#tw: peak femininity performance

[the-grimm-writer]

Dabi with a darling who's obsessed with her art, her art being ballet

Cue vantom of the opera music ballet addition.

Also, I'm genuinely so sorry this took so long. I'm getting better at answering requests, I swear 😭😭😭

Mdni

Tw: stalking, paranoia, mentions of unhealthy habits, kidnapping.

You were used to people staring at you. Their eyes glued to you with pure admiration as you gracefully glided across the stage, moving your body in ways that took you years to master.

But this felt different. You felt someone's eyes burning into you with such intensity that any normal person would've broken down from it. Yet if you were one to break, you would've never made it very far. So you continued your performance like chills weren't running down your spine.

Heroes were hard to please. The world's top elite, coming to the theater to watch you, dressed in their finest night apparel. But the moment you started, all their doubts would wash away, watching silently with fascination once the music started.

The crowd broke into applause once you finished your dance, standing up and yelling their praise. It always made those long, painful nights of practice worth it.

As you bowed, you looked up to the audience, your blood running cold as you saw bright blue eyes from the back, hiding away from everyone else. Like a ghost, only you could see.

By the time you get down to greet the audience and discuss your performance, the man with the glowing eyes is nowhere to be scene. You don't know why you look for him, going past the darkest part of the theater and peaking in to see if he's still there, watching you.

Even your walk is elegant, your posture is perfect, back straight, and head held up high. Your voice was soft and feminine as you spoke to the people as they congratulated you.

"That was a stunning performance, my dear!" A tall, balding man with round, thick rimmed glasses eagerly shook your hand, yet you could tell by his crisp black suit and the beautiful younger woman that looked to be in her mid twenties or early thirties that stood by his side looking at you that he obviously had money. "When will you be performing again?"

"I'm here every night, thank you very much."

You smiled like he didn't give you the creeps. One thing your master didn't have to teach you but were thankful that he did. How to keep your admirers happy while maintaining a distance from them.

It continued on and on. You knew most people who attended the theater were wealthy, but you didn't care. You had all you wanted right now. So even as they introduced themselves, you didn't bother to remember their names. Always changing the topic if one got too bold with you.

A dancer's career was like a star, your balletmaster used to tell you. Shine too bright, and it would burn out quickly.

That's what you liked about it being busy, not being able to stay and talk to one person for too long. So whenever someone made you uncomfortable, you easily excused yourself and moved on to the next person. Sometimes, it would last for hours until you were finally able to leave.

There was a continuous cycle in your job. After you perform, you'd go to bed, get showered then something to eat, and then rush back to the studio in the early morning to practice. It was your favorite time to do it. When the sun was on the verge of rising and it was still dark outside. You could practice in peace with no prying eyes to judge you.

Turning the lights on, you walked onto the stage, dressed in your practice outfit. Skin tight nude colored leggings, a black leotard with a small tutu connected to it, and pointe shoes you just recently replaced and broke in. Your hair up in a tight bun, completely out of your face.

Taking a deep breath, you stood on the center stage and got in position, pretending like it was an actual performance as you danced.

It was always something you reminded yourself of when you got the lead role in dances. And whenever you didn't get what you were striving for and it felt like your world was going to come crashing down.

Yet still, you would dance until your feet bled and you physically couldn't anymore. It was painful yet an addicting feeling each time you overcame a boundary you once had and turned it into a new move you mastered.

"Why did you stop?"

Spinning around, you were about to stop until you collided with a person. You were about to apologize, thinking it was one of the other performers or the janitor until he spoke up.

You gasped in shock, turning around and stepping back from him. Those cerulean eyes were something you could never forget. Ever since that night.

"It's you..." Fear twisted in your stomach as you looked at him.

He chuckled at this, casually stepping forward towards you. "I knew you'd recognize me."

"Dabi..." You said breathlessly. It wasn't difficult to know who he was when he was always on the news. Heroes' warning is to be on the lookout for a deadly villain litered in patched scars and black hair. He smirked, knowing you'd seen him before.

"The theater is usually the last place I'd hide in. Too many witnesses." He stepped forward, making you go back. "But those idiots didn't even notice me. Not that I could blame them. That was quite the performance you put on."

You backed away, and he could see in your costume that your body was stiff as a board. Trained to have perfect posture even when just having a discussion with someone.

"Those fools don't deserve you, you know." He spoke up, his voice low and raspy. "They'll do what they do with everyone that has a talent. They'll make you dance like a puppet until you break."

You were stiff as you stood there, watching him circle around you on the stage. "I know what I signed up for," you said softly.

His eyes narrowed. "Then you're just as foolish as they are."

"It's ironic, you know," Dabi chuckled darkly as he stood behind you, placing his hands on your waist. "My father... he always strived for perfection. But even his most precious creation isn't enough for him."

You didn't blink an eye at his cold tone. Used to getting degraded and talked down to whenever you messed up even the slightest in front of your master and the instructors. So brutally harsh it could make even the villains with the blackest of hearts cry.

"Surely you understand," you argued back. "To love something so much, you'll continue to do it even if it kills you."

Though you didn't have a strong or flashy quirk, you made it up in your abilities in ballet. Pouring your heart and soul into your performances so even the untrained eye would be able to tell you aere the best at what you did.

You touched him like the fire that was dancing in his veins. The thing that consumed him aside from his needs for vengeance. Though he knew that obsession ran deep in his genetics. It was just something he never thought would hit him until that night he first saw you.

"That's because perfection doesn't exist."

His breath hit the shell of your ear, hot just like the rest of him, yet it sent shivers down your spine. "Yet here it is in the form of a little dancer."

You could tell how bitter it made him. You understood the feeling well. Every ballerina knew how it felt to be rejected and pushed to the side whenever a younger, prettier dancer came in and took the place they spent years working to get.

"Were you ever warned?" He mused. "Some hero or fuckin rich pig with too much time on his hands could ever use their power and money to snatch you up?"

Of course you were, and you hesitantly nodded your head. Nobody ever thought it would happen to them until it actually did. Hell, Dabi bet his mother thought she'd never wind up in an arranged marriage with his father, abused and locked away in an institution after making her have four children with him.

"I'm my father's son, after all." His scarred hand ran down your smooth cheek, down your chin until it wrapped around your throat and pinned you against him, his other arm snaking around your waist. "Men like us, when we see something beautiful, we have to own it, keep it for ourselves."

"You don't have to be like him." You protested, your heart racing in fear. Dread filled you at the thought of him taking away everything you spent your whole life working for.

"And you don't have to be a dancer." He retorted. "Sometimes we don't have a choice in life (Y/n). Now you're coming with me."

You tried to pull away despite his hand wrapped firmly around your throat, threatening you. "No! You can't do this! I have to perform tonight. I have to-"

"This is a lovely place," he cute you off. "Something even I could appreciate." His grip on your neck tightened as he held his other hand out, making you watch as bright blue fire appeared out of his hand. "Such a rich history. It would be a shame if it all went down in flames."

You weakly nodded your head, bursting into tears as you looked at the stage, the theater, your home on last time as he let his flame die out. He picked you up and threw you over his shoulder. His strong arm held you in place with ease as he walked away.

"Don't worry," he said softly, his smile wide and twisted as you cried. "You can still dance for me."

[dyke-bars-never-last]

now I get why lesbians should support J.K. Rowling though she pretty much promotes expression conformity and heteronormativity

brave women's presence from every perspective

GNC(gender non-confromity)doesn't always mean GC (gender critical) and GC doesn't always mean GNC

Spotted on another platform... I don't even know where to begin

[sablerosecosplay]

PERSONAL GENDER RANT

⚠️TW: Personal Gender Struggles, Internalized Transphobia, Alt Right YouTube Mention⚠️

Also, I apologize for the long post, I still haven’t figured out how to put things under a cut.

So Gender is honestly kind of confusing. Recently, I've been feeling both masculine and feminine in my presentation as of late and feeling dysphoria in my chest. I'm not exactly sure why I feel so painfully mentally aware of my breasts. Then when I try to question my gender, I start to feel almost guilty. It's like I'm invalidating myself. I begin to feel like bigender isn't a real thing and I'm just a "transtrender" for attention. Which makes no sense because when someone I love comes out as nonbinary, genderfluid, and the like, I pour out nothing but love and support. What makes me so different that I suddenly no longer feel valid.

It's honestly a wild experience. I remember when I was originally out as bigender to my friends. They were great but I also was always reminded that I'm "such a pretty girl," "your hair is so long and pretty," by those in positions of authority above me in college. Back then it honestly hurt me so badly I remember being in tears about it. I had support but it was such a different time that there was no way I could properly explain it. During performances I would have to wear dresses because as far as anyone knew I was a normal woman. During my last Christmas concert for my college career, wearing the dresses and being perceived as female was such a painful experience I spent most of those nights distressed and crying. When I tried to come out to classmates they would disregard me and sweep my words under the rug. I tried so hard to present masculine to get even a crumb of validation, and nothing. I remember even coming out to someone because I was tired of not being taken seriously when I'm male. She responded with saying that couldn't exist because gender roles didn't matter anyway. She kind of had the spirit but missed the point completely. It wasn't my expression, it was my actual gender identity.

Fast forward three years, I became one of the most hyper feminine people I've ever met. I love dresses and heels as well as lipstick. I would wear false lashes and style my long hair to be a queen amongst peasants. I then decided to identify as cis female because it was like my dysphoria had faded.

Then 2020 happened. To be honest a lot of personal issues from three years ago resurfaced. This one was the one I least expected. I decided to get into my favorite cosplay for the first time in a long time. He's an incubus OC that I've had for about two years now. That was the first time I ever felt gender euphoria. I looked at myself in the mirror, my contour, my short spiky wig, and the outfit. I saw myself. The last time I looked in a mirror and went "there you are," was when I first dyed my hair black back in October. I felt the happiest and most authentic that I did in months.

When I removed it I saw myself again, and I love myself. It's taken a long time to love how I look. But that familiar discomfort of my chest had returned. I suddenly felt like I wanted my chest to be flat like my boyfriend's. What confuses me is the fact that some days I want my breasts to be completely gone, other days I love them and wish I didn't have a smaller bust. 

I feel myself being pulled in those two directions again, one side of me loves being a beautiful woman, the other desperately wishes to be a strong man.

I think something that goes further into this is the fact that just about every character I find comfort in or relate to heavily (dare I say, at one point kinned) are almost all exclusively male. I struggle to think of any female characters I see myself in. Thats followed me for a long, long time and even into my own character creation process.

I feel stuck in the middle of a match of tug of war. Am I female? I'm pretty sure. Am I male? I honestly think I could be as well. My cycle then starts again, the feeling of liberation and euphoria in knowing who I may be. This is quickly followed with great shame. What if I'm faking this? What if I'm just performing to feel special? I remember the feeling of always being painfully aware of my chest and wanting it off of my body. It validates me some days but others I'm just not sure. I also remember how I feel with pronouns as well. I don't mind She/Her whatsoever most days. Then I realize how I feel with He/Him. It's honestly pretty nice. I enjoy being perceived as a handsome young man. The sensation is almost overwhelming some days.

To be honest I think a lot of it stems from a time in my life I was preyed on by parasocial relationships. Back around the time I originally identified as bigender, youtube was at its peak of the antifeminist and alt right movement of content creation. I consumed more of this than I should have (never got too far) and unfortunately used to watch people like Blaire White and Sargon of Akkad in order to feel smart. I never realized the blatant homophobia and transphobia they were exposing me to. It made me think that anything aside from male, female, transmale, and transfemale didn't exist and people just wanted to be special. I never realized how much I internalized it until now.

Once upon a time I happily identified as bigender and/or genderfluid and it was something that I was proud of. Now I look at these words and I feel ashamed of them. Not for other people, but myself. I feel much more than just a woman, I feel like I'm both a woman and a man. I strongly identify with these two genders. However I still have the doubts louder than they were three years ago.

I guess the point of this is to just get all my thoughts out of my head. Words of encouragement and maybe even some clarity would be highly appreciated. At the end of the day though, it means a lot to be listened to. Thank you.

[ala-mhinyan]

Dissension

{{ Feat Mentions: @dunrai-ffxiv​ and @talesfromthegameff14​ }} {{ TW: References to Physical Abuse! }}

Endless black was what greeted the Seeker when he found his way within the very center of his being; where his heart was most open and the melding of broken shards could acquiesce and converse with one another without one man looking half-mad as he  mumbled to himself in the middle of the hallway. He’d accidentally done it once before after Yasu had turned him and his loved one’s entire lives upside down and he’d be damned if he let himself slip like that again. Ayanga promised him that home was a place where he could be safe, vulnerable and do what was needed in the safety of a place he’d never be hurt.

But. Home was the mouth of a shark. Not always. Not often.

But right now? It was the gaping maw of a predator ready to swallow him whole should he lose his footing and come tumbling down. He wasn’t ready to fall. Not yet. There was so much to do.

So his feet carried him far from home. Dunrai had gone home with Ayanga after his conversation with Kadour and C’tolemy excused himself to be alone with his thoughts. How he ended up on the sandy beach lining Costa Del Sol’s ocean? He could never tell you—he was already crossing frigid waters until he was alone on one of the smaller islands off the coast. No one would bother him; the moon steady overhead, bathing him in her radiance and promising to protect his lone form.

The lumbering form of red, leather and comfortable wool sat kneeling at the water’s edge with his head bowed toward the open ocean and the Night Mother’s omnipresent gleam. He lowered his guard, dropped his anchor and let himself fall within, carried along by the jangle of anklets and the slosh of ocean waves.

.::.

C’aziza was standing in front of him when he found himself within the inky abyss, her radiant self a perfect reflection of what C’tolemy was—only feminine. In the sway and curve of her hips, the full of her lips, the soft of her cheeks and the heavy sway of breasts that she didn’t seem at all bothered by. She retained his muscles, his wide shoulders and the overall dangerous outlook that he carried but she had a feminine wile in her that would not be tamed. He didn’t want to anyway.

She was beautiful.

She was the woman his soul represented and he was her perfect counterpoint; the man his soul represented all bound up and bowed nicely into the one everyone knew as ‘C’tolemy’. An amalgamation of woman, man and wild, unchecked aggression in the form of a gleaming yellow eyes.

C’tolemy, or—more accurately, Dasa, approached the golden women in a smooth motion of silver flesh—the contours of mountain peaks and hills mapped across his flesh to adorn him as something closer to godlihood than man. Each step sure and calculated, the flick of a long tail granting him grace you only find in performers and dancers well into their years. The flex of each muscle. The bulge and pinch of skin, sinew working underneath like a well oiled machine to move his hulking form. His golden eyes met her silver ones and her golden skin met his silver flesh.

Perfect, complete counterpoints. Two halves of the same whole.

She was the first to speak.

“We can’t do this.”

His expression veered from placid observation to politely controlled. Walled off. He was already pushing her away. “While I understand your concerns—”

“Do you? You don’t love him like I do. No one does.”

A snarl sets under his lips, “You’re right. No one loves him like you do. No one would be that stupid.”

C’aziza never could stand for insults and that was more true now than ever—with C’ajnee’s demise lingering in the distance and the growing rift between the shards within, it was no wonder she was the first to strike Dasa. The thunk and crack of bone against porcelain splits his beautiful jawline like a shattered vase. He doesn’t retaliate more than cut his eyes into a glare.

“Is this what you want, Dasa?! You want me to hurt you? To fight with you over what we’re going to do? You may pretend like you’ve changed since you met Dunrai and Ayanga but I am no fool! You can hide your heart behind the shroud of darkness and play at being heartless to everyone else but you can’t hide your heart from the one sharing it!”

Dasa rolls his jaw, popping it in several places. Unless his more feminine counterpart, he doesn’t rage wild and hot—he burns cool and steady. Ice to her fire.

“I want you, for once in your life, to be sensible. I know you love Kushal more than anything else in life but you have to see that if we go back to him he’ll break us into more pieces. It won’t end until there is nothing left of us and we’re dead in the ground never having lived a life of our own. Is that what you want? To be his.. His slave for the rest of our life?”

C’aziza bristles, a snarl rolling hot between fangs and the slim space of cheek with tongue. She looks like she’s just about ready to strike him again when she turns on her heel and stalks away from him, tail lashing. “You don’t understand. Kushal wouldn’t do this to us. He wants us.”

“He never wanted us,” he hissed bitterly, “You are the only one that still believes that lie.”

“And you want to believe it! You want to believe Kushal still wants us! That he’ll touch us tenderly and call us little one and stroke our cheek and look at us like we’re the one thing in this world he’ll never hurt! Why—Why do you always act like I’m the unreasonable one when you feel the exact same way as me?!”

“Because I won’t risk US again and YOU would! Want to, even!”

She’s upon him like a hurricane before he can think to put up a defense, crashing to the ground of the black void in a heap of glittering silver and gold. Blows are exchanged too quick to stop the tide, fists breaking against flesh and cracking it with each hit. The more they scuffle and fight, the more damage each receives—until they both are breathing hard and missing limbs. Dasa, without his left leg and Aziza missing her right arm. They separate in a flurry of color and circle about one another, hissing and testing ground between the two of them. Waiting for a slip.

Waiting for the moment one of them is off-guard.

This time, he’s the one to strike first.

“You have to face it.”

“There is nothing to face!”

“He doesn’t even care about us, you know it’s true! You know all we are to him is a toy. A play thing to use and abuse and toss away when he’s done. You think he doesn’t have another he’s grooming just like he did us?” C’aziza opens her mouth to retort but… nothing comes out. Dasa seizes the moment; tackling the woman into the ground and pinning her by the wrists so she has no choice but to look him in the eye. The struggle ensues but ultimately? He’s just a little more clever than she is powerful, catching her leg under his knee and forcing his body weight down hard to trap her where she is.

“I won’t let you undo everything we’ve done—All.. All of our progress, our growth, our healing just because you want to go back to the man that broke us in the first place! We’ve come so far, we’ve done so much—You want to throw all of that away?!”

“I won’t help you kill him!” She shrieks in return, voice hollow despite the bite and tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

“FINE!”

C’aziza stills—Maybe she’s wo…

“I’ll do it by myself.”

“NO!”

Aziza sucks in a breath, beside herself with emotions that hit her from all angles at once—trying desperately to beat the man atop her off so that she can gain some distance… So that she can breathe. “We don’t have to do this, Dasa! We don’t have to kill him, we can go back to how it used to be! We—We can be together again! We can be perfect!”

“How can you even say that?! Did you forget what we went through? With every hit, every slap, every punch, every kick, every time he threw us off a cliff or starved us or slammed us into the ground—Every single time he hurt us he made us into a more perfect version of his fucked up little experiment, and for what?! For him to use us, train us like a damn dog?! YOU WANT THAT AGAIN?!”

“I DON’T KNOW HOW ELSE TO BE!”

She’s screaming.

“I DON’T KNOW EITHER! But I don’t want to be THAT! I NEVER want to be that again!”

“He’ll treat us differently this time, I know it!” Aziza cries out, struggling with shaking arms against the steel grip of silver hands at her wrists. It does her no good but she can’t just lie there and let this go on like this. So she struggles; she kicks and twists and beats her tail into his ribs like a bludgeon to get him off—to topple him in some way so that she can wriggle free and put space between them. “We won’t be broken like last time! Kushal is different, can’t you see it in his eyes when he looked at us? He wants to treat us so gently. He… He lov—”

“DON’T!”

The golden woman goes still.

“Please,” When did he start sounding so weak? So tired? “Please don’t say that.”

“It’ll be…” She swallows roughly, voice so high and strained. “It’ll be different. I know it will be.”

Dasa shifts above her in a slow, predatory motion until he’s properly planted over her belly and looking down at her from where he has her pinned. Golden eyes scream pain, reopened wounds of a decade gone by shining like blood on water in his gaze. She flinches and tries to look away from the hurt shes caused. He forces her to look at him with a cruel jerk of her arm, straining the socket enough to drive home his point.

“Do you understand what you’re suggesting? Really, Aziza? Can we disobey an order?”

“No, bu—”

“Do you still twitch when he raises his voice? Do you fear when his hand moves? Do you feel sick and anxious when you’re near him? Do you feel the dread? The terror? The panic?”

“Dasa—”

“We’re scared of him, Aziza. We… We shouldn’t be scared of the person we love. Is it really love if you’re terrified of their every move? Is it really love if you want to disappear when he says your name?”

. . .

“Isn’t it love that we want him in-spite of that?”

Dasa’s gut churns at the implication of those words and he’s starting to pull back just as Aziza pushes forward—flipping the tables in a turn over that has Aziza pinning the man of silver. Their bodies roll and the wild, feline screeching kicks back up as blows are exchanged between each form. It seems ceaseless for how long they continue this useless tirade and it’s only when Dasa stumbles back—missing his entire lower jaw and his tail in a mess of broken silver chunks on the floor that he finally speaks.

“If you won’t go—I will.”

“I won’t let you!”

Gold falls and crashes to the ground in a clatter like porcelain, the doll-like structure of both individuals leaving them vulnerable to each other’s targeted attacks. She stares at him with wide silver eyes, hands curled into tight fists at her side that she’s doing her all to keep to herself. Her leg is missing and there is a massive hole punched straight through the center of her chest. They both share a state of total disrepair, yet neither of them is willing to back-down from their stance. Neither willing to yield to the other’s demands for what they think is truth is so polar opposite to their counterpart.

They look like they are seconds from leaping at each other when a rush in the darkness catches their attention, the shifting darkness swirling around the form of an animal placing itself squarely between the both of them.

Pale yellow eyes stare back, unflinching as the beast holds its ground to their anger and rage.

Dasa stares the Wolf down for several long, tense, silent moments. He draws in a deep breath and edges down very slightly into relaxing, uncurling his fists to let his hands hang loosely at his sides. That seems to satisfy the wolf, turning slowly to turn that gaze onto the woman of gold. Where Dasa yielded? She hisses and snarls at the very presence of the third part of their soul.

“I will not let you kill Kushal. I—I won’t let you do it!”

The wolf takes a step forward and she takes a step back, screeching furiously at the beast as a threat to her person should it take another step forward.

“That’s enough, Aziza. It’s over.”

“This isn’t over! I love him, I won’t let you take him from me!”

“I won’t let you kill us for him.”

“We could have everything, Dasa. We’re so close.”

“And you want to ruin it all. I won’t let you.”

She snarls again, louder—hotter, burning as bright as the sun in the void space that surrounds the three of them. The brighter she seems to get, the warmer the space gets and the colder Dasa seems to run, despite the limbs they both lost in their scuffle. He lets out a low breath, frost gathering in a cloud at the tip of his lips. Everything stills and silence reigns.

Until…

“I’ll kill you if I have to.”

Aziza stares in utter disbelief at what the other half of her soul just said to her, the bewildered expression doing extra to drive that point home. The Wolf turns his head to look back at Dasa, then looks right back at Aziza and holds her gaze.

“You… You don’t mean that, Dasa. You can’t. That would ki—”

“I know.”

“And you would sti—”

“I will shatter everything that you are with my very own fists if you force my hand.”

“D...Dasa—”

“Don’t make me kill you, Aziza.”

That makes her stop and stare at Dasa like he’s alien to her. How could the other half of her very soul threaten her with destruction for chasing after the man they both love and both want to return to, even if it means breaking them apart into nothingness. She feels his emotions just as keenly as he feels hers; she knows he loves Kushal. She knows he wants to go back to Kushal. But he believes Kushal will be their undoing and she believes Kushal will be their rebirth. The look in her eye only makes Dasa tick his head up in open challenge. He isn’t backing down.

He means it.

Aziza’s face twists from disbelief to wild, uncontrolled hatred of the man in front of her—glaring daggers at him. Despite her anger and the way she snarls with malice dripping from her tone, she seems to relent. “Very well. Do what you must.”

Dasa takes a step forward and Lupa whirls around, a low growl building in the center of the wolf’s chest. It makes the man of silver take a step back and hiss low at the beast between him and his other.

“You’ve said your peace, Dasa. Leave her be.”

“I only want to keep us ali—”

“Leave. Her. Be.”

Golden eyes flick up from the wolf to rest on the festering glare of the woman just a foot out of reach—and he relents, turning his head away. If this is how it must be? It is how it will be. Aziza turns away from the man and wolf, stalking away. Dasa and Lupa soon follow her example, splitting off and going into three different directions. Their world wobbles hard and is swallowed by darkness, leaving nothing but an intense feeling of wrongness and hurt that cannot be explained.

C’tolemy’s eyes open slow, a hand reaching up to wipe away his tears as he gathers himself back together enough to stand up. His legs feel like jello, his heart aches so badly it feels like he’s moments from cracking apart but the deal has been settled. All he must do now is hold it together until the hunt is complete.

Then he will be free. They all will be.

A gathering of aether forms at the center of his person and he whisks himself away to Shirogane where a warm home and welcome family awaits. And he will greet them—

With a cat-like smile, both eyes closed and the edges of his lips upturned in a slight curl.

The smile he only gives when he doesn’t mean it.

[darndestcreature]

TW: Abortion // Spoilers for The Witching Hour

I am less than 150 pages into this novel (which had been painstakingly boring so far, might I add!), and TWICE abortion has come up. In both instances, the topic is situated within extremely controversial contexts. The first time abortion is mentioned is when Michael Curry, the hard-working, apolitical, part-time/unwilling psychic finds out his girlfriend is pregnant. She wants to get rid of the baby. He agrees that this is within her rights, then immediately spends pages bitching about his right as the father to raise the baby. Insufferable.

The second time is when Dr. Rowan Mayfair is brought into a secret laboratory within the hospital she works. There, an older doctor shows her an incubated fetus which had just been aborted in the clinic downstairs. He says that he knows it’s illegal, but imagine all the medical science that will emerge from this research! Dr. Mayfair is disgusted and refuses to work on this project.

It seems to me that since the topic has come up so often so early on that I’m meant to take note of it. And boy have I. Anne Rice uses abortion in the context of two extremely controversial situations: father’s rights and stem cell research. These are two of the most common arguments prolifers give when they’re debating women’s right to abort. Now, do I think Anne Rice is making some grand political statement about abortion? No. This tweet from 2017 demonstrates that Rice is definitely pro-choice. I did breathe a sigh of relief finding this. (Although, The Witching Hour came out in 1990, so who knows her opinion then?)

Anyway, I still think it’s an intentional choice, using abortion as a motif in a story largely about witchcraft. So here’s the part where I start spitballing.

Okay. Witchcraft is a phenomenon associated with femininity. Sorry male witches (looking at you Giles Corey), but historically speaking, the term is often applied to females, magical or not. So in having your protagonists (as far as I can tell, Michael seems to be one) both display this repulsion to abortion, I think Rice is making a claim about femininity. Perhaps there is some subversion in Michael, a man, being so adamant about being a parent. So many texts paint fatherhood as an emasculating influence, so in Michael wanting to be a dad, perhaps he is willingly and unapologetically adorning a feminine mindset. He even remarks that “no relationship existed quite like the relationship between a mother and her unborn child” (66). But there’s certainly a powerful relationship between Michael and the fetus he wants so desperately to be birthed, right? This relationship is so powerful that following the abortion, Michael falls into a state of numbness, unable to feel the good things around him. He hates his girlfriend, the two break up, and Michael feels a fear of intimacy afterward, concerned for the potential for more “lost children” (68).

Michael then sees fetuses everywhere, particularly in the movies. He notices that the horror genre specifically uses fetal imagery to provoke fear. Rosemary’s Baby, Alien, The Fly...all of which he sees his unborn son (whom he’s named Christopher, btw. Totally coping.). This fixation becomes an obsession, then it’s just...dropped. No more mention of repulsion to abortion until Rowan’s experience in the hospital.

Onto Rowan. When Dr. Lemle shows Rowan his lab, he asks her to join him in pioneering this new field of medicine. She adamantly refuses, disgusted by the idea of using aborted fetuses this way. It’s easy to see how Rowan, a woman adopted the day she was born, might be against abortion, but it doesn’t seem like she’s against the act. She only reacts when Dr. Lemle keeps prodding, asking her again and again to work with him. She breaks down, telling him that she will not kill. This choice of words is interesting. Yes, the fetus is alive in its incubation, but it will die eventually. Its body cannot survive on its own. Still...stem cell research like this is controversial for a reason. But for Rowan, whose magical gift is the ability to kill at will, she cannot stand more death. She became a surgeon to save people, a penance for the three murders of her past. My argument for Rowan surrounds her desire (I have yet to see if it’s performative) to embrace the femininity her witchy background makes difficult.

I mean think about it. I recently watched a documentary about a husband who killed his wife and two children. A disturbing amount of discourse around the murders surrounded if his wife, whom viewers deemed “bossy,” deserved her death. People suggested that she could have prevented not only her death but also the death of her children by being nicer. Keep in mind this dude was cheating for years AND WAS THE MURDERER. Anyway, she didn’t even commit the murder and still received some of the blame. This is largely due to the social perception of women as nurturers first. Women are expected to bear the emotional brunt of their spouses and children, and when things so wrong, they’re condemned. Women have to deal with people asking invasive questions about their future childbearing extremely early on, simply because they’re expected to be mothers. So what does this say about Rowan Mayfair who kills when she’s angry, is fixated on her career (in her peak childbearing years, how dare she), and a witch? She subverts so much of traditional femininity that I think by being adamantly against this stem cell research, she is attempting to reclaim it.

However, this reclamation cannot be easy. Her familial “curse” relies on producing an heir. The doctor who visits Deidre Mayfair notes the extensive genealogical books in the manor’s library. The family keeps such detailed records because their kin has power. Sometimes, the power to kill. So for Rowan, childbirth is both inherently feminine and inherently not. By producing more witches, she is placing more unconventional women in the world, but by not reproducing, she is rejecting a societal role placed onto her.

Anyway I rambled, but I’ll see if this theory holds any weight later on. If I can muster the stamina to finish this book. I can’t even imagine reading the next two, but I already bought em, so...hhhhh