#i knew i wanted a movement influenced by nature

[wifeofasith]

Warnings — Dead dove - do not eat, psychologist!Anakin x reader, manipulation, coercion, captivity, blindfolding, tying up, drugging, loss of consciousness, both Anakin and reader are mentally ill, scissor play, undressing, dub-con, implied murder, hinted homicide, hinted torture, stalker behavior, implied APD, implied suicide, Stockholm syndrome? Generally a messed-up piece of work.

Word count — 3k

Notes — A small project for my friend. Not something I'd normally write, but I took it as a challenge. Not exactly smut, but it's hinted & characters make out. Make sure to read the warning list and be mindful. Wrote it in a different point of view to make it as gender neutral as possible. NOT PROOFREAD.

After seven visits and a night of consideration, I've come to the conclusion that Doctor Skywalker wasn't the correct mental health specialist for me. And it wasn't because he was bad at his job, no, quite the opposite. Anakin Skywalker was an attractive male in his forties. He never shared details about his personal life, and despite that, he managed to create an impression of a person I've known for months, if not years, of my life.

Anakin scared me. Not intentionally, of course. It was what he's supposed to do — pick up the details of me, the patterns of my brain, my movements, and my involuntary fidgeting. He was a modern mind reader, and I couldn't help but wonder if he's aware of every thought I've had when he sat in front of me, with his legs crossed, glasses hanging on the very tip of his nose, a linen button-up with the last button left free. Could he hear what my inner voice was saying during those stolen stares? The gentle tapping of a fountain pen on his notebook told me he could.

He wasn't the only one digging for specifics, though. His purposeful, secretive behavior made me want to figure him out. As if he were my medical project and not the other way around. I knew that it wasn’t ethical; part of his job was to keep the outside world, including his own, off his patients' brains to avoid influencing them. But I needed to know more. Anakin Skywalker was my psychologist, and I was utterly and entirely obsessed with him. Maybe that's exactly why I should stay in therapy. For one reason or another.

It was Tuesday morning, and I woke up especially early for my supposedly last appointment. I wanted to take a longer way to his office and connect all the pieces of private information my ill brain gathered and processed about Anakin. There were plenty of assumptions, facts I couldn’t know for sure, and guesses about his life that were possibly altered by whatever’s been lurking in my brain. However, I loved the image. In my head, Anakin was divorced. The absence of an expensive stone on his ring finger forced me to come to that conclusion. A glimpse of his phone wallpaper portraying two toddlers told me he was a father of two — a boy and a girl with the same gentle but intense stare he wore. The bundle of keys on his office desk told me the kind of car he drove, how many locks his house had, a keychain of his assumed favorite hockey team hinted at what he enjoys doing in his free time. Oh, and he was a smoker, that’s for sure. You could never miss the smell. No matter how many mints he swallowed before my visits or the scent of soap he used to wash his smoke-stained fingers, the cigarette trace was always obvious. But I didn’t mind it, not one bit. His natural smell mixing with the dirt of an addiction on someone who’s supposed to be an example of a perfect intellectual man was like knowing his dirty secret — it was arousing.

I came fifteen minutes early. My doctor worked on the third floor of a five-story commercial building; it was an environment I deemed to be perfectly suitable for a man such as Anakin. Modern architecture surrounded by enough green to not appear like a dystopian haven. And it was an excellent choice for a psychologist office, initially. Personally, however, I thought it was too perfect. Everything surrounding Anakin was a bit too perfect, from the way he carried himself to the choice of his work spot — it always rubbed it in for me that there are people doing okay, people who aren’t chained with the issues of their own heads, uncaged, people who can enjoy that perfect organic modernist dream.

I was going to spend the punctual sixteen minutes outside on a bench before stepping inside and greeting the doctor with a new wave of depression to discolor some of his lively world; after all, that’s what he’s signed up for. I sat down comfortably, not too far from the main entrance, admiring the surrounding park while judging parents chattering around while their strollers were left unattended near the children’s playground. It was enjoyable to see and possibly figure out the mindset of all the strangers and passersby. I felt like my own kind of psychologist, but I never had any intentions to help the people I marked as dysfunctional in one way or another. I lacked some empathy, yes, but that only made my life easier; I wasn’t as attached to problems that weren’t my own, and I could analyze people without their lives influencing mine. My doctor’s fairytale was unfortunately disturbed by the raspy voice greeting me.

“Good morning. You’re early.” Anakin greeted me with a welcoming yet slightly surprised tone. “I’m glad.” 

The coffee in his hand told me otherwise; I could only assume though, but he probably expected to spend a good ten minutes alone in his office, enjoying the morning with a hot latte and with no bothering from his patients before his workday even started.

“Good morning.” I nod too nonchalantly for my own liking. It was obvious I was forcing the tone, and if someone is to pick on such a small detail — it’s him.

“Let’s go; I don’t mind starting early.” He smiles, and I can once again can tell what a liar he is.

I follow him inside a white-lit lobby area, where he’s greeted by a few people he’s familiar with. He walks with masculine confidence, and I find myself feeling so disgustingly small beside him, small and insignificant. I wonder if he’s ever aware of the effect his demeanor has on people. It pisses me off and excites me further. It’s a case of mental masochism, and I’m a pathetic victim.

After a few second elevator ride, spiced with his initiated small talk, we enter the office. He offers to make me a cup of tea, giving me a choice of peppermint and lavender. I was about to decline when I reminded myself that it was my last time here and that I had never drunk lavender tea before. So I agree, encouraging him to be generous with sugar.

“Can I assume you being oddly early to come means an improvement in your mood?” He asks as he brews my beverage. It’s almost as if he’s not even working yet, not taking notes and analyzing me, but I know it’s just a facade to make me feel more comfortable.

“Perhaps. More so that I don’t think I’ll be visiting anymore.” I confess and go along with his play.

“Can I ask why?” His broad back turns from me, and I’m greeted with his handsome face. There was no hint of confusion or surprise; you would think he'd expected me to say that.

I shrug my shoulders, following his hands as he stirs my tea and pushes a delicate porcelain cup forward. His voice is nice, but I would much rather stare at him than watch his miserable attempts to help me.

“I don’t think therapy is necessary. Not anymore, at least.” I take a sip of a hot lavender drink, my hands taking the cup involuntary to avoid speaking further. The brim touches my lips, and I hiss in pain from the burning liquid. I swear he chuckles at me.

“I would like to continue seeing you.” He crosses his legs and leans back in his chair. The gaze he’s fixed on me, mixed with the weird silence after he stops asking questions, is making my insides squirm with anxiety. It’s never like that around him.

“You see, y/n, you are an interesting case…” Anakin pushes his glasses up with his index finger, rocking his chair slightly. “You’re an obsessive stalker.” He blurts out as a wide grin spreads across his face. “And I dislike misbehaving patients.” His face is becoming more blurry as we speak, and I feel myself sinking into the velvet cushion of an armchair.

Fucking lavender tea...

I couldn’t tell if I was out for days or mere minutes, but I’m pretty sure if the familiar smell of cigarettes hadn't reached my nostrils, I’d still be asleep. I opened my eyes only to be met with a dark cloth concealing my sight. I know I’m still in Anakin’s office because the sensation under my restrained wrists is of the same velvet chair. I remained still, in hopes of figuring out what’s going on. Only one thing was clear: I shouldn’t have came today yet alone drank tea. That's a gut feeling for you. The blindfold is weak around my eyes, and I guess it’s less for hiding the view and more for intimidating me. Good job, doctor.

“Oh?” Anakin gasps mockingly. “You’re up early, little bird.” He’s standing behind me; one of his hands snakes up my neck, fingers twisting into my hair. “Good.” He tightens the cloth around my eyes.

“There’s something about you. You’re as annoying as you’re pretty, and I can’t decide if I want to keep you as my little pet or get rid of you and mask it as the tragedy of a weak-minded person.”

I can sense him walk away and then make his way back into his chair in front of me. I sat up straight, settling my head towards him to show how little his words were frightening me. My mind’s been playing games on me since I can remember myself, and a mere human couldn’t scare me with ropes and threats when my own head was a prison of torture most of my life.

“I urge you to make that decision now before your next patient finds us in this roleplay of yours.” I tug the restraints on my hands.

Anakin laughs; I can hear him light a cigarette.

“Yeah?” He pauses, probably taking a puff. “You’re stupid. You don’t think you should be scared?”

I know I should be; in fact, I am not mentally ill enough to be oblivious to how messed up my situation actually is. But I’m not scared, and that scares me way more than being held hostage by my own psychologist.

“So what then, doc? Don’t keep me waiting.”

I can feel Anakin rise from his seat and slowly make his way to stand in front of me. I can’t see him, but as he towers over me, I lift my head up. There is that sense of feeling small again. Maybe it’s less about his confidence and more about how twisted his mind is to lure in people like that.

“Do you think I haven’t noticed? You… Digging through me, trying to figure me out... Watching me. You’re sick.” He grabs my chin. ”You’re sick, and it pisses me off.”

“So you decided to tie me up?”

He sighs, and I’m pretty sure he’s fed up with my poor sense of judgment.

“No, I decided to tear up your dignity piece by piece to show you who’s the real maniac between the two of us.” He yanks the blindfold off my face, and I can’t help but wonder if the initial purpose of it was to do just that. It's as if he’s planned every single second of our sick encounter.

His piercing deep blue eyes star into mine intensely, filled with overwhelming emotions of visible hatred and lust, and I am no longer sure if I want to scream into his face or bite his lips off in an intense session of kissing. I want to make him bleed through both pain and pleasure. Can he tell what I think this time too, or is he sane enough to be unaware of the disturbing thoughts spiraling in my scrambled brain?

“Don’t look at me like that.” He says it with a disgusted tone.

“Do you not enjoy my stare, doctor?"

I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know why my tongue moved in such a seductive manner when I spoke to him. Maybe it was the fruit of his manipulation, making me feel safe, making me trust him, and then turning me into a mindless vessel that craves his approval. Or maybe my problems dive deeper into my body, and it’s just who I am. Maybe sickness excites me.

Whatever the reasoning, it seemed to amuse him. Though I still couldn’t read if his amusement was based on hatred for that twisted attraction he obviously felt towards me, part of me wished it was later.

“You’re a masochist.”

“And you’re a sadist.”

Anakin raises his eyebrow. “So you agree?”

We were both right, but I wasn’t just going to sign up for him hurting me. Or at least not this easily. As I wonder how this is going to go, he leaves the room.

I like to think he’s keeping me because he finds me desirable. It doesn’t exactly make the whole captive situation better, but hell, it’s satisfying when you’re entertaining enough for a man such as Anakin to consider not murdering you instantly. For other eyes, it would make his image less perfect, but to me, he’s becoming better by a second.

Anakin comes back with a pair of metal scissors in his hand. He towers over me again, this time raising my chin with a cold blade.

“You’re not letting go of that stare, are you, darlin’?” He bites his lip, looking down at me.

The stinging blade traces down my neck, sliding over my right collarbone. The thicker skin he reaches, the more pressure he’s applying, yet he's not breaking the flesh, only leaving a red, tingling line. It drags over my clothed shoulder and down the sleeve of my shirt. He does it slowly, not breaking eye contact, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. I question if I am as special as I thought I was.

“You have no idea what I am going to do to you.” He leans down to whisper as he hooks the cutting edge under the cuff and cuts into it.

A cold sensation sends shivers up my arm when he lets the two blades rip through the material all the way up to the neckline, leaving my left limb completely free of clothing. The dust particles tickle my nose, causing a sharp inhale, which he mistakes for fear.

“Scared?”

Not a chance. It’s better than just undressing me; it gives a sense of foreplay, whether before sex or murder. He repeats the same process on my other sleeve.

“You like playing with your food?”

Anakin grins widely. I think he’s liking me more and more. "Oh, how I’ll enjoy devouring you, my sweet dessert."

He drops down to his knees, placing his hands on my thighs to keep them apart and give him more access to be closer to me. He cuts into the hemline of my shirt and rips it across the middle, parting it and exposing even more of me for his eyes to eat. He doesn’t stop there and digs the point of the scissors into my chin, causing a painful sting. I look into his eyes, clouded with darkness, biting my teeth together to avoid hissing from the ache.

“Mouth.” He says that, and my lips part involuntary, as if he had control of my own body.

He slides the scissors fully into me, leaving only the rings hanging out.

“Bite.”

I clench my teeth against the metal to prevent myself from choking. Anakin looks at me proudly, as if saying how good I am for listening to his orders. He grabs the waistband of my pants and commands again.

“Hips.”

I lift myself up, and before I know it, I’m almost entirely naked, tied to a chair, with scissors digging into the back of my throat. And I don’t think ever in my life I’ve been this turned on by a mere thought of being hurt.

He stands up, grabbing the tool out of my mouth and yanking it out without any consideration. With trembling hands, he starts cutting the ropes off my wrists.

“I’m about to die from the feelings you make me feel.” He groans.

Once my hands are free, I clash into him like an animal freed from a cage who’s been deprived of meat. His lips lash onto mine, and his arms grab my thighs and lift me up against him. He’s kissing me, and my body’s burning with sickness and desire. Anakin carries me to his desk, sweeping all the papers and stationary on the ground with a loud, crashing sound, breaking whatever’s fragile and unlucky enough to interfere with our twisted fantasy.

Anakin’s teeth graze the skin on my neck as he throws me to lay on the wooden tabletop. He digs his teeth into my flesh, making me gasp. He’s marking my body with deep red bruises, and I wonder if it’s to hurt me, taste me, or make me see the sars. I’m pretty sure all three things are happening at the same time, though.

He pulls away for a second just to force his tongue into my mouth. And I kiss him. I crave him. I want to make him feel weak for not killing me; I want to make him feel vulnerable for giving into his desires, but the only one who’s feeling small is me. Just like every other time. I keep kissing him, tasting his spit in my mouth as it smears over my chin from how hungrily he’s working. And he keeps devouring me. He keeps devouring me, and I can’t force myself to stop him.

#anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x reader smut #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker fanfic #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker imagines #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker headcanons #star wars anakin #anakin x reader #anakin x reader smut #anakin x reader fanfic #anakin x fem reader #anakin x y/n #anakin x you #anakin smut #anakin fanfiction #star wars imagine #star wars smut #star wars #anakin star wars #star wars fanfiction #anakin skywalker one shot #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker x male reader #anakin skywalker x gn!reader

[itsmealaiah]

Running away to another country w older Tom !!

yes!!

Pack my bags and run away

tags/ warnings: running away, mentions of anxiousness, i think thats all?

pairing: tom x afab

Your POV:

I'm not sure why I decided to pack an extra pair of socks, but as I stuffed the last of my belongings into my backpack, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of calm wash over me. It was like my body knew what it was doing, even if my mind was still in disbelief. My parents would be furious, of course they would be. They had been against Tom from the very beginning. They called him a "bad influence," a "loser," and even went as far as to forbid me from seeing him anymore. But I didn't care. I was in love, and I was going to follow my heart, no matter where it took me.

I glanced at Tom, who was pacing the length of my room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Even in the dim light, I could see the worry etched across his features. He kept shooting nervous glances out the window, as if he was expecting someone to barge through the door and drag us back home. I wished I could reassure him, but I didn't want to jinx anything. We'd been planning this for months, ever since my parents had forbidden me from seeing him anymore.

We'd found a cheap flight to Paris, and had enough money saved up to live off of for a few weeks. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Tom had found us a small, run-down apartment in a quiet neighborhood, and had even gone as far as to get us fake IDs so we could work under the table. He was determined to make sure we could be together, no matter what it took.

As I finished tying up my backpack, I took one last look around my childhood bedroom, trying to commit the familiar details to memory. The faded posters on the walls, the worn-out area rug, the bookshelf filled with my favorite stories. It was all so bittersweet. A part of me knew that I'd never see this room again, and another part of me wondered if I'd ever find a place where I truly belonged.

I turned to Tom, who had finally stopped pacing and was now staring at me with a mixture of worry and hope in his eyes. Without a word, he reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it gently. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the most intimate thing in the world.

We crept out of my room, careful not to wake my parents, and made our way downstairs. The house was silent, the only sound being the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room. Tom carefully opened the front door, and we slipped out into the cool night air. The air smelled like rain, and the sky was streaked with dark clouds. It was as if nature itself was conspiring against us, but we didn't care. We were together, and that's all that mattered.

We hurried to his car, which was parked a few blocks away. It was an audi R8, the same one from years ago. Tom had been saving up for years to buy it, and somehow it still worked. As we climbed into the car, the familiar scent of leather and gasoline surrounded us. Tom started the engine, and we pulled out of the driveway, the headlights illuminating the dark street.

I looked over at Tom, his face lit up by the glow of the dashboard. There was a spark in his eyes that I hadn't seen in a long time, a spark that told me he was just as excited and nervous as I was. He reached out and brushed a stray hair from my face, his fingers grazing my cheek. It was a small gesture, but it made me feel safe and protected.

As he pulled away from my parents' house, I couldn't help but glance back one last time. The lights were already off, and I couldn't see any movement in the windows. It was as if they had already forgotten about us. But I knew they'd be searching for us, trying to find us and bring us back home. Tom must have sensed my apprehension, because he glanced at me with a reassuring smile and squeezed my hand again.

The road stretched out before us, dark and mysterious, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like anything was possible. We drove in silence for a while, the only sound the soft hum of the engine and the patter of the rain on the windshield. I closed my eyes, taking in the sensation of the warm air blowing through my hair and the vibration of the road beneath us. It felt good to be moving, to be in motion, to be headed somewhere new.

Tom glanced over at me and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You doing okay baby?" he asked.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I'm good." But even as I said the words, I couldn't help but feel the weight of everything that was happening pressing down on my chest. I glanced out the window, watching the world blur by as we sped down the highway. We were heading south, toward the border, and from there, who knows where we'd end up. It was both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Tom reached over and took my hand in his again, squeezing it gently. "Hey, you know we'll figure this out together, right? No matter what happens, we'll find a way to be happy." His words were soft and reassuring, and for a brief moment, they managed to ease some of the anxiety that had been building up inside me.

We drove for several more hours, the dark landscape outside the car slowly starting to give way to the first hints of dawn. The airport loomed ahead of us, a massive, modern structure that seemed to stretch on forever. It was both imposing and awe-inspiring, a testament to human ingenuity and ambition. As we neared the terminal, I felt a mixture of anticipation and fear coursing through my veins.

"Okay," Tom said, his voice steady, "here we are. Just follow my lead, and we'll get through this together." He parked the car in the long-term lot and turned to face me, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead. His touch was gentle, reassuring.

We made our way through security, Tom leading the way with confidence, as he'd done this a thousand times before. We walked side by side, our hands clasped together, our footsteps echoing through the sterile, white hallways. The airport was bustling with activity, with people from all walks of life hurrying to and fro, each with their own stories and destinations.

We found our gate and sat down on a nearby bench, our shoulders pressed together. Tom pulled out his phone and began to type, his fingers flying across the keyboard. I watched him intently, wondering what he was doing. After a few minutes, he put the phone away and took my hand in his again.

"Okay, so here's the plan. We're going to wait for our flight, then get on the plane, and then we're going to fly away from here. Once we land, we'll find a place to live and start a new life together." He smiled at me, trying to reassure me, but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Okay," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

Time seemed to slow down as we waited for our flight to be called. I couldn't help but glance around, taking in the sights and sounds of the airport, trying to memorize every detail. The bright lights, the echoing announcements, the people hurrying past us, all seemingly oblivious to the enormity of our situation. It felt like we were living in a bubble, a strange, surreal world apart from everyone else.

As we finally made our way down the jetway and onto the plane, I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer size of the aircraft. The rows of cramped seats, the soft hum of the engines, the gentle rocking motion as we taxied down the runway. It all felt so normal, so routine, that for a fleeting moment, I almost forgot why we were here.

But then, as the flight attendant buckled us in and began to go through the safety demonstration, I felt a sharp pang of guilt in my chest. We were running away, leaving everything we'd ever known behind. Our families, our friends, our entire lives. It was both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

As the plane lifted off, I leaned into Tom, burying my face in his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly, and for a moment, I felt safe. Safe from the world, safe from the past, safe from the future. I closed my eyes, listening to the drone of the engines, and tried to convince myself that everything was going to be okay. That we were going to find a way to make a new life together, no matter where we ended up.

#tom kaulitz imagines #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz #kaulitz twins #tom kaulitz angst #tom kaulitz smut #tom kaulitz x y/n #tom kaulitz x you #tokio hotel x you #tokio hotel x reader #tokio hotel #itsmealaiah

[suhjihanma]

Ghostface Rindou like I’m talkin serial killer Rindou

Apologies for making this a couple days late. Work and getting prepared to travel this weekend has been draining. Hope you like it.

☩Pairing: Rindou Haitani / Female Reader ☩Word Count: 1,045 words ☩Content: Dubious content heading towards non-con, sex with strangers, mask kink, semi-blood play, knife play, hinting of death, drug and alcohol use, intoxicated female reader, characters under the influence, dirty talk, morbid fetishes, unfamiliar environments. ☩Author's Note: So, with kinktober closed and myself barely finishing it, I'm glad that you guys are reblogging and liking my content. I appreciate everyone who looks over my stories. You guys are awesome. This story can contain disturbing imagery so, read at your own risk. As always, minors, ageless blogs, and kink shamers do not interact. Thank you, guys.

The coldness compliments the warmth of two bodies. One that towered above a drugged-out body of a woman drunk in her mindless stupor. The other body, a man towered you with a presence that lingered nothing but caution, yet for some reason the ignorance of your arousal wanted more.

While fondling over the endless bliss of wanting to get handled raw over a rotting tree that stood on its last bits of life, you looked over to the man. Your drunken face quip his uncertainty. The glasses that rested against the bridge of his nose gleamed. Each head movement given to make sense of his environment.

An environment that made you question your gullibleness in people.

The atmosphere became filled with humidity, wet earth, and the lingering cologne that hindered the senses of smell. You wonder about the questionable events being at play. As the moonlight luminates the open space of hidden wetlands to marshes, the effects of the various drugs in your system were beginning to wear off. Looking around your surroundings, you questioned yourself about the situation that you were in.

The only memory that you had was that a man in glasses was conversing to you about random things at a gathering. You remembered how his warming, yet not intimidating charisma won you over. A soft smile crept through his face as you talked to him about the dull atmosphere surrounding the party. If memory serves correct, you told him your name and exchanged friendly formalities. Then, those friendly formalities changed into sensual conversing. Body exchanges coming closer as you complimented his costume of choice. You didn’t mind the stench of alcohol that reeked across his breath. A choice that many others like yourself have seen before with given popularity. Hell, you didn’t even seem to notice it until you got closer to his neck and whispered suggestive compliments.

Rindou...

Rindou was his name.

You wondered why costumes like his give off the arousal of the unknown. An unknown face that could be anyone, along with anonymity. It wasn’t something to dwell upon hardly. It was something more of a simple fetish that deemed attractive enough to mindlessly suggest a spot to talk more in “private”. Or, what he says.

Still, it was nice to let a masked person know about your sexual fetishes and how it correlated to his fetishes.

What wasn’t nice is that you were now in a position of something more than hooking up with a random stranger. A random stranger that was fully studying his surroundings. Looking around the dreaded atmosphere, the sounds of crunched, wetted leaves sounded from the bottom of your feet. You readjusted your standing position, unsure about what was going to happen next. The sounds weren’t comfortable at best, but realized now that the man standing above you grew to come closer. The personal space that was present grew to be more slim as the man now studied your frightening stance.

“I won't bite.” He laughs, a soft click of the tongue was made as his breath dances across the goosebumps of your neck. The uncalm nature of your stance was soon to fall as you respectfully joked back. You knew full well that the uneasiness was growing to be more uncomfortable. As you were about to retort with a smart remark of your own, you noticed his eyes grew more narrowed behind his glasses. The brown eyes that you were now enticed with were unrecognizable.

A low chuckle came from his chest as Rindou licked his tongue across the nape of your neck. A rough feeling of sorts, you couldn’t help but to squirm in front of his view. The sexual, yet uneasiness tension is continuing to cloud your hazy judgment as you look at him with a small pout, quite fitting for the moonlight.

“Why is it that I can tell that you’re lying?” You slurred your question, barely knowing that you almost tripped against a rooted tree stump hidden in the leaves. Rindou looks at you with quick concern before grabbing you by your wrist. A meek yelp came from your lips as you reacted from the quickness that came from your body movements.

“Promise. I won't bite.” He repeated his words, this time in a deeper tone of voice. It rumbles against his chest as he brushes something against your legs. While going through guessing games in your head, it was sharp to the touch, and cold. The object carelessly drags across the skin as your breathing begins to hitch. Your breathing begins to come shallow as you are now putting the pieces of what yet is to come. As each breath rises from your opened chest, the pressure from the object becomes harder to your skin. The bluntness of the object that slowly sank to your skin, soon to penetrate your opening layers.

You tried to back into the nearest rotting tree, hopefully the leverage of placing your back against something will hinder the pain but, the constant stabs of the man's knife grew to be unbearable.

A shrill scream came from your hitched voice. The pooling of a warm liquid that came from the open wound slowly ran across the opening layer of your skin, Rindou looked at the wound site, pleased. The sight of a woman in her most vulnerable state sent him to the edge of ecstasy. He continued to mark deep, puncturing wounds in your skin, ignoring the heads of mercy that spilled endlessly from your agape lips.

Each stab made you cry out in fear.

Each stab made Rindou moan out.

“Then again, of all the times I’ve done this with drugged out sluts like you, I probably will.”

The atmosphere filled with ominous sounds overlapped with Rindou’s barking laughter. Hearing it made you wince out in pain, along with fright.

You wanted him to stop, but your begging fell on deaf ears. Rindou wanted this as an opportunity for dominance. Having you fall to your bloody knees, begging for your life while shamelessly suggesting sexual favors was ideal. The thought of a person pleading something so desperate was enough to make the man grow a familiar dent in his jeans.

Even more so to a full-fledged orgasm as the thought of you clinging to the last pieces of life.

Rindou hoped that you wouldn’t pass out before receiving his pleasure.

It just wouldn't be fair.

#tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x you #tokyo revengers fanfiction #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers #tokrev #tokyo rev smut #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev x you #tokyo rev headcanons #tokrev x you #tokyo rev #rindou haitani #rindou smut #rindou x reader #tokyo revengers rindou #tr rindou #haitani rindou #rindo haitani #haitani rindo x reader #haitani brothers

[secret-smut-sideblog]

Bloodcall

Astarion x F! Dark Urge

18+ masturbation (f!), voyuerism, roughness, fingering (f!), overstimulation, blood play, p-in-v, squirting, light bdsm, vulnerability, tenderness, implied trauma, a little silliness

Released from her murderous desires, she's finally free to love him. But some urges still linger...

-

"No... no..."

Bleary eyed, she looked over at him. His soft call, eyebrows strained together. Hands shielding from something invisible to her.

She hushed and cooed, pulling him into her. "You're alright, I'm right here." She assured his sleeping form. Whimpering, hands gripping her. "You're safe Astarion."

He mumbled something fearfully but relaxed into her. Pressing his face into her neck instinctively.

She gently pulled his jaw open and pushed him into her. Encouraging his sleeping mind.

He bit down, moaning softly. Pulling her in, little huffs and gasps as she scratched lightly at his scalp.

She sighed contentedly.

With Bhaal's influence finally gone from her, finally free, she could support him how she wanted to. How she had wanted to the whole way.

Touch him and hold him without fear of harm. Without needing to harm herself. Be the partner he needed.

She took to it like wildfire, showering him with love whenever she could. She just couldn't stop kissing him.

Though loathe to admit, she still felt something deep down. The intrusive chanting still threatened her lips. Pave my way in blood. And the dreams were still less than pleasant... but he didn't need to know that. She wanted their time to be about him now.

She wasnt naive enough to think she would be born anew, after all she was still... something else. Other. Though her form was that of a mortal she was still made from dead flesh. Still a cuckoo bird, an intruder in a nest.

Was I sweet once? Did I play? She had wondered before and now she knew the answer. Yes, for a while. Then Bhaal came to claim what was his and it was all over.

She tried not to cry, chastising herself for falling back into these thoughts. But when they came they were unrelenting.

Focusing on his mouth on her neck, his weight on her side, she centered herself. They were both free, their masters did not hold their chains anymore. Their lives were their own now.

His drinking slowing, a contented murmur from his lips as he nuzzled down into her chest. His unconscious mind forgetting to close her wound with his tongue. Stray blood dripping down into the nape of her neck. She bit her lip.

Oh. And that. A pressure blooming in her pelvis.

The arousal at violence, blood, flesh. It never left her. She was less fearful of indulging it now than before. It had been a demand, a call to action, a threat. Now it felt closer to a natural rush. Distracting, embarrassing, heated. But ultimately harmless.

However, they had been breaking through waves of bodies recently so it was near constant. Glazing her eyes over. Needing to steal away to touch herself in her tent often, sometimes multiple times.

She kept this to herself too. Things had been so hard, let him have this win. Think she was fully cured. Gods compared to before it really did feel like she was. Just some persistent after effects.

But now she was in a predicament. The blood from her throat making her pelvis ache. His body draped across hers, holding her there. His inner thigh resting torturously between her legs as he folded himself into her.

Sated, he was always in a much deeper trance. Surely, if she was careful...

Hand snaking down she tested, gingerly gripping his thigh. His arm wrapped around her middle with a sigh but no further movement.

Moving that same hand she slowly pushed into the waistline of her underclothes, his camp shirt pushing up her torso with her movements.

Her middle finger began slow small circles on her clit. Breathing through her nose. A flush rising on her cheeks.

If he was awake he'd have a front row seat to hear her heart hammering.

His body so close. Gods she wanted to pull his cool thigh into her heated core and grind.

The thought making her stifle a moan. Pointer finger joining her efforts.

Focusing on making her movements as minute as possible was backfiring, the soft slow touch making things worse. Usually she just rubbed out her need quickly and efficiently. Now she was inadvertently teasing herself.

Gods she wanted to go faster, harder. Flip onto her belly and grind herself out, rutting on the bunched blankets. Press his clothes into her face, smelling him as she came.

Fuck. She stifled a little whimper in the back of her throat. Hips starting to twitch and attempting to arch. Her circles still languid but tempting, very close to snapping into a frantic pace.

His weight on her body, his slow breathing equally calming and maddening. She didn't want to wake him, let him have much needed rest. But Gods she needed him. Needed his sharp mouth salivating all over her cunt.

A soft moan escaped her, eyes pulling shut. Very close, losing her focus. Hips squirming rhythmically.

A cool hand grabbing her wrist.

Her eyes flashed open. His staring into hers, amused.

"Well," He drawled, a wide smile pulling across his face. "How naughty of you."

"I'm sorry Astarion," She blushed, his grip on her wrist holding her in place. "You didn't close my wound and well..."

His eyes glanced at her neck, the drying blood and punctures. Confusion striking his features. "I fed on you?"

"I wanted you to, you were having a nightmare so I..." She gestured with her free hand, pantomiming pushing his head.

He blinked. Clearly caught in thought.

The ache in her pelvis unbearably paused, she wanted to finish and run into the night in embarrassment. Retreat to her tent with her tail between her legs like the animal she is.

"And the blood made you... is still making you..." He started, eyes sliding to meet hers.

She squirmed under his gaze, his hold. He positioned his body further over her in response. No retreat.

"Yes," She admitted, eyes rising to the top of his tent. "It never stopped."

"And you thought it fair to not tell me?" He mused, pushing his thigh into her needy core.

She gasped, hips rising. "I didnt want to burden you..." She moaned truthfully.

His eyes flashed to hers, a lick of anger in them.

He pulled off of her body, sitting back on his knees under her hips. Pulling her underclothes off in one motion. "Finish." He commanded.

She stared wide eyed at him. Hand frozen. Clenching around nothing.

"Asta-"

"I said." He wrenched her thighs, pulling her lower half up onto his open lap, her back still flat on the bedroll. Legs open around his hips. His camp shirt riding up to her sternum with the pull. "Finish."

Her hot core nearly touching his belly, she could feel the coolness of his skin so close.

Transfixed by his gaze her hand slowly returned to her center, his carmine eyes watching darkly.

Her fingers resuming their work she nearly sighed in relief, but his gaze held her mute.

His eyes flickered between her hand, her face, the exposed skin of her torso. Her ribcage rising as she hit her sweet spot again.

Gripping her hip for leverage he leaned forward, slowly pushing his shirt up over her breasts. Her nipples hardening in the sudden cool air. The fabric bunching up on her clavicle.

The eroticism, the degeneracy of it all overcoming her she lost her composure. Arching her hips into her hand on top of his thighs. Bracing her hand above her head, pushing her moan into the inside of her bicep.

"Ah, ah," He admonished, gripping her ass harshly. "I've been deprived of your sweet moans already, darling. You've been stealing away from me to touch yourself, haven't you?"

"You dont understand," She gasped, shocked that he was being so unfair. "The violence lately! It's too much!" She clenched and arched at the thought, fingers working faster.

"Oh I understand," He purred, lifting one of her legs to hook over his shoulder. Her tailbone brushing against his hard bulge. "I have been insatiable lately and you didn't think I could possibly take more of you. More of your fucking, hmm?"

His words sending a thrill up her spine. Her hand coming to cup her breast, lightly pinching her nipple between her two fingers.

His pupils were blown wide, mouth hanging slightly open. Eyes betraying his haughty demeanor. Hand gripping her knee over his shoulder.

"Please. Please Astarion bite me." She strangled out.

"How nice of you to ask me this time." He chided.

Despite his annoyance he quickly sank into her inner thigh, the pain goading her on. She whimpered, plunging her fingers inside herself.

When he pulled away he made to lick, to close the wound.

"Don't," She urged hotly, watching the blood come down in pulses.

When it met her hand, her cunt, coating both, she moaned like an animal in heat.

His breath coming out in gasps watching this display. His erection digging into her backside.

A crack broke the air, then a sharp sting on her ass. His hand snapping down on the soft flesh.

She moaned loudly, so close. "Harder," She urged.

Another crack, louder. The skin of her ass blooming bright red.

All of it too much, she came in a muffled shriek. A wave of liquid striking his belly. She writhed and shuddered and he gripped her hips to keep her on him. Groaning deep in his throat.

His fingers slid inside her, pumping, hitting the spot she can never reach. "I want you to do that again."

"You," She whined, looking at his strained now wet trousers.

"Oh we'll get to me, darling. But first," He picked up the pace. "I need you to soak my hand. Can you do that for me?"

She moaned a handful of cries, already close to a second undoing. Her overstimulation pushing into a new high.

"So I'm curious dear," He mused, head tilting mock inquisitive as he pulsed inside her. "How many times have you been pleasuring yourself to my kills?"

Clenching down viciously she moaned, gripping the blankets under them. The images flashing before her eyes nearly snapping her.

"I'd like an answer, my sweet."

She looked up at him, incredulous. His smile only widening. Preening insufferably.

"Yours are my favorite." She admitted through her panting breaths. "The sneak attacks..." She moaned, eyes pulling closed into her memory. The way he would leap into the dagger drive, sinking ferocious but silent into the thrust. Hand coming around to silence them as they fell.

Her second undoing came the same way, sudden and deadly. Ripping through her pelvis with great shuddering contractions. Her hips rising involuntarily, twisting to the side fruitlessly against his torso. Another pulse of fluid striking him, coating his palm, dripping down his forearm. Some dripping down his sternum.

"Very good," He purred, hands kneading into her hips as she came down. Unlacing his trousers. "Can you take me inside you?"

She nodded, head thrown back. Breath an uncontrolled gasp. Her cum dripping thickly down her backside.

He rose over her, standing on knees, one hand pumping slowly on his length. One knee pushing over her hip, straddling scissored over her.

She looked up at him through her lust blown eyes. Smiled exhausted at him. "I love looking at you from this angle." Trailed the backs of her fingers gentle against his cheek. "So beautiful." She sighed.

It was true. He always looked devine but looking up at him, all his pale chiseled lines, his red eyes staring down. It was enough to write poetry about.

His lips falling open into that pout, eyes round and sweet.

Oh the irony that he tried to seduce her with all that bravado, the charisma and honeyed words. When it was those soft eyes that melted her, it was all over when she saw them for the first time.

He leaned down to press a tender kiss into her lips. Hand cradling her cheek.

"You are entirely too good to me." He murmured against her lips. Hips aligning below. Steadying himself at her entrance.

"Only cause I love you. You're on thin ice saer." She teased. He smiled against her, pushing inside. A low groan from his chest.

"I love you too, you wretch."

She laughed loudly. He made to pull back to a sit and she looped her arms around his neck. Pulling him gentle back to her. "Come here." She hushed, kissing his face softly as he thrusted slowly.

His eyes pulled closed, bracing his forearm next to her head. Hand moving to thread through her hair. Kissing her then breaking away, little whimpers directly in her ear as his head fell next to hers. Hips moving from a roll into a hard thrust. Falling apart.

"I love you so much." She hushed and cooed into the curl of his hair. "I'm so glad I met you. I wouldn't change a thing."

Heard a shallow sob pull through his throat. Hand pulling up on her waist. Burying his face in her shoulder. Hips breaking pace. Breath a frantic gasp.

"Let go, my love. You're safe." She whispered, cradling his head.

He came in desperate quiet cries. Gripping her hips, the back of her neck, like buoys in a storm. Shuddering and gasping. His body quivered as it fell into her.

She curled her legs up around his hips, crossing behind his back. Nuzzling into the curve of his neck. Steadying him again. Fingernails trailing lightly up and down his back.

He moaned sweetly into her, nearly a purr.

"You're such a cat." She teased, scratching lightly across his scalp again.

"You're really fucking up my reputation, you know that?" He sighed breathlessly, melting into her. "Making me like this."

"Oh please, I have enough frightening credentials for the both of us." She smiled.

"Not the point."

"Oh you're so tortured," She teased. "Your big scary girlfriend is nice to you. Should I call the bard to write you a ballad?"

"I'm going to throw you in a river."

"You can try, prettyboy-" Her sentence cut into squealing laughter, his fingers digging into her ticklish sides.

"Oh you're going to get it now." He laughed as she tried to get away, her bell laughter the brightest sound he ever heard.

~

#its canon to me that astarion would get off most to vulnerable sex #my girl doing a reverse uno on him. get sooo loved idiot #astarion smut #astarion x dark urge #astarion x tav #lyrics from: beautiful crime - tamer

[lovelykhaleesiii]

His & Yours.

HEADCANON

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader.

WORDS: 1.5K

SUMMARY: A relationship with the One-Eyed Prince Aemond.

WARNINGS: aemond being the sneaky link he is, smut, possessive!aemond. 

A/N - omg I didn’t realise how much I’ve missed writing, apologies if its rusty. but I had to write for my main man now. 

Aemond would be hesitant to the concept of “love at first sight.” He’d never actually come across a maiden that profoundly resonated with him, that was until he’d first set his sight on you.

You knew of Aemond before he’d come to know of you; he was the prince of the King for God’s sake. He was a man of a domineering figure, you mostly felt intimidated by the sheer presence of him, although a deep part of you felt intrigued to know more of his character.

Unlike his older brother, Aegon, Aemond’s character was not widely known, for the most part people only knew of his obedience, discipline and loyalty to his role as Prince. Only that he was quite the opposite to his elder.

“One-Eyed Prince Aemond” was a common name, whispered amongst the common-folk like you. Never would any of the maidens or helpers, dare utter it in his presence. The tale of how he’d lost his eye, you could listen endlessly to the various tales told, each account differing, you’d come to the conclusion that you would never hear the truth of it.

Many found his appearance frightening or more so, threatening.

Aemond would choose the perfect time to introduce himself. Even if it meant sneaking up on you in the darkness of the night, finding you wandering the halls of the ancient castle. It was all so perfectly planned: he was calculated, following your movements throughout the day, being ever so cautious as to not make it obvious to a single soul. He gave himself time to grow accustomed to your “schedule”, before he’d grow impatient of observing you from the sidelines.

“Is it not late for you Lady Y/N, to be roaming around, alone, at this hour?”

He’d take steps closer towards you, before backing you into a corner, invisible to any one that might wander by in the distance.

You felt his warm breath against your skin, never daring to get this upclose to this Prince. You hadn’t given much notice until now of his towering height against your smaller frame.

“Only the Gods, would know you might’ve bumped into someone that is not as [he pauses for the moment, intensely wandering his gaze at you from head to toe, and back before resuming] …respectful as me.”

You felt this unfamiliar yet yearning feeling in the pit of your gut, and a sudden tightness between your thighs, an intrusive thought fleeting your mind before snapping to reality.

At one point during this interaction, as you bashfully stuttered to respond, you felt him longingly inhaling your scent, and for a split second, he would close his eye looking enamored, a small smirk growing against his face, before facing you again.  

Before you could even utter a word, Aemond insisted that he escort you back, to which you felt weak but to resign to his command.

For the coming nights onwards, Aemond would either find you roaming around the same corridors, although for much of your part, you wanted him to find you. And as you managed to find your confidence, the conversations between yourself and the Prince began to naturally form, and as time passed, they became a little more… Personal.

Most of the time, it was Aemond asking the questions, since you felt considering the hierarchy of roles, you were in no position to question the Prince nor his life. Aemond would notice this, and despite his threatening appearance, he encouraged you to speak.

Overtime, you grew comfortable around him, as reciprocated he felt he could trust you without question.

He used his influence to his advantage. Aemond would demand to see you at certain hours of the night, sometimes if he was bold enough or free of his duties he’d even send for you during the day. As the relationship grew deeper and more meaningful, he’d specifically ask things of you that no other man had.

Aemond was the one to initiate sex. He thrived off of the control he had over you, and he knew no one else in the realm could nor would even dare to question his way. In some pernicious way, you’d come to realize how possessive he was of you, and how dominant he remained.

If Aemond caught a squire or any male figure of that matter even daring to greet you, it made his blood boil. He struggled to make it discrete as he felt the need to watch you closely, interacting with other men; having grown acquainted with Aegon’s vile ways and having witnessed unspeakable acts in whore houses that his brother had forced him in his youth to attend, he knew how foul men would view and treat women.

And may the Gods’ forbid, if a man even dared to lay a finger on you, or even so close as to hear of men speaking of such wicked thoughts about you in particular, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself.

And you’d occasionally witnessed Aemond training in the court yards with Ser Criston Cole; he was a skilled fighter, although more dangerously, Aemond had the blood of the dragon coursing through his veins.

Aemond was disciplined however, he never went so far as to push you to harm’s way nor make you endure things you were not comfortable with. He enjoyed being intimate with you, as he never was around anyone else.

Aemond would definitely be a boobs and hips guy, something about their curvaceous nature, and their overarching purpose, to provide him heirs and to support his heirs, it drove him close to mad.

He loved leaving hickeys all over your skin, most of the time places no one could visibly see, although if he was sneaky he’d leave a few lingering ones around your neck.

He’d also love to tease you, fingering you or eating you out until you’re close to cum before stopping and watching you beg him to finish.

Even more so, he loved watching you commit the highest of treason, the way it naturally sprang from your mouth the words “My King” snapped something in him, and there was no going back. He would never mention these exchanges beyond your moments together, as he didn’t dare to risk someone overhearing such delicate matters.

Despite his dark urges, he did take great care of you, nurturing you. He knew when to be tender and took time with aftercare, soaking in as much time with you as possible. His favourtie thing beside the sex, was bathing you himself after, and simply caressing you, watching you drift off to sleep in peace, wrapped in his arms.

Aemond was not shy of spoiling you either, initially he would shower you with small gifts, such as sending you flowers discreetly, and overtime they became more sentimental yet exquisite items that he’d find across his travels, specifically things you could wear day-to-day to flaunt, knowing that it was all from him.

He gifted you a sapphire necklace during the initial stages of your relationship, to which you found beautiful, although overtime you came to know why that specific gem.

When Aemond was certain of you being the one, he would reveal his injured eye, and you’d hear the truth of the story from his own mouth, word for word. You showed great admiration for this, thanking him for trusting you, as you’d come to realize Aemond kept more so to himself than anything. You knew it took great courage of him to show this rare side of the Prince.

“Issa jorrāelagon.” [My Love].

Aemond would definitely speak to you in Valyrian, even go as far as to teach you key words and phrases. “If my future children are to learn, so should my wife.”  

As Aemond was a man of tradition and duty, he would ask your family for your hand in marriage. It would come as quite a shock to them, although who were they to question the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

Alicent would already know of your relationship before your family’s, Aemond would be the one to tell her directly. During the initial stages she pleaded for Aemond to carefully rethink his relationship with you. Considering his stance and influence, he could be “used” as leverage for betrothals to unite powerful houses in union. Although, as her motherly duty, she knew her son well, and knowing how strong-minded Aemond was, she knew this was a battle she could not win. It wasn’t that she hated you, although her role as Queen Consort took its toll, she viewed this relationship as having no political benefit, however on the conflicting account, as a mother, she saw how Aemond had changed for the better, all because of you. As her second son had always lived in the shadow of his brother, coming to the realization that you made him content, she could not bear the thought of stripping him of that.

Aemond would choose to have the wedding in honor of the Valyrian tradition: an intimate and small union, although the feasts and celebrations to follow would be of the entertainment of the people.

Aemond could care less for the festivities however, the only thing that mattered was that he had you for life now. You were his and he was yours.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #house of the dragon #hotd #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen imagines

[khaotic-neutrxl]

I kinda think that Jinx, because she worried about being weak ("he thinks i'm weak") tried to have a strong approach to things, as in through appearing with strength and violence...

And since she's really influenced by the past as Jinx, I feel that she would really show that strength with the Vi she knew in mind, because she was someone she looked up to so much in strength/character when she was Powder.

this scene literally shows visions of vi with her movements lololol

I mean, Powder had no other related family other than Vi really. So it wouldn't be surprising if she based parts of herself off of Vi's influence.

Even her appearance after becoming "Jinx" sorta has a lot of references to Vi in their childhood.

Ex:

Vi when she was And Powder

a kid

And then Jinx,

who looks a little

like someone now...

Now with her hair brushed back, and bangs moved fully to her right. Like they were done with Vi in mind (or at least influenced by), the image of her she remembered throughout her developmental years. The strongest image being when she called her "Jinx".

COMPLETELY different to the style she had as Powder, except for the metal pieces.

So I feel like if she felt the need to prove strength to Silco, she would go off what has always been a symbol of strength to her.

In this case Vi, since it shows her looking up to her, mirroring, admiring the strength she wanted to emulate. To help and make her proud.

In her own way, she shaped "Jinx" more around Vi, who created Jinx.

And for her sharpness, that can definitely be from Silco, the man who basically raised her all those years her and Vi were separated. Raised her off violence, a darker, more violent approach to the world. Enabling her developing destructive nature.

Almost like he also learned that from someone.

Anyways that's my rant about Arcane because my tism doesn't rest ✌️ Hope you enjoyed! This is purely an analysis/interpretation/theory thing!

(update: an extension of this post)

#arcane jinx #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx lol #arcane #league of legends #jinx #arcane show #vi arcane #arcane vi #arcane netflix #interpretation #arcane analysis #arcane rant #arcane theory #just a theory #just some foods for thoughtsss #violet arcane #silco arcane #arcane silco #silco league of legends #league of legends jinx #league of legends vi #vi league of legends #silco lol #vi lol #jinx monkey #jinx the loose cannon #silco and jinx #vi and powder

[rylem33]

Mounds

Hey everyone. I had a crazy idea pop into my head. I hope you enjoy it. This is the full story, but you can find it and all of my stories on my blog. A link to my blog is on my Tumblr homepage.

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Jack stood in front of the peculiar little shop he’d just exited, a pair of candy bars clutched in his hand. The shopkeeper, a man with a mysterious twinkle in his eye, had assured him these were no ordinary treats. “Magic,” he’d said, with a grin that seemed to know too much. 

Magic or just a clever sales pitch? Jack wondered, eyeing the familiar wrappers of Mounds and Almond Joy. They looked utterly ordinary, but the promise lingered in his mind. Mounds makes me female and Almond Joy will change me back.  With a mix of skepticism and hope, he unwrapped the Mounds. Here goes nothing, he thought, and at the candy bar.

To his astonishment, the world seemed to shift around him. Jack felt his body change, reforming into something new, something excitingly different. 

Standing before the mirror, Jack, now Jackie, lifted her phone to capture this surreal moment. The woman in the reflection gazed back with striking confidence. Is this really me? she thought, her eyes tracing over the reflection. The sports bra and sweatpants she wore revealed a toned abdomen and an athletic build. Her hair, a cascade of golden waves, fell around her shoulders and down her back.

Jackie’s lips parted in a soft gasp. I could be on the cover of a fitness magazine, she mused, a smirk playing on her lips. The muscular arms, the flat stomach, the whole package was intoxicating.

The picture she was about to take would be the envy of any influencer’s feed. Jackie knew this image, this version of herself, was something extraordinary. I never thought I’d be this hot, Jack’s inner voice was a mix of wonder and a tinge of pride. 

Jackie angled the phone, finding her best light, the confidence in her new form growing by the second. I’m more than just attractive; I’m stunning. The thought came unbidden, a realization that surged through her with a thrill. She tossed her hair over one shoulder, the movement feeling natural, even flirtatious. She knew her allure and wasn’t afraid to embrace it.

She imagined the gazes that would follow her, the whispers that would trail in her wake as she walked down the street. Let them look, she thought, a smirk playing upon her newly lush lips. The idea of stepping out into the world, of drawing attention and admiration, was enticing. I want to feel their eyes on me.  But first I need to change.

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Jackie stepped into the daylight, choosing an outfit that she knew would catch the eye: a cropped white tank top with the playful word “Honey” across the chest, paired with distressed denim shorts that were frayed at the edges. She was hot and she knew it.

As she walked down the street, her body moved to draw attention, the sway of her hips, the soft bounce of her long blonde hair. She was acutely aware of the glances she attracted, the quickened steps of men as they tried to walk alongside her, if only for a moment.

Let them stare, Jackie thought, a sly grin spreading across her lips. She could see their admiring looks, sense their lingering gazes on the curves that her outfit accentuated so well. It was a game, and she was winning. The attention was addictive; she soaked it in, the eyes of hot guys fueling a sense of power she’d never known Jack to feel.

She caught snippets of their conversations, the hushed “Wow” and “Who’s that?” and it sparked a thrill inside her. Jack never knew it could feel like this, she mused, acknowledging the transformation in her mind as much as her body. The confidence, the desire to be desired — it was intoxicating.

Each block was a runway, each intersection a stage. Jackie relished the newfound admiration, the feeling of eyes on her as if she were a magnet and they were all drawn in by her presence. It was an entirely foreign desire to Jack — the craving for attention, for affirmation from strangers, for the validation of her attractiveness.

Jack’s world was straightforward, simple. Jackie’s world, on the other hand, was vibrant, full of experiences and sensations, each more intense than the last. This is intense. I have to be careful or I’ll never want to eat the Almond Joy and turn back to Jack. 

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The thrill of the day’s flirtations and the allure of being Jackie danced seductively through her thoughts, a siren’s song that threatened to wash away the man she was. With every heartbeat, Jackie’s confidence grew, filling the space where Jack’s quiet reserve used to live. But deep within, a whisper of Jack’s will stirred, fighting against the tide.

The thrill of the day was fresh in her mind as she returned home.So many men, and they all wanted me.

Somewhere inside, Jack’s voice was a dim echo, barely heard over the rush of her new life. But that echo grew louder, more insistent. I have to change back. I must remember who I am.

With that thought, Jack’s will surged up, pushing against the tide of Jackie’s control. He directed her towards the kitchen, even so she moved across the room, her steps naturally swaying with a grace that Jack never knew, a movement that was intentionally alluring.

Need to find it, need to change back before it’s too late.

He reached the cupboard, his heart pounding. The candy bar should be here, right where he left it. But it wasn’t. The space was empty. A sense of panic took hold, a panic that felt like it belonged to someone else. No, no, no.  It has to be here. It’s my only way back.

Jack’s urgency had him tearing through the kitchen, checking every possible hiding place. Each frantic movement, each sweep of the arm, was wrapped in the effortless elegance that Jackie carried. It was as if Jack was fading, slipping through the cracks while Jackie’s presence filled the room with her scent, her essence.

He heard a noise from upstairs and hope flared in Jack’s chest. He rushed up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps foreign to his ears, still resonant with Jackie’s high heels. He reached his roommate’s door, breathless with urgency.

“Have you seen it?” he blurted out the moment he saw her. “The Almond Joy, I need it!”

His roommate looked up from her book, unfazed by the desperation in Jackie’s eyes or the feminine figure before her. “Calm down, Jackie. What’s all this fuss about a candy bar?”

He didn’t catch the name she used, not at first. It slid over him, dismissed by the panic that clawed at his insides.

“You always hide your sweets from me,” she continued with a playful smirk. “And look at you, all dolled up again. Going out to turn heads? Or should I say break hearts? Slut.”

She laughed, a light-hearted sound that felt like a punch to Jack’s gut. The realization hit him then—she saw him as Jackie, and there was no sign of surprise at his appearance.

He barely processed her words, something about dressing provocatively, seeking attention. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, Jackie’s consciousness surged forward.  I’m not a slut, I’m just hot.  I can’t help it if I look good in everything I wear. 

However, this surge was brief and Jack’s desperation regained control.  The room seemed to sway around him, and he steadied himself against the wall, trying to hold onto his fading resolve. “I just… I need to find it,” he managed to say, his voice a mixture of Jackie’s softness and Jack’s desperation.

But his roommate just shook her head, turning back to her book with a dismissive wave. “You’re always losing things, Jackie. You’re hot, but not the brightest. What do you want a candy bar for anyway? You’re always on a diet.”

Jack felt the fight draining out of him, Jackie’s presence becoming more solid, more permanent, with each passing moment. The struggle ebbed away, replaced by an acceptance that felt like slipping into a warm bath. A small, defiant part of Jack might have wanted to resist, but Jackie was ready to own this. She looked back at her roommate and smiled, a spark in her eyes.

“You know what? You’re right,” Jackie said with newfound resolve. “Why worry about a candy bar when I can enjoy the night?” She was fully Jackie now, any trace of Jack’s resistance washed away by the tide of acceptance and anticipation for the evening ahead.

Turning on her heel, she sauntered to her room with a swaying gait, each step filled with purpose. She was hot, and she knew it. Time to get ready for a night that promised to be just as thrilling as she was.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie checked her reflection one last time in the hallway mirror, the sequined dress hugging her body tightly showing off all of her curves. 

With a smile full of anticipation, she called out to her roommate, “Don’t wait up!” Her voice was playful, carrying the excitement of the night to come.

The sound of her heels led her out the front door. As the door closed with a gentle thud, the roommate set aside her book, her expression one of knowing amusement. She reached into the depths of her drawer, her fingers closing around the Almond Joy candy bar that Jackie had so desperately sought. 

Unwrapping it slowly, she bit into it with a contented sigh, tasting the rich chocolate and sweet coconut.  “Mmm, so good.”

#personality change #m2f transformation

[smilingangel582]

Heyy sorry to do this. Requests will be closed by the end of October! Hehe, I may not seem it, but I'm kinda young, and I got exams, hehehe, so I'll make it up by writing a few more before this 14th.

So Dan heng caught me attention. Unfortunately, honkai Star Rail has to be given up because I can't afford to mega games (latter is genshin impact). Anyway, lee!Dan heng it is! Out of the question! He deserves it!

Ps I love this new design, and I'm one to talk when I am spoiled too, so spoilers for Honkai star rail new update. But its before he turns super duper hot... he's still super hot! Heeee squeee!

Same as always

March 7th had definitely gone to Himeko for something she wished to discuss with her. Caelus was alone with Dan heng who was always in the solitary state. His aura is calm and unapproachable. Its like an arena in a thunderstorm, waiting to strike once the conquerer is disturbed.

But Caelus loves to mess with a serious guy like him.

"Dan heng~?"

He knew the teasy tone from Caelus too well, he sighed "Yes? Caelus?"

"Wanna play a game?"

He stared, his deep eyes peirced through his own golden orbs, "Play that Nintendo switch by yourself"

Caelus pouted now. "I wanna play with you, duh!"

Dan heng silently leaned back against the couch of his room. He lifted the book up so he could read it better "Try reading, at least a word?"

That little!

Caelus wondered, how can someone so cool and collected be flustered. He certainly can be annoyed but not enough.

March would try to disturb him.

So...

Dan heng had ears so he could tell Caelus, circling behind him where his head rested on the arm of the couch, looking at the book. Sitting straight now, Caelus leaned over his shoulder and eyeing the large heavy words and texts on the boring book.

Caelus pointed out warily "man you are so weird"

"I could say the same. Why are you so clingy?" He sharply said, trying to move front by his hands, grabbing his shoulders to stop his movement.

"Stop touching me so causally, please..."

"Serious dude!" Caelus groaned playfully and then surprising Dan heng he drilled two index fingers on his exposed ribs, startling him as he dropped the book.

Caelus smirked, really didn't expect him to be ticklish but had hopes he succeeded.

Sighing Dan heng pretended to not have felt ot "Stop touching me so casually Caelus, what do you want?"

He hummed now once more hooking an arm over his shoulder and pulling him close to his side "ahhh bro chill, your so stiff and rigid, lighten up" he tossed the book in front of him and Dan henf sighed irritably "Gosh, March's influence sure is amazing"

True... now that she's contagious he feels more attentive tk mess with Dan heng.

Sneaking an arm to his ribs, Dan heng stiffened as the tickly touch. Its casual and testing, Dan heng tried to hide it.

"Somerhing wrong?" Caelus grinned, now gently pinching his sides, which he tried to hide. Dan heng cleared his throat, still holding a straight but anxious face.

So he's fighting back? Interesting, Caelus snickered.

A little tweak to the hips-

"Eek!" Dan heng almost ruined his endurance, he grabbed his wrist in swift motion now giving a dark glare "Caelus, cut it out... this is very irritating"

Caelus giggled "Come on admit thst tickles?" He poked his tummy to force him "right? Right tough guy?"

"A-absurd yohou should give up! Chihildish techniques won't work on mehe!" He says it with trembling giggles. Cute... Caelus didn't think his icy nature could melt so sweetly.

Crumble his defence a little around here.

"H-hey!" His ribs...

Then another wiggle to his tummy.

"K-knohock it off! I'm warning yohou!"

Finally sneaky fingers under his neck to expose his armpits. He gasped at that and...

"Gotcha, Dan heng"

It was at this moment that Dan heng was slightly impressed by his strategic plan. Of only, he uses his brain during missions as well.

"Gehehe, ahahalright, you hahahad your fuhun!"

"Wait, did Dan heng honest to god giggled!?" Genuinely, he was surprised. it's a rare sight to see his face blush and explode with giggles.

"Cute..."

"Hahahahaha nohoho!" That triggered him tk blush. Alright this is too cute, why didn't March tell him something this important... unless nobody knows but themselves?

Caelus knew armpits should weaken him, so he kept his target there whole Dan heng could concentrate to push him off.

"Man, you sure are sensitive, I expected you to have escaped this by now, but you're too ticklish for your own good"

"STAHAHAP TALKING!" His voice shrieked, the usual calmness was gone now he was loud when Caelus grabbed his ears.

Those blushing ears were a dead giveaway to his sensitivity. Dan heng widened his eyes grabbing his wrists and shaking his head "T-thahat tickles... WAHAHAHAIT! EHEHEHEHE PLEHEHEASE I GIHIHIVE UP!"

Caelus obliged and cupped Dan heng's face with adornment "you should laugh more bro... its adorable"

Pushing his hand away and blushing even more redder than earlier, he panted, "I... hahate you, childish idiot"

"Love you too, handsome"

Although they both did know, he somewhat enjoyed that as a smile lingered close to his lips even after the tickle attack. Maybe just a tiny bit... he could say he liked it? Probably, he won't mind another round with Caelus.

#tickle fic #cute #honkai star rail #honkai star rail tickling #lee!dan heng #ler!caelus

[jeweled-blue-eyes]

Derrick is such an unpredictable and wierd character. I can never really tell what's he's thinking. Maybe it's because I'm reading too much into it, I mean he was only a side character and not a lot of thought is put into the side characters. They're just there.

What do you think Derrick really wants from Penelope. If he just wanted her to love him bach he would have been nice to hear, i think. Does he want her to be completely dependent on him and does he like seeing her miserable.

What about the Duke and Reynold. Do you think they enjoyed seeing her suffer. Why didn't they try to help her. Or maybe they just don't care. Though they seem to care a great deal in the manhwa.

How do you think they would react if they saw Penelope enjoying herself with someone, might be a friend or a long lost family, and Penelope is just laughing like crazy and she's totally ignoring them. Would they be jealous. Sorry if this ask is too repeatitive 😅

This is more of a headcanon. I think Derrick seeks relationships where he can exert control, foster dependency, and provide protection and care. His type would be vulnerable people. Little girls, orphans, foreigners, sex workers, servants, slaves etc. Anyone who could make him feel a sense of superiority. That is not to say he wouldn't feel disgusted by his own nature and try to fight these feelings. What Derrick subconsciously wants is a relationship with a huge power imbalance, where he has all the control and his partner none. An equal marriage with a noblewoman would not appeal to him. For the sake of maintaining his image he would marry a highborn woman but sexually he would feel no attraction to such a person. Someone like Derrick, who never allowed himself to make mistakes or indulge in teenage vices for fear that it might taint his family name, could only feel free if he was with a person whose status was so low that their opinion did not matter to anybody else. A person he could treat however he liked without consquences.

I found it curious that Derrick gave Penelope a bracelet with disguise magic claiming it would make her appear to be a young boy around her age but when she uses it she appears to be a child to Vinter. Not only that but she also starts resembling a younger version of Derrick.

It's a bit strange. Why would the clerk sell a disguise bracelet to Derrick that would only change his age but not appearance? Assuming Derrick was the one going to wear it, it would be of little use if it changed almost nothing about his physical features. It's also disadvantageous to look like a child since it would restrict your movements in the city, prevent you from doing business with adults and make you an easy target of street thugs. That's why I'm wondering if there could be a deeper psychological reason behind the bracelet's magic that is influencing the illusion. The magic makes her look what? 14/15 years old? Is that his ideal age?

You could interpret it that way: Derrick wants Penelope to be eternally <17, which is impossible because you cannot stop the flow of time. The older she got, the more he felt her slipping through his fingers, the less he could control himself, the more unforgiving he turned when she fought him on anything. At that time he didn't need to possess her in every sense, he only needed her not to be possessed by anyone else. So if she just remained in the gilded cage and listened to his every word he wouldn't lay a hand on her. I think that would have been enough for him. But Penelope isn't an object that you can put behind a glass case and expect not to move. Besides he knew she was being abused by the staff. Perhaps he had hoped that she would lash out in such repulsive ways his feelings for her would decrease with every time until one day they were no more and he could get rid of her without regrets?

I view Derrick as a very emotion driven person full of contradictions. Derrick has many different desires that are incompatible with one another. He wants to uphold his outstanding reputation that would surely get damaged if he were to court a girl like Penelope. He lusts after Penelope, but the only way he could obtain her (lifelong confinement) without risking his reputation was if his father were to die making him the next Duke, and as horrible as Derrick is I have to give him that he cares for his family and wouldn't wish death on anyone belonging to the Eckart duchy. Doubtless he wants his father's approval too. Lasty I have the impression that from the day he lost Yvonne he imposed impossible expectations on himself and didn't allow himself either distraction or amusement. In short his guilt prevents him from seeking happiness. Derrick was still living in the past. They all were. He sabotages his chances with Penelope because accepting the fake might mean to him a betrayal towards his real sister. It'd be like losing Yvonne a second time, but this time also killing her and desecrating her grave.

Derrick disobeyed his father once when he took Yvonne to the festival and lost control of the situation when she was kidnapped. That's why he might have devoted himself entirely to his family to atone for it and it could serve as one of the reasons why he needs to be in control of everyone and everything. He doesn't have it in himself to tolerate Penelope's childish behaviour. Derrick worked so hard to make up for it, wheras Penelope can make so many mistakes and still get his father's attention like when she stole the necklace allegedly, but was rewarded instead of punished (her father called a jeweller to the mansion and Penelope wasted a fortune on accessories). There might be guilt, shame, but also anger, even a little bit envy and feelings of unjustness too. Derrick has never learned to cope healthily with negative emotions, he only represses and bottles things up. As a result his "love" got twisted.

If he just wanted her to love him bach he would have been nice to hear, i think. Does he want her to be completely dependent on him and does he like seeing her miserable.

Was he aware that he fell in love with her at first sight or did he only realize much later on what those feelings meant? He and Reynold have already build themselves up as a bullies, it's too late to take back everything that was said and done. If he tried to make amends and were to confess his feelings, he wouldn't be able to take the humilation of the rejection. Additionally I think of Derrick as an extremely prideful man who is severely allergic to the display of any form of vulnerability. Denying mistakes means an inability to reflect their own actions and no growth. The only option he saw was hiding behind a familiar mask and carrying on with the things he's started, while turning worse and worse with each day, because with the time being Penelope got used to the insults and his usual threats and punishments probably didn't have the same effect anymore. He cannot have her love, but he can have her attention. If he becomes the bane of her existence, it means she's at least thinking about him and he's haunting her just like she's haunting him. Maybe he hates himself a little and uses Penelope as an outlet for his frustrations, maybe he hates Penelope for hating him back when he has successfully convinced her how much he loathes her. He hates her even more, abuses her even more when he has just gotten the result he wanted.

He wants her to hate him, he wants her to love him like a slave loves their master, he wants her to depend on him with the helplessness and naivity of a child, but when she's in need he lets her down every time. He wants her to be shallowed by the earth never to be seen again, yet he panicks when she does disappear and searches high and low for her. He wants her to live as quiet as a mouse and never come under his eyes again. He wants her to never leave his sight and would chain her up in his basement if he could. Derrick would be revolted if she tried to touch him, hug him but he would want to fuck her and mark every part of her body as his. He can never be satisfied. There's no end, it just escalates until someone dies.

Derrick wants Penelope to be isolated, dependent, weak, in pain, completely at his mercy with only himself to help. Does he want her to love him? Ehh...probably? At the same time I keep thinking that if Penelope had a childhood crush on him, he would have pushed her away, shamed her for her feelings and acted disgusted. Honestly it probably would have driven him even more insane. I don't buy it that this 18 year old actually fell in love with a 12 year old. Just like in many cases of incestuous abuse, I would imagine Derrick acting on his desire for power and control. His love is an amalgam of obsession, lust and sadism. Ergo he doesn't necessarily need her to love him back, although he would like it, because her loving him back would increase his hold over her and would make her less likely to fall for anyone else, seek help and flee from him. Fear? yes. Obedience? yes. Love? He has such a negative and distorted view of her I'm not even sure he believes she's a human being capable of love (quite ironic).

I'm a bit torn about that topic. Part of me thinks it doesn't matter to him. As long as she hungered for his affection like when she was a kid and she was trapped with him, he could convince himself he would, with time, make Penelope come round to his way of thinking. Then there is a part of me thinking that a very dark side of Derrick wanted to break og Penelope. Turning her into a vile creature that no one could ever love. Someone who would seek him out and want to be dirtied by his love, because it was the only kind of love he permitted her to have. A nasty little girl that was hated and hated everyone in return and only had eyes for expensive dresses and jewelry. If she were to grow up to be a villainess who hurt innocent people, he would not have pangs of conscience about the things he did to her. Had Penelope become a person deserving of his punishments, he wouldn't feel like a bad guy anymore. And with the blurring lines of victim/perpetrator there would be not enough guilt stopping him from acting on his urges.

You are right he could have been nice to her and she would have loved him (I doubt in a romantic way but whatever), but that's not the only thing he wanted. Gaining her love by acting nice would mean the loss of many things he valued and a betrayal of his principles. Along with that who could guarantee him that his sacrifice would be worth it and she would love him back romantically? Penelope could mark his affection as brotherly, which he would hate to see. Should the first-born Eckart son treat her right, soon the rest of the staff would follow and so would his family. The duke treating Penelope like his daughter would make it much more awkward if Derrick were to collect his courage to ask for his stepsister's hand. Lastly a Penelope who learned self-love and became more confident with the support of her family would make friends and could steal the hearts of many men.

Taking advantage of Penelope would have been easier if she already had a reputation as a thief and liar, and had no one on her side. Even if she was not in love with him, a person who was starved off love since their childhood would do anything for a few crumbs of affection. That kind of person would cling even tighter onto the hand that was offered to them. It'd be easier to sell her obsession as pure love and pressure her into doing things she doesn't feel comfortable with. He ensured her standing as an Eckart would be on shaky ground whilst reminding her that he was the one who could make her life better or worse (like when he temporary took the Eckart name from her). Og Derrick preferred the path where he would have absolute control of her at the price of her sanity over the path where she could be happy but would never belong to him.

(I don't think Derrick was thinking too deeply about it. He just acts on the emotions he feels at the moment. I believe he barely understands himself.)

see also: why I think Derrick liked her (anon ask)

What about the Duke and Reynold. Do you think they enjoyed seeing her suffer. Why didn't they try to help her. Or maybe they just don't care. Though they seem to care a great deal in the manhwa.

The Duke and Reynold were ignorant of her suffering because plot™. Reynold felt schadenfreude whenever Penelope was punished but that was because he lacked context and thought it served her right. If anyone was a sadist and secretly enjoyed seeing Penelope suffer after actively contributing to her pain and triggering her it was Derrick.

How do you think they would react if they saw Penelope enjoying herself with someone, might be a friend or a long lost family, and Penelope is just laughing like crazy and she's totally ignoring them. Would they be jealous. Sorry if this ask is too repeatitive 😅

Derrick would be jealous obviously. He'd either wait until the other person was gone and would talk down on her or he'd want her removed from the scene immediately and would send a maid to bring Penelope to him with the excuse he or father wanted to discuss something urgent. Reynold would unlock a new emotion that he can't quite place. Depending on his age he'd either be confused by this and act like a kid that saw another kid playing with a toy he threw away or he'd just grumble and say something like "I didn't know you could make that kind of face." and sulk. The next day he'd want to get closer to her. The Duke would just be happy that Penelope is finally making friends. Would help Penelope arrange another meeting if it was a girl her age. Would pay her more attention and take her to an outing if it was a man his age (feels lowkey threatened by any potential father figure).

#vadd #derrick x penelope #notanon #answered asks #vadd headcanons #tw child abuse mention #death is the only ending for a villainess #villains are destined to die #vadtd

[smartycvnt]

New Perspective

Pairing: Jennifer Check x Reader

Prompt: "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

Warnings: smut, top Jennifer, bottom reader

WC: 573

Jennifer had always been demanding, but never like this. You had expected Jennifer to act a little off after what had happened at Melody Lane, but not like this. Jennifer rarely allowed herself to be seen with you, but today she had gone out of her way to be around you. The only times that she had done this before had been when she wanted you to do her homework, but not once had that even been brought up. It wasn't until Jen had asked you to meet her in the girl's bathroom at lunch that you realized why she was being so nice to you. It wasn't the first time the two of you had snuck off during school, but it was definitely the riskiest. Jennifer hadn't even bothered to cover up your mouth as she pinned you against the wall behind the handicap stall and slid her hand into your pants.

That had been very rushed, but when Jennifer showed up at your house after school, you knew it would be anything but. Jennifer had said a quick and frankly dismissive hello to your mom as she raced up to your room with you. Your mom didn't like Jennifer, but she didn't suspect that the brunette was as bad of an influence as she really was. Jennifer did lock the door behind herself this time and was already undressing before you could even turn around after turning your lamp on.

"Get on the bed," Jennifer told you. Her clothes had been thrown onto the floor. You started to undress yourself as you laid back. It was rare for you to see Jennifer like this twice in one day, but it was even rarer that she seemed interested in touching you both times.

You expected Jennifer to come straight to the bed with you. Instead, she grabbed something out of her backpack. The realization of what Jennifer was holding came a few seconds later than either of you would have expected it to. Jennifer had a somewhat amused look on her face at the expression on yours. It wasn't necessarily fear, but this was something that neither of you had tried yet. Toys hadn't been brought up except for when Jennifer wanted to mess with you and would tell you the things she did to herself alone at night. You knew a lot of it was bluffing, or that the unspecified toys were boys who thought they had serious chances with her.

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle. I know how you like it," Jennifer reassured you. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your lips as she positioned the head of the dildo at your entrance. You sucked in a big breath as she slowly slid it inside of you. Jennifer started out with very slow and somewhat timid movements, but that was quickly shaken off as you got more into it yourself. For the second time that day, you swore that you saw something change in Jennifer. She was touching you in ways that she had never before, like she just knew exactly what to do without having to think about it. It wasn't that Jennifer had been bad before, but not even she could have naturally managed that skill so effortlessly. You wished that Jennifer hadn't bolted on you afterwards like you did, but something told you that she'd be back to see you again before too long.

#jennifer check x reader #jennifer check #jennifer's body #jennifer's body x reader #my writing

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I am recently going through all your Ficino posts with great joy (I need a new historical rabbit hole!). Do you have any preferred sources to recommend if I want to start reding or listening in for more grounding on his life, weirdness, philosophy, and all the other funky queer Florentine folk surrounding him?

yessss come down the rabbit hole with me! He is such a delightful weirdo <3 Get ready to learn so much about Saturn and Saturn's Malice (which is not in the room with us, calm down Ficino).

He's a hard one because, in English, there aren't really any biographies on him. (Italian, obviously, is a different story.)

A lot of the grounding works - good essay collections, academic texts etc. - are prohibitively expensive. They can range from $100cad to over $400cad, depending on the work. This is because most are purely that: academic texts. Meaning the print run was like 100 copies and all were bought by university libraries lol

He is also not a well known figure outside of those who study quattrocento Italy or those who study Platonism and other philosophical movements. Some of those who operate in the occult world are familiar with him due to his writings on astrology and natural magic.

Florence also had a huge flood that tragically decked a lot of their older archives and that has also sadly impacted many historians' work in the early modern field.

Now, all this said, I'm going to give you my current piecemeal recommendations:

Eight Philosophers of the Italian Renaissance - Paul Kristeller - a classic survey work based on a lecture series he gave in like the 60s, I want to say. It's very much "what it says on the tin" and provides a healthy overview of eight philosophers of the Renaissance. Ficino is one of them and it's a good place to start on who/what/where/when/why.

Others are those like Bruno, Pico Della Mirandola, Valla, Petrarch etc. All worth knowing something about because they either knew Ficino or influenced him or were influenced by him.

Kristeller wrote a lot on Ficino and is one of the "founders" I would say of the 20th century revival in the interest in Ficino. So, noodle around his works as there is always something interesting in them. They are dated, he was writing in the 60s - 90s, but it's broadly good stuff.

---

Volume 1 of Ficino's Letters, 2nd edition (make sure it's the second edition). This has great front material that goes into him and his life, positions him in the period and those who he knew and was corresponding with.

I will say, they do write in the introduction: "He [Ficino] was apparently the least active of men. It is probable that in his sixty-six years he never set foot outside the territory of Florence and the record of his life is little more than a chronicle of his books."

Which I take umbridge over as his life was very interesting, people just haven't dug into it to the degree they should.** Like, what was going on in the 1480s with all those land disputes over his father's will between him and his brothers? We need details! We need the family gossip! Alas, we don't have it as it may not exist, anymore, or the related legal papers are in an archive and it's not been made available to the public.

--

**Note: Paul Kristeller, and others, make occasional references to someone who was working on an English biography of Ficino. But this would have been in the 80s and 90s and nothing appears to have come of it. So I presume that project is languishing in someone's desk drawer.

There was talk of Arthur Farndell publishing a biography but I haven't seen any signs of it - last I heard mention would have been in the early 00s. Farndell's done most of the modern translations of Ficino's works, so he's quite prolific and you'll see his name a lot.

--

Ficino's Letter Collection (the remaining volumes) - there are 12 volumes of letters that Ficino began pulling together in the 1470s, but he regularly added to, edited, and tweaked the collection over the course of his life.

Letter collections of this sort were a genre of writing at this time and would have been understood to be a vehicle for expounding on philosophical or political issues rather than literal transcriptions of letters written to people.

Which is to say, Ficino did write some iteration of the letters included to the recipients identified. But what was printed, the manuscript editions we have, are highly edited for the purpose of public edification. This does make it super interesting to see what personal details he chooses to leave in.

For example, November 10, 1476 Ficino writes to Cavalcanti about some theological works he was putting together. Ficino also notes that he is returning to Florence soon, he had been at his father's country farm/house/thing, and he intreats Cavalcanti to also return to Florence so "we may at least be close companions in the city, even if we have not been close companions in the country this summer."

Now, as an addendum after the farewell Ficino includes this gem:

"But why do I write nothing about the recent birth of your third daughter? Because you did not write a word to me. Do you wish me to tell the truth? I will not write a word about this before I hear whether I am to congratulate or to console you. But rejoice in the gifts of the Great King, whatever they may be, for nothing from the great is mean or worthy of scorn."

What an interesting bit of personal correspondence to keep in a letter set meant to bring people closer to Platonic ideals of love, civic duty, and their relationship with the divine.

But all of Ficino's letters to Cavalcanti are odd like that. They're half personal correspondence ("I'm sad and bored, please write me!!!" or "I have Luigi Pulci. So much. Have I told you that recently? Hate him. I love everyone in the entire world with every fibre of my soul except Gigi. Fuck Gigi." etc.) and half actual philosophical musings.

Anyway, the letter collections are worth reading. Each volume also includes relevant historical details on what was happening in his life or the broader world at that time. So, for example, the back matter for Vol 4 dives into the Pazzi conspiracy since that is relevant to the letters of that volume (and Vol. 5 to be fair).

---

De Vita (Three Books of Life) - Carol Kaske and John Clark - This is Ficino's "medical" text plus the third book which is where Ficino is like "and this is how you use magical properties of certain stones, sigils, planets, and daemons to heal yourself" and other normal things like that. (He broadly fits into the mode of natural healing magic that was very common for the time - magic/medicine/science all being tangled together in the medieval and early modern period - however he does go a bit further than some. This is the book that got him into hot water with the Church.) Ficino was the son of a doctor and studied and practiced medicine so it makes sense he added medical texts to his repertoire.

I have version put out by The Renaissance Society of America: Renaissance Text Series with critical notes and introduction by Carol Kaske and John Clark.

High recommend, if only for the front notes and introduction. They do a great job positioning Ficino in the broader intellectual landscape of the time. They do a bit of attempting to track his education which wasn't as formal as one might think (he attended the University of Florence but I don't think he ever graduated. He was self-taught in many respects). They also get into what his thoughts on magic were and how they fit, or didn't fit, with the broader framework of faith and magical practices of Ficino's contemporaries.

In addition, they get into how his medical and magical thinking differs from others, where he was innovative, where he leaned on existing traditions, and the repercussions of having published this text.

---

The Bookseller of Florence - Ross King - this is a great, vey accessible book. It uses Vespasiano's life, a contemporary of Ficino, as a lens through which to explore the manifold changes in manuscript/book creation and distribution that were happening over the course of the fifteenth century.

The book also weaves in the shifting intellectual, religious, and political movements and the big, and small, players that participated and influenced these changes. Naturally, Ficino makes appearances throughout and he is described delightfully.

But I highly recommend it as a means to get a backdrop of the intellectual and political world Ficino was born into and operated within. Also, there's fun gossip about people in it and that's always a plus.

An example of some humourous bits:

"Ficino was scholarly and pious, [Luigi] Pulci (known as Gigi) boisterously scandalous, famous for his insults, invective, and sarcastic humour; he also had an unblushing fondness for taverns, brothels, and black magic. He lived up to his surname (Pulci means "fleas")--a maddenly irritating parasite. As one Florentine frantically complained in a letter to Lorenzo [de' Medici], "Gigi is annoying, Gigi has a bad tongue, Gigi is crazy, Gigi is arrogant, Gigi spreads scandal, Gigi has a thousand faults." Ficino triumphed when Gigi wrote a series of sonnets scorning pilgrims, miracles, preachers, and the doctrine of the immortal soul--and, in doing so, Ficino declared, made himself "odious to God" [...]"

Phenomenal. None of them should ever change. Also just the mental image of this pissed off Florentine frantically writing to Lorenzo "Get this man OUT of our City or so help me God!!"

---

Friend to Mankind: Marsilio Ficino - editor Michael Shepherd - ok so this is an essay collection that is really hit and miss. More misses than hits, now that I'm looking at it. I wouldn't recommend going out of your way for it, but if you see it in like a bargain bin or something it's worth picking up.

That said, there are a few essays in it that are worth finding, if you can:

"Fellow Philosophers," Linda Proud (this one is Great if you want the hilarious hot gossip of Pico Della Mirandola, Poliziano, and Ficino squabbling over Plato's concepts of Love. Well, Pico and Ficino cat-fight over it, if in a loving fashion. Poliziano eats popcorn and laughs.)

"In Praise of the One - Marsilio Ficino and Advaita," Arthur Farndell

"Ficino and Astrology," Geoffrey Pearce

"Ficino on the Nature of Love and the Beautiful," Joseph Milne

---

On the Nature of Love: Ficino on Plato's Symposium - translation by Arthur Farndell

It is 100% worth reading Ficino's commentaries on Plato's Symposium if only because I am convinced he wrote the entire thing as a love letter to Giovanni Cavalcanti.

---

Marsilio Ficino and His World - Sophia Howlett - if you can find this at the local library or used somewhere and it's not $150 I recommend it. This is the overview book that I think you're after that doesn't really exist in English, aside from here.

---

Marsilio Ficino: His Theology, His Philosophy, His Legacy - editors Michael Allen and Valery Rees - This is another expensive one, sitting around $250/$300 - but I've read excerpts from it and all that I have read is amazing.

It's an essay collection covering his thoughts on Hermeticism, Plotinus, the soul and primacy of will, musical therapy (Ficino was very keen on musical therapy), Jewish concepts of the prisca theologia, the 15th c. Plato-Aristotle controversy among other philosophical items. There are also essays exploring his influence on art, thinkers, and writers both in his own lifetime as well as throughout history.

---

Plato's Persona: Marsilio Ficino, Renaissance Humanism, and Platonic Traditions - Denis Robichaud - I just spent too much money and bought this book. Will report back as I read it - however, based on the excerpts I read online, I'm super stoked.

Robichoud seems to be exploring how Ficino wrote and created his sense of self through interpretation of Platonic writings and thought. There's lots of stuff about how Ficino interacts with Plato and interprets and understands himself as, like, Plato's "spokesperson" if not a full extension of Plato himself.

---

I hope this helps! Ficino's such a weird little man and I love him. I hope you enjoy going down the rabbit hole as much as I have - and I'm always here to talk Ficino, or anything early modern Italy really. <3 <3

#ask #reply #marsilio blogging #marsilio ficino #early modern italy #early modern florence #renaissance #renaissance florence #renaissance italy #marsilio sourcing

[iuaraes]

      The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections. The moon does not fight. It attacks no one. It does not worry. It does not try to crush others. It keeps to its course, but by its very nature, it gently influences. What other body could pull an entire ocean from shore to shore? The moon is faithful to its nature and its power is never diminished.

      ( @fighterbound )'𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 ━ ❛ "may i have this dance?" as soon as the questions leaves his lips, sasuke swears his he feels his mother's gaze laser in on him and this beautiful woman. there's been a good amount of whispers and glances shot her way, for good reason. then again hyuugas are known for their elegant and ethereal looks.

      he extends his hand toward hinata, giving her a respectful nod. if she says no, that could be the excuse he needs to get out of his formal gala...event. whatever the fuck it is. honestly it could be a big middle finger to his father, because he knows exactly who she is. hinata hyuuga, clan heiress to one of the major thorns of his father's side.

      "you can tell me no," he adds with a shrug, " no hard feelings." ❜

      Events such as those happened too often for Hinata’s liking, as the heiress she was unfortunately unable to decline - always forced to see it through in the company of her father and her cousin, her sister being too young was often left behind. A tiny selfish part of Hinata wished Hanabi had been allowed to go with them, that way people would flock to her sister instead of to her. Hanabi was like the sun, a girl with a personality that fit her name, thriving under the attention. Hinata however preferred the solitude, a wallflower through and through. 

      She had yet to do what her father had demanded of her and could feel his cold gaze on the back of her neck. He wanted her to approach the Uchiha, to mingle with the family as he was — both Hyuuga and Uchiha patriarchs chatting as if they were close friends. Hinata knew her father despised the Uchiha more than anything, perhaps more than he despised her. 

      It was a voice that pulled her out of her miserable thoughts, a familiar voice but one she didn’t expect to hear directed at her that night. A small gasp left her carefully painted lips, moonlight eyes widening slightly as she gazed upon the hand held out to her. ❛  S-Sasuke-san,  ❜ the heiress spoke his name softly, a hint of awe in her evergentle voice. 

      She could feel all the attendants looking at them, could feel her father’s gaze on her back like he held a knife to her throat. Sasuke had given her an option to decline, but that was an option Hinata did not have. Not even if she wanted to. ❛  I— yes, you may.  ❜ She could feel herself blushing, the attention, before oppressive, now unbearable. Slowly she laid her hand upon his, eyes gentle as she looked up at him. 

      Hinata allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor, a slow song playing in the background. How odd it was to be perceived by Uchiha Sasuke of all people, he had never paid attention to her before. She wondered what had prompted this. ❛  I didn’t know you liked to dance, Sasuke-san,  ❜ she commented, hesitantly placing her free hand on his shoulder. 

      ❛  I've never seen you dance at such events before,  ❜ Hinata said, curiosity and shyness on her sweet voice as she followed his movements. She had wanted to apologise as she was bound to trip over her own feet, but couldn't. Her father would chastise her if he learned of her apologising to an Uchiha.

#𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐭 . › words like silver moonlight . ic #fighterbound #!! hi hi thank you for this the way it made me scream jasdh #also !! i didnt know exactly if you wanted this to be a modern verse #so i left it pretty vague i hope that's okay !! #pls let me know if you'd like me to change anything !! >w<

[penguinwithitsarseonfire]

I want you (bless my soul)

Pairing: River Song x Reader,

Word Count: 2,141

Warnings: PG+13, super fun and no angst for once!

Summary: River Song is bored, and decides to finally act on her crush on you. Her plan involves a fair amount of flirting and a show stopping dress.

The TARDIS was near quiet, save for the soft humming of the main console. You were curled into the step by the railing, a book perched against your knees. Your fingers wrapped against the pages, poised, careful, the spine cracking down the middle.

River Song was no stranger to this place, and she took languid steps inside. The TARDIS – bless her – softened the click of the door behind her. If there was one area River was never uncomfortable in, it was this.

She let her fingers glide against the railing, her gaze fixed on you. You, whose hair fell into your face, eyes glued to the page. You, whose eyes brightened as you trailed through a particular phrase, a particular moment in the story. You, whose breath caught as your eyes flickered up, locking onto her.

Now, River Song was no stranger to flirting, it was something she had grown quite good at. It was something that she lived – something that she breathed. For her, flirting was as innate to her as the curl of her hair, or the movement of her steps.

River weaved her voice into velvet, shaped it so the tones and decibels snaked around your frame. You shivered.

It was something she was good at.

“Hello darling.”

Flirting with you was fascinating. River’s skin itched when she saw you, the hairs on the back of her neck rising, her stomach curling. Your presence here was simple, wasn’t it. As natural as the steps you sat on, as inherent as the glow of the console, of the buttons and levers that lined its operation desk.

You belonged here.

So, River itched.

“Hey,” you smiled at her. “The Doctor’s out, getting some sort of…” your face screwed up slightly. “I’m not sure really, some sort of space supplies.”

River let herself smile – soft, coy – her cheeks barely stretching upwards. Flirting was easy when the person you were flirting with was attractive. There was more to complement, more she was willing to let her eyes linger on.

River mapped the way your nose wrinkled as you screwed up your face, sketched the structure of your smile into her mind. You were attractive, that much had always been easy for her to see.

But there was an ease about you. An action like that, the confusion, the “space supplies,” she knew it was the sort of thing the Doctor would find endearing. For a moment – only one, she wondered if you had said the same to him, if he had brightened, rambled through the opportunity to explain some new scientific thing.

That confusion, that naivety, was something River – more often than not – found boring. Sometimes sweet, perhaps, if she liked the person enough to give them that grace. For you, she found it neither sweet nor boring. River found you… peculiar.

It wasn’t unheard of – for River to be vexed. The Doctor did it to her all the time, as did that one Roman girl in Ancient Egypt. People where shapes, but they often fit. River could clearly sculpt the how’s and the why’s in the way people influenced her. But your little puzzle pieces didn’t slot into place, they weren’t neat, they chipped in the edges.

Fascinating.

“Well then,” River replied, letting the words roll like waves. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t looking for him then.”

And River watched. Your eyebrows folded together, a line creasing between them. Your hands ghosted over the book in your lap, bringing it to a close. Your eyes though – your eyes sparkled. Curious.

And that too, was interesting.

Because it was easy to flirt with someone when they were attractive. Easier still when River found them attractive. However, it was enjoyable – delicious – when they were curious. Lighting cracked through River’s frame, drawing her closer. Her smile grew, coy rising into smug, baring teeth. Your eyes widened a fraction, tracking the movement.

The lightning burned embers at Rivers feet.

“No, I’m perfectly happy spending time with you then, it’s…” her gaze moved to your lips, purposeful, before rising to your eyes. “…Interesting.”

You gave her a perplexed smile, the lines of it crooked, but the structure of it bright.

“Well,” you said, moving to stand. “It’s a nice surprise to see you too, River.”

River had always liked your voice. She liked how it sounded when it said her name. How your tongue wrapped around the vowels, how your teeth scraped against your bottom lip. There was such a personal way in which you held her name, not like it was grand, not like it was all important – or more important than you – which was something River could handle, something she knew. It wasn’t too intimate, accompanied by knowing eyes and an assessing hand.

It was simply… adoring. Like River was bright. Like if she did, she would be allowed to break.

The way you said her name was dangerous.

River flickered her gaze away from you, running her tongue over her upper lip. Her eyes found the walls behind you, marked with strange round things and soft orange lighting.

She itched.

Your voice coiled around River’s frame, pulling you back into focus.

“What’s the occasion?”

She hummed, turning back to you. River regarded you carefully the way your hair fell onto your shoulders, the way your eyes shone in the soft lights of the TARDIS’ interior. Your gaze was open, kind. It was curious.

Always bloody curious.

She lifted an eyebrow, schooling her features into a polished, charming smile. “Occasion?”

And you laughed. It was summer rain, dizzying and warm, showering over Rivers features. It was bright, sunlight peeling through the curtains and lining her skin. River’s smile cracked, went crooked in her delight.

River had always liked your voice – and she had always loved your laughter.

“Well normally,” you said, moving towards her when you spoke. “You’re not really the sort to appear for any old reason, and,” you gestured up and down her figure. “You’re in a very nice dress.”

Ah. The dress.

It would be a lie to say it wasn’t intentional.

River was proud of this find. She watched your eyes track the deep blue silk, the way it was wrapped tight around her frame. Your eyes moved over the skirt, which was long enough that it fell like water against River’s skin, making her look like she floated as she moved.

River wanted you to look, and revelled in the way your eyes widened as they fell onto the Moissanite crystals, each beaded against the sheer underlay on her torso, climbing against her arms and scattered across her chest.

River knew she looked good – elegant, even.

More importantly, she knew you liked what you saw.

Rivers eyes met yours, and she gave you a small smirk. A deep flush grew on your face, snaking down your neck.

You were caught.

“I had some event,” River waved a hand lazily, purposely skipping over the details. “I thought I’d have more fun here.”

And she was right. It was fun watching you like this. Your eyes were unfocused, flittering over everywhere except River – or at least, you attempted to. Your gaze kept falling back, lining over her figure, the folds of the dress, the curve of her skin.

You drummed an incomprehensible rhythm against your thigh, your other hand gripped tight on your book, knuckles white.

She liked holding your focus.

River wished you were easier to read, which was a testament, considering how open you were now. But it wasn’t true openness.

You were like the book you held deftly in your hand. Your surface – or cover, rather – was obvious. River could read the print on your skin, the thoughts you let bubble upwards, that you let mark you, that you let others see.

But the contents? The pages that laid out your thoughts, defined your personhood, lay trapped, twisted in your grasp. They weren’t for River to uncover, not yet.

Which was infuriating, in a way. Because there you were, so clearly flustered, mind short circuiting as you took in the fact that you found River attractive.

But then there were your eyes, the way they pierced into River’s skin, mixed into her blood and shattered her bones.

It was dangerous.

She opened her mouth to speak, toying with the way your eyes fell to her lips – ever so briefly. It was a terrible line. If she were anyone else, River would have groaned over the sheer arrogance of the question, cringed in the cliché.

But here, now, it felt apt.

“Like what you see?”

Your eyebrows flew to your hairline, face paling; your skin painted in the warm glow of your embarrassment. River wanted to see how deep she could get it to run. Wouldn’t it be fun to see your flushed collarbones.

You blinked, once. Twice. Processing the words.

And then, completely unexpectedly – you smiled. It twisted into a small, half-smirk, the kind of smile River would paint into her own features when she wanted to seem coy, when she wanted to seem falsely demure.

And there you were, smiling as you said, “Was I that obvious?”

Oh.

You were fascinating.

River brightened, truly, because wasn’t that delightful.

“Careful,” she warned, closing the space between you both. “You’re going to enable me.”

The orange lighting made you golden. River let herself memorise you, let herself really look at you – as if she hadn’t already.

It fractured out the why, the why she liked to look at you, the why she liked to tease you. The why she loved it when you pushed back.

The why was something River had never questioned. In her mind, it was obvious.  

You belonged.

Here, in the TARDIS, you belonged.

So casual, the sort that if you were anyone else, the small naïve, ignorant side of River, the side that was foolish enough to believe the Doctor actually loved her, would bubble on out in silent jealousy.

You, a pretty companion strolling on in, adored by both TARDIS and Doctor alike.

But River wasn’t jealous. She never really had been. Because this was the kicker.

Your kind eyes had mapped her, carved out a meaning that was nearly almost true.

Your smile caused lighting, and dazzled River as she itched to get closer.

You ran into adventure, and saw her, River song, with an earnest need to explore.

It was within River, that you also belonged.

It was you, your reciprocation of a bad joke with a witty, half-smug grin. It was you, your eyes curious, alight in interest under the soft light. It was you, defiant, dancing into a new adventure.

It was you, now standing less than a foot from River, eyes sparkling.

“Enable you?” You said, although it sounded like a challenge. “And what does enabling you cause?”

River itched.

Her hand ghosted toward you, and in silent response, you moved closer. In the orange glow, your face was so close to River’s that she could smell the mint of your gum, connect the faint freckles dusted on your nose.

River let her fingers graze against your face, she ran them against your jaw, settling for your chin. Your breathing hitched.

Touching you was magic. It was the whispers of old planets, of forgotten anthems of want and care and attraction.

Her thumb brushed your lower lip, a silent question.

You nodded.

If touching you was magic, kissing you restructured the Earth. A quiet gave way to a loud rush; wind on waves crashing into the cliffside. The ground trembled, the swaying skyscrapers crying as metal creaked and concrete cracked.

It was ringing, loud, vibrant. It forced the questioning, the danger, to fall away. And fall it did.

Your lips invited waves, crashing into Rivers own. It formed mountains. Rivers teeth pulled into your bottom lip and the earth climbed high with your sigh.

The wind wound into the currents, carving damns and mapping streams in hard earth. The waterways folded between you, your arm tracking it as it curled around River’s back, pulling her against you. The lakes pulled you undercurrent, taking your hand and weaving it into River’s hair.

Kissing you was passion. River’s head spun with the wind, floating into the atmosphere as the euphoria that was the soft whisper of her name fell from your parted lips. It was desperate, her fingers winding themselves to the base of your neck, her hand tight on your waist.

And so River kissed you again, then again, until her chest heaved and you were breathless.

Then, it was quiet. The sound of hers and your breath twirling between you both.

River eyed you carefully, at your mussed up hair, swollen lips, and bright – gleeful eyes. You grinned.

Your voice was light when you spoke. “Better than your event?”

River laughed, and in response, she kissed you again.

A/N^2: Let me know if you'd like to see more of River - this was fun!

#River Song x Reader #River x Reader #Doctor Who #DW

[the-fiction-witch]

22nd Goth Vs Punk

Media Pistol

Character Malcolm

Couple Malcom X Reader

Rating Angsty

Halloween Day 22

I sat on the sofa watching the tv the music playing from the speaker watching the top of the pops and their musical performance tonight, while I had little Elis in my arms in her PJs sucking on her bottle of milk.

"Malcolm?" I spoke up

"Ummm?" He hummed as he sat up at his deck clacking away on his typewriter

"Can I ask you something?"

he reached the end of his sentence and ran a hand through his hair before turning on his chair to face me "Yes pet?" he sighed leaning his arm on the chair and his hand on his face

"What's the difference between goth and punk?" I asked

Ohhhh Christ the look that I received.

You'd think I'd just slapped his sainted mother.

"I was just curious"

"How long of an explanation do you want?"

"How long can you give me?"

"Ohh I can give you an explanation back to the rise of paganism in Western society but I have a feeling you don't want that far"

"Uhh no thank you, Malcolm, you have till Elis finishes her bottle then I have to get this little nugget to bed"

"Okay so, Goth as a fashion, music and style movement primarily takes influence from the Victorian and their romanticising of darker more morbid concepts, things like graveyard walks, death portraits, and other more macabre things."

"Humanities goth era"

"Pretty much,"

"Why?"

"In Victorian times you had a lot of advancements in the sense of connectivity and publishing, both of which made people far more aware than ever before, that the world has always been horrible, murder, madness and such but you can argue the Victorians where the first fully aware of just how bad it was before that we had wars, politics, or just plain work to have to do so people didn't think about it yes death was rampant and everyone knew that but people couldn't pick up a paper and read just how bad it really was, people went from being aware of the hundred people in their area to the whole country and even the world and that's a lot more death and horror with your toast. Plus there was a massive spike in death given cities became huge industrial powerhouses and permanently fucked up the world which we are still recovering from. People became more aware of death and thus became more morbid as a side effect." He explained "And modern goth is a continuation of the moody, poetic dark romanticism." He explained "It's the wear all black, pretend you're a vampire, sits in a graveyard and frown mentality. it's the world is awful and I have to sit in it." He explained "But Punk, Punk comes from the natural human spark of rebellion, it's the world is awful and I'm gonna fucking do something about it, it's the fuck everything because the world is awful, the utter rebellion against everything and doing stuff just because you want to but mostly to disturb the establishment. I wanna spray paint my jacket but that's not normal, punk says fuck it I wanna do it. I wanna die my hair neon green, ohhh some old torie wouldn't like that so you fuck them and do it anyway. It's fighting! Violence! anger!"

"Against who?"

"Against everyone! and everything! It's pure uncontrolled rage."

"So in short terms, goth is the world is awful but what can you do Let lean into the madness and darkness of the world, Verses Punk which is the world is awful so fuck everyone and everything I'm gonna fight it"

"Exactly my pet"

"What am I?"

"Ohh you're a goth"

"Am I?"

"You made me get you in to see Joy Division?"

"That was fun."

"You own nothing but black clothes"

"I own some... red. And I know I have a white shirt in there."

"It's not white It's one of mine from Viv with the tits on it"

"Fair enough" I sighed as Elis finished her bottle

"Give her here" he says so I handed her over as he was always better at burping her and I think he just wanted to cuddle her

"If I'm a goth what does that make you?"

"Uhh a punk obviously, I invented it"

"But you just-"

"I invented the modern version of it"

"Did you?"

"Uhh hello, Seductions? New York dolls? sex pistols?"

"One of those was Viv"

"I helped!"

"Okay take those out, I don't exactly see you out protesting or yelling fuck off at the House of Commons"

"I mean that's mostly because I have to be back before bedtime," He says "Don't I Sweetie?" he cooes

"There is much anarchy that can be done before bedtime" I laughed "She sure knows that"

"Yeah, little chaos creature aren't you, my little punk princess" He cooed bouncing her on his thighs

"So?"

"I've been writing angry letters"

"Woo so has an eighty-year-old in Essex"

"I mean we're in a relationship with a child out of wedlock, and I have another child also out of wedlock with another woman I don't live with, and I've been divorced... six times?"

"Nine"

"Ohh, that's getting high now. You can't count Priya she married me for a visa"

"It lasted two hours but you were still married Malcolm I have the paperwork"

"Fine," he sighed "That's pretty anti-establishment considering even one divorce or one child out of wedlock is kinda taboo"

"I'd argue it's being normalized, what else? what have you done recently to stick it to the metaphorical man"

"I'm not paying council tax,"

"Yes we are"

"No, we're not"

"...what!"

"No we're not, are we? Nooo we're not paying the terrible government not one penny are we sweetie? Nooo Daddy burns all their letters in the garden, don't we? And my little princess helped too letting daddy use her to wipe her bump on their court order" He cooed as Elis began to giggle

"That's why our bins haven't been emptied in like a year!"

"yeah?"

"Malcolm! we have an infant. The bin stores stinks of baby shit and vomit"

"I'm not paying it."

"Yes, you fucking are."

"No, I am not! anarchy! rebellion! screw the government"

"yeah, that's fine doing stuff you wanna do like going against censorship, free speech, and going against the government policies. But it's a whole other thing Malcolm when it comes back and bites you in the ass so that you're 'rebellion' means your family has to live like fucking rats"

"It's the-"

"You dare say it's the principle of the thing I will shove her next nappy up your ass- wait what court order?"

"Yeah we got a court order about not paying it"

"And you did what with it?"

"Elis had a dirty nappy."

"So. you. did. what." I asked feeling like I was about to have an aneurysm

"I took the old nappy off, threw it away used the court order letter like a baby wipe to clean her up, put a fresh nappy on, and stuck the letter in a return envelope" He explained

"But you didn't throw it away, because the bins aren't getting emptied, you can probably go out and find the exact nappy outside in the bin pile" I complained "What did they say? when they got it?"

"......well"

"Malcolm" I warned

"there may be a warrant out for my arrest."

"Ohh dear god" I sighed

"It's fine, Daddy just can't go some places on our walks, can we sweetie? noo" he cooed giving her kisses

"You're going to the court and paying it. tomorrow" I told him taking Elis back and heading to her room to put her down giving Elis a kiss and leaving her little light on before shutting the door

"But Anarchy!"

"No!" I told him

"But.. anarchy," he says sheepishly

"tomorrow. fix it."

"Or else what?"

"Or else you're getting cut off from your punk princess" I warned

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"And you can never touch your thick thighed hot goth girlfriend ever again"

"You're an evil little goth girl" he pouts

"That's why you love me Malcolm" I smiled giving his cheek a kiss "Sort it out."

"I'll go down tomorrow"

#thomas sangster #tbs smut #tbs imagine #tbs imagines #thomasbrodiesangster #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster #tbs #thomas brodie sangster smut #thomassangster #thomas #malcolmmclaren #malcom #pistol2022 #pistol series #pistol #sex pistols #pistol fx

[antiquatedsimmer]

Eddy and Silas made their way towards the barns, the morning mist still clinging to the air.

"Now, listen close, son," Eddy began, his voice steady. "I don't want no whinin' or backtalk. We're gonna do the work that needs to be done. But don't you worry, I'll make it a learnin' experience for ya." Silas stayed quiet, matching his father's pace.

( Long post today! just warning ya!}

Eddy led Silas to Millie, their beloved cow, and stepped back, observing closely as his son approached the large animal.

"Now, Silas, when it comes to brushin' Millie, ya gotta be careful," Eddy advised, his voice low and measured. "Use the soft brush, like this one here, so ya don't irritate her skin. Just gentle strokes, boy, like you're pettin' her." Silas nodded attentively, taking the brush in his hand and following his father's guidance.

Eddy then moved to Millie's side and showed Silas the proper technique for milking. Silas watched intently as Eddy demonstrated, his young hands mimicking the movements carefully.

Millie stood there calmly, seemingly content with Silas' efforts. She didn't make a sound or show any signs of distress, which reassured both father and son.

"Good job, Silas," Eddy commended with a proud smile. "You're takin' to this like a natural. "

While Eddy and Silas ventured out to tend to the chores on the farm. Helena, on the other hand, rose from her slumber and swiftly prepared herself for the tasks that awaited her inside the house. With a tune humming softly on her lips, she adorned her working attire, ready to tackle the daily household responsibilities.

With broom in hand, Helena began sweeping the floors diligently, sweeping away the remnants of dirt and dust that had settled overnight. The rhythmic swish of the broom filled the air, creating a comforting cadence in the otherwise quiet house. As she moved from room to room, ensuring every nook and cranny was free from debris, Lucile, their young daughter, joyfully played and explored in the corners of their cozy home.

Silas, his eyes heavy with sleep, struggled to find his footing on his first day of farm work. But he pushed through the fatigue to complete the responsibilities his father laid out before him. He collected eggs from the coop, a delicate and essential chore, and learned how much grain to feed the chickens each day.

Eddy, taking on the role of mentor, stood beside Silas, guiding him through the process. He demonstrated the proper technique, emphasizing the importance of handling each delicate egg with care.

As Silas reluctantly followed his father's instructions, his mind wandered to thoughts of sleeping in or engaging in playful adventures. Despite his initial silent protest, Silas found himself adapting to the farm tasks with surprising ease, akin to a natural-born farmer.

Inside the Harrington household, a troubling discovery unfolded as Helena witnessed the aggressive behaviors that had taken root in their daughter, Lucile. The influence of Silas's bullying had taken its toll, manifesting in Lucile's tendency to bite and resort to kicking instead of using words.

Recognizing the urgency of the situation, Helena fervently hoped that Eddy's plan to instill responsibility in Silas would yield positive results. She knew that curbing Silas's negative influence on Lucile was crucial to prevent her from adopting further ill-mannered habits. The thought of both her children becoming difficult to raise weighed heavily on Helena's heart, instilling a sense of fear and concern.

In the midst of this apprehension, Eddy entered the room, catching a glimpse of Lucile's actions. With a determined expression, he swiftly took charge to address the behavior, refusing to let their daughter fall prey to the same destructive path as Silas. They had already witnessed the challenges of raising one child who strayed from the right path, and the last thing they needed was a second child following suit.

After the rest of the work was done, Eddy and Silas found respite in the comforting embrace of the kitchen, where Helena had prepared a hearty lunch for them. Silas, wearied by the day's labor, silently consumed his meal, while Eddy observed him intently.

"You've done well today, son," Eddy commended, his voice carrying a paternal warmth. "With time and practice, the work will become easier for you." Silas nodded in acknowledgment, his fork idly pushing around the eggs on his plate.

Eddy's tone softened as he imparted words of wisdom. "I want you to understand, Silas, that this is not a punishment," he emphasized. Silas's eyes met his father's gaze, curious and attentive. "Someday, your mother and I won't be here. It will be your responsibility to care for this land, to ensure its prosperity. You're reaching an age where you must learn the ways of the farm, to carry on the legacy. I want your future children to experience the same happiness we have here."

Silas replied with a mixture of reluctance and determination, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "I understand, Father. I will do my best."

As they continued to savor their meal, Silas felt a whirlwind of emotions stirring within him. The weight of his impending responsibilities bore down on him, raising doubts about the path he was expected to follow. "Do I want to be a farmer?" he pondered silently, his thoughts muddled with the prospect of marriage and the future that awaited him.

#ts4 #decades challenge #decade challenge #decades legacy #ts4 historical #doyle legacy #helena doyle #lucile nooooo #NO BITING #eddy harrington #edward harrington #silas doyle harrington #lucile doyle harrington #decades story #decade: 1890s #decade: 1890

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Voices From Beyond the Grave: Tema Schneiderman and Tossia Altman; paper presented at the Heroines of the Holocaust Symposium

Many of you requested it, and the conference organizers gave me the all clear to post it here. Please note that this was written for an audience already conversant in the admittedly niche sub-subfield. 

Voices From Beyond the Grave: Tema Schneiderman and Tossia Altman

“Over 20 times she crossed borders that separated different parts of Poland…Tema visited every ghetto, knew Jewish life and troubles in every town and city. She was a living treasure of information… She brought messages from the movement to every area…Even Poles and Germans could not reach every part of Poland as she did. And when she came, there was such joy.”

-Mordechai Tennenbaum, leader of the Jewish resistance in the Bialystok Ghetto, and boyfriend of Tema Schneiderman.1

“Tossia came. It was like a blessing of freedom. Just the information that she came. It spread among the people. That we have Tossia visiting us from Warsaw. As if there was no ghetto. As if there were no Germans. As if there was no death around. As if we were not in this terrible war. A beam of love. A beam of light.”

-Rushka Korczak, member of the Vilna Jewish underground, and comrade of Tossia Altman.2

Part of the reason we’re all here is because we see the silences and gaps in Holocaust memory where the stories, narratives, and experiences of all the women we’re discussing this week should be. We want to do our parts to fill in those gaps, and we all go about that differently.

This paper comes about as part of a larger work of public-facing narrative history focused on Zivia Lubetkin, Vladka Meed, Rachel Auerbach, Tossia Altman, and Tema Schneiderman that I’ve been working on for the past 5 years. Zivia, Vladka, and Rachel survived the war, wrote about their experiences, and gave their testimonies. Tema and Tossia were murdered in 1943. What they left in the way of writings are political essays and coded letters; which were not spaces in which they could be unguarded and candid.

Through writing a narrative history based not simply on action, but on personality and emotion, I aim to do my part to fill in the gap by presenting these women to general readers as not simply courageous heroines, but as distinct individuals; people readers can grow to care about beyond simply a recitation of their accomplishments. For many laypersons, Anne Frank is the only female experience, or narrative they associate with the Holocaust, and that is because she is a figure they feel they can connect with. People can read her diary and feel that they know her, that they can see her; who she was, who she wanted to be, who she could have been.

Finding hints of personality reconstructed through secondary sources, public letters, and the writings of others is an imprecise art, but if we gather enough of those hints, we can present these women to students, readers, and other lay audiences as fully formed human beings, and give that population something, someone to connect with.

And this brings me back to Tema and Tossia. Due to the limited and/or public nature of their extant writings, we have only the diaries, memoirs, oral histories, and testimonies of their peers and comrades who a. survived, or b. wrote a diary which survived the Holocaust, even if its writer did not. This in turn leads me to the central question: how do we as historians reconstruct personalities through the writings of others? This is the question I will attempt to answer in this time, using Tema Schneiderman and Tossia Altman as case studies.

We know that memoirs, autobiographies, and oral histories are imperfect sources. Their narratives are invariably shaped and influenced by time, trauma, politics, and personal considerations. As a result, we must individually assess and contextualize each source of this type in order to adjust for these mis-recollections and omissions.

That said, while a singular memoir must be rigorously interrogated, a collection of memoirs all recounting the same set, or sets, of events can, together, paint an accurate picture of personalities and events where individual testimonies may not. And this very much holds true for the numerous memoirs, autobiographies, testimonies, and oral histories we have from Polish Jewish underground workers, denizens of the Warsaw Ghetto; and specifically, survivors of the Warsaw Ghetto and its Uprising.

Tossia Altman and Tema Schneiderman were vital members of the Polish Jewish underground. They were couriers who traveled to Jewish ghettoes across and beyond the General Government, delivering documents, money, and information to their far-flung comrades; they were both Zionists, albeit within different movements; and they both fell in 1943.

Because of the importance of their work to the resistance, these two women are frequently mentioned in the diaries, memoirs, and testimonies of their peers and comrades. Please note here that the writing and research for the larger project this paper emerged from is ongoing, and I’m still in the process of acquiring and translating a wide variety of sources.

That said, I’d like to begin this analysis first by presenting each woman’s biography with a quick overview of their resistance work, followed by a discussion of what we can glean from the sources regarding their personalities and inner lives. I will begin with Tema Schneiderman, and then move on to Tossia Altman.

Tema Schneiderman was born in Warsaw in 1917 to a Polish-speaking Jewish family.3 She studied nursing and worked at a hospital after graduating from a Polish public high school.4 It was during this period of her life that she met her future boyfriend, Mordechai Tennenbaum, who brought her into the Dror movement.5

Most of her family was killed the September 1939 invasion of Poland.6 During the first years of the war, Tema worked as an underground courier.7 Some of her exploits include organizing the Jewish underground in Bialystock, and forging identity papers for Jews in hiding.8 On January 11, 1943 Tema traveled to Warsaw to deliver documents to allies in the Polish Underground; money, and instructions regarding the manufacture of homemade explosives to the Jewish Fighting Organization.9 Two days later, she sent a telegram to her comrades verifying her arrival in Warsaw.10 She then, most likely entered the Warsaw Ghetto on the same day as she sent the telegram. She disappeared five days later during the “Little Uprising” of January 18, 1943.11 She was most likely killed in a roundup, or in the fighting.12

One essay authored by her survives, signed with the initials of her Aryan alias, Wanda Majewska. Titled “In the Path of Hitlerite Bestiality,” she wrote it to serve as propaganda for German soldiers.13

Nearly everyone who wrote about Tema Schneiderman did so in glowing terms, focusing on her beauty and vivacity with loving descriptions of her hair, eyes, and clothing. They also tended to refer to her as “Mordechai Tennenbaum’s girlfriend.” This identification of women in terms of the men they were romantically attached to is not unusual in this grouping of memoirs—written by both men and women—but it is still noteworthy here. Indeed, underground courier and future Knesset-member Chaika Grossman wrote the following in her memoir, The Underground Army: Fighters of the Bialystok Ghetto:

“In the afternoon Tema and I went to the nuns’ restaurant, where meals were cheap and one could take food home ... Tema decided to go into the ghetto. She insisted, and I could not dissuade her. I had barely gotten used to this deli¬cate girl. At first I believed that she was a spoiled child and would not be able to hold out. I don’t know why I always thought her more fit for picking flow¬ers than for the underground. After a few days I was ashamed of these ideas. I realized that she was stubborn, brave and firm in her views. The greater the difficulty, the greater her daring. Suddenly I saw in her innocent and gentle wide-open eyes a small flame that lit up. That was the center of gravity of her daring character.”14

Here, Grossman reflects on that instinct to characterize and judge Tema based solely on her appearance, and expresses shame for doing do when Tema was, in fact, a brave, daring, and stubborn young woman; one who seemed to fear nothing, and established her own boundaries.

In her memoir They Are Still with Me, courier and arms smuggler Havka Folman-Raban adds nuance to this portrait of Tema. She wrote:

“For a short while I lived in the same room with Tema Schneiderman …Under the bed was…a suitcase containing pistols and grenades … Tema and I brought the grenades to the ghetto ... Each of the girls hid a grenade in her most intimate place, her undergarments. From a suburb of the city we took a streetcar in the direction of the ghetto. I recall our odd behavior during the ride. Tema stood at my side and asked: ‘What would happen if a gentleman invited us to sit beside him?’ We broke into laughter; hiding our fear in this way…”15

From this excerpt we learn that Tema had strong leadership qualities, and natural instincts for covert action. Tema understood that to carry out this type of mission successfully, one had to blend in—to look like a happy, carefree young woman out with friends, and not like a frightened Jew on a deadly serious mission.

Noting Havka’s fear, Tema distracted her with a simple, absurd statement. Even Zivia Lubetkin noted this incident, writing that “There was even humor amidst the danger, as in what happened to Tema. She was standing in a crowded train with a hand grenade hidden in her underwear…”16 Zivia Lubetkin portrayed herself in her writings and comported herself publicly—and was noted in the memoirs and testimonies of her friends and comrades—as an extraordinarily serious person, so her noting of Tema’s humor further emphasizes Tema’s emotional intelligence and demeanor.

Though this is a small amount of evidence to build an argument on, put together, and in the context of the source pool, these recollections demonstrate that Tema was an extraordinarily brave, canny, charismatic, and emotionally intelligent young woman; not just a beautiful woman, and not simply someone’s girlfriend.

Tossia Altman left us with more writings than did Tema, most likely due to her leadership role in Hashomer Hatzair, and later, in the Jewish Fighting Organization. Tossia was born in 1919 in Lipno, Poland.17 She spoke Hebrew and Polish, and was active in the Hashomer Hatzair youth movement.18 Within this movement, she quickly earned a reputation as a talented leader.19 After the German occupation of Poland, she traveled to cities across the General Government, encouraging the young people she encountered to engage in clandestine educational and social activities.20

When movement representatives met in Vilna on December 31, 1941, Abba Kovner delivered in Yiddish a famous speech calling for armed resistance (“Let us not go like sheep to the slaughter...”).21 He then turned to Tossia, freshly arrived from Warsaw, and had her deliver the same speech in Hebrew.22 This speaks to the respect she was accorded within the movement, and the respect given to the female couriers.23

On July 28 1942, the date of the establishment of the Jewish Fighting Organization, or ZOB, in Warsaw, its command selected four representatives to operate on the Aryan side of the city, and acquire weapons: Frumka Plotnicka, Leah Perlstein, Ariyeh Wilner, and Tossia, signaling once more the high esteem in which her colleagues held her.24 Tossia was also charged to liaise with the Armja Krajowa, and the Armja Ludowa (the main Polish underground, and the Communist Polish underground, respectively).25

On April 18, 1943, the day of the breakout of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, Tossia reported on the action to Yitzhak Zuckerman—who was stationed on the Aryan side of the city—via a phone in one of the ghetto’s factories.26 She continued to relay updates to comrades on the outside over the course of the Uprising.27

On May 8, 1943, the Germans discovered the ZOB command bunker at Mila 18, and piped in poison gas to force out those hiding within.28 Tossia was one of six who managed to escape from the bunker alive.29 Zivia Lubetkin, Marek Edelman, and Haim Frymer came upon these injured survivors later that night outside the ruins of Mila 18.30 They were barely conscious, and covered in blood; Tossia bore terrible wounds to the leg and the head.31

On the morning of May 9, Tossia escaped the burning ghetto through the sewers with a group lead by Zivia Lubetkin and Simha Rotem.32 After a brief stint hiding in the Lumianki Forest (about 7 km from Warsaw), she was housed with several comrades in the attic of a celluloid factory.33 On May 24, 1943, Tossia’s attic hideout caught fire and the fire spread rapidly. According to varying accounts, the fire either started when a young man struck a match, or when Tossia heated up some ointment for her wounds. Likewise, some of her contemporaries claim that Tossia died in the fire; while others say that she escaped the burning factory, was handed over to the Gestapo, and then was either tortured to death, or taken to a hospital where the Gestapo interrogated her, and then left her to die.34

Havka Folman-Raban worked closely with Tossia on a number of occasions, and wrote in her memoir:

“She was a few years older than I and more experienced. When I was with her, which was not often, I felt that I was in the presence of a worthy person. Although she radiated authority, our friendship was genuine. When I returned from my missions she welcomed me in such a way that I was aware of how worried she had been about me.”35

Vladka Meed also discusses Tossia in her memoir, On Both Sides of the Wall:

“Yurek (Aryeh Wilner) had succeeded in buying a considerable quantity of revolvers and hand grenades … But as soon as he had brought the valise with the ‘merchandise’ to his apartment, the Gestapo swooped down on him, found the weapons, and arrested Yurek … When Yurek’s close friend, Tossia Altman of Hashomer Hatzair told us the news, we were stunned ... But Tossia was not to be deterred; she had come seeking advice from Stephan Machai; perhaps he knew someone who could be bribed.”36

These recollections, combined with Tossia’s leadership positions in the various iterations of the Polish Jewish underground, paint the picture of a stubborn, thoughtful, immensely courageous woman. However, what complicates this picture is Yitzhak Zuckerman’s portrayal of Tossia Altman in his memoir, A Surplus of Memory.

Zuckerman includes several less-than-flattering comments about Tossia, though always taking care to point out that these things weren’t his opinions, but that he simply felt obligated to include them. These include such tidbits as: writing that the Hashomer members didn’t respect Tossia, and perhaps found her irritating; and implicitly criticizing her for entering the ghetto the night before the Uprising when she was supposed to be stationed on the Aryan side with him.37

Now, obviously that Zuckerman wrote these things does not make them fact, and Zuckerman’s memoirs and testimonies have been critiqued in the past for distortion and incorrect recollections of events. However, they do add nuance to our ability to assess Tossia’s personality, or behavior around others.

In her last letter, written to the Zionist leadership in Palestine regarding the free Jewish world’s seeming abandonment of the Jews of Europe, Tossia wrote:

“I think you’ll agree with me that one shouldn’t draw strength from a poisoned well. I am trying to control myself not to vent the bitterness that has accumulated against you and your friends for having forgotten us so utterly. I blame you that you didn’t help me with a few words at least. But today I don’t want to settle my accounts with you. It was the recognition and certainty that we will never see each other again that impelled me to write . . . . Israel is vanishing before my eyes and I wring my hands and I cannot help him. Have you ever tried to smash a wall with your head?”38

The majority of this letter constitutes a fairly eloquent, poetic, even, reprimand, but then Tossia ends it with a line tonally out of place with the rest of the letter, to the extent that it sparks amusement. If Tossia was willing to write this informally, casually, and in so darkly humorous a manner, it’s reasonable to deduce between that, and Zuckerman’s statements, that her behavior around other movement members may have been decidedly quirky, or out of keeping what they considered to be an appropriate demeanor.

What emerges from my analysis of these sources in regard to reconstructing the personalities of these two women is that we will never be able to get inside their heads as fully as we could someone who left writings and testimonies. We will always be at a distance. But by reading carefully and keeping our eyes open for the sparks of personality which so easily slip through the cracks of hagiographic postwar writings, we can create a blurred, imperfect impression of Tema as a frequently under-estimated brave, funny, charismatic, and immensely socially intelligent woman; and of Tossia as a courageous, enthusiastic operative who commanded respect from her peers on the basis of her leadership and actions, but who also didn’t quite fit in in terms of social skills and demeanor.

These conclusions, and the framework I used to arrive at them will, I hope, help us do our part to fill in the gaps in Holocaust memory, and imbue it with women the general public feel they can understand.

Thank you.

Footnotes

1 Lenore J. Weitzman, “Women of Courage: The Kashariyot (Couriers) in the Jewish Resistance During the Holocaust,” in Lessons and Legacies VI: New Currents in Holocaust Research, ed. Jeffrey M. Diefendorf (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2004), 114. 2 Weitzman, “Women of Courage,” 115. 3 Bronia Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman,” Jewish Women’s Archive, December 31, 1999, https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/sznajderman-tema. 4 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 5 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 6 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 7 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 8 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 9 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman;” Yitzhak “Antek” Zuckerman, A Surplus of Memory: Chronicle of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 254. 10 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 11 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 12 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 13 Klibanski, “Tema Sznajderman.” 14 Chaika Grossman, The Underground Army: Fighters of the Bialystok Ghetto (New York: Holocaust Library, 1987), 17. 15 Havka Folman-Raban, They are Still With Me (M.P. Western Galilee: Ghetto Fighters' Museum, 2001), 82. 16 Zivia Lubetkin, In the Days of Destruction and Revolt (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad Publishing House, 1981), 80. 17 Ziva Shalev, “Tosia Altman,” Jewish Women’s Archive, December 31, 1999, https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/altman-tosia. 18 Shalev, “Tosia Altman;” Yitzhak Zuckerman, A Surplus of Memory: Chronicle of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, trans. Barbara Harshav (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 87. 19 Shalev, “Tosia Altman.” 20 Shalev, “Tosia Altman.” 21 Weitzman, “Women of Courage,” 143. 22 Weitzman, “Women of Courage,” 143. 23 Weitzman, “Women of Courage,” 143. 24 Daniel Blatman, For Our Freedom and Yours: The Jewish Labour Bund in Poland, 1939-1949 (Portland, OR: Valentine Mitchell, 2003), 103. 25 Shalev, “Tosia Altman.” 26 Shalev, “Tosia Altman;” Avinoam Patt, The Jewish Heroes of Warsaw: The Afterlife of the Revolt (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2021), 56. 27 Shalev, “Tosia Altman.” 28 Shalev, “Tosia Altman.” 29 Shalev, “Tosia Altman.” 30 Lubetkin, In the Days of Destruction and Revolt, 229-231; Bella Gutterman, Fighting for Her People: Zivia Lubetkin, 1914-1978 (Jerusalem: Yad VaShem, International Institute for Holocaust Research, 2014), 237-238. 31 Lubetkin, Days of Destruction and Revolt, 229-233; Gutterman, Fighting for Her People, 237-238; Marek Edelman, The Ghetto Fights: Warsaw 1943-1945 (London: Bookmarks Publications, 2014), 67; Vladka Meed, On Both Sides of the Wall, trans. Dr. Stephen Meed (Washington DC: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, 1999), 154. 32 Shalev, “Tosia Altman;” Gutterman, Fighting for her People, 260. 33 Shalev, “Tosia Altman.” 34 Gutterman, Fighting for Her People, 263-264; Lubetkin, Days of Destruction and Revolt, 287; Zuckerman, A Surplus of Memory, 395-396; Tuvia Borzykowski, Between Tumbling Walls (Tel Aviv: Beit Lohamei HaGetaot, 1976), 123-124; Meed, On Both Sides of the Wall, 159-160; Patt, Jewish Heroes of Warsaw, 126. 35 Folman-Raban, They are Still With Me, 83. 36 Meed, On Both Sides of the Wall, 154. 37 Patt, Jewish Heroes of Warsaw, 52. 38 Patt, Jewish Heroes of Warsaw, 82-83.

#history #jewish history #holocaust #holocaust history #gender history #warsaw ghetto #women's history