contain himself. It’s a small one and Dutch hopes Angelo doesn’t notice, they’re already on thin enough ice. Thankfully, he doesn’t.  

“Is she one of yours?” It’s posed as a question but Dutch knows he expects an answer - the right answer.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, “she’s like a daughter to me.” Dutch is careful not to give out too much information but still emphasizes you are no part of their meeting. “Just wanted to show her a good time away from the debauchery of our lifestyle. We think she deserved it, didn’t we Arthur?”

Every muscle in Arthur’s body is wound tight, ready to fight if you’re put in Angelo’s crosshairs. He clenches his jaw and manages to grit out an affirmation.

Another smirk spreads across Angelo’s lips. “Is that right?” He says something in Italian to his men, most likely a derogatory comment, before turning his attention back to the outlaws.

“It’s quite a crime to keep a flower like that out of reach. Such a beauty should,” he pauses to take another drag of his cigar, licking his lips lasciviously afterwords, “be enjoyed by all.”

Angelo seems to revel in the heat of Arthur’s rage; he’s garnered what you mean to him by reactions alone. Arthur’s trigger finger is suddenly restless; he wishes he had the sense to conceal a weapon. Dutch speaks again before Arthur sets this whole party ablaze.  

“We shall keep that in mind, Signore Bronte. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Dutch begins to lead Arthur back inside.

“Yes, yes go! Enjoy, my friends!” He says with a dismissive wave before he returns to his own festivities. Angelo wears a mask of gracious host but Arthur can see the cracks in it, revealing the true monster underneath.

That doesn’t matter right now though. Arthur needs to get back to you.

As the two of them head back downstairs (Arthur a little more briskly in contrast) Arthur starts up with Dutch. “I told you bringing her along was a bad idea,” he growls. It’s clear Dutch doesn’t have the patience to placate Arthur right now.

“And I told you that we needed her! She still can speak their pretentious language. Discover leads that we couldn’t with our “barbaric” intellects.” Dutch says sardonically, paired with a roll of his eyes.

“Dutch,” Arthur warns but is once again interrupted.

“I will keep her safe, son. As I have done for all of us.” Dutch smiles fondly then. “You’ve got yourself quite a woman there, a true sheep in wolf’s clothing. I gather she won’t need much assistance from either of us.”

Arthur is momentarily rendered speechless. It was true, you were beyond capable of fending for yourself. But he still did not want to take any chances.

A man who held the world in the palm of his hand? What could someone with that type of power do to a woman closely associated with a (potential) enemy gang?

Arthur didn’t think himself overly imaginative but he could picture possible outcomes vividly. Too vividly.

One of many servants opened the main doors before those thoughts could evolve into more grotesque nightmares. Arthur is cruelly reminded of the events transpiring just beyond. However his racing mind is thankful for the distraction. He finds on the other side a dapper Hosea and Bill, looking even more miserable than himself.

But no you.

Arthur opens his mouth to inquire and Hosea has the answer before he can ask. It seems everyone’s in the habit of cutting Arthur off tonight.

Hosea tilts his head towards the courtyard. “Down there. She’s getting a head start on the mingling,” he informs his frantic son. Arthur’s feet carry him so fast he barely catches Dutch’s request to stay out of trouble. Wishful thinking but he’ll try his best regardless.

To Arthur, you stand out amongst the throng of people, clear as day. Your pink dress (you tell him it’s peach) compliments you completely. From the way it hugs your waist to the roses embroidered along the skirts. How fitting of a design, a wild rose with her own kind.  

An array of golden hair pins - courtesy of Miss Grimshaw’s heydey - keep your complicated braid in place. They shine like stars in the lamplight, twinkling faintly with every turn of your head. Your decolletage is bare of any jewelry, save for some cream colored lace along the sleeves of your gown. Arthur is oddly more distracted, eyeing the exposed skin hungrily.

Your beauty doesn’t hold a candle to any of the satin clad or feathered fan socialites. You are elegance personified and he aims to immortalize that within the confines of his journal later.  

Arthur makes his way forward, drawn to you as he often finds is the case. Obstacles in the form of other guests stand in his way and he wades through them. He doesn’t mean to push and shove; he is quite colossal when next to these dainty women. An apology comes in the form of a flute of champagne as to not stir up any more trouble before he presses onward.

Your company is being enjoyed by the mayor himself and his entourage. The gentlemen are enraptured by whatever it is you’re regaling them with. Hanging onto every pretty word and starring at you like you hung the moon. Arthur finds himself in the same position more often than not.

Laughter, airy and delicate, tugs at Arthur’s heart as he approaches. It envelops him; it’s a warmth he still isn’t accustomed to, especially in his line of work. But you coax him into it, and he learns his hands are still capable of gentleness.

You notice Arthur, a grin playing on your lips, and you stop mid-sentence to acknowledge him.  

“Oh Tacitus, my darling,” You coo, waltzing up and wrapping your arms snugly around Arthur’s neck. He fights to contain his guffaw at your act: the high society primadonna. It’s your favorite role to play whenever Hosea needs you for a swindle. And you play it exceptionally well.

A kiss is placed on his cheek, tantalizingly close to the corner of his lips. It’s a promise of more to come.

The mayor and his colleagues chuckle at this impromptu display of affection. “It seems your new bride is quite taken with you. What a shame for us, eh gentlemen?” The mayor asks, feigning disappointment which earns him a wave of laughter. You titter yourself, finding a new place around Arthur’s arm this time.

Arthur looks at you bemused, but humored. You take that as your cue to subtly fill him in on your little game. You smile affectionately at Arthur before turning attention back to the mayor. “I’m terribly sorry my good men, but my heart utterly belongs to my Tacitus,” you keen, dramatically casting a hand over your chest. If he wasn’t an actor in this play, Arthur would quite enjoy watching the performance.

"Mon coeur, it is broken!” The mayor jests and you playfully swat at his hand.

“Ne sois pas bête!” You tease back.

This French tit for tat goes right over Arthur’s head but he does understand something. Dutch was absolutely right in bringing you along. Not even an hour later and you already have a major city official wrapped around your finger. Color Arthur impressed (and slightly jealous). But then he remembers he is your “husband” after all, and the petty emotions are assuaged.

“And,” the mayor finally turns his focus to Arthur, “whose pleasure is it to have this delight of a woman for a wife?” Arthur sheds his skin of an outlaw and adapts, following your lead.

“Good evening,” he says smoothly, extending a hand out. “Tacitus Gilgore.” The mayor seems pleased at the gesture and eagerly shakes Arthur’s hand. You’re beaming at Arthur’s side at the interaction.

“Well it certainly is a pleasure Mister Gilgore. Henri Lemieux, mayor of this fine city.” There’s a hint of disgust in his words; Arthur doesn’t blame him. Henri gestures to his surrounding accompaniment and begins to introduce them. Arthur tunes it out - they don’t matter. Finding the mayor was his goal, not these buffoons.

Though his attention does perk up at the mention of a familiar name. “And this is Monsieur Evelyn Miller.”

“Like the writer?” Arthur inquires, earning another giggle from you.

“Yes darling,” you chirp enthusiastically. “He wrote all those books your father positively adored.” Your conversation takes a turn. “Tacitus is the sole inheritor of his father’s oil company,” you inform with a coy smile. A few of the men raise their eyebrows, impressed. The mayor included.

“Ah an oil proprietor?” Henri inquires. “Well, congratulations are in order. A beautiful wife and a flourishing business? You sir, are a very lucky man.” He reaches out and takes Arthur’s hand firmly in his.

“I look forward to speaking more with you, Monsieur Gilgore. But for now,” he relinquishes his hold on Arthur, “why don’t you and your young bride enjoy yourselves?”

Arthur places his now free hand on the small of your back. The satin feels soft under his calloused palms but he yearns more for skin to skin contact. Time and place, unfortunately.

“I think we will. Thank you for your hospitality, good sir.” Arthur takes his leave with a tip of his head before he escorts you away from the crowds. He thinks he deserves some semblance of peace for now. While the excess of unwanted company isn’t ideal, as long as you’re there he feels calm.

An impressive gazebo at the apex of the courtyard is devoid of any guests. It seems the majority of them strive to be in the limelight of this affair for reasons Arthur can’t seem to care about. Regardless, he is grateful for the temporary isolation as he leads you there.

The crowd begins to progressively wane much to Arthur's delight. A few still linger and you placate them with your arsenal of bonjour's and merci's. Once again Arthur finds himself grateful for you. He's reached his "mingling" threshold for the night a long time ago. Your's on the other hand seems to have just begun as you keen and wave to every passing sir and madam. It's rather amusing and Arthur chuckles lightly.

"Another minute there and I think he woulda' handed you the key to the city," Arthur teases. It's a rare occurrence for his bark have no bite, just playful nips You welcome it eagerly.

"That would've been ideal. I could have given it to Dutch so he can sell all of Saint Denis for a few mangoes." You respond back coolly. Arthur snorts.

"Seems like a fair trade."

You nudge him for his cheekiness. "Mind your tongue, Gilgore," you jab. He concedes to your wishes (as always).

"My apologies to my lady." Arthur's inner gentleman (the one he vehemently refuses is there) is showing. You want to say something, acknowledge the sides he wants to reveal. 

But now isn't the place for him to sink into that place of vulnerability. The predators here are too hungry. So you continue on as if it were a game still, keeping things lighthearted.

Placing a finger to your chin, you pretend to mull his words over. "I suppose," you begin, twirling out of his arms and swiftly dashing up the gazebo's steps. "I can forgive you," you spin around a column, "if you come sit with me for a moment?" You plop down on one of the many benches facing the river, tapping the empty space next to you. 

Arthur finds your impishness endearing, but now isn't the time. There's work to be done, people to mislead, men to k-

You can practically hear the discordance in his head. "Just for a moment," you plead, hoping it will alleviate some of his tension. It does, and he wordlessly complies as he sits down with you.

While Arthur doesn't claim to be an expert on the finer things in life, he is awestruck at the view. The gazebo seems to be on its own wooden isle in the middle of the water, surrounded on all sides by flowers. Gentle waves lap at the platform and it creates a steady, lulling rhythm. Petals drift lazily along the river, continually cascading down from the gentle push of an evening breeze.

The swamp he detests is transformed into an ethereal landscape as the lanterns’ reflections sparkle on the water’s surface. It appears that the rich can even buy the better parts of nature as well. Who would’ve thought.

The two of you are settled in comfortable silence, admiring the picturesque scenery as the party’s twittering becomes mere background noise.

Arthur speaks first. “So,” he begins bashfully. In this suit, he looks as awkward as he feels. A familiar hand on his knee, while slightly flirtatious, is a kind reminder he can be himself. It’s a freedom he still has trouble getting accustomed to at times. He lets his shoulders relax, “You think yer folks are around ‘ere somewhere?” It’s a question made in jest and you answer with a dry laugh.

“My parents wish they could be invited to a mayoral affair,” you say with a scoff. “Would’ve tried to sell me off twice as young if it meant they could eat the leftovers.” Though you try to hide it, Arthur picks up on hurt in your voice.

You hear it too, and you turn your head away from him for a moment. On instinct, you look out to the shoreline and see the manor you once called home. It's the same despite the ten years that have gone by: imposing and grand. You wonder if mother and father are awake, scornfully starring over at what they have continually failed to achieve. A jovial party serving as a painful reminder. The irony makes you feel a little bit better.

Walking up to that house every day for sixteen years had instilled fear into your core. Now, it was just an ugly scar across Saint Denis. The pain wasn't permanent, but you would always remember it. You're regarding the house apathetically, not being able to bring yourself away.

Arthur notices and begins to worry. “Hey,” Arthur begins gently, tracing circles over your knuckles. His voice summons you back and you look at him expectantly, gaze tender. You render him speechless; he’s ensnared and the simple control you exude over him has his nerves singing.

Arthur manages to compose himself and finds a way to bring your smile back. “What will people think if they see my beautiful wife so upset?” Again you laugh, this time sincerely. He finds himself smiling back, "They'll say I'm a beast of a man."

Tears threaten to spill from his sincerity. You try to shoo them away. “Oh lovely Tacitus,” your accent is back full swing. “You are just the kindest husband. How in this cruel world did I find myself so blessed?” While the titles are just pretend, he’s finding himself addicted to their honied sweetness. He wants more and your lips have the power to temporarily quell his want.

Leaning closer, falling further in love.

His lips are a whisper away, practically feeling the heat of your blush radiating off you. There’s a crowd of people just beyond a few white pillars but he doubts anyone is paying them any mind. And if they do, well, Dutch didn’t specify his distaste for getting into an upper class brawl.    

“I ask myself that question every day,” Arthur says reverently, a hand coming up to rest on your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut as his places his lips against your own with a gentleness reserved for you. This is a song and dance he is pleasantly more accustomed to, moving against you effortlessly. Each pass of his lips draws a sigh from you satisfied than the last.

Inhibition rears its ugly head again once Arthur thinks he actually has the luxury to enjoy himself. He pulls back slightly, much to your dismay but you don’t pursue. Like a deer, you don’t want to startle him. Instead you wait, a patience that Arthur is grateful you provide.

Arthur almost forgot why they’re here, and loyalty has always come before his happiness. “I gotta,” he mumbles. “Gotta do something for Dutch. I-” his words fall short when you silence him with another kiss. It appears chaste, but there's a fire behind it that’s nipping at his lips as the tip of your tongue traces over them.

Your poor cowboy would deny himself everything, so long as Dutch said the word. So you took some of the weight off his already bad shoulders for him.

Arthur’s eyes go comically wide as you withdraw from him, hand sliding down between your breasts. Realization (and relief) sweeps over him when it returns with a small envelope in tow, labeled "Classified".  

“What? How did you-”

“I wasn’t just talking to those old men for the caliber of their conversation,” you simper, tucking the envelope securely back into your bosom. “Managed to pilfer these documents pertaining to Cornwall off poor Monsieur Lemiux,” you purse your lips in a faux pout. Arthur continues to stare at you in awe.

You may have been planted in a gilded garden, but you had uprooted yourself, new roots digging their way deep into the forest floor. Growing thorns and blooming within the wild: free and untamed.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing indeed.

“So,” Arthur’s musing is ceased by you. Let him enjoy himself, as many this night have told him do. Yes he was on a mission, but let him have a moment to breathe. With you.

“Worry about what you ‘gotta’ do for Dutch later. But for now-” you lean in and purr against the shell of his ear, “let’s just be.”

The softness of your words is paired with a clap of man-made thunder cutting through the sky followed by a brilliant array of colors. Fireworks begin to dance across the night and gasps of wonder fill the air. The stars are met with blooms of blues, greens, and yellow to rival them. It's quite the spectacle; Arthur had never seen fireworks before. He had only heard Hosea' numerous tellings about taking Bessie to see them. The concept fascinated him; gunpowder igniting but instead of death, it brings magic.

But as they continue to burst, casting vibrant shades of gold and red across your face, Arthur thinks he’s found a new kind of magic to believe in.  

[-catelynstark]

The last dream before the long night.

Hey all, so this is my first Game of Thrones fic that i’ve written in several years (I mostly write Tolkien/rdr2 stuff) but after the latest season my GoT obsession and Sandor Clegane obsession has returned and so I wrote this - the first of many Sandor-centric I’m sure!

Pairing: Sandor x fem! reader  I  Warnings: Smut - 18+/some aggressive/derogatory/threatening language  I  Word Count: 4,241

Summary: Before the white walkers reach Winterfell, the reader confronts Sandor about their feelings and confesses their deepest desire and what they ‘truly want’.  It’s mostly pwp - but I tried to make it somewhat romantic and fluffy as well as smutty! 

Your confidence and unwitting approach to the men that looked at you with such downcast eyes was in your stride as you marched into the hall. 

You’d heard men say they could smell fear and always thought it such rubbish, how could one smell fear, fear was a feeling something maybe animals with another sense could smell but not humans. Only now you knew it was true. Fear stank of piss and shit, it stank of stale beer and mud and rotting flesh. In the midst of the fear there was only one thing you wanted.

You scanned the room and saw him sat at a table drinking wine with Beric and a few of the others.

When you sat it was without a word, the others moved up for you accordingly for you needed no introduction. In a way you hated that and envied others who had no title or name gained through fame. 

The moment you sat down you heard the familiar sloshing of wine into a cup, looking up Sandor’s eyes met your own as he poured you a generous goblet. 

Before you could speak Beric’s hand clapped on your shoulder, “We make a fine crew.”

“Aye is that so,” Sandor commented, returning the flagon to the table, “A crew of drunkards, whore-fuckers and women in men’s clothing.”

“I won’t object to that,” you responded as you picked up your goblet.

The three of you clinked your goblets together before downing the sweet red liquid. As it hit the back of your throat you felt the familiar warmth grow. Instinct told you not to drink too much as you would need a clear head in the morning. But the animal in you worked out the percentage likelihood of you surviving a battle against the white walkers and decided you should live tonight like it was your last.

As Beric and many of the others drifted off to bed you thought on what had been bothering you for some time. There were words that were so far unspoken, words that you felt if you were able to let them slip past your lips then maybe you’d feel better, maybe you would find peace. In the end it was the alcohol that helped make your decision to confess. 

You watched almost as if during an out of body experience as your hand traveled cautiously across the table towards Sandor’s far larger hands. 

You decided to test the waters slowly, your index finger lazily tracing along the top of his hands, running over his pointy, lightly-bruised knuckles. 

He didn’t flinch, that was a good sign, instead he looked up slightly confused, far less a dog now and more of a lost puppy. Was that a trace of a smile on his lips? You were certain of it, no flinching, no pulling away, no anger written across his face. 

Your hand now lay across his, warm and inviting. You offered a smile back to him, hoping that by reciprocating he might smile more, might say something to fill the growing awkward silence that hung in the air. You squeezed his hand, he did flinch a little then, not enough to pull back but enough to tell you he wasn’t used to touch at least not of the loving kind. 

“Sandor…” you begun, unsure of what to say. In your head you’d prepared an entire speech, a declaration of love as it were, but now when faced with him you found yourself choking not he words that were desperate to escape. “I need to tell you, I…” your voice was quivering as you spoke. Sandor raised an eyebrow, “Well, spit it out girl,” he sounded almost annoyed at you. 

Tears threatened to come then, this wasn’t how you’d pictured your confession of love, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. 

“I..” you were unable to do it and instead settled for a half truth, a half truth that you counted on Sandor finding more comfortable and inviting than the word ‘love.’ “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” You spat out. 

It took a moment for Sandor to realise what you were getting at before he let out a low chuckle, “Many men don’t, I’m sure you’ll find a willing suitor.”

He pulled his hand from under yours and poured more wine, taking a much larger gulp than before.

You shook your head in frustration, Sandor must have understood what you meant so why did he have to be so difficult?

You laughed, annoyed and with more courage, “That isn’t what I meant and you know it.”

Sandor looked across at you, goblet in hand, wordless. 

“I don’t want to be alone tonight, I want to spend it with you.”

Sandor seemed agitated and downed the rest of his drink before slamming the empty goblet on the table somewhat unceremoniously. “Aye girl is that what you want? Want an old dog to fuck you hard and break you?”

You couldn’t help the tears that filled in your eyes then, just moments ago the two of you had been happy. You were friends were you not? But now with kindness and a confession he had changed completely, become the person he said he didn’t want to be anymore.

Sandor shook his head, “Goodnight y/n,” and walked off. 

You sat there for several moments, brushed the tears from under your eyes and wiped your cheeks. No, you would not let him get the better of you not like that. You finished your drink, though your cheeks stung with shame and embarrassment, you needed an answer, a proper answer. 

You ran after him, “Sandor wait!”

You were sure you heard him huff in annoyance as he turned to face you.

“What d’yah want lass?”

“I….”

In your head this scenario had played out so differently and you had been far more sure of yourself. 

You cupped his face, your fingers gently tracing the lines of his scars like ivy on an abandoned building. Sandor flinched but only momentarily.

“You could have any of those pretty boys in there.”

“Yes…I could, but, I don’t want them, I want you.”

Sandor’s laugh was mirthless, almost as if he believed you were winding him up. 

“I mean it.”

Sandor snatched away from you and bent down, venom in his voice, “I could bend you in half, break every bone in your body you know that girl,” he sneered, “Could make a new hole to fuck you in.”

Tears stung your eyes once more, no, this wasn’t your Sandor, this was him trying to give re-birth to a dead persona. It was a defence mechanism, that was all it was.

“Why are you being like this?” You demanded. 

Sandor sighed and took a step back, “Because you are good, you’re one of the only good things I have and I don’t want to ruin you.”

You shook your head and closed the gap between the two of you once more, “No, you won’t, you won’t hurt me I know you won’t.”

You watched Sandor’s fists clench, not in anger, but more anxiety, he was shaking a little, his words before though he had tried to sound harsh they were punctured with small moments of uncertainty, his voice wavering. 

“Please Sandor, give me this night.”

“Never had anyone beg an old dog like me.”

You went once again to cup his face, your fingers softly dancing on his cheeks, feeling the warmth in them made you smile. He looked down at you, his eyes seemed softer now. One of his hands gently took hold of your left wrist and pulled your hand slightly towards his mouth, he kissed your fingers, turned your hand and kissed the back of it. His kisses were so soft you could barely believe this was the same man who had said those vulgar things just moments ago. 

Sandor smiled at you, his hand still on yours, “You’re sure?” He asked. 

You nodded, he reached down and picked you up without warning, scooping you into his arms and pulling you close to his chest. Your legs automatically wrapped round his hips and for a moment he held you steady, you felt his breath on your face.

“It’s what I want,” was all you had to say for his lips to crash onto yours. He tasted of warm wine and woodsmoke. The first few seconds were a blur of teeth against teeth, both hungry, a yearning that neither you or he had known was growing until now. But now you had the first taste of one another’s flesh you knew there was no going back.

Sandor surprised you as the kiss became more gentle as he continued, taking his time now to explore your mouth, softly moaning between your lips. A love he hadn’t believed he’d experience ever again and now that he’d garnered a first taste of it he would do anything not to let it go. 

You found yourself rocking your hips into his, trusting him to hold onto you tightly and not let you fall. Though the night’s air had been bitterly cold, the warmth of Sandor’s body made you forget where you were. Your hands now slid round the back of his head, sliding through his hair and gripping tightly. His hands squeezed at the flesh he was holding onto as his tongue slid between your lips to taste more of you.

Closer, you needed to be closer to him. This wasn’t enough, and years later you would realise it never would have been enough. 

When Sandor broke the kiss you feared for a moment that you had read him wrong, that he was just playing a sick joke on you, never to allow to saviour the closeness you desired. 

All fear diminished when Sandor pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes looking downwards. You could see little of his face due to his hair, “Seven hell’s girl,” he said finally in between rapid breaths. 

You stifled a giggle and pushed your own forehead towards him and then nuzzled into him, a part of your animalistic design. 

“And this,” he begun, “This is really what you want? An old dog like me?”

Still nuzzling into the crook of his neck you answered sincerely,  “More than anything.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Sandor gently put you back down on your feet with such care that you found yourself holding your breath. An unexpected touch of kindness on his part brought tears to your eyes, when Sandor noticed he gently wiped them from your cheeks, “Now girl no use in crying, you said you wanted this.”

You stifled a laugh through your tears and on looking up at Sandor saw a trace of a smile on his face. He wasn’t being cruel, he was trying to make you laugh. 

He placed one of his hands on the wall behind you, close to your head, and then put the other on the other side of you. You’d been in situations like this before, horrible, nightmarish situations where guards would try to take advantage of you and scare you in such a crass manner. This wasn’t one of those times.

Being sandwiched between Sandor’s arms, his body towering over you just inches from you made you feel safe. His presence blocked out the rest of the world and all noise and doubt with it.

“Sandor,” you’d said his name hundreds of times, but here and now, before the storm yet in the calm of his shadow it sounded whole, entirely born of love. 

One of Sandor’s hands came to cup your chin, tilting it upwards to look into his sunken brown eyes. He looked tired, he always looked tired but now you saw it for what it was.

His thumb rubbed your skin, though his hands were rough his touch was soft and made you tremble with anticipation. 

“You really want this?” His voice was a little darker now, tainted with hunger.

Yes, yes, you wanted this a hundred times over, hadn’t you waited long enough to be alone together?

Sandor bent down and kissed you again, allowing you to think on your answer as you kissed, when he pulled away he looked at you, anticipating your answer, “Yes.”

Without a word Sandor lifted you off your feet and threw you over his shoulder, he marched with purpose towards your quarters, holding you tightly. Helplessly you stared at the floor, feeling the blood rush to your head as he carried you off. A man so strong yet with heart, that was all you’d ever wanted.

Still the way he’d literally swept you off your feet had taken your breath away, “Sandor,” you had squeaked with surprise as he lifted you up into his arms. You heard him chuckle a little, knew you were safe with him and maybe he had been worried you’d change your mind if you were able to think on it for too long.

He opened your door and slammed it behind him, lest you be interrupted during the act. 

He placed you carefully onto your bed, the fireplace at the end of your room was slowing dying, just the glowing of embers and a few candles lit the room. 

Sandor slipped off his cloak and stood towering above you. 

“Come, be my undoing,” you said as you reached out for him.

Sandor needed no further encouragement than that, boots removed he climbed onto you and started to kiss you once again, this time with far more hunger. His hips were already rolling, dry humping you, hands grabbing at your breasts through your shirt. You felt the growing heat in the pit of your stomach grow and knew you were getting wet for him, that you’d probably soaked through your undergarments in a matter of minutes.

“Need you naked,” he said in between kisses, his voice muffled. 

“Strip me,” you said just before you caught his lower lip between your teeth.

And he did, he ripped your shirt from you and pulled down your breeches. After stripping you of all clothes, he pulled off his own shirt and stepped from his breeches. In a matter of minutes you were both fully naked, it was only then that you stopped to stare at one another and drink the other one up with your eyes. 

Sandor’s body thick, muscular, with plenty of hair and scars as you had expected, but what you hadn’t expected was for him to be as handsome as you found him. When you looked between his legs for a moment you found yourself gasping at his size, unsure whether you’d be able to take it all. He was already rock hard, his cock having both great girth and length, you realised you’d need both hands to be able to wrap round him fully. The tip of his eagerly twitching member was glistening with pre-cum, clearly the sight of you naked was enough to excite him.

“Like what you see girl?” He asked slightly smugly. 

You felt your cheeks go red and bit your lower lip and nodded, “I’m just a little…” you didn’t want to to say scared, you were afraid if you showed any sign of concern then Sandor may abandon your evening together. But the quiver in your voice told him what he needed to know, he walked over to you and stroked your hair.

“Shhh y/n you’ll be alright, I won’t hurt you I promise.”

Sandor climbed on top of you again, the feeling of his naked body against yours made you inhale deeply, enjoying the warmth radiating from him and the closeness. 

You reached down between his legs, wanting to touch him a few times before he was inside you, desperate to show him how much you needed him and wanted him to fill you up. One of your hands wrapped around his length and squeezed tightly, Sandor grunted as you did so, his eyes closed and a hiss escaped his lips. Your hand pumped him several times, your thumb tracing circles round his head, slipping so easily due to the pre-cum you smirked feeling him twitch a little and tense up. 

You hand worked his length, squeezing at the base and slowly moving up before playing with his tip before returning to the base. You could tell by the way Sandor was moaning and the way he was practically starting to fuck your hand that he was lost to you now. 

“Fuckin’ hell girl where’d you learn…” Sandor didn’t finish as you squeezed a little tighter, thumb running up the vein on the underside of his cock. Instead he shuddered and bit down as if trying to stifle a moan. 

“Need you before it’s too late,” he said with a sense of urgency, pulling your own hand away from him and immediately placing his cock at your entrance. 

He was about to slide into you when he hesitated and pulled back a little, he’d been used to taking whores in a rough fashion. Used to the awareness that came when fucking them, that they so often prepared themselves for him, that they were used to getting wet for him, but now faced with someone new, someone he cared for, he hesitated. 

He propped himself up on one elbow and traced down your thighs to your most sensitive spot, he was careful now not to go too fast for fear of frightening you. One of his fingers slid between your folds, finding the wetness that was awaiting his arrival. 

He smiled and looked back up at you, “All wet for me already I see? Filthy girl,” but when he spoke there was no shame in his voice, no accusation, he wasn’t being mean just trying to make you feel comfortable.

You nodded eagerly, “Always Sandor, I’ve been wet for you so many times,” you confessed as your back arched a little as his finger gently stroked your clit. 

“Is that so?”

You nodded and gripped the bedsheets as he continued to rub your clit whilst sliding a second finger down and inside of you. You gave a little yelp, his fingers were large after-all, especially as he curled his finger past the knuckle. 

Only a few moments past before you could take it no more, your hips started to buck faster, “Now Sandor, I need you now…”

Sandor didn’t need any further encouragement, he removed his fingers and almost instantly replaced them with his cock. You cried out as he slid into you slowly, he was careful not to move too fast and gave you time to adjust to his size and then when he fully bottomed out he stopped for a second to look at you. That was the moment you knew for certain you’d made the right decision, the look in his eyes was momentarily of concern, he seemed to truly care. 

He stayed like that for a moment, looking down at you, one hand gently brushing your cheek and as he came down to kiss you, he moved inside of you, slowly building up a gentle rhythm, 

You had no doubt that at times Sandor could be rough in bed, this was not one of those times. There was love in his eyes, in the movement of his hips, the way his kisses landed on your perfectly parted mouth just waiting to taste him. 

You found yourself clenching your walls around him, hips lifting from the bed to meet his every thrust and guide him towards orgasm. 

You could tell from the moans and expletives that escaped his lips that he wasn’t going to last long, not that you minded, there would be more nights like this you would make sure. 

Sandor begun to thrust into you faster and a little deeper, one of his hands gripping your hip and the other by the side of your head for leverage as he sheathed himself over and over again, grunting as he did so. 

“Where do you want my cum girl?”

“Inside,” you panted. 

You knew in times like these it was perhaps foolish not to take every precaution there was to prevent against getting pregnant but what was there to lose?

Death seemed inevitable almost, whilst you both hoped to survive the long night there were no guarantees in this world. Darkness clung to you, clung to the sky, to the god’s wood, to the walls of the castle. It penetrated even the most positive of minds and threatened to throw those usually so strong into despair. 

And so you let him spill his seed deep inside you, hot, thick streams of it filling you up so completely. 

As he came inside you you felt his cock twitch, his teeth bit into your shoulder so sharply that you gave a yelp. Although you couldn’t see his expression you could feel him smirk beneath you, “Good little dog.” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin as he spoke. 

Sandor lay on top of you, his cock still inside you, growing softer but still he didn’t move, wanting to be as close to you as he could for as long as possible.

After a minute he kissed your shoulder where he had bitten you, several light kisses as if saying sorry but without words. 

One of his hands then traveled down your leg, squeezing your thigh as he went, fingers teasing. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your skin, “How ungentlemanly of me, to allow myself to finish before finishing off a lady.”

You stifled a giggle, it was the most serious you thought you’d ever heard him sound, “It’s fine, I didn’t want to fuck you because I thought you were a gentleman and you certainly didn’t fuck me like a lady.”

Sandor laughed, a hearty, deep laugh. It came out as more of a growl than anything, tinted with all the sour red wine he had been drinking. His hand cupped your sex, fingers twirling space patterns in the mound of hair he found there. You moaned into him, bucking your hips involuntarily, desperate for his touch again, from only minutes ago you had experienced what it felt like to have his thick fingers slide along your slit and inside you, scissoring as they went. 

You could die happy if he made you cum, even just once from that exquisite motion. 

Sandor looked up to gauge your expression, seeing how blissful you were he hummed to himself, content with a job well done. Finally he slid himself out of you, leaving your cunt exposed and ready for to warm his fingers.

One finger slid between your folds, the pad of his thumb only just graced your clit making you pout with frustration, gods you needed this, needed him again and again. Oh how the night was too short! You wanted to exclaim in dismay. 

But Sandor didn’t leave you disappointed, he teased only for a few moments, maybe it was that the day he had caught up with him the sleep was threatening, or perhaps it was his own guilt at spilling his seed so soon, but his fingers soon moved faster, pressure applied to your clit. He rubbed in small circles, occasionally pinching your clit and making you moan out his name. 

Two thick fingers slid inside you fully and he begun to pump in and out whilst his thumb moved in circles on your clit.

“Sandor,” you cried our as your hips bucked, needy for any further friction you could garner. 

Sandor chuckled, dark eyes watched you curiously as you bent to his will. It didn’t take long for the familiar feeling to build in your stomach and for you to realise that just like Sandor was unable hold back any longer, you were soon too about to come undone. 

You lay steady in Sandor’s arms, sweat licked your skin like dew on morning grass, but it didn’t matter you were cosy and safe, you had no regrets about that night. Whatever came during the battle, you were glad you got to be one with the man you loved.

Sandor spooned you, his arms pulling you tight into your chest, it was faint but you were sure you could hear him humming.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, I will protect you.”

You bit your lower lip,”And I you…” 

Sandor kissed your back between your shoulder blades, “And I’m sorry for earlier how I spoke to you I’m ashamed of that.” He squeezed you a little tighter and nuzzled into your hair, you were sure you he inhaled your scent deeply then. 

“That wasn’t you, we’ll think no more on it.”

Sandor was silent for a moment before speaking, “You know I do have one regret about tonight…”

You tensed up for a second, but Sandor’s chuckle from behind you and the way he squeezed onto you tightly, told you it was nothing to worry about. 

“What’s that?” You asked with a sense of trepidation in your voice.

Sandor shifted his weight a little so he was able to lowly growl into your ear, “That I didn’t get to taste you, not really, not properly…” He nibbled your ear lobe and sucked, eliciting a small moan from your lips and causing yourself to rub against him. Sandor gave a small laugh, “Yes, we will survive the battle, I ain’t fuckin’ dying until I’ve tasted you whole.”