#radfem-gossip

[butchviking]

when someone isnt sure of their sexuality this is a hate crime. and its very important that i screenshot people talking about being unsure of their sexuality when they were younger and hold it up for everyone to get angry at. this is a genuine and sincere attempt to push lesbian rights forward, and is no way a petty and pathetic attempt to make women fight about Fucking Nothing for my own sad entertainment and moral smugness. man i hate it here

[daddyd0nt]

Remember when I said "People suffering from Coprolalia who say racial slurs as part of their tic and people who experience delusions that are racist in nature are not necessarily racist people and that these mental illness symptoms do not necessarily suggest that the person suffering from them holds actual racist beliefs when healthy" and people pretty much called me a nazi?

[2024skin]

*gasp* Radblr is just like Gossip Girl except that all the dramatic girls here are doomer NEETs

[originalitysquared]

Sometimes I look up my old blog name to look at my "call out posts" and it's just me being an asshole.

I laugh everytime.

Antisemitic? Nah.

A huge dick? Yeaaaahh ahaha.

[venus-haze]

Power Play (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: So, you lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship. It happens all the time. Maybe not quite like this.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Crazy ass 80s Vought debauchery. I might be a little rusty, but it was fun getting back into writing readerfics after two months🖤 Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Power imbalance, cheating (Soldier Boy’s with Crimson Countess). Mentions of drug use. Soldier Boy is his own warning. Sexually explicit content involving elements of forced intox, semi-public sex, breeding kink.

You were dizzy. With Vought’s investor gala rapidly approaching, you spent the better part of your day camped out in your office, flipping back and forth through your rolodex to call and confirm catering, entertainment—you still couldn’t believe the board of directors actually approved Duran Duran’s booking fee—and transportation, off the top of your head. You already told Stan Edgar you were taking the following week off, which he had no qualms about—so long as the gala went off without a hitch.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when you were interrupted by a knock at your office door, which you’d left open in an effort to be available in the lead up to the event.

“Don’t tell me Edgar’s got you working tonight,” Soldier Boy said, walking in when he saw he had your attention.

“The most important night of the year is less than a week away and I still have a to-do list as long as your dick, so, yeah.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Must be pretty busy then.”

“How about you? Where’s Countess?” you asked.

Soldier Boy probably would have sought you out even if Crimson Countess were around, but from what you’d been hearing through Vought’s extensive grapevine, they were in yet another rough patch. Though, it seemed to you like their relationship was one long, extremely rough patch with some calm once in a blue moon. You weren’t afraid to admit to yourself that you ate up the gossip of their relationship like candy, especially when the other members of Payback—including Countess herself—would rant to Edgar about it. Since your office was right next to his, and most supes had little to no sense of subtlety, you could hear just about everything.

“She’s at one of those wildlife charity things, pandas or some bullshit.” He rolled his eyes. “Bitched at me because I wouldn’t go. She won’t be back until Friday.”

“Soldier Boy, I can’t just—“

“Sure you can. I mean, I’m technically your boss too, aren’t I?” he asked. “So, I say there’s no harm in taking a ten, fifteen minute break. Relieve some stress.”

You sighed. It had been a while since you actually got up from your desk. “Alright. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

He grinned. “Now we’re talking. You keep that minibar stocked?”

“Pick your poison.”

“Whiskey?”

“Sure.”

At least, you were pretty sure. The minibar in your office served as a nice gesture for the variety of people who’d come into your office for meetings related to all of the aspects of event planning you were in charge of. Over the past few weeks, though, you’d been reaching for bottles of whatever you could find to relieve the stress. Powdered your nose every so often, but tried not to make that a habit—not that you blamed your coworkers who did. Working at Vought was brutal and demanding, but hell, who else got to work with superheroes? Especially handsome, smarmy assholes who knew just how to fuck the lingering thoughts of any deadline or event planning out of your mind if you played your cards right. 

He handed you a shot glass. “What should we toast to?”

“To taking next week off.”

“Yeah? What’ve you got planned?”

You threw back your shot. “Nothing.”

“That’s no fun. How does a few days in Miami sound?”

You nearly scoffed. Of course he could make something like that happen on such short notice. For forty years running he was America’s superhero and Vought’s cash cow. After a night of schmoozing at the investor gala, he could very well clear out his schedule and fuck off for a week of sun, sand, and sex, too.

“I might need some convincing.”

“Then make yourself comfortable,” he said, walking back to the minibar to pour another shot for each of you. Almost comical, he’d have to drink the whole bottle and then some to feel the same way you did after two shots.

You glanced at the open door. “Someone might see.”

“Are you gonna make me repeat myself?”

Sparing the door one more glance, you worked at unbuttoning your blouse, tossing it aside. You shimmied out of your skirt and let it fall to the floor. 

“Heels stay on,” he said, his back to you. “Everything else off. Everything.”

With a hesitant huff, you unhooked your bra and pulled off your panties, throwing them in his direction when he turned around with the shot glasses. You made yourself comfortable on top of your desk, pushing some of your belongings aside to accommodate you.

He whistled lowly as you quickly finished off the second shot he gave you. “Look at you sitting pretty for me.” His green eyes burned a hole through you, though your gaze was fixed on the prominent bulge in his pants. He brought his shot glass to your lips. “Drink up, sweetheart.”

And you did, forcing the alcohol down as your vision blurred with tears at the unrelenting burning in the back of your throat. Felt some whiskey dripping from the corners of your mouth when you drained the shot glass. He collected the excess from your lips with his thumb, sucking it clean as he kept his eyes locked with yours.

“See how much fun we have together?” he asked, leaning over you until you laid back on top of your desk. “Could do that all next week.”

He kissed you, hard and mean like you needed him to. Perfect teeth that caught your bottom lip between them for a moment before releasing. Whiskey on his tongue that went to your head even though you knew he could hardly feel it. Rough hands feeling up your breasts, giving your nipples a harsh tug that made you moan in his mouth.

“You’re soaked,” he said, his voice husky as he rubbed his fingers between your slick folds with tantalizingly slow strokes. “If you wanted it, all you had to do was ask.”

“Fuck,” you whispered.

“What was that?” 

You groaned in frustration. “Just fuck me already.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” 

His mouth was on yours again, nearly distracting you from the sound of a zipper, the your gut clenching in anticipation as he pulled his cock from his pants.

It’d been a while since you had to brace yourself to take him, but you were wet, and maybe a little more than tipsy, so your body gave little resistance when he slid his cock inside you. Though, if Soldier Boy were anything, it was a guy who took what he wanted anyway, giving you hardly a second to get used to the feeling of how his cock stretched your pussy before he was pounding into you with harsh, unforgiving thrusts that made you grip the edge of your desk. 

Sometimes you forgot how strong he was. Hell, so did he, and there was little else you could do but lay there and take what he gave you. In all honesty, it was nice letting someone else take charge after having to hold it together all day. Let him fuck the stress out of you and replace it with all the aches and bruises that came with having sex with the strongest man on earth. 

“Harder,” you forced out, pushing that damn rolodex onto the floor.

“I go any harder, I’m gonna break you in half, and I don’t wanna do that until I’ve got you locked away in a hotel room for a week.”

“What are you gonna do to me?”

“Whatever the fuck I want. Not like I don’t already.”

You moaned. “Soldier Boy—”

“I’m not pulling out, so you better be on the pill or say your damn prayers,” he growled, his hot breath kissing your skin. You were on the pill, but nevertheless your hips bucked at his words, pussy clenching around his cock. “Oh shit, you want that, don’t you?”

“Yes—oh my god!” you cried out, muscles cramping as your orgasm pulsed through you, pleasure stealing your breath, choking you gently enough to leave you dizzy. “Yesyesyes—fuck!” Your heart was beating so fast you thought it was going to explode in your chest, especially as he kept mercilessly pounding into you, chasing his own release. 

He soon came with a groan, his cock twitching inside you as he bottomed out, practically knocking the wind out of you with a particularly hard thrust. 

You felt empty and sticky when he pulled out, and you didn’t want to think about the poor soul who was gonna be cleaning the mess you and him left behind the following morning, because you sure as hell weren’t in any shape to clean up the cum that was leaking out of you and onto the floor.

You put your hands on your chest, trying to catch your breath as he stood over you. The guy hardly broke a sweat, and you felt like you just ran the New York City Marathon. Super stamina. God fucking bless America.

“Hey,” he said, waving his hand in front of your face. “You good?”

“Sure,” you managed to answer. “Except now I don’t know how I’m gonna walk out of here, let alone get home later.”

“The ride up to the 99th is quicker. And if you need more convincing about Miami—“

You pursed your lips, considering the work you still had left to do before you could reasonably call it a night. But you were tired, and admittedly drunk, and Soldier Boy was already hard again. “I might.”

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I asked my boyfriend to kick his boyfriend out of our communal living situation and out of our polycule due to “incompatibility”?

submitted 5/22/2024 ~💔🌈🏚️<- to find

I (26F) am considering asking my boyfriend O (32M) to kick out his other partner/boyfriend E (36M) from our communal living situation and our polycule, because E is not compatible with either our relationship or the group as a whole. Here’s the situation: The three of us currently live in O’s childhood home (his parents died and he inherited it), along with four other roommates who are not in the polycule. All of us split the bills evenly, except for E because he was recently fired from his job as a mechanic, so he pays a much smaller amount, which means all of us have to increase the amount we pay in order to keep up. This would be fine except E is not looking for a job and this is causing financial strain on all of us. It’s a large house and it’s very old so it tends to need a lot of maintenance, currently we have to get the roof repaired because a section of it caved in during a snowstorm (that part of the house is roped off because it’s still not fixed of course) and just my luck, my room happened to be on the floor below this, so O has me sleeping in his room because he’s worried floor above my room may have rotted from exposure due to the caved in roof. This will be relevant later. Now, here are the specific reasons why I want E out of here (aside from financial strain):

Everyone in the house is part of the same religious group. We are a neo pagan group (details not necessary for this but feel free to ask questions, but just know that we have some agreed upon beliefs and practices that we’ve developed over the past three years) and many in our group, including O, practice witchcraft. E, however, is a hardcore atheist, and is condescending towards us whenever we partake in our various practices. O thinks that E can be persuaded to respect us and that it’s just a matter of time, but I do not think that’s probable. O is the elected spiritual leader in the house (one: because he’s held these beliefs longer than most of us and brought us together, and two: it’s his house), so only O can kick someone out for religious reasons. We can vote to kick someone for abuse, but nothing E has done is technically bad enough.

He should be kicked from the polycule because I think he is using O either for sex or to make up for something he did back when they were in a situationship. The past between those two is very intense because it’s linked to E discovering his identity and it was O’s first relationship. It ended very badly on horrible terms, but they decided to give it another shot for whatever reason. E had an intense vendetta against me from the very beginning and he thinks that I’m delusional for believing O is in love with me because when O liked E it was “very different”. E has his own bedroom, but spends most of the time in O’s room, typically to have sex. Sometimes they want me to join in with them, but I usually decline because I’m suspicious of E’s intentions and I do not trust him. The one time I did agree to join in led to my unplanned pregnancy. I also think E is cheating on O because whenever O leaves the house, E brings over his ex B (33F), and those two hook up (or at least I assume they do because they lock themselves in the bedroom for hours).

On the cheating note, E has been getting checks in the mail from B, but he hasn’t been using this money to contribute to the bills, but rather stashing it away into a “project fund”.

B is dating my ex A (28F) and I know B has been gossiping to her because A has been posting to her private insta account long rants about “another perfectly good lesbian turned by dicks and witchcraft”, which could ONLY be referring to me because as far as I know, she hasn’t had any relationships in between ours and her’s and B’s. She is radfem and tradcatholic so the statement isn’t a surprise, but she only started posting that stuff After B started coming over, and she was kicked from the house for being intolerant, so it’s odd for her to start ranting about me now.

I think it’s unfair that my ex was kicked out for intolerance while I was still dating her, even though I objected (it was a toxic relationship and I was in deep), but O hasn’t kicked out E despite E also being intolerant and dating one of us.

[lostloveletters]

Give Me Shelter, The Night Is Dark (Vampire!Michael Corleone x Reader)

Summary: Local superstition and a reclusive man offer you refuge when your parents grievously misstep in Sicily, putting your life in danger in more ways than one.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This incredibly self-indulgent gothic romance-esque idea came to me while I was half-asleep, and the time period is intentionally vague, but it’s not a modern setting (here's a little aesthetic tag for this fic). Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Canon-typical violence. Emotional manipulation. Vampirism, including non-consensual blood drinking and compulsion (in the context of it being an ability vampires possess and can use on humans). Sexually explicit content involving elements of bloodplay. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

You couldn’t remember what had brought your family to the village of Corleone, only that your father had promised you and your mother an extravagant Sicilian vacation. Three days of beachside paradise in Mondello, eating fresh seafood cooked to perfection and entertaining the antics of handsome men with scars that stood out like bolts of lightning against their tanned skin were hardly enough to sate your voracious appetite for the weeks of bliss you were promised. 

Despite your attempts at bargaining to stay in Palermo on your own, your mother refused, insisting she’d be better off throwing you into shark-infested waters than alone with the men who came calling to your hotel. Some days of travel through the breathtaking Sicilian countryside later, you and your parents arrived in Corleone, a village that appeared all but frozen in time, as if decades had passed it by with no one any the wiser. 

To your dismay, you found the selection of eligible men to spend your time with far more limited than in Palermo. The working young men were too tired from their labor in the fields or their trades to engage in foolish antics with a vacationing foreigner. The rest were mafiosi, as you gathered from the veiled comments and numerous euphemisms the older villagers used. 

These elderly became your companions during your stay in Corleone, talking wildly with their weathered hands over coffee or wine. Filomena, a woman of nearly eighty years and fluent in English, lived in the house next to the one your family was renting. Her husband Gianni only left the house if absolutely necessary, and she considered him a burdensome hermit. Each morning, she fetched you to accompany her into town. Some days, you’d do little else than sit outside of a cafe on the sleepy main street, eating and drinking and gossiping. 

Your Sicilian improved immensely in the near month you kept up with their chatter. Those women always had their ears to the ground, as far as knowing more about your father’s business in Corleone than you did. The vacation he promised you was little more than a gesture of confidence toward Don Manusco, a man notoriously difficult to meet directly with. That your father achieved this naturally generated interest in the village, as no one knew of him. When pressed for more information about your own family’s line of work, you answered what you knew, that your father invested, mostly in stocks, but occasionally in new business ventures. 

You were privy to little else, much to the disappointment of your companions, who moved onto other topics of discussion. One woman’s son sought work in Milan and within three months of getting hired at a factory, married a Northerner, much to her displeasure. In contrast, Filomena’s daughter was cloistered elsewhere in the countryside, preparing to take her vows and become a nun. 

Their superstitions, however, intrigued you most of all. A curse and blessing existed for nearly every conceivable situation. The most striking tale they spun regarded an abandoned villa about a mile past the rental house. Foreboding and hostile, its faded facade peeking out from thorny vines, it was once the envy of the village. At one point in time, though no one could agree quite when, the Don of another family lived there. He took in a strange young man, reclusive yet polite, wandering the countryside with two armed shepherds as bodyguards. He married a local girl, but the marriage ended tragically soon after the wedding. In a sudden blaze of fire and betrayal, she was killed. The strange man vanished not long after, and anyone associated with the villa—including the old Don Tomassino—were soon found dead or had disappeared altogether. Thus, no one dared approach it for fear of the curse surely cast upon the place.

Some of the gruesome murders in the vicinity of the villa could have been attributed to the tradition of violence Don Manusco carried on following Don Tomassino’s death. It didn’t explain the livestock dying of unusual causes, an older woman interjected. Even the land surrounding it was cursed, and the local shepherds knew better than to let their flocks graze nearby, explaining the abnormally tall grass and overgrown foliage that surrounded the villa.

Yet another woman claimed to have seen a demon or ghost in the form of a man wandering the villa’s grounds at night. Of course, she didn’t get close enough to take a good look, instead uttering Hail Marys as she ran into the local church to take refuge until her husband found her some time later.

Your mind drifted to the villa sometimes, this forbidden and mysterious monument to grief and superstition that seemed to cast a longer shadow over the village than the mafiosos who ran it. Like Don Manusco, who your parents were joining for dinner one evening, and Filomena insisted you join her and Gianni instead of eating alone.

The scent of stewing summer tomatoes with garlic and mouth-watering spices invited you inside the house, its windows open for hopes of cool breezes moving through. Gianni offered you wine and a simple antipasto spread of cheese and oranges to snack on while Filomena cooked dinner. Despite his reclusiveness, he somehow knew that your father’s dinner with Don Manusco involved more business than a friendly visit, the final chance for your father to seal what he hoped would be a lucrative deal with the mafia boss.

Two hours later, you sat across from Filomena at the small wooden table in their kitchen, filling your plate with the delicious meal she prepared. You ate silence while Filomena spoke, bickering with Gianni every now and then. As the sun set over Corleone, unease crept over you, though you chose to attribute it to the heat of the day and eating too quickly.

Until a commotion erupted up the street, almost deafening as it approached, finally arriving outside of Filomena’s house. Frantic Sicilian shouting mingled with rapid pounding on the front door startled you into dropping your fork. Filomena and Gianni shared a worried glance before both getting up from the table to answer. 

Wailing. 

Screaming. 

Arguing. 

All you found yourself able to do was sit in confused silence. When they returned to the kitchen with a few other locals, panic truly set in.

“You have to leave!” Filomena cried, pulling you out of your seat by your arm.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

“Your father’s a fool–”

Gianni shook his head. “A dead fool–”

“Your father should have never brought you here if he were going to try to cheat Don Manusco!” an older woman said.

Another cursed. “Selfish bastard!” 

“Go! As far from here as you can!” Filomena implored.

A hard push toward the back door was the extent of the help you’d receive from the villagers of Corleone. 

Blood pounded in your ears, your heart beating in time with your feet against the uneven dirt path that nearly tripped you up in your desperate rush to the rental home. You opened the door, scrambling upstairs in a frantic half-crawl to reach your room.

You shoved clothes and essentials into a bag, hardly paying attention to what exactly you were packing, just knowing you couldn’t flee empty-handed and hope to rely on the goodwill of strangers. 

In the kitchen, you grabbed what you could from the pantry and shoved everything into a wicker basket. With just that and your suitcase in hand, you clumsily ran across the uneven countryside roads, hoping to find somewhere to take shelter for the night. Every rustle of leaves and animal cry sent chills across your skin. Just when you felt hopeless for a place to hide, you saw the abandoned villa's high walls, overgrown with vines and bramble in the distance. Superstition be damned, it was better than dying at the hands of a mafioso.

The iron gate was closed, but not locked. You held your breath as you opened it, sending out silent thanks to the universe that it didn’t release some otherworldly screech and announce your presence. Hardly visible in the dead of night, the villa peeked out from beneath the plants that had overtaken it. Even from a distance, it appeared as if the building were hollowed out somehow. It remained your best bet. 

Superstition offered you refuge, as masculine voices drifted above the villa’s high walls, the structure still sturdy despite the general state of disrepair.

“Should we go in?”

“You sound as much of a fool as that old man. That place is cursed. Even if she were in there, she'd be dead anyway.”

Their heavy, rushed footsteps against the rocky terrain fell silent after a few moments. You sighed in relief, allowing yourself to relax just the slightest bit. Until you glanced back at the villa again, a new sense of dread making your stomach turn at the prospect of having to go inside the place. While you didn’t believe all of the rumors you’d been told over the previous few weeks, being in its presence unsettled you.

Then again, feeling unsettled in an abandoned villa was preferable to whatever would happen if Don Manusco’s men got his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, you approached the shadowy building, hoping your luck wouldn’t run out when you got inside. 

To your surprise, the interior wasn’t as poorly maintained as the exterior. The furniture betrayed the wealth of whoever lived there previously, though they’d seen better days. Dark wood scuffed or splintered. Dull fabrics that must have been rich violets or crimson upon their initial purchase. 

You walked into the living room, freezing upon seeing lit candles around. Someone was living there after all. 

“Hello? Is anyone–” you gasped upon seeing a man standing on the other side of the living room, partially obscured by shadows.

Even in the cover of darkness, his features rendered you speechless as he approached. Handsome seemed too pedestrian of a word to describe him. His raven hair fell across his forehead with a deceptive boyishness. Brown eyes, almost black as the night itself bore into your own. His skin wasn’t nearly as tan as the villagers you’d met, but you supposed someone who lived in such a place was wealthy enough to not have to partake in the grueling manual labor typical of the area, the strong Sicilian sun giving its residents a healthy glow which he lacked. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

“The men who were outside before—I think they’re going to kill me,” you said, panic overtaking your senses as his face remained unmoved by your explanation. “Please, I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

“Why do they want to kill you?”

“I think my father tried to cheat Don Manusco. I don’t know all of the details, but if they don’t want to kill me, then they’ll probably—“ Your voice caught in your throat. 

“You can stay.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow and find a way to get back to Palermo.”

He shook his head. “You have a vendetta out against you now. Getting back to Palermo so soon will be nearly impossible, especially if Manusco has allies there.” He watched in unreadable silence as hopelessness ate away at your resolve. “You can stay,” he finally repeated. “Don’t leave the villa. Not during the day, and especially not at night. You’ll be safe.”

“Thank you. I owe you my life.” You offered him your name, as a courtesy and as collateral. More valuable than anything else you carried with you, he could use it to betray you for his own gain whenever he wished. You prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

“Michael Corleone,” he said.

“Like the village.”

He smiled the slightest bit, his dark eyes shining an almost betraying crimson in the moonlight. Ethereal. That was the right word for him. “Yes, like the village.”

Your host led you upstairs, helping you with your meager belongings despite your insistence you could handle your small suitcase and a basket of food, which you left on the console table in the foyer. The villa had certainly seen better days, its plaster walls cracked, crumbling in some places. You would’ve used caution going up the stairs if Michael hadn’t been so confident as he ascended them. 

He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing at each of the doors along the hallway. After a few moments, he seemed to settle on one, leading you to a dark bedroom, full of odd shadows that made you pause. It seemed otherwise better taken care of than the rest of the villa you’d seen up to that point.  

“It’s just me here. I’m afraid I’m not the best homemaker,” he half-joked in response to your hesitation to enter the room. 

“No, I’m sorry. It’s nice. I can’t thank you enough, Michael.”

He nodded. “I have insomnia, so you’ll see more of me at night than during the day. The cellar stays locked, but you can have the run of the place otherwise.”

You bid each other good night. 

When he shut the bedroom door behind you, you collapsed onto the bed and cried into your pillow, both from heartbreak and exhaustion, until you fell asleep. 

The following morning, you awoke to fresh bug bites on your arm–inflamed and itchy, though perfectly in line with each other, oddly enough. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and you supposed you’d rather deal with mosquito bites than whatever Don Manusco and his soldiers had in mind for you. 

True to his word, Michael was nowhere to be found when you went downstairs to eat a breakfast of bread and hard salami. Again, not ideal, but you’d make do with what you brought with you. For the rest of the day, you explored the villa, acquainting yourself with your new albeit temporary home.

You found yourself with little to do to pass the time. Venturing out onto the surrounding grounds of the villa was hardly an option, most of it so overgrown you couldn’t take a proper walk. There were a few books in the house, but often you found your mind drifting to your parents, what their fate looked like and what could await you if Don Manusco found out where you were hiding. By the time you’d finally see Michael around in the evenings, you’d force yourself to stay up as long as you could to be in his company. Soon, your schedule nearly matched his nocturnal one.

Over the following weeks, you got to know Michael. At times, you couldn’t help but stare at him, but sometimes it felt as though you couldn’t do much else if you tried. He was a gracious host for how you imposed on him, showing concern for the bug bites you tried to hide from him. A good thing he noticed, as he brought you a cup of tea, a deep maroon color that he explained was a natural remedy from the village for the discomfort you were experiencing. A common occurrence that you’d been fortunate enough to avoid since arriving in Corleone.

“You’re not from around here either,” you said one night. “I can tell from your accent.”

“I’m from New York, but my father was born here,” he explained. “My last name is a mistake from when he immigrated.”

“Do you miss it?”

He was silent for some time, lost in thought before answering with a soft, “Terribly.”

“But you can’t go back.”

“No, I’m very sick. I wouldn’t survive the trip.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, your curiosity getting the better of you when you asked, “What do you have?”

“What I have is incredibly rare, there’s no word for it. Sunlight puts me in excruciating pain, and my appetite is abnormal.”

“How long have you been sick for?”

“Years. More than you’d believe.”

“You know, everyone in the village thinks this place is cursed. If you just talked to them, then they’d understand what was going on and maybe be able to help.”

“I can’t be around people. It’s not safe for them.”

“I don’t understand,” you said. “Are you contagious?”

He hesitated. “Not how you’d think.”

“No matter what you have, it’s not good to be alone,” you argued.

“You’re here now.”

“Only until it’s safe for me to go to Palermo and leave Sicily.”

He shook his head. “You won’t be able to leave. Not when a man like Don Manusco has a vendetta out against you,” he said, his intense gaze boring into you. Your chest grew tighter as he spoke. “This villa is the only place you’ll ever be safe.”

“Michael, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just know what he did to your parents…he and men like him have done to many others on this island, too.” Your silence perturbed him. He grabbed your shoulders, squeezing them gently, though his eyes seemed to blaze with fury. “I’m keeping you safe here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice nearly catching in your throat.

“Then what’s there to be afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s right, as long as you stay here.”

“I can’t stay forever.”

He hummed dismissively, not bothering to acknowledge your statement. You soon excused yourself to go to sleep, a sudden uneasiness settling in your stomach.

You awoke late into the afternoon the following day, judging by the amber sunlight that streamed through the broken shutters. Still, your limbs felt heavy, and your head pounded as if you’d hardly slept at all. A quick glance at your arm revealed twin bug bites on your wrist again, this time darker than the previous ones, leaving your skin tender to the touch. 

Dizziness turned the room over when you sat up from the bed, and you nearly considered going back to sleep, if it weren’t for the hunger that ached in your bones. 

You ventured down into the kitchen, relieved to find a pot of tea sitting out. You didn’t even bother reheating it, though the consistency was odd, thicker in its room temperature state. The texture didn’t deter you, as the more you drank, the better you felt, your dizziness and aches gone as the tea overflowed from the corners of your mouth and dripped down your chin, insatiable until there was nothing left. Wiping off your face, you went back up to your room and fell back asleep.

A knock on the door woke you up in the pitch black some hours later. You lit the candle on your bedside table before getting up to answer. You knew it was Michael, concerned about why you hadn’t joined him yet. 

Just as you got up to answer, he opened the door, letting himself into your room–except it wasn’t your room. It was his, and you supposed he could enter whenever he wanted. 

Frozen in place by his gaze alone, you stood still and silent as he approached, demeanor darker and more intense as his presence filled the room, as if his essence somehow intermixed with each breath you took. A citrusy sweetness with a bloodcurdling undercurrent of violence filled your lungs. Despite this, you felt no fear, but rather anticipation when he finally reached out and caressed your cheek, his hand freezing against your warm skin.

“Michael,” you whispered.

“Don’t fight me, sweetheart.”

And you couldn’t. Not even if you tried. His eyes took in your face with a softness that betrayed his fondness for you. His lips pressed against yours, a chaste kiss to start, but it proved to be insufficient for him, as he claimed your mouth with the fervor of a man long starved for affection. His desire for you tangible as you kissed him back, allowing his hands to roam your body above your nightgown until his fingers brushed your thighs, pushing the hem up to your hips. 

He laid you back on the bed, ridding you of your panties and slipping his fingers between your folds. “Tell me how it feels,” he said, his lips against your skin. “Tell me everything.”

Before then, you would have died rather than admit it to him, but at his urging, the dam broke. Of course your thoughts of him weren’t always innocent. Some nights, when you were sure he was elsewhere, you touched yourself to the thought of him. The confession slipped from your mouth so quickly that shame couldn’t catch you, not when Michael pushed his fingers inside you, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit, denying you any sensation but absolute pleasure. 

“I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he whispered, pressing desperate kisses into your neck. “You have no idea how hard it’s been for me not to–”

Your whine interrupted his train of thought, and a knife-sharp pain jolted through you when he sunk his teeth into your throat, breaking the fragile skin. His fingers curled inside you, a moan clawing its way out of you as you came, ecstasy pulsing through your limbs in waves that threatened to drown you in it. Spots clouded your vision and breath evaded you, the poignant scent of copper mixed with your sex made your head spin. 

“Michael, I–” You passed out, though you awoke later, curled up next to him, your body sore and more fatigued than ever. You winced when you tried to move your head, a dull ache coming from your neck. “What did you do?” you mumbled.

“Sweetheart?”

“To my neck.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, petting your hair. “I got carried away. I haven’t felt this way in a long time.”

“Me either,” you admitted. 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. From then on, he was ravenous, and like a woman possessed, you gave in to him every time. Nights with him blurred together as thoughts of escaping Sicily and the danger that waited for you outside of the villa walls were almost nonexistent. 

Some time later, though you’d largely stopped keeping track of the days by then, you realized your food supply was running low. Michael would go out at night and get some for you if you asked, though he never revealed where exactly he went. Still unsure of your safety from Don Manusco, you figured the farm up the road would be a good place to swipe some fruit from the orchard and anything else they might have lying around and not exactly miss.

The sun felt especially harsh when you went outside. Each step brought about unimaginable fatigue that made your bones ache. You hardly made it halfway to the farm before you had to rest beneath a large tree’s shade to rest your tired limbs and eyes. 

“Excuse me, miss? Are you okay?” 

You jolted awake, surrounded by a handful of elderly villagers from around the countryside. You recognized at least one of the older women as one of your old cafe companions in Corleone.

“I’m fine.”

The woman in question squinted at you. ��Where do I know you from?”

“We’ve never met before,” you said, voice tight with panic. “I have to go. Goodbye.” You forced yourself up, using what little strength you had to return to the villa, ignoring their calls for you to wait. Exhaustion swept over you by the time you made it inside, promptly collapsing in the foyer. They had recognized you, and surely they had seen you retreat into the villa and were on their way to let Don Manusco know of your whereabouts. They’d be foolish not to with the price on your head.

Michael was nowhere to be found, and you worried that by the time you finally saw him that night, it’d be too late to tell him what transpired. Tears rolled down your cheeks as fear and guilt crept up on you. Your carelessness had put Michael in danger, too.

With no way of knowing how long it’d be until word got back to Manusco, you considered the layout of the villa, which you knew like the back of your hand, and the best place to hide if he or his men intruded in search of you.

In hindsight, the kitchen cupboard was a more obvious choice for a hiding spot, but it was the most your fatigued brain could come up with while you were panicked. 

Your instincts had been right, though. The inevitable intrusion did come.

The voices that echoed through the foyer were the same ones from the night you first arrived in the villa. You kept a hand over your mouth, the other with an iron grip around the kitchen knife. 

“Come on, Don Manusco isn’t angry with you. He just wants to talk,” one of the men called out.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” the other added. “He knows you didn’t have anything to do with your father’s schemes.”

You couldn’t take a chance on whether or not they were telling the truth. 

Footsteps approached, growing louder with each passing second. You readied yourself for attack, until you heard a blood-curdling scream rip through the night and you dropped the knife in shock. 

With all of the foolishness of your father, you opened the cupboard door. Blood pooled around the man’s head, a look of terror etched into his face, betraying his final thoughts. Your gaze lifted, and you stumbled backward, unable to comprehend the gruesome sight before you. If you hadn’t been watching Michael with your own eyes, you would have assumed an animal attack was responsible for the carnage at your feet. What more, after the initial shock wore off, an almost physical pull drew you to the spilled blood.

The villagers had been right. It wasn’t mere superstition, but reality, one more horrific than any of them could have fathomed. The unexplained murders, the livestock deaths, all by his hand. His illness a fabrication to conceal the true nature of his being, something unnatural that existed in the worlds between life and death with a hunger to match. He’d been feeding from you for weeks, allowing you to carry on believing lies. Of course you felt awful, constantly fatigued. You could only hazard a guess as to what was really in the tea you’d been drinking like a fiend.

You wished you could scream at yourself for your naivete, as if he’d help you out of the kindness of his heart and not expect something in return. Your willful ignorance of his odd behavior in exchange for refuge in the one place where you’d be safe from who you thought were the only men who wanted to harm you. But he saved you from Don Manusco and his men. He kept you alive. He could gain little from drawing out your death for so long. Unless…your eyes widened, and you looked at him in horror.

Michael spoke your name softly. “Do you understand now?”

“You–You’ve been making me like you.”

“I should have done it sooner. It’s the best way to keep you safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“I guess not.”

He cupped your face in his hands, “Things won’t be that different. We’ll be together. No one will be able to hurt you.” 

“How–How much longer until I’m–”

“As soon as tonight, if you’ll let me.” Sensing your hesitation, he pressed a bloody kiss to your forehead. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the urge to trust him, to commit to an eternity of all-consuming, reclusive violence with him. “I want to be with you. I want to be like you.”

His hands drifted down to your neck, his fingers digging into your pulse as he leaned in, his teeth grazing the half-healed wound he’d inflicted all those nights before. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”

[foursaints]

oh please don’t leave us hanging with this barty and alecto college roommates tag…

bartyalecto college roommates彡

-> imagine, if you will, the nastiest most man-hating misandrist dyke to ever walk the earth. alecto carrow wears a burgundy red lip & knockoff louboutins to class, has been buried in the closet since age 12, carries feminist theory in her leather purse, and loudly professes that all men are pigs. -> now imagine this woman being forced (through the uni housing process) to share a two-bedroom apartment with Campus Bicycle barty crouch jr. he steals her nice uniqlo black tanktops to wear to the gym and returns them all stretched out and sweaty. on their first week he leaves his mounting collection of random hookup's forgotten thongs in her laundry hamper. -> in many ways they are natural enemies. it's a militant radfem being forced to cohabit with a guy who thinks that getting to first base in the back of an uber counts as adequate foreplay... they're the campus scumbag x the SCUM manifesto -> but barty is so incapable of viewing alecto sexually (he enjoys pretty things that are soft and pliable... she is decidedly neither) that this is one of the few non-predatory relationships she has ever had with a man in her life. alecto maintains this Classy Feminine Image in pursuit of male approval (though she loathes herself for it), which is a mask that barty mocks and refuses to take seriously. he admires her the most whenever she's undone, vicious, clumsy, messy, unpalatable. -> he's like her annoying disney channel older brother who is always standing shirtless in front of their open fridge & ruffling her hair. barty shocks her with the revelation of his hidden seriousness. alecto shocks him with the secret of her steel backbone. they are the worst enablers of each other's elaborate revenge schemes and decade-long vengeful grudges. -> you have to imagine alecto furiously scrubbing off her makeup in her ratty comfort hoodie, splayed on the couch next to barty and ranting about how much she hates guys exactly like him. he hums contemplatively and passes her the joint. they're going to watch real housewives for the next 4 hours and gossip.

as always this concept is straight from my dms with ivy @jewishregulus

[gynoids-over-androids]

do u think drag queens are evil or something. whats ur opinion on them. lh

I used to watch RPDG when I was a liberal feminist so I know what I'm talking about. I think that drag queens are cringy misogynists. They view women exactly as incels: shallow and vain creatures with grotesque body traits&body functions (oversize boobs and vulva lips, shooting cream out of nipples, fishy vagina smell) who only think about gossip, cocks and shopping/fashion. And just like incels, they love to insult women and our bodies:cunt, bitch, slut, etc. How exactly is misogyny subversive?

How is this different from tiktok misogynists impersonating women to make fun of us? How is this different from how incels view women? Even super homophobic/transphobic countries like Russia allow males to act like they're women on national TV if it's to make fun of us (the popularity of Verka Serduchka and similar acts show this).

Drag queens are particularly misogynist and racist towards African American women : stealing some words and phrases from AAVE, parodying black women specifically by using exaggerated versions of makeup and style that were trendier among black women, even when the DQ doing it is white. Bell hooks wrote a bit about parodying black women in "ain't I a woman". I saw white transactivists and libfems claiming that certain words are "for queers only" when said words were actually appropriated by DQ from black women... I'm sure black radfems can expand on this more.

And I find it curious that drag QUEENS only parody and exaggerate *female* bodies and functions. Why don't they joke about transwomen leaking pus and shit post surgery? Or producing foul smelling smegma? Or dilating holes covered in hair because it's made from an inverted penis? Do they not consider transwomen women and therefore worthy of mocking? 🤔

[kiruliom]

"oh saying ur tme/tma doesnt reveal anything personal it just tells us whether ur affected by transmisogyny"

first of all, everyone is affected by transmisogyny to an extent, not just transfems. intersex people, androgynous people, nonbinary people, people of color, gnc people, cis women with 'masculine' features, cis men who dress a little too feminine for society's liking, 'non-passing' transmascs, literally anyone. it is. not exclusive to transfems by any means, it is a type of oppression enforced to fit a quota, when you exclude people who are affected by it from it you are, whether you notice it or not, enforcing that. you are enforcing a binary onto a community built BECAUSE WE DIDNT FIT IN A BINARY!

second of all, if someone say theyre trans (because ngl its awesome and it should take pride in it), and uses, lets say, they/it, and then they say theyre TME, you can pretty fucking easily tell it's a transmasc. so yes, they do share information personal to them for your 'comfort', its just not directly.

you guys need to stop treating transfems like theyre special. they are, but because theyre trans and unique in their own individual way, not because theyre transfems. and dont act like I dont know you'd exclude non-passing (specifically: "not even trying") transfems from your stupid rhetoric

sincerely, a "TMA" being who is so fucking sick and tired of this shit.

kie/kir only if you're gonna gossip about me, and if a radfem interacts Ill bend their spine into the shape of an ampersand istfs.

[burningtheroots]

💜🤍💚 Introduction Post & Guide/Masterpost 💜🤍💚

IMPORTANT

After three months, I think it‘s time to introduce myself and clear this mess of a blog a bit 💀

So, I‘m 20 years old and have been learning about radical feminism for quite a while before joining in myself, and I‘m really grateful to be part of this community and even be mutuals with some of my favorite women on here. <3

I joined Tumblr (and Instagram) to share information, my own opinions and to connect with like-minded women. Before discovering radical feminism, I always felt left out from the discussions and didn’t know that there would be anyone who‘d understand me and accept me. I tried to fit in somewhere where I didn’t belong, and whilst it‘s not always easy to be here, I‘m happy that this community exists. :‘)

DMs & anons are always open, and I‘m always interested in having discussions and meeting new people.

I‘m rather shy and struggle a bit with my social skills, but it gets better eventually.

The only people who aren’t welcome on my blog are p0rn obsessed men and generally anyone who only wants to harass me or spread misogyny. I‘m all for respectful discussions and willing to share my viewpoints, but I‘m not a punching bag.

As there‘s a lot going on here, I collected the most important posts and reblogs (quite many, to be honest) and decided to link them here. Some are simply informative, some are very subjective and some are a mixture of both. The list will be updated over time.

Here you go:

(I‘d also heavily recommend to check out @/radfemfox5, @/woman-for-women, @/butch-reidentified, @/radsplain, @/meanevilandcruel … and many more — not actually tagging them because this post is long & I don’t want to annoy them) 💜🤍💚

if a link doesn’t work, please let me know

Sex-based violence 🔗 links

‼️ Self-protection in emergency situations

Pornography 🔗 links

Prostitution 🔗 links

Gender Critical 🔗 links

Surrogacy 🔗 links

Sexual assault 🔗 links

LGB & Pride 🔗 links

Women‘s health 🔗 links

Pro-choice 🔗 links

Questionable men 🔗 links

Women‘s rights movement // General stuff continued 🔗 links

Women‘s movement // General stuff

Donation Megathread

Stop the infighting

"Not like other girls"

"Not All Men" is a war propaganda tactic

Age and attraction

Key elements

Andrea Dworkin works

Why feminism should center women and women only

Statement

How men see us

Prioritize women

Radical feminism is intersectional

Radical feminism definition

Double standards in terms of "unconditional love"

Favorite quote

We‘re not Nazis

We don’t support Nazis & vice versa

Misogyny vs. misandry

Why I‘m a radfem

Actual radfeminism

No good men

Feminist book list

Libfem hypocrisy

Andrew Tate fans

"Withholding sex" is a misconception

Sexism against women in sports

Choice feminism

Men ☕️

Sex-based violence

Radfeminism is superior

On motherhood

On motherhood 2

Workplace sexism

Motivation

Men‘s mental health month

eXtRiMiSm

Women are not protected 1

Women are not protected 2

Oversexualization

Oppressor classes

Men who want children

Bodyshaming

Misandry

Men‘s sexual entitlement

Beauty Myth

A man‘s world

It‘s all men

Double standards

Women in fiction

No conservatism

Lies about emotions

The system isn’t broken

Resist, don‘t comply

Male hypocrisy

Woman arrested in Saudi Arabia

"Unconditional love"

Beauty ideals

Again, men ☕️

Parental alienation ‼️

Men & gossip

Men dislike their own daughters

Women aren’t objects

On religion

Sexism at school

Women‘s labor

Men‘s victim mentality

Arranged marriage

Women are an afterthought

Oppression in the US

Purity culture

American women & maternity leave

Body neutrality

Dangerous men are around us

Anti-natalism

Men don‘t actually "love" women

Socialization

Stereotyping men

Neha Wadekar in Baringo county, Kenya

Tomiekia Johnson

Child marriage in the US

Workplace sexism

UN report (alarming)

"You are a man-hater"

People with disabilities matter

Disability Pride Month

Girls‘ clothing

So you‘re partnered with a male

[blackpilljesus]

I genuinly don't get "comphet"

I couldn't force myself into a relationship with a male even if I tried and I am het, and you want to tell me there are "lesbians" who voluntarily were in a relationship with a moid, so that they won't be targeted for possibly being lesbians or because they didn't know their sexuality ? What? And gold star is a lesbian who didn't have voluntarily sex with a man? But these non gold star were in a relationship with a man and had sex with him? 😭

Sound to me like bi women, who shamelessly rode dick for years till radfems or basic gossiping from women about moids, exposed their dumbass

It's not real. Attraction isn't as complicated as it's made out; these people just want to feel special. I think some of them are just traumatised from dealing with moids & use lesbianism as a way to cope which sucks for actual lesbians. I've seen this bs happen a couple times in radfem circles.

[frigid666]

this was originally a response to a post asking why there was so much pushback against separatists when the bulk of female abuse is done by men, specifically in intimate relationships.

accepting "niche" experiences women have had that would make them hesitant or skeptical about ideas like separatism is critical to improving the flow of engagement with separatist ideas. most normie women do not have specific trauma involving ousting/ostracization from feminist communities, but many of feminist women do. specific users have written about being mistreated and vilified by various feminist communities, and i have known of several women who were also harmed greatly by their feminist communities; through vicious in-person harrassment, cyber bullying, or being abandoned when they got outed to their larger local mutual aid/action community as "terf" and none of the other radfems had the courage to publicly defend them. these experiences are real and often catalysts for life-long distrust of feminist groups. "trashing: the dark side of sisterhood" by jo freeman [×] is a great short read about a second wave feminist's personal experience with a feminist community's widespread hostility towards her. this piece isn't specifically about separatist groups, but its helpful to illustrate that misconduct is present in all types of feminist groups, there's historical record of it, so there's no point denying it.

something i think many separatists fail to fully appreciate is that a lot of (radically) feminist inclined women may actually feel the hurt of a rejection/mistreatment from a women's community much more severely than the usual mistreatment from a mixed-sex community because they expected the women's community to be a safe space for them. whereas they have no such expectation from a mixed-sex community. we always discuss the unique power female comraderie and community have, but then it must also be acknowledged the unique harm it can cause when something goes wrong. i have seen women completely lose faith in the idea of finding real feminist community, they were so burned by the level of immaturity and bad faith they encountered. there's a certain ability many feminist-inclined women have to show resilience against male and non-feminist female transgressions that is missing when it comes to responding to the transgressions from feminist communities. the hurt is magnified by the base values we all ideally share. if holding someone to their purported values, being called a sexually charged insult by a man is less hurtful and hypocritical than by a woman who is supposed to be above such behaviors, for example.

experiencing such maliciousness firsthand, through a friend/mutual, or simply reading through the writings feminists from older generations have left for prosterity often doesn't inspire a lot of faith in similar contemporary communities. i don't mean that in the "women are all catty and will betray each other, they can't be real friends" way. i mean it in the "women (including those with feminist values) are human, and so we are susceptible to perpetuating the same community dysfunctions that everyone else does (i.e. gossip, name-calling, losing touch w reality, sophistry, tunnel vision, rape apologia, etc)." these are all behaviors i and others have observed from separatists. most women don't find such things inherently more tolerable just because it's an exclusively female group doing it rather than a mixed-sex group. the internet is an artifice to a certain extent, but i think it's fair to say that the level of anonymity a platform like tumblr provides enables masks to slip. many users interpret the nastiness that comes from a lot of users in the separatist niche as the mask slipping - "so this is how they really feel" - like thinking it's ok to use sexually- charged insults, thinking it's ok to degrade/mock women who participate in new age religious practices, thinking it's ok to accuse lesbians who deviate from certain scripts of secretly being bisexual, thinking it's ok to dogpile politically inconvenient rape victims, the list goes on. i don't think it's fair to paint an entire group using its worst behaviors, but it's human nature to do that. one bad apple and such. particularly when an entire community is comfortable allowing such bad actors to exist in the spaces, dictate topics of discussion, and influence popular opinions. im glad sespursongles was mentioned, bc her writings are immensely important to the strain of separatism that's popular on here, yet she was extremely vile towards bisexuals, harboring immense disdain for us, and put blame almost exclusively on bisexual women for the continued existence of patriarchy and the failure of modern radical feminism in her writings.

there are bad arguments against separatism and separatists, no doubt, but there's also a lot of valid concerns and hesitations about joining such communities that i dont think can in good faith just be waved away as incurable man-obsession. "king kong theory" by virginie despentes has been critical in my own understanding of why many women may never find the idea of female separatism compelling.* within this bubble, it actually doesn't matter that it's only an argument in a niche tumblr community; most everyone in radblr is engaging with the ideas here in good faith, engaging with separatism as a serious proposition, and that's why it is often opposed with a lot of passion.

*while despentes does not ever use the term "female separatism" in the book, she engages with the idea indirectly in this passage:

the importance of this passage to me isn't that i find my own opinions about rape represented in a way i hadn't before; to be honest, i still don't fully know how i feel about these sentiments other than that to hold them, one must very careful and deliberate, because i can see them easily veering into very harmful rape apologia territory. instead, it was revelatory to me because it presents a perspective about the looming threat of male violence (particularly from a lesbian woman whom it is hard to argue does not have a comprehensive understanding of feminism and also has 0 investment in men as romantic partners) that hadn't considered prior to reading this book. many women will simply never prioritize blanket self-preservation over the possibility of adventure and freedom of mobility that can only currently be experienced by living in and moving in a mixed sex society, and choosing to allow or tolerate men in their lives. we must accept how feminist women appraise certain aspects of their own lives.

[nerianasims]

At the radfem myth that women do fashion-related things for the pleasure and desires of men:

Some, even many, women do it because they want to and like it.

But that's not what I'm going to address here. Because when women do these things for the approval of other people, it's for the approval of OTHER WOMEN. Women are the ones who police this crap. Women are the ones who are going to exile you from certain social circles if you do not conform enough to them. Women are the ones on gossip sites making horrible comments about women's appearance.

The myth that women are constantly panting after male strangers' sexual approval doesn't sound very feminist to me. But one way or another, it's a blatant untruth. I don't know how many of the people spreading this bullshit believe it. It's bullshit no matter the intent.

[rabiesofficial]

We need an anonymous place to ask embarrassing questions on radblr without it turning into radfem gossip again

[orriculum]

hey! the post you reblogged from supreme leader stoat about daddy issues was originally tagged as 'radfem' (i have the tag blocked). though it seems like the original post was deleted as i cant find it on OPs blog. they arent overtly a terf from what it seems but they definitely rub me the wrong way. do what you will, just wanted to give a heads up

I don't follow or know that blogger really, but if you read the post at all you can clearly see they're complaining about an idea radfems espouse. I don't know how you get complaining about them = being them, but you do you on that.

I will say I want you to really analyze why you feel the need to say someone gives you bad vibes when you can't find evidence for it, why you need to gossip about it instead of shaking it off and moving on.

It's okay to be annoyed or offput by people even without political or moral reasons, but the need to go tell ppl "I saw goody proctor with the devil" literally over nothing is, scientifically speaking, real cringe bro