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stilespeters · 1 year

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I don’t know if anyone else has thought of this but I had an idea for a one shot…?

It’s a Kai one. Maybe the reader is best friends with winter, they’re like sisters, and she’s dating kai as well they’ve been together for years even before cult kai. Maybe meadow is jealous of the fact kai is in love with reader and only shows his soft side to her instead of meadow I dunno. And so meadow persuades kai that she’s the mole he’s been worried about when it’s not so instead of winter dying… it’s the reader. The rest of the cult is in shock, and he feels so guilty as soon as he’s done what he’s done and then obviously when ally tells him that it wasn’t actually reader it was someone else he feels even worse and goes after meadow to get revenge. A bit depressing I’m sorry!

Keep your head up (part 1)

(part 1) (part 2*) (part 3)

pairing: Kai Anderson x fem!reader

a/n: i need to stop making these so long, i meant for it to be a one shot but it turned out to be 7k words so im dividing it into 3 parts. hope that's alright.

word count: 2328

summary: Kai thinks you're the mole and makes a life changing decision

warnings: sexual implications, violence, choking, kai being a bitch, meadow being a bitch, swearing

“I’m home!” You yelled as you rubbed your forehead and closed the door behind you. You had just had an awful day at work and you were happy to finally sit down and relax. You looked around and saw no one in your shared home with Kai, and you walked towards the kitchen. That’s where you saw Kai leaned against the counter with his back facing you.

“Hey honey.”

You walked up to him and embraced him, but something felt different. He didn't say a word, he didn't melt to your touch, and you stepped away. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he said in an awfully calm tone, “You tell me.”

“What do you mean?” you gave him a confused look and Kai sighed. “Don’t play dumb.”

You kissed the back of your teeth and closed your eyes. You were getting riled up by his behavior lately. He was getting more paranoid by the days, and each time you got home, he kept saying something about a mole. You kept reassuring him that it was probably nothing, but Kai kept insisting. It was getting exhausting and you sighed.

“I’m not playing dumb, what’s going on?”

He narrowed his eyes at you and you raised your eyebrows.

“I have found the mole.”

“You're joking,” you let out a chuckle but Kai didn't laugh with you, which made you believe that he was speaking the truth. You didn’t even believe that there was a mole in the first place, “Well shit, who is it?”

“He’s downstairs,”

The way he spoke was unnerving. He just looked like he wasn't paranoid at all. Usually when there was something like this, he’d be fuming with anger.

You didn't question it and Kai gestured for you to follow him downstairs. You wondered what poor soul would be chained to a chair. Kai was ruthless and you knew that whoever crossed him, was a dead man.

When you stepped on the wooden stairs, it creaked beneath your feet in an eerie sound. You never liked the basement and so you tried to stay away from the place as much as possible. But whenever Kai needed you down there with his people, you had to oblige and stand next to Kai.

Kai stood in front of the members and you stood next to him as always.

“For weeks I have suspected a mole in our midst. Someone who is willing and capable to betray every single one of us. Someone who'd rather give up everything we built, just because they want to and can.” You looked down as he talked to the men and women in the room. You wanted this to be over as soon as possible so you could just relax on the couch.

“Meadow, tell me what you found,” he began and Meadow stepped forward. You furrowed your eyebrows as the woman you despised looked at you with somewhat of an unreadable expression. You could faintly see a glimpse of a smile and you wanted to punch it off her face.

“This morning I saw Y/n place something in a vault in the kitchen. It was hidden behind a painting and I saw the passcode she entered to open it,” she started and you felt the anger boil as you realized she had been snooping. You had no idea what the fuck Meadow was talking about. “I found a recording device, and when I replayed it, I found that it recorded every single gathering we have had these last couple of weeks. I also found one plane ticket to New York that is set on Friday, which is in three days.”

You looked at Kai who was simply looking at you with a blank expression and when everyone stared at you, you began to realize what was going on. You let out a nervous chuckle. “What? You think I did it? You think I recorded it to use it as evidence? Why would I do that?”

Kai shrugged. “You and I are the only ones who know the password to the safe. Plus, you have all the reasons to leave me.”

You chuckled. “I can't tell you how much I’ve wanted to kill you these last couple of years I've been married to you. And trust me there were times where I questioned my own sanity, but I love you. Are you really gonna take this bitch’s word over mine? Your wife? Besides, I have stuck by your side for over 6 years. If I wanted to rat you out I would've done it way earlier.”

“It makes sense, Y/n. You told Meadow that you wanted to leave for New York four weeks ago, she recorded it.” Kai had a phone in his hands and as he pressed play, your jaw dropped. Immediately your voice was heard from the device.

“You know, sometimes I just have the urge to just leave everything and move to… I don't know, New York or something. Anywhere but here. Kai would probably kill me. but I sometimes just want to runaway from this life.” The audio cut off at that moment and you gritted your teeth. This was pulled completely out of context. You never planned on leaving. You glared at Meadow who stood like she was the most innocent person on earth.

“How convenient that the audio stopped there. I promise you, Kai. I'm no the mole.”

“Don't try any shit on me Y/n! Don't lie to me!” He suddenly yelled and you tensed. You hated when he was yelling. “I know what I heard on that tape. You were planning on leaving me, you were planning on going to the authorities! You were planning on destroying the life we built together!”

The vein in his forehead was protruding and some of his spit landed on your face. "Who do you work for?!"

"No one!"

"You fucking liar! Is it the FBI? Are you fucking working for the FBI?! Tell me you bitch!"

“No! Why the fuck would I do that?!”

"Stop fucking lying!" he barked "I don't know the reason why you you wanted to betray me, were all those years together worth nothing?! I gave you everything! I was fucking willing to destroy the world for you! And you fucking double cross me?!"

“Why the fuck would I do that? She’s obviously lying!” You pointed at Meadow but she crossed her arms and sighed. “I’m just being honest. You were planning on betraying us all and leaving for another state. It’s best this way that we get rid of threats. Divine Ruler would want that-”

“-Don't speak for me Meadow.” Kai sneered and Meadow shut her mouth.

When Meadow said that she wanted to get rid of threats, you started to understand what she was trying to do. You started to put the pieces together.

Ever since she was new to the group, she had been trying to befriend you. You had never really tried to get to know any of the members except for Ally and Winter, but as soon as Meadow barged in, she had tried to get close to you. At first you talked to her as little as possible, but when she came to you one time with wine in the middle of the night in the living room, you had opened more to her. That’s when you told her that work was killing you and you felt like you needed air. Hence why you said you would leave for New York if you had the chance. Obviously you didn't mean that. You were sarcastic.

Meadow had always been jealous of the life you had. She was simply jealous of your position in Kai's group. Plus, she was obviously in love with Kai. He was mean to everyone except for you. He only showed his soft side to you, and she was jealous that you got extra care, that he treated you differently than the others. He treated you better.

You realized this jealousy quickly after she had arrived and just to spite her, you had once kissed Kai while she was in the other room. That kiss turned out into a make out session and before you knew it, you were pinned against the wall with him sliding in and out of you. You had moaned extra loudly, spurring him to go harder and the only sounds that were heard from the room was skin on skin and loud grunts and your screaming.

Meadow heard everything and although she was hoping you screamed out of terror as Kai stabbed you, she knew better. She promised to herself right then and there that she'd tear you down and take your spot. But you had been with Kai for more than 6 years, so she had to convince him you were going to leave him. Kai was an emotionally unstable person. It shouldn't be that hard.

Now, the little shit had baited you and had recorded your conversation. She pulled everythng out of context.

When you came to that realization, your eye twitched and your jaws clenched shut together.

You snapped.

“You fucking cunt! You’re a liar!” You screamed at the blonde woman as you lunged for her, and she let out a shriek as you toppled her body. Your legs pinned her to the ground and you pulled her hair before you punched her in the face, but before you could attack her further, two strong arms pulled you back. You saw Meadow on the ground groaning while holding her bloody nose, and you tried to free yourself from the strong grip.

“She’s a liar! Kai you have to believe me!-”

Before you knew it, Kai’s pressed you against the wall. You felt your body being crushed and you whimpered as Kai’s face was a few inches from yours.

“Kai, listen to me. Please.” you managed to squeak out but his face was fuming with anger. No, that's not the right word. His face was fuming with rage. Pure rage.

You had never seen him like this. You had never seen him out of control like this and you felt scared. It wasn't the first time you felt afraid of your husband, but this time you were actually scared for your life.

Your eyes moved to the members of his group and you made eye contact with a woman who stood silently next to the couch.

“Winter, please you have to believe me,” you felt tears escape your eyes, “Winnie, please.”

Before you could plead any more, you felt two hands at your throat. Your eyes began to water even more from the pressure Kai put on your neck. You tried to pry his hands away but he was simply too strong.

It looked like he stared into your soul, and as you started to feel nauseous, he pressed even harder. The last thing you remembered was him pulling your head inches from the wall, before ramming you back into it with a loud bang.

Everything went black.

---

Kai remembered the day he met you like it was yesterday. It was the summer of 2010.

He remembered the way the birds chirped happily on a Saturday afternoon. He hated it. He kept rolling his eyes while he wished they would just shut up. To make things even worse, the bell rang while he was in the basement. When he called out for Winter, she didn't respond. And so, while cursing under his breath, he walked up the stairs to the first floor, and he opened the door. This moment was the moment he will never forget.

He was met with a young woman. Her smile was the first thing he noticed, and when her eyes looked up at him, he felt like time had stopped.

“Hi?” Kai started and you had a big grin on your face. “Hi! Is Winter home?”

Kai shook his head and he leaned against the doorway. “No, I think she went out to get groceries,”

He saw your grin falter but you still smiled friendly at him. “Ah, okay. Do you know when she gets home?”

“I think she left like an hour ago. She should be home soon,” he bit the inside of his cheek and looked you up and down again. He tried to be subtle, but he failed. “You can come inside and wait for her, I don’t think it’ll take long.”

“Sure.” Your eyes lit up and Kai stepped to the side and let you in. The house was large but cozy, and you smiled when you saw a photograph of Winter on the cabinet. There were more photographs with the man who opened the door, and they looked alike.

Winter had mentioned to you that she had brothers, but you had never seen a picture of them.

“I’m Kai by the way.” he started and you turned around to look at him. “I’m Y/n.”

He felt his cheeks burn up and he went through his hair with his hand. You were absolutely a sight for sore eyes, and he never remembered any of Winter’s friends who were gorgeous like this. He found them all annoying as hell, yet you seemed like a kindhearted person.

The door opened and Winter walked in with two large bags. As she saw you, her eyes went wide and her face contorted into happiness. “Y/n oh my god!” she yelled and she dropped the bags and ran towards you.

“Winnie!”

You hugged her tight and your eyes clenched shut. You had missed her so much, she was like the sister you never had. You befriended her in college when you were her roommate, and ever since, you two had the closest bond ever. You loved her to death like a sister.

“Do you have your stuff?” she asked and you nodded. “Yes, my luggage is in the car.”

Kai looked confused and walked to the two of you. “Luggage?”

Winter smiled and grabbed your hands while she looked at her brother. “She’s staying with us for a while. She’s taking the guest room.”

Kai raised his eyebrows. He had not expected it, but he couldn't find himself to be angry at it. In fact, he was delighted. He wanted to get to know you better and this was the perfect opportunity. Usually, if it were someone else Winter brought home, he’d be annoyed and say no, but looking at your beautiful features and kind smile, he found himself liking the idea.

“I’ll help with your luggage.” He said and he walked outside as you followed him.

Kai remembered how you and he talked for hours and hours after the first meeting. He remembered that the both of you always had something to say to one another. It seemed like you had discussed every topic you could think of, yet you still had so much to tell him. He remembered the way his stomach hurt when he would laugh about your stupid jokes, the way his heart would beat a little faster when he was around you. The way your touch melted him in an instant.

The day you moved into the Anderson household, was the day Kai's world got turned upside down.

#evan peters #evan peters smut #evan peters x reader #evan peters x you #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson #kai anderson x y/n #kai anderson x you #kai anderson smut #kai anderson x female reader #evan peters x y/n #evan peters x female reader

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esmiephan · 1 year

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Why are most of the Japanese ghosts 'victimized women'? - the feminist answer to Japan's sexist society

Let's talk a little about Japan and its horror culture. The "pale-dressed woman with black hair" ghost steriotype isn't an American invention, it came from the Japanese culture. This ghost is called Onryō (怨霊), a vengeful spirit that comes back from the dead to sick revenge against his/her killer or humanity itself. Onryō spirits mostly had violence deaths (murder, accident or suicide) and/or unfair lives. They are characterized as a pale person, with white clothes and a long, black hair. Some of the Onryō ghosts are marked with the violence they suffered before death. Male Onryōs can be found in the Japanese culture (cinema, mangas, animes, games and theatre), however, they are very rare and unusual, most of the Japanese ghosts are female. Female victims abused by men. After the iconic 2002 "The Ring", an American Remake of the Japanese best-seller Ringu, the Onryō image was introduced to the whole world.

Some of the most classic Japanese ghosts are: Oiwa, Okiku, Sadako Yamamura, Kayako Saeki, the Black Cat ghosts and Kuchisake-onna. All women. I will talk about them little by little and explain about their feminist essence. The Japanese culture was always male chauvinist and patriarchal, specially in the past. Women were treated as objects of male pleasure, they couldn't have any profission unless prostitution or cleaning/cooking. Men were the masters, women were the slaves. Many Japanese temples tought men that sexual activities with women was disgusting and exhausting, something that sucked vital energy. Sex with women should be ONLY for reproduction. It was a mysoginistic society, where the female body was faced as something vulgar and immoral. Women should mary as soon as possible (15-16 years old or less) or else they'll be called 'old whores'. Women couldn't even play in Kabuki shows (japanese traditional theatre) because it was considered immoral, the female roles were played by men. Rape, abuse (emotional and physical) and murder caused by men could be justified if their female victims were considered immoral women. Until today, women are oversexualized in Japanese culture specially if they are very young, hentais are a big example. There are Japanese companies that hire only men, there are victimized women that are still unheard and judged.

This male chauvinist opression has been answered for centuries with the legends of onryōs, curses and female revenge. The Japanese folklore and pop culture is full of feminists manifestations against the patriarchal society of Japan.

Oiwa (大岩)

This character appeared for the first time in the Kabuki best-seller show "Yotsuya Kaidan" (四谷怪談). She was a poor woman married to a greedy selfish man, Iemon. He was planning to marry a rich woman, but for this, he needed his wife to be all alone and defenseless, so he killed Oiwa's father. After that, he poisoned Oiwa with the intention of killing her, but she didn't die: her face melted and her hair felt. Iemon hired a man to rape his wife, then he could kill her with the excuse that she "cheated on him". However, the man was so disgusted with Oiwa's face that he couldn't rape her. Iemon, without any other choice, killed both Oiwa and the man he hired, throwing their bodies into the river. Iemon married a rich woman, but in his honeymoon, Oiwa's spirit came back from the dead and murdered both of them. The legend says she is still hauting her old village, and you get cursed by her spirit if you listen to her story (yes, I curses all of you😈😈).

Okiku (お菊元気)

The original story that inspired Koji Suzuki's Ringu series. Okiku was a poor employee that worked for a creepy rapey samurai named Aoyama Tessan. He wanted Okiku to be his lover, but she always denied it. One day, Aoyama planned to trap her: he gave her a closed bag with 9 coins, but he told her that there were 10 coins and that she should take care of them. Naïvely, Okiku took care of the bag for some days, until Aoyama came back and checked the coins. Again, there were always 9 coins, but he lied to her saying that there were 10, an employee couldn't doubt of her master's word so she never checked it before. Aoyama accused Okiku of stealing one of his coins. Desperate, she counted the coins: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9... over! No 10! Aoyama threatened Okiku, saying she could be spared if she agreed to be his lover. She denied for the last time. The samurai tortured the poor girl and throw her alive inside of a well. Okiku's ghost came back every single night to torment the samurai, forcing him to committ suicide. After Aoyama's death, a buddhist monk bought the land and freed Okiku's ghost after counting 'til 10, bringing her peace.

Kuchisake-onna (口裂け女)

The legend of Kuchisake-onna tells about this woman with a cutted mouth. There are a lot of versions about the legend, but the most famous one is where she was murdered by her husband, who, droven by jeaously because of her beauty, cutted her mouth and skin with scissors. Kuchisake-onna appears in dark lone streets at night, asking you if she is beautiful. If you say she is, she will cut your mouth to be just like her. If you say she isn't, she will just kill you.

Black Cat - 1968 movie (黒猫)

A classic Japanese horror movie. A mother and a daughter were raped and killed by a group of samurais, and now they are vengeful blood-lustful ghosts. They hallucinate the samurais and everyone near their home with a black cat, that guide them to their house. They seduce them and kill them.

Sadako Yamamura (山村貞子)

The most iconic Onryō and Japanese horror symbol of all. Sadako's story suffered retcoms during the Ring franchise. In the 1991s novel, she is a young intersex person (she identifies herself as female) who grew up in a toxic family, being explored because of her psychic powers. At 19s, she is raped by a doctor named Jotaro and throw alive inside of the well. In 1998s Ringu, she was a cruel sadistic child who murdered a journalist and ruined her mother's life. She was murdered by her step-father that wanted to save the world from her evil, but she became a vengeful ghost. In the 2000s Ringu 0, Sadako is portrayed as a victim, since she can't control her powers and is afraid of her biological dad, a sea demon. She was drugged and isolated by her step-father during her life, emotionally abused and explored in her adult life, collectively beaten after being exposed to an old scandal and lated 30 years to die inside of the well. In every version of the story, she uses her nensha and telepathic powers to record a videotape that murders their victims in seven days. As technology is her weapon, she crawls out of people's TV (except in the novel).

Kayako Saeki (佐伯伽椰子)

Based in Oiwa's legend, Kayako Saeki was a lonely neglected girl that married a jeaously abusive husband, Takeo Saeki. She had a kid with him, Toshio. We have more details about their relantionship in the first 2000s movie Ju-On: The Curse, where Takeo abuses his wife and kid more than one month before the curse started. When Takeo discovered Kayako had feelings for her childhood friend, Kobayashi – who ironically was Toshio's teacher –, he broke her neck, murdered their black-cat, their young child and even killed Kobayashi's pregnant wife. Their suffering was so cruel that it started a deadly curse inside of the house, which killed Takeo, the teacher and curses everyone and anyone that enters it.

With all of these stories, and many other legends about monstrous female creatures and ghosts, we can notice that Japanese women always had a grudge against their opressive misogynistic society. Most of the horror Japanese movies portray women that were victimized by men and now are searching for revenge. If their society thinks their suffering and death is OK or justificable, then, they have no other choice than searching for their own justice.

Japanese society improved significantly during the years. Women now have voice, power, intelligence and place in the Japanese society. Divorces are permitted, they have laws against misogynistic violence, women can work and be solo mothers, majority of cultural and intelectual institutions are occuped by women. Japanese society was always impressive, intelligent and productive, but they still needed to be socially envolved. And it is working.

Social evolution surelly doesn't depend on movies or legends, but fictional works and culture does influence people for the good. It is because of humanity's fights, discussions and progress that our world, including Japan that once was one of the most sexists couples ever, that we are progressing and giving voice/space/respect to minories. We don't need female ghosts to avenge women or to "teach men", we need to look at our interior and our own mistakes, and learn how to fix them.

#japanese ghost #japanese movies #japanese society #Japan #🎌🇯🇵❤️#sadako yamamura #kayako saeki #kuchisake-onna #okiku #kuroneko #ringu #ju-on #ju-on: the grudge #oiwa #yotsuya kaidan #onryō #feminism #female ghosts #misoginy

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burins · 4 months

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"These and other facts have been established by the work of 'truth and reconciliation' commissions set up by post-dictatorship forces in the countries of the southern hemisphere. Stroessner has been overthrown, Videla is in prison, Pinochet and his henchmen are being or have been brought to account in Chile. The United States has not so far found it convenient to establish a truth and reconciliation commission of its own, which means that it is less ready at present to face its historical responsibility than are the countries once derided as 'banana republics.'"

- The Trial of Henry Kissinger, Christopher Hitchens

found this and Kissinger's Shadow very helpful in contextualizing Kissinger's impact both on American foreign policy and on domestic policy. obviously we talk a great deal (and we should!) about his many many heinous crimes outside of the US. but part of Kissinger's internal justification for those crimes was his eternal sense of the weight of history. his writing and all of his actions were self conscious; he was forever performing for a domestic and international audience. his justification for the bombings of Laos and Cambodia, which directly killed millions of people and indirectly killed even more, was about the fiction of power. for him, power became its own justification. the US needed power to protect its interests. what were those interests? to have enough power to protect its interests.

I find that pertinent, in an era of perpetual armament. the US military feels ever more like the old horror story of gray goo- self replicating, self justifying, and devouring everything it touches. it both intentionally calls on history - remember the good old days of world war 2 when the nation came together! - and erases it - don't remember any wars that came after, or anything we might have done in them.

at the movies this weekend, we saw an ad for the Marines. not unusual, particularly, although having to see it twice in five minutes was exhausting. in the ad, the narrator talked about how the Marines are ready to respond to "threats" no matter what shape they take. on screen, a city crumbled, and birds transformed into drones that fired at our brave men and women in fatigues. I couldn't help wonder what threats the people who made the ad imagine they might meet. but then, any threat, in the paranoid world Kissinger helped create, is its own justification for armed annihilation. it's the belated logic of the cop firing forty rounds into a person who is already subdued; it's the logic of the preemptive drone strike. it's Nixon's madman theory. any threat no matter how vanishingly unlikely must be taken as a certainty, even if in acting against your imagined threat you force it into being. a self fulfilling prophecy of violence.

if this sounds depressing, well, it is! I did not go to these books expecting solutions, and as expected I didn't find any. what I do know is that Kissinger is dead, and America despite all its lip service has never reckoned with the many evils it has carried out in the service of its own fiction, and I hope they're making his hide into tires.

#uspol #don't rly have a tag for this but. if you do read these I'd recommend Kissinger's shadow for pertinence

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sjhanny2000 · 1 year

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Hidden Within the Arrangement (9/?)

A/N: Hi everyone, sorry for such the long break between chapters! I have recently joined an exercise class three days a week and along with my full time job as a teacher, I've simply been exhausted. It doesn't help that I've been experiencing some the worst writer block in my life. It's just been hard to feel happy with the work I've been churning out lately. With that aside, please enjoy the extra long chapter as an apology for my extended absence!

Word Count: 8.87K+

Warning(s): mentioned/referenced couples violence, mentioned/referenced child death and abuse, angst, some foul language, misunderstandings galore, arranged marriage, etc.

Taglist: @tsukihimeyfan

~~~

From a young age, Hashirama knew he was never the sharpest kunai. In fact, many over the years considered him to be intellectually challenged, having always been far more interested in helping tend to the gardens or play games rather than learning from musty scrolls from even mustier elders. Father never was pleased to learn that Hashirama had skipped yet another lesson to swing from the trees, nor when he slacked off in his training, but for some reason unknown to his young self, he had no interest in what others around him deemed important. All he wanted to do was explore, make flower crowns with baby Touka, snuggle in mother’s lap beside the hearth, and run around in his grandmother’s cabbage patch. He had been happy and content until one day, in the midst of the leaves turning, Hashirama noticed that his mother’s lap was growing smaller and her stomach larger, hard and firm. When he had asked her why, the Hatake woman paused in her knitting and gifted him with a fond smile, placing a tender hand on her swollen belly.

“Well, sometime in winter, I will be having a baby,” Mother gently took hold of his tiny palm and placed it against the taut surface, his chocolate irises growing wide at feeling something briskly skim the skin beneath her stomach. “And you, my little sapling, will have a little brother or sister to play with.”

Though it was years ago, Hashirama could remember how excited he had been to be a big brother, an anija as his mother dubbed him during one of the cold winter nights he had been allowed to sleep with her and father. He toddled after his mother everywhere, asking question upon question and offering her flowers he had picked from the nearby meadow so they could decorate the bedroom before the baby came. Often, he even found himself talking to his unborn sibling whilst mother slept or while she knitted, telling his otouto or imouto everything he had done throughout the day and more. Touka sometimes joined in his mindless chatter when they had playdates or her mother needed to attend to something without juggling a far too curious toddler like she was. The two of them together would learn about what needed to be done before a baby arrived and everything that came after their arrival, including how to hold one, that it needed far more sleep than they did, and that they wouldn’t be ready to play games with them until they were a bit older. Still, Hashirama was excited and far too young to understand the weight his mother had been under at the time.

He understood it quite well when he found her sobbing over a bundle of white mere hours after his new sibling had been delivered. It had been early in the morning that very day when he crawled out of bed, sleepily rubbing his eye whilst stumbling messily into the kitchen where mother should have been making breakfast, only to find his grandmother, aunt, and various other women of the clan bustling about in an anxious hurry. Before he had been able to even question what was going on, his father was upon him, stern faced and unforgiving, guiding his three year old self away from the women and onto the back engawa where various men, including his uncle and the male clan elders, lounged about, cups of sake poured and thick smoke slinking leisurely from their pipes. Hours must have gone by before Hashirama asked where his mother was and when he did, Touka’s father came to pause in his recent whittling project a few feet away, a playful laugh escaping the shinobi as an eager grin on the man’s face.

“No one told you, boy? Your mother is having the baby you have been obsessing over!”

How excited he had been, hearing that his new otouto or imouto would finally be arriving after so long! What would they look like? Would they like him? Would they like plants like he did? Would they also dislike eating pickled herring? Oh he had so many questions to ask!

As dusk approached, high pitched cries echoed from deep inside, cheers of triumph and celebration escaping the group of men surrounding him, prompting him to cheer as well though he had no clue as to why. Pipes were relit, cups refilled, and the joy flowing from the men was contagious, so much so that Hashirama hadn’t caught the look of displeased hatred fixed upon his father’s face as he appeared on the engawa. The man made no move to stop the moment he stepped over the threshold, passing the men without a word whilst they followed him with questions of their own, leaving his young self all on his lonesome.

Grandmother eventually came out to fetch him, her dark eyes holding an emotion he had been unable to put a name to as she led him into the house, her aging hand grasping his youthful one. Just as they reached the door, he could hear his mother crying, which prompted him to panic simply because mother never cried-!

Moving to cradle his earth-toned cheeks in her calloused palms, grandmother kneeled down to meet him at eye level, face stern yet comforting. “Your mother needs you to be strong right now and not ask questions, Hashirama. Can you do that for her?”

If his mother needed him, then he would do anything for her and he had told the woman adamantly so! With his fiery admission, grandmother let out a sigh he couldn’t tell was out of hopelessness for his grandson or out of relief and moved to open the door, quietly guiding Hashirama inwards without another word except “hush.” Knowing better than to make the old woman cross, Hashirama did as he was told, but it was hard to do so when he came upon the scene set before him. Clearly exhausted, his sobbing mother sat in the center of the room, a bundle of pristine white cradled protectively against her hardly clothed chest whilst she rocked back and forth.

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry! Amaterasu, Raijin forgive me!”

“Mama?”

He had been unable to stop himself from speaking at the moment, so confused and scared at the situation at hand because wasn’t everyone supposed to be happy for the new baby? Father had spoken various times how he would finally have the precautionary heir he had been waiting for and mother had never spoken badly about the baby, not once! Never had Hashirama realized at that age just why his mother had been crying and his father furious, the remaining adults still present being sullen and hesitant to speak. However, he knew something was wrong the second his mother’s reddened eyes met his own, to see just how distraught the unshakeable kunoichi was. Fear clouded those obsidian irises, an emotion Hashirama had never seen in his mother’s eyes, and he couldn’t help but toddle over and plop down right beside her, not saying another word. After a few long seconds of quiet, the smallest, palest hand Hashirama had ever seen appeared from the snowy bundle in his mother’s arms, a tiny, adorable squeak following soon after.

While Hashirama wasn’t the sharpest kunai ever, he did have enough common sense to realize that his mother was holding the new baby, his new imouto or otouto, and a rush of giddy excitement had filled him with a gasp. “Is that the baby?!”

In an instant, his mother’s fearful apprehension seemed to melt away, a weak but ever present smile growing on her cracked, pale lips whilst she adjusted her hold on the bundle. “It is. Would you like to meet them?”

Nodding vigorously, Hashirama was practically vibrating with excitement, only for such a feeling to be eclipsed by that of utter awe the moment his mother pushed away a bit of the blanket to reveal the person he had been waiting to meet for months now. Chubby, rosy red cheeks contrasted perfectly against the baby’s skin that was pale as a ghost, wild tufts of pearly white covering the top of their tiny head, so pure and beautiful.

“Hashi, I want you to meet your new otouto, Tobirama,” Hashirama’s already racing heart began to sprint faster upon hearing he had a baby brother, just like he had wanted! “Tobirama, this is your anija, Hashirama. He’s been so excited to meet you, little one.”

With wide, awe-filled eyes, Hashirama couldn’t help but smile, moving to stand on his tippy toes to gain a better view of his new brother. “Hi otouto, I’m Hashirama, I’m your anija!”

The rosy cheeked infant let out a hardly audible coo, one soft as downy feathers and sweet as permission jelly, and Hashirama couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped his lips at seeing alabaster eyelashes flutter open. They opened just enough to reveal neverending pools of merlot, the young boy’s irises of freshly toiled earth searching the tiny ones of his brother with curiosity; he had never seen anything or anyone like him, especially amongst their fellow clansmen. Tanned fingers cautiously snuck across the bundle of snow, the toddler watching in wondrous anxiety as his right index finger came to gently poke the flesh of Tobirama’s tiny palm, hoping to garner some reaction from the newborn. Chubby, pearly white fingers clumsily curled around Hashirama’s extended digit mere moments after the older boy made contact with the younger, a smile as bright as the summer sun blooming on the toddler’s face. Turning his attention to their observing mother, who watched on in relieved fondness, Hashirama couldn’t help but beam. “Did you see, mama?! Otouto is holding my finger!”

Mother let out a soft chuckle, the Hatake woman moving to hold his brother out to him, a knowing look in her dark eyes. “Would you like to hold Tobirama for yourself, sweet sapling?”

“Yeah!”

“Hold still, now. There you go.” Careful in ensuring Tobirama was held correctly within Hashirama’s arms, mother set the hours-old infant into the toddler’s lap with a smile.

Hashirama could only gaze down at his otouto in wonder the moment he was settled into his arms, taking in all his peculiar and tiny features because how couldn’t he? His baby brother was perfect.

“Hashirama.”

Earth colored irises met desperate, stern obsidian, mother never breaking eye contact with him.

“You must promise me, Hashirama, that no matter what may occur between the two of you, you will protect Tobirama from harm.” Brushing strays locks of chocolate from Hashirama’s line of vision, the woman remained steadfast in sobering seriousness, lips thin and unforgiving. “He will be your greatest ally and dearest friend, even in times of turmoil and strife, so you must take care of him and treat him well. Do you understand?”

Not truly understanding what their mother was asking of him, Hashirama had had no issue in replying in the way he did. “I promise mama! I’ll protect Tobirama, no matter what!”

He would have never made that damn promise if he had known just how difficult Tobirama would make for him to keep his word. From birth, Hashirama and Tobirama were opposites of one another in everything that seemed to matter, whether that be looks, intelligence, personality, and so on. Whilst Hashirama was loud and messy, Tobirama was quiet and calculated even as a baby, and while he himself was a healthy, robust child, the white haired child was frail and sickly throughout the beginning of his childhood. Due to such frailty, mother would spend most of her time tending to Tobirama, ensuring he was well fed and clothed at all times and spending countless hours with the boy that she failed to spend with Hashirama, reading him a plethora of scrolls that bored the brunette to the core. It left Hashirama to play on his own, which wasn’t supposed to be the case anymore because Tobirama was to be his new playmate, the otouto that followed him everywhere and loved to play in the garden and get dirty! Every time Hashirama tried to roughhouse like he had seen other brothers do within the clan, mother or one of the house maids were upon them in a flash, scolding him thoroughly whilst plucking Tobirama up from the tatami floor with stern glares.

“What have we told you about playing roughly with Tobirama?! He-!”

“-can’t handle it!”

Yes, physically, Tobirama was quite feeble as a small child, but it was evident fairly on into his life that he was an intellectual prodigy in the making. The pair of them had been playing on the engawa with their mother hanging laundry nearby, Hashirama nursing a few bruises from training while he showed his otouto his newest technique for flower crowns. The one that had been present on his cheek must have caught the freshly turned six month old’s attention somehow because before the toddler realized what was happening, Tobirama was crawling towards him with worry in those vibrant merlot irises of his and much to Hashirama’s surprise, the baby jerkily placed a comforting hand over the aching flesh. It was only moments later that mother was upon them, a rare grin of admiring pride on her lips whilst she pulled a quiet Tobirama into her arms, cooing obsessively over how smart her little Tobi was and not paying a shred of attention to him. Such behavior only continued as Tobirama continued to grow, his otouto standing at the mere age of eight months while Hashirama had been eleven months, the albino’s first word of “Hashi” following just a short month later. While he should have been excited to have his otouto’s first word be his name, Hashirama hadn’t been able to stop the bitter jealousy filling his veins, such a feeling only increasing when mother praised the baby for his accomplishment.

Even with these feelings, Hashirama loved his otouto, his joy in spending time with Tobirama doubling when mother was nowhere in sight and he had the free reign to do as he pleased. Whenever he was free from training, such free time having steadily been shrinking following Tobirama’s birth, Hashirama was with Tobirama, telling him about his adventures with the other clan children or how father had been particularly rough during training that day. By the time Tobirama’s first year was rolling around, the pair of them were venturing the garden together and watching the koi play in the pond within their grandmother’s courtyard, Touka often joining them on their endeavors with her ever serious attitude. Moments spent cuddled together on hard nights when father made mother cry and bleed or with Tobirama riding on his back whilst they once again ran away from a flock of angry chickens ate away at the feelings of jealousy, the two of them slowly growing closer with the passing of time. Grandmother would call them two peas in a pod, a strange emotion in her eyes every time she uttered it, and how eager he had been to finally have the otouto that did as he did, not obtaining all of mother’s attention and being interested in following him wherever he went. They were exactly what Hashirama imagined when it came to being brothers, attached at the hip with a bond that could never be severed. His child self was too optimistic for the bloodthirsty world they lived in.

“Again!”

As the seasons changed and the two of them grew, Hashirama found his shinobi training intensifying, such changes becoming even more evident following his fifth birthday. Butsuma was a strict and unforgiving taskmaster, eager to tear Hashirama down at any given opportunity and never hesitating to beat him into a sobbing mess of quivering submission. Any time spent with Tobirama dwindled during this period of their shared lives, Butsuma having no interest in interacting with the bright eyed toddler that he steadfastly proclaimed was not his own blood, one of the many excuses he spouted endlessly when he beat their mother black and blue. Still, Hashirama found himself feeling unhappy and unfulfilled, never excited to learn how to properly throw a kunai or how to kill an enemy in one move; he would have much rather been playing with Tobirama and Touka or running through the woods in search of adventure, enjoying everything nature and the world had to give-.

“You stupid boy!”

A loud crack filled the air the moment the back of father’s hand struck Hashirama's left cheek, the force behind the strike sending his small and gangly self sprawling to the ground with a cry. In an instant, Hashirama moved to clutch the aching flesh within his palms, tears blurring his vision whilst he looked up at the monster of a man standing before him.

Senju Butsuma, in all his snarling glory, gazed at him with eyes identical to his own, a maddened rage consuming the clan head’s dark irises whilst he loomed menacingly above the young boy. “Tears are for the weak, Hashirama, and I’ll be damned if my heir is seen weeping like a goddamn infant! Get up!”

“I’m sorry, father! I’ll do better, I promise,” Unable to stop the tears from falling, a yelp escaped the five year old as Butsuma’s cold, calloused hand took hold of his arm, forcefully yanking Hashirama to his feet. “Let go, father! Please!”

“ENOUGH!” Butsuma’s free hand wheeled backwards for another harsh slap, the crazed clan head frothing at the mouth. With his body being held in place by the man’s tight grip, all Hashirama could do was screw his eyes shut and wait helplessly for the scarred limb swung to strike him once again.

*Shing*

“Argh!”

In a disorienting blur, the hand gripping Hashirama’s arm was gone, sending the five year old sprawling to the ground with a cry of surprise, roughly falling backwards onto the dusty training field on his behind. Dark eyes snapping open at neck breaking speeds at the sudden change, Hashirama hurriedly glanced around, only to see Butsuma clutching his right hand against his chest, the appendage weeping a steady stream of crimson from the kunai that was now lodged through his palm. Before Hashirama could even react, a small figure white as snow stepped between the two of them, their thin and gangly frame swamped in Hashirama’s hand-me-downs. What absolute terror filled his veins when his brain finally caught up with the situation set before him, to see two year old Tobi standing between him and Butsuma, arms spread out and feet parted in a protective stance, placing himself in the crossfire.

Only to add insult to injury, Tobirama in all of his craziness stood his ground against the man that was triple his height. “Leave anija alone!”

“Tobi no,” Hashirama moved to stand but it was as if time was in slow motion, reaching his hand outward to pull Tobirama away from harm.

Butsuma let out a growl of a monster, the aging brunette taking hold of the kunai’s hilt with murderous intent in those hellish eyes of his. “You little bastard, I’ll slit your throat-!”

Time slowed to a painful crawl as the man pulled the weapon from his palm and moved to step forward, wielding the kunai with the intent to kill Tobirama, sweet, brilliant Tobirama. He couldn’t let his otouto die-!

Protect otouto…

The kunai was within Tobirama's exposed throat when suddenly, the momentum behind Butsuma’s cowardice act came to an abrupt stand still and the air surrounding them grew silent. No one was able to speak, Hashirama and Tobirama out of shock but Butsuma? A thick branch gagged the monster of a human standing before them, vines wrapped around the horrified man’s limbs in an unforgiving hold of steadfast restraint. Hashirama had been unable to do anything but silently cry, something unfamiliar and powerful coursing underneath his skin as he had watched plants erupt from the ground beneath Butsuma’s feet and restrain the clan head in a matter of seconds, hand outreached and shaking.

“Anija.” His attention snapped to the left to see a worried Tobirama kneeling beside him, the toddler clearly having moved at some point in the chaos. Tobirama wasted no time in grabbing his extended arm with surprisingly gentle hands and lowering it into his lap, voice leveled and comforting to Hashirama’s ears. “You are safe, anija. I am here.”

That was the first of many times that Tobirama would step in-between their father and Hashirama. It was also the first time Hashirama’s mokuton awakened, a development that proved to be both a curse and a blessing for him over time. After that day, their father deemed Tobirama old enough to train much to their mother’s utmost displeasure, the woman pleading with Butsuma until a harsh slap silenced her pleas.

From that day on, the two of them were trained alongside one another and much to Hashirama’s gradual envious horror, Tobirama repeatedly proved himself to be the better shinobi in every way that matter. Ninjutsu, taijutsu, genjutsu, you name and Tobirama was excelling in it, his otouto facing Butsuma’s arduous training regiments and scathing words without a single tear and a kunai in hand. With the awakening of the mokuton, Hashirama’s training doubled and many times, he was forced to face Tobirama in combat practice, which almost always led to him collapsing in defeat and the albino standing victorious. Butsuma would verbally and physically beat Hashirama for every defeat he met at Tobirama’s skilled hands and every time his otouto stepped in to defend him, the boy would promptly be beaten as well. Every time this happened, Hashirama’s promise to his mother echoed loudly within his mind and his frustration with the younger boy would grow because he was the one that was supposed to be protecting, not Tobirama! His envy for Tobirama only grew when Butsuma would falsely praise the albino for his accomplishments to rub it in Hashirama’s face, and when their mother would coddle him with kisses and dusty scrolls and simply treat Hashirama’s wounds and hand him his study materials without a spoken word, her dark eyes conveying her desperation for him to do his work. Neither of his parents ever truly understood how hard school was for Hashirama, having been so full of energy and his attention so short that he was set up for failure from the very beginning, and neither were forgiving when they found him playing rather than studying.

“I paid for the finest tutors and what do you do?! Daydream and make flower crowns?!”

“Hashirama, please, just do your work! The faster you complete your lessons, the sooner you can join Tobirama and Touka in the courtyard-!”

While he knew their mother never meant to do it intentionally, her protectiveness over Tobirama would subtly place an ever growing wedge between her two eldest sons. Said wedge would grow larger with the arrivals of Kawarama and Itama, followed by Madoka’s birth and her and mother’s subsequent deaths, and Butsuma’s constant jeerings that seemed to always hit their mark no matter what Hashirama did to ignore it like Tobirama said to. His frustration and disdain for the war between their clan and the Uchiha grew with this wedge, Hashirama becoming far more resisting and combative because there was no point to the bloodshed the two clans were creating. He would complain to his otoutos about the stupidity of it all and all Tobirama would do is stare at him with suddenly unfeeling, dim merlot irises and tell him to be realistic and resume their training, settling his attention back on Kawarama and Itama’s stances. Tobirama had been the one to insist their two otoutos train so excessively, Butsuma watching on with feigned indifference while he watched his four sons fight one another in sadistic glee, and Hashirama did everything in his power to show the two young boys that the world had more to offer than crusty, old scrolls and war. Their opposing ideologies clashed far more often than Hashirama would care to remember, Tobirama acting if he was the all-knowing mother in a vain attempt to fill the hole left behind their poor mother and kami it angered Hashirama to no end, especially when Itama and Kawarama chose him over their eldest anija. At times, the envy Hashirama bore on his shoulders took shape in harsh words and brutal hits on the training field against the white haired boy; Tobirama, was a prodigy after all, he could handle himself in battle, even if the older boy accidentally snapped one of his bones amidst the chaos out of anger.

Their toxic relationship continued onwards as the war with the Uchiha worsened, Butsuma’s attitude following suit much to the four brothers’ chagrins simply because it meant even harsher training and far more beatings. Tobirama bore a brunt of the beatings by the age of nine and his twelve year old would keep his promise to their mother by healing the boy when his injuries were bad enough or when Butsuma took it a step too far. Aside from that, Hashirama lived out his days in search of some reprieve from the doom and gloom that came from the war and in that seemingly hopeless search, by the grace of the Kami, he came upon a raven haired boy skipping rocks on the opposite side of the Naka River.

Madara, as he would come to learn through playful teasing and mindless chats, was everything he had been looking for in those bleak days, their meetings being one of the few reasons Hashirama willingly rose from his futon every morning. They spoke about everything under the sun it seemed, from hobbies to their favorite foods, often skipping stones or adventuring up and down the Naka without a care in the world. Tobirama, ever the astute and nosy otouto that he was, of course had to notice the change in Hashirama’s overall attitude but much to his relief, the younger boy never had time to question him about it due to his mission load and his duties in the home. Hashirama would never openly admit it, but there were times that he thanked the Kami that Butsuma had saddled Tobirama with the responsibility of caring for Kawarama, Itama, and their household, simply because it meant he had more time to spend with Madara by the peaceful riverfront. Touka would berate him for abandoning Tobirama in said duties but such grievances disappeared from the front of his mind every time he saw Madara patiently waiting for him, that feigned look of indifference on the boy’s face. Outside of his studies, training, and the battlefield, Hashirama made himself scarce, aiming to avoid Butsuma’s foul temper and Tobirama’s nags in hopes of experiencing the freedom he had so desperately craved for years now. Then, in one of the worst battles between the Uchiha and Senju to date, Kawarama’s life was taken from them with the throw of a single spear and Hashirama could only wish he had spent more time with his otouto whilst he watched the dirt hit the surface of his brother’s far too small casket.

Kawarama’s death, no, murder , pushed Tobirama almost to the brink of madness and Hashirama could only watch on in silent, grieving aggravation as his otouto attempted to pretend he was smothering poor Itama in attention and protection like their mother once had done for the albino, yet he allowed Butsuma to speak so ill about his freshly buried son! Tobirama’s possessive behavior encouraged a wedge to appear between himself and Itama, the young boy clinging to Tobirama’s side like a leech instead of his like he should have, and all Hashirama could do was watch on in envious turmoil. Tobirama continued to be the perfect brother and the ever perfect cousin in Touka’s eyes, their lone surviving cousin looking down on Hashirama in disdain whilst placing oh-so-perfect Tobirama on a pedestal.

The same oh-so-perfect Tobirama who had garnered everyone’s attention on and off the battlefield, both good and bad, the one who seemed to slaughter countless lives without a single regret and carried on with blood soaked hands that dripped an endless trail behind him. His death count by the age of ten was in the hundreds and much to Hashirama’s utter horror, he followed every one of their father’s orders silently, cold and reserved like he had been since he was a baby.

“The wraith of the Senju, that is what your brother is, Hashirama-sama.”

“That thing is incapable of love, all demons are.”

“The only reason why I keep that demonic bastard alive is because of your continual failures, not only as a shinobi but as a man! A soulless, defective being serves as a better son than my own flesh and blood and all within the Land of Fire knows this!”

His friendship with Madara was the only thing that kept Hashirama sane in the months following Kawarama’s untimely demise. Topics of the world around them were banned and conversations about peace and harmony bore fruit between them, childish hope and fading innocence present. In a surprise show of emotion and vulnerability, Madara spoke of the people his family believed to be Amaterasu’s descendants, of how revered and well-loved the Blessed were because they were someone’s soulmate, of how he wished he could have been fortunate to have such a perfect person in his life. He had been so enraptured in the very idea of soulmates existing, Hashirama brought forth the question that would ruin everything.

“How do you tell the difference between who is a Blessed and who is not?”

Individuals born with skin and hair white as freshly fallen snow and eyes as red as spider lilies. Madara’s answer made Hashirama’s stomach curdle and his blood boil, his emotions clashing so dangerously within that he hadn't dared to speak in fear of saying something he couldn’t take back. He was forced to sit there and listen quietly as Madara went on and on about finding his Blessed, of meeting the one the Kami had fated him to fall in love with and take as his eventual spouse, someone that looked exactly like Tobirama. Hashirama never mentioned anything of Tobirama after that, refusing to even take the chance that Madara would discover that his otouto was one of his people’s sought after Blessed, that the boy was the one his best friend had thought about unknowingly for years. Tobirama had taken enough from him already, he wouldn’t allow him to take Madara from him as well.

Such a greedy mindset must have angered the Kami, so much that soon after the first anniversary of Kawarama’s passing, Itama joined their brother, mother, and sister in the Pure Lands. Itama’s death left the two remaining brothers broken and what little remained of Tobirama’s heart seemed to vanish from existence, the freshly turned eleven year old remaining silent in existential grief that couldn’t be remedied no matter what Touka and Hashirama did to do so. He was forced to watch perfect Tobirama slowly fall apart with each passing day and all Hashirama could do in his own grief filled mind was give the younger boy space to heal on his own. In his mourning of yet another brother dying, Hashirama numbly ventured to the river and Madara arrived not long after, and it was that day that they vowed they would create a place of peace and prosperity, a life in which their younger siblings deserved.

As their friendship continued to deepen and their training segments grew more advanced with every passing week, Hashirama found the will to at least attempt to salvage what little remained of his and Tobirama’s fractured relationship. The albino met him with initial skepticism but with time and smiles, the wedge between them shrank bit by bit; it had nearly been a decade since Hashirama could remember not feeling upset just by being in Tobirama’s presence. They trained together, ate together, soothed one another when the nightmares became too overwhelming, their relationship was finally what Hashirama had dreamed for all those years. Tobirama followed his lead and only corrected him when needed, acting as Hashirama’s rock and council in stressful times on and off the battlefield. Tobirama and him were finally brothers in more than just blood and how foolish he had been to believe that such developments had been without an ulterior motive.

Tobirama was Butsuma’s loyal, little soldier after all.

Within a day, a two year long friendship was burned to ashes, all because of his heartless monster of an otouto. Utilizing Tobirama as an innocent mean of spying on Hashirama, Butsuma learned of his friendship with Madara, and in turn came to know that the boy he met at the river was the eldest son of Uchiha Tajima, the clan head of the Senju’s mortal enemy. The truth of his best friend’s familial origins was something he had subconsciously suspected, seeing how Madara was able to use ninjutsu, genjutsu, and taijutsu, but seeing the truth set before him with Butsuma glaring at him and Tobirama hanging his head in submission like a dog made everything real. All of it turned to hell when Butsuma, in all his homicidal madness, ordered him to follow Madara and if he grew suspicious of Hashirama, to kill him, that very order sealing the fate of Hashirama and Madara’s friendship for good.

If Tobirama had just kept his damn mouth shut for once.

The next river rendezvous between Madara and himself was the final nail driven into the coffin that was his and Tobirama’s relationship, the hammer falling deafeningly against the head of the nail the moment Butsuma and the boy he once vowed to protect appeared with the intent to kill the Uchiha teen before them. Hashirama and Madara were forced to watch Uchiha Tajima and Izuna do the same, their father’s and brother’s blades meeting without mercy, the intent to kill their foe heady and suffocating. Then, without an ounce of regard or care for the children they brought into this world, each clan head threw their chosen weapon not at one another, but at the two young boys fighting below them. Both teens reacted without hesitation, neither wishing to witness yet another brother die even if there were misgivings between them, and the rocks they had once skipped out of play swiftly turned into weapons with a swift and precise flick of their wrists. Their dream died that day, as did their friendship, and with the awakening of Madara’s sharingan came the bitter reality of what Tobirama had done, of the utter betrayal he had committed simply because Butsuma had demanded.

It was that day that Hashirama silently decided he no longer had a brother, just a fellow Senju that lived under the same roof as him and fought alongside him. He played the role of the doting anija and once Butsuma was graciously killed, he wore the title of clan head to finally gain advantage over the boy for the first time since his birth all those years ago, something he wielded against Tobirama with ease. Yet, even with his harsh words and questionable actions, Tobirama stayed by his side and supported him, even drawing up extensively detailed blueprints for the village Hashirama continued to dream about night after night. A part of him had wondered whether how he treated his brother was wrong, that Tobirama perhaps had been conditioned into the mindless killer he had become, but every time Hashirama attempted to look him in the eyes, all he could see was the perfect shinobi he could never be. So, they lived with each other in tense but bearable conditions, which improved with the arrival of beautiful and graceful Mito, the Uzumaki princess being everything that Hashirama wanted, needed, and more. Better yet, she acted as the much needed buffer between the two Senjus, thankfully becoming one that assisted in dealing with Tobirama when he forgot to eat and sleep for days on end so Hashirama could tend to other matters.

Time flew by after Mito’s arrival in the Land of Fire and suddenly Hashirama was twenty-years old and facing off with Madara once again on the battlefield, their respective brothers having a battle of their own nearby. If they were truthful with themselves, everyone knew these battles were for show, used to continue on the war none of them wished for in hopes of the opposing side caving in and their clan reigning supreme. That specific day in history was the day that the tables of long winded fate were turned and the few embers of hope remaining within Hashirama’s heart grew into a fiery blaze, all because Tobirama had nearly spilt Uchiha Izuna’s blood on his already blood soaked hands but in a rare show of humanity, chose not. Tobirama’s actions that day set off a chain reaction amongst their peoples and as Hashirama sat across from Madara amidst peace concessions they both had longed for, a tiny part of him dared to acknowledge that the younger Senju heir had finally done something good in his life.

The Uchiha delegation's final requirement for concession, however, silenced that thought without hesitation. How could Madara want to marry Tobirama of all people, all because he was somehow one the “Blessed” simply because of his outward appearance?! Hashirama had tried to object, asking the Uchiha clan head whether this course of action was truly necessary, only for the bane of his existence to speak for him.

“We agree to the terms you lay before us.”

Just thinking about the moment made the hokage’s toes curl in disgruntled disgust, because how dare he steal Madara away again-?!

The sound of his office door slamming against the wall adjacent to it sent Hashirama flying upwards in surprise with a cry, the jarring feeling echoing through his right knee the moment it clashed mercilessly against the wood of his desk. Subconsciously moving to grasped the injury area whilst his mind reeled, Hashirama moved to see just who had been the culprit of the slamming of his door, only to see a tan hand marked in white scars come into his field of vision, calloused fingers unforgivingly grasping the collar of his hokage dress. The unexpected motion ripped a grunt from the hokage, Hashirama suddenly finding himself eye to eye with a seething Touka, his cousin’s dark eyes alight with barely contained rage.

“Where. Is. He?!”

Hashirama grimaced at the kunoichi frigid tone, trying to pull away from the woman in hopes of being spared from her unforgiving anger. “Touka! What are-?!”

“Don’t play dumb with me Hashirama,” Touka all but roared in face, pearly white teeth gnashed together with sharp canines out for all to see. “WHERE IS HE?!”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” In an act of primal instinct, Hashirama pushed his cousin away from himself, glaring at the kunoichi because what in the world was she talking about?!

His admission only seemed to worsen Touka’s ire, the fellow Senju stepping forward with her naginata primed and ready to strike. “Don’t play dumb with me, you-!”

“Touka.”

Manicured fingers curled around the width of Touka’s weapon, his beautiful Mito appearing in all her prim glory, face lacking any negative emotion and voice even-keeled as always.

“Mito, my sweet, thank goodness you’re here! Touka’s gone mad-!” A wave of relief swept over his confused person, Hashirama moving to embrace his lovely wife-.

Just mere inches away from wrapping his arms around the Uzumaki, Mito raised a hand of warning into the air, painted lips turnt downwards in utter seriousness. “We do not come here on a social visit, my husband. We are in search of Tobirama.”

The edges of his field of vision grew green with envy, his words dripping with jealousy as they slipped from his suddenly dry lips, arms falling unceremoniously at his sides, “Oh, is that all?”

Priming her naginata to strike once again, Touka took a threatening step forward with a deep snarl. “Is that all?! You bastard-!”

“Hashirama!”

In an instant, Hashirama’s attention was snapping over to the doorway of his office, his earth toiled irises meeting Madara’s charcoal ones, his best friend standing there with a hint of concern on his face. Behind him stood a weary Izuna and frowning Hikaku, the three Uchihas watching the scene before them unfold with cautiousness, Madara’s gloves hand clutching the doorway in a near death grip. “Where is he, Hashirama? Where is Tobirama?!”

Truthfully, the Uchiha clan head’s queries threw the Mokuton user off kilter. Wasn’t it just yesterday that Madara came to his office complaining of his brother’s poor decorum, expressing how stressful their arranged marriage had become for him?

“You! You have no right to ask where he is, you spineless bastard of a human!” Touka spun on her heel in a blur, projecting her rage onto the Uchiha without mercy. “None of you would be here if Mito and I hadn’t intervened and questioned you about Tobirama’s whereabouts!”

“You should be glad that we agreed to assist in your search for the Senju Demon! I only came along because the village’s peace treaty depends on this scam of an arranged marriage,” Izuna growled, the younger of the two Uchiha brothers glaring at the Senju kunoichi from his place beside Madara, Hikaku placing a stilling hand on the nineteen year old’s shoulder.

“That is enough, Izuna-sama,” Mito’s words silenced the boy in a second, the Uzumaki princess turning her scathing glance onto Izuna, deep plum colored irises swelling with concerned seriousness. “Now is not the time for petty arguments, nor name calling. If you truly wish to maintain peace amongst our peoples, you should learn to quell your hatred and listen for once. Such a change of behavior would do you some good.”

Mouth agape in surprise, the Uchiha teen could only stare at Mito whilst the woman moved to settle her unnerving gaze back unto Hashirama’s unsuspecting person yet again. “Hashirama, please tell us, where is Tobirama?”

“Why is there such an urgency to find him? Did otouto do something wrong again,” Hashirama wordlessly noted how everyone in the room tensed just a fraction, even Mito, the queen of prim, stoic perfection. Something was wrong, very, very wrong. “Mito, just what is going on?”

Her painted lips moved to speak, but as the first word began to slip out, Madara stepped forward with surprising steadfastness. “We believe Tobirama may have been injured. Upon entering his lab, your dear cousin and wife found it in disarray, as well as a pool of blood on the floor.”

“Hashirama!”

Glancing up from his current plant obsession of the week with a jump at the slamming of the screen door, Hashirama found himself meeting Touka’s panicked gaze, his typically stoic cousin clearly in distress. “It’s Tobirama, hurry!”

Out of nowhere, a teary-eyed Kawarama appeared, one small hand clutching onto the silky fabric of Touka’s kimono. “Father beat him, anija, he beat Tobi!”

Hashirama hadn’t realized he was running until his hand came to grapple the wood of the doorway of Tobirama’s room, dark eyes hurriedly searching the room’s contents until-. He thrust himself forward in a blur, Touka right beside him as they came to kneel at the bloodied, broken body of a contorted Tobirama, Kawarama yanking a sobbing Itama from their dying brother with desperate urgency. Ragged, wet breaths were the only thing that kept Hashirama from believing his otouto was already, his state of being lying only inches from death’s door. The younger boy’s legs were a sickening sight, his left tibia bent unnaturally underneath Tobirama’s battered skin; he nearly vomited at the jagged, alabaster bone jutting from the albino’s right leg, flesh torn and weeping thick rivets of crimson from the puncture wound.

Reaching out a shaking hand to cup Tobirama’s split skull as thick globs of salty tears began to pour down his tan face, all Hashirama’s voice could muster in his horror was a weak mutter. “Tobi, oh Kami what on earth did he do to you?!”

The pool of blood beneath the young boy’s body was a gruesome sight Hashirama knew he would never forget.

“What do you mean he may be injured? He was perfectly fine when I met him for his mission debrief this morning,” Hashirama cried, panic beginning to sprout within his chest, earth-colored irises snapping to the left to search his wife’s serious features. “Are you sure it’s even his blood?!”

“I am afraid so; the blood contained Tobirama’s chakra signature.” Mito refused to break eye contact with him, the redhead resting her hands upon his broad shoulders whilst she gifted him with an imploring look.

“That is why we must know, where is Tobirama?”

Tongue having suddenly grown heavy, Hashirama found himself stumbling over his words, the brunette unable to look away from his wife. “I-I, he requested to undertake an S-Rank assassination mission in Lightning Country and since he’s been instigating fights with Madara lately, I gave it to him, no questions asked so they could spend some much needed time apart! I didn’t know he was hurt-!”

“Whether you realized he was hurt or not means nothing now, Hashirama.” Mito’s manicured nails pressed into the muscled flesh of his shoulders, forcing him to stop mid-panicked ramble. “What matters is his time of departure and his target, nothing else. Now, when did he depart and who is his intended target?”

His target? Who was it again?

“Raikaku has been reported to be traveling throughout the steppes between here and Lightning Country,” Hashirama pointed to the map of the elemental nations set before the two brothers on his desk, gesturing to the unmarked territories marked on the general vicinity. “You are to observe first, and when you see the right moment-.”

Tobirama wasted no time in cutting him off, gifting him with a callous nod, far more stoic and aloof than he usually was. “Understood. I will not fail you, anija.”

Oh, fuck.

His chest grew heavy at the damning, frigid realization spilling into his veins, eyes growing wide and mouth going agape, desperate to deny the reality set before him. “There’s no need to get so upset, Tobi can handle himself after all-!”

Touka took another step toward him, dark eyes narrowed in impatient suspicion. “Where did you send him?!”

“He, he’s headed towards the lands between Fire and Lightning Country,” The Senju clan head wanted to vomit, his stomach thrashing madly within his core at soberly realizing he had sent his brother, his lone, remaining brother, whether he acknowledged him as one or not, to his possible death. Had Tobirama been injured like they said, and if so, why hadn’t he noticed-?

Gloved hands unforgivingly grasping the collar of his uniform jerked Hashirama from his spiraling thoughts, charcoal irises digging into his brown. Madara’s seething face was suddenly a mere inch away from his own, the Uchiha tightening his grip on Hashirama’s clothes whilst aggressively shaking his upper body. “Who is his target you, dimwit?! Who did you send Tobirama to assassinate?!”

“Raikaku, his target is Raikaku!”

The second the name of the Scribe of Raijin escaped him, he found his back meeting the wall with a jaw aching slam, uniquely patterned, swirling irises of scarlet and obsidian belonging to the one and only Uchiha Madara searing into his flesh. “What in the hell is wrong with you?! You and I both know that going after Raikaku without additional support is suicide! Are you trying to get your brother killed?!”

“Of course not! Don’t you think I told him the same thing?!” Grasping Madara’s wrist, the Mokuton user tried to shove his best friend away to no avail as he attempted (and failed) to provide logic to his decisions, the Uchiha’s grasp only tightening. “I tried to convince him to take Touka or Izuna with him but he wouldn’t listen! He just kept saying that he was fully capable and that he didn’t need to put anyone else he cared about in harm's way and then he left!”

“And you didn’t think to stop him?! You’re the goddamn Hokage, you imbecile!” Madara roared with a menacing scowl, Izuna and Hikaku rushing over to pull the frothing Uchiha off of Hashirama. “We all know that when Tobi makes up his mind, there’s no arguing with him! You of all people should know this, you’ve complained about it constantly!”

“Enough!”

“Quarreling amongst one another is going to do nothing in helping Tobirama-sama!” With a vicious tug of Madara’s arm, Hikaku placed himself between the two of them, the look on his face deadly as the jellyfish toxin Mito ingrained into the finishing of her senbon needles.

Touka gave a reluctant nod of agreement, pointing the blade of her naginata at the pair of them. “The Uchiha's right, we’re wasting time. We need to catch up to Tobirama before it’s too late. Now shut the fuck up, you pieces of shit!”

“For once, I agree with you, Senju,” Izuna quipped readily beside her, only to garner himself a threatening finger being pointed his way. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, you scheming weasel! Your treatment of my cousin is just as despicable as theirs and I’ll be damned if I don’t beat you within an inch of your life like you fucking deserve the moment Tobirama is safe!”

The threat promptly had Izuna shutting his mouth with an audible click, to which Mito took as a sign to speak. “If we have any hope of stopping Tobirama before he reaches Raikaku, we need to leave immediately.”

“Hikaku-san, Izuna-sama, you will remain here in the village in case a situation occurs. Touka, Hashirama, Madara-sama, and I will be pursuing Tobirama en route.”

Settling her damning plum irises on the three shinobi, the Uzumaki princess spoke like a true war leader. “Gather everything you will need for the journey ahead and rendezvous at the northeastern entrance within five minutes. Be late, and we will leave you behind.”

Madara let out a grunt, the Uchiha sending a poisonous glare towards Hashirama. “I will be ready in two.”

With that said, the dark eyed man disappeared in a flash of smoke and fluttering leaves, leaving the remaining five shinobi to their own devices. Izuna and Hikaku wasted no time in abandoning the office as well, shunshinning after Madara most likely, who was in the most peculiar of moods, even for the Uchiha clan head. Hashirama moved to speak with a solemn Mito, only for a seething Touka to block his path, his cousin glaring at him with fiery eyes. “If Tobirama dies because you, know that you’ll be the first one I’ll be killing, you being hokage be damned.”

“Touka, I’m-.”

“If you are done threatening my husband, dear cousin,” Mito sidled against Hashirama's right side, gifting the taller kunoichi with a warning glance. “You should be preparing yourself for the road ahead.”

“You’re lucky your wife is terrifying, Hashirama, or your ass would be mine. Remember that.” Sending one last glare his way, Touka pulled away and shunshinned with the swift signing of her hands.

“Hashirama.”

The twenty year old shifted his gaze downwards to meet Mito’s, the redhead meeting him with a face of little to no emotion. “If Tobirama does not return home with us unscathed, I will not stop Touka from beating you within an inch of your life.”

“Mito, I-!”

“Silence,” Hashirama paused mid objection, knowing far better than to test his wife’s patience. “I am thoroughly disappointed in you, husband. In fact, I am appalled by your behavior. I have every right to divorce you and remove Tobirama from your care, since you clearly care so little about him to begin with.”

Not waiting for Hashirama to respond, the Uzumaki kunoichi stepped away, her gaze never leaving his. “Ready yourself, we leave in four minutes.”

She was gone in a puff of smoke, the scent of sea salt wafting through the office air, leaving Hashirama to bear the weight of his mistakes all on his lonesome.

“You must promise me, Hashirama, that no matter what may occur between the two of you, you will protect Tobirama from harm. He will be your greatest ally and dearest friend, even in times of turmoil and strife, so you must take care of him and treat him well. Do you understand?”

“I promise mama! I’ll protect Tobirama, no matter what!”

The young man was unable to stop his stomach from heaving its contents outwards at the guilt-drenched memory, the burning bile scorching the inside of his throat with shame while he expelled what little remained of his breakfast in a nearby pot. After a few moments of unsuccessful dry heaving, Hashirama pulled away with a pant, wiping the bile coating his lips on the back of hand without a care in the world. He wasted no time in rising to his feet and stripping himself of his hokage attire, slipping his armor onto his shaking form and shunsinning to the northeastern entrance.

Hopefully the others would still be there when he arrived.

~~~

Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated!

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thatredheadwriter · 1 year

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Pleasure

ezra x fem!reader

So, I found this dusty old draft that just needed an ending and some polishing up, and here it is five months later. This can totally be read as a prequel to the other Ezra fic I wrote, sort of a happy accident that way. I intended this to be set a few years before the events of Prospect.

This is an NSFW oneshot for female reader with Ezra of Prospect. This work contains smut and mature language and should not be read by those under 18. As a writer, I will attempt to make accurate warnings for each of my fics, however, I cannot guarantee that I will identify each and every sensitive topic. My works regularly contain swearing, allusions to/mentions of sex, and canon-level violence.

**Content Warnings below the cut**

Content Includes (but is not limited to):

Coworkers to who the fuck even knows (they didn’t fuck, now they do)

Pet names

Mutual masturbation

Sexual competition

Dirty talk

Cum play/cum eating

Oral (fem receiving)

Fingering

Biting

Slight overstim

Slight D/s undertones, but switchy

Please read at your own discretion and remember to consume your fanfiction responsibly.

Sweat drips down your brow as you held your partner’s gaze, focus never wavering.

“You look good like this, Bug,” Ezra drawls, head leaned back on the rail of his bunk, cock leaking precum in his fist.

Your hand dips into your throbbing heat once more, fingers curling against that spongy spot that sent electricity up your spine. “I think I prefer you with the suit,” you pant as you withdraw your fingers and use the slick to rub steady circles over your clit.

It started as a joke.

Ezra liked to talk. Out in the endless sprawl of the Green, doing grueling work that somehow required all your concentration and yet left you completely bored, your partner tended to ramble. You didn’t mind so much. It filled the silence and your ears couldn’t ring as loudly when Ezra was pondering the meaning of life in your ear.

What you did mind were his little jibes–barbed words meant to provoke you to dispute. If anyone ever asked you what Ezra’s favorite activity was, you’d tell them it was arguing. Usually, you could ignore him. But every once in a while he’d find one that you just couldn’t abide. You were always rewarded for your efforts with a dazzling grin, brighter than any star you’d seen.

“You know, it’s men who’re always judged for our stamina in bed, but in my experience, a lot of you women folk are awful quick to release yourselves.”

The sudden change in topic from the rising cost of filter replacements made your head snap up, and you cursed as you nearly punctured the blister on your pod, which of course made Ezra laugh.

You tossed the acid blister aside and looked back at your partner, “What the fuck are you going on about now?”

“I was just thinking about last night. I know I’ve made many women cum in just a wink. And you cum so fast, Junebug, I don’t know how you can enjoy it,” he spoke casually as if he was commenting on the weather, but your jaw dropped in protest.

It was true, prospecting didn’t lend itself to privacy. Living in the small shelter you’d erected for the dig meant you’d seen, smelled, and heard everything the other had to give. But it was like an unspoken rule that you both pretended not to notice noises coming from the other’s bunk or the tiny shower room only separated by a wall of waxed canvas.

You bit your lip, trying to choose an answer that wouldn’t inflame the situation. “You really talk a big game, Ez. I try to be a considerate roommate, unlike some people.”

“So you like to listen?” a note of interest colored his voice.

“I like to take off my headphones and go to sleep, but I like to wait until it’s quiet.”

“That does not change my position, sugar. Fact is, I can last ten times longer than you.”

“Wanna bet?”

That was around midday yesterday. The two of you had finished too late in the day to do anything but collapse into your bedrolls, utterly exhausted and worn down by the harsh of the Green. But neither of you had forgotten, and you spent the morning discussing rules.

“No touching each other,” you started out, “And we can each wear one article of clothing.”

Ezra agreed without debate, “Whatever you want, Bug.” You work on it for a bit before he added his own rule, “No stopping for more than five seconds.”

“Makes sense,” you grumbled, focusing on not falling face-first into your dig pit.

You spent the rest of your day wondering if you were really going to do this, pleasure yourself in front of Ezra. Your partner, your only sentient contact on this armpit of a world.

That was just hours ago. Now you’re sitting across from him, legs spread wide to expose your dripping cunt to him. You weren’t sure how long you’d been doing this, but you’d lost count of the number of times you’d gone to the edge. As much as it nearly killed you to admit, Ezra was right. Lately, you’d been self-pleasuring with efficiency in mind, and your stamina has been stunted as a result.

Frankly, Ezra wasn’t fairing much better. He was a sight, pants shoved halfway down his thighs, which were currently flexing hard as he fought off his orgasm yet again. His hair was matted to his forehead with sweat, face flushed, and chest heaving. But all the while, his eyes never left you.

As yet another orgasm builds and slips through your fingers, literally, an idea forms in your cloudy brain. Maybe it’s playing dirty, but it’s not against the rules.

“I wonder what you taste like,” you say with a small, spacey smile. Ezra’s jaw flexes at your words, and you can tell you’re already getting to him.

“I’d be lying if I said I’d seen a prettier cock,” you coo. “Bet it’d fit perfectly….right here,” you slip your fingers back inside, pushing so it makes a sound that has him moaning in retaliation.

“You’re playing dirty, little Junebug,” Ezra growls, but his hand doesn’t slow down on his cock. He’s rubbing faster now, and you can see him losing control.

You chuckle, pumping your fingers in and out, putting on a show for him. “I think you like when I play dirty, Ez.”

He moans again and his head thuds against the bunk. His sounds are starting to get to you too, every time he makes a sound or the muscles under his soft tummy flex you’re inching closer and closer to a cataclysmic precipice.

“I’ve thought about it, you know,” you blurt, suddenly confessing in your pursuit to win and cum. “Wondered what it would be like, you filling me up. That’s what I think about, when I touch myself.”

Ezra shouts, and hot white ropes of cum spurt out, coating his hand and belly. He fucks his fist through his high and you wish you could exist in this moment forever.

When he’s finally finished, his hand falls away, body melting into the mattress underneath him. You realize that your hand has stilled between your legs, too distracted by the performance of pleasure in front of you to chase your own.

“You win,” he grins tiredly, popping an eye open to look at you.

“You’re the only one who’s cum,” you snort, breaking out of your daze.

It’s quiet for a moment between you two, save for your panting breath and the everpresent sound of life outside in the Green.

Your brain must have melted in the heat because your internal filter is totally gone. When Ezra starts to get up, presumably to clean the release from his body, you whimpered, and his eyes flashed to you. “Don’t. I want to taste.”

His eyes darken at your words and a sly smirk creeps across his face. “Are you going to allow me to return the favor?” Ezra asks hesitantly, careful not to ask too much. You’d agreed not to touch one another, but with the way every molecule of your body is yearning for him, you could give a shit about some stupid games.

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, slipping down onto your knees in front of Ezra, his plump bottom lip taking the brunt of his lust as you slip between his still-clothed thighs.

It’s unusually quiet as Ezra tenses underneath you, the only sound in the suffocating silence the air purifiers–no doubt working overtime with all the sweat and heat you two were generating. His thighs are lean and muscled beneath your fingertips as your brace yourself, leaning in to taste the wet release still clinging to his stomach.

You both groan as your tongue licks a thick strip up his belly, salty release coating your tongue. Instantly you want more, so you take it. By the time you’re finished, there’s not a trace of his release left and his cock is beginning to harden again.

“Shit, Bug, is it my turn yet?” Ezra pants above you, eyes dark and wanting.

“I don’t know,” you sit back on your heels, stripping off your sweat-soaked t-shirt. “Don’t the rules say I need to cum first?”

Ezra’s fingers unclench from the fabric of his pants, the fabric still creased from his iron grip. He strokes your jaw with unmatched reverence. “I’ll have you cumming until the next revolution, Bug. Can I?” his gaze dropped to your exposed breasts, and you don’t miss the way his tongue darts out to wet his flushed lips.

“Please, Ez,” you whisper.

With his hand on your neck, he pulls you up into a feverish kiss. The other finds your chest with ease.

Ezra groans into your kiss, “I knew you were hiding somethin’ sweet under that suit, bug.”

It’s not long before you find yourself sprawled back on your cot, Ezra knelt between your spread thighs. He eyes your center greedily, and before you can make a quip about knowing where to start, he’s started a pattern on your clit that has your fingers threading through his hair.

“How do you taste so fucking good?” his voice rumbles in your cunt, making you grip tighter at his dirty brown hair.

“How can you eat me like a man starved and still be talking?” you laugh breathlessly, head dropping back onto the pillows.

“I can do a lot of things, sugar,” Ezra breaks away from the task at hand so he can slide his hand up your body, stopping only to tap two of his fingers against your lips. Without question you welcome him inside, humming with satisfaction when you taste his precum from earlier. You suck and tease your tongue around his fingers, and Ezra lets out a series of low curses before pulling them from your lips with a small ‘pop’.

His tongue returns to draw steady circles on your clit, but you nearly lose it when he slips a finger inside of you, curling it up against that perfect spongy spot that makes stars appear behind your eyes.

“Fuck, fuck, that’s it,” you cry, bucking your mouth up against him, but he’s got you pinned. Another finger joins the first and soon they’re fucking and out of you like a piston, Ezra curling them ever so slightly each time until you can’t hold back any longer.

You cum when his teeth graze against your clit. One hand fists the roots of his hair–earning you a sharp bite to your inner thigh, a growl escaping him even as his fingers and thumb continue to drive you through your orgasm.

It’s as if you black out for a moment, and when you wake, you’re jolted by the sensation of Ezra cleaning up your release with his tongue, mischievous eyes locking on yours instantly.

“I knew that mouth was good for something,” you scoff breathlessly as you sit up on your elbows to look down at him.

“Keep acting like a brat and that’ll be the last release you get this cycle,” he says even as he licks through your folds once more, eyes fluttering shut as he savors the taste. Just as he’s starting to get going again, your walls fluttering around nothing, you push him back with your foot on his shoulder.

“Uh-uh, pretty boy. It’s my turn now.”

#ezra #ezra prospect #prospect #ezra smut #ezra x reader #ezra x reader smut #ezra oneshot #ezra fanfiction #ezra fanfic #ezra fic #smutty ezra fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character

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wandaluvstacos · 8 months

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i sure do love writing a book with heavy handed feminist and sociopolitical themes in the form of the much mocked a/b/o format. There's something about taking something that's often ridiculed (let's be honest, the ridicule is sometimes warranted) and using it instead to talk about the the politics of reproduction, bodily autonomy and how patriarchy is enforced by even those who don't stand to benefit, but with aliens instead of humans because it keeps it all from feeling too raw and real.

I never liked a/b/o because its main premise is always your instinct to either dominate or submit is biological and immutable, which is a sexist idea wielded by men against women for millennia. In fandom it's typically made gay, of course, but there are no feminine Alphas fucking/pairing with masculine omegas, let's be honest. Some defend it as a way to play with gender and pregnancy and all that and I'm totally fine with people messing around with funky fetish shit to their heart's content because we only live one life, but I do get a kick out of taking something with typically regressive basic assumptions and playing with it until it's fully juiced with the politics of gender and reproduction. like yessss bitch, let's make this much-maligned fetish trope into something we get to be a feminist killjoy about!

There were three important things I wanted to say with this book which is:

Patriarchy is a system that is taught early and often, and it fucks over literally everyone who is not at the very top of the hierarchy. It definitely fucks over the people at the bottom the most, but it affects everyone along the chain.

If you work people hard, it means they're so exhausted and overwhelmed that they have no mental capacity to question why things are the way they are. If you make it so they have to participate in the hierarchy to survive, you can maintain its hold, even if it's brutal.

Much of the patriarchy's structure is upheld by the very people it seeks to disenfranchise. Betsra have very few rights in Yukiktrum society, but because they're still a step higher than ometki, they will take what little power they have and cling to it, often viciously. Untkra learns to hate them nearly as much as they hate Alphrim, because they've been dehumanized and terrorized by both.

There's also a lot of themes surrounding the politics of reproduction-- who controls it, who benefits from it, etc. And there's also gender, which with the abotskrut can be extremely stratified even while the reality of biology and reproduction itself is not.

anyway I just wanted to talk about this book as I dive into Akche's story, because I've been having a good time showing how someone who is coded as masc can be indoctrinated into the cult of patriarchy and thus begins to reproduce it themself before rejecting the violence it requires.

also, I like writing about a communist underground village where everyone gets free housing, food, and healthcare. :p

also look at how many pronouns all the aliens have. the gender neutral "they" is doing us all a favor.

here's some art

#Bright Day Blue Day #omegaverse aliens #a/b/o #my writing #i just think they're neat

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toothpuulp · 4 months

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joe bob on men, women, and chain saws -- possibly my favorite book review ever. love his ass <33

transcript under the cut

"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 12/18/92

cutline: Berkeley professor Carol Clover, author of "Men, Women and Chain Saws," may be the first person with a Ph.D. ever to watch 200 slasher flicks BY CHOICE.

By Joe Bob Briggs

Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas

For about ten years now, I've been getting flack from various organizations of feminists, fundamentalists, mad mamas and psycho college professors, claiming that the movies I write about--that is, the three B's, Blood, Breasts and Beasts--are sick and demeaning and twisted and perverted.

Of COURSE they are. Why do you think I watch em?

But there's other stuff they say that is NOT true. For example:

1. Slasher movies are demeaning because they celebrate violence against women.

I never understood this one, because I never noticed a single movie in which more women were killed than men, AND in 99 per cent of them, the ONLY person who survives is a woman.

2. Hard-core horror flicks cause crime.

If this is true, the Tarrant County Sheriff's Department should have a posse stationed outside my trailer house 24 hours a day, because NOBODY has watched more hard-core horror flicks than I have. Any day now I could go off the deep end and start flinging hatchets at old ladies.

3. Horror flicks are a way for rednecks (like me) to act out weird violent fantasies.

In other words, all of us out here in the boonies are like the cannibal family in "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre." We really WOULD like to be munching on tourists. Otherwise, why would we laugh and hoot at the screen when Leatherface's family does it?

Anyhoo, I've talked till I'm blue in the face about this stuff. I've gone to seminars, challenged the president of the National Organization of Women to a nude mud-wrestling match, faced off against that shrewd fundamentalist, Dr. Thomas Radecki, head of the National Coalition Against TV Violence. But nobody ever listens, because it's "just Joe Bob."

In other words, I'm too pitiful.

So I wanna say something here, and I want you to listen REAL carefully. I'm about to tell you about a book written by a Berkeley professor. This is hard for me. Large parts of my identity depend on HATING everything that comes out of Berkeley. But I like this book so much that I almost don't even wanna review it, because what if everybody says "Oh, don't read THAT. JOE BOB LIKES IT!"

But it gets lonely out here. So here goes.

"Men, Women and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film" is written by Carol J. Clover, Professor of Scandinavian and Comparative Literature at the University of California at Berkeley.

Whew! I'm already exhausted. Carol, next time, when you write a book, study titles like "Jaws" and "It." It's easier on all of us.

Anyhow, I'm not gonna try to analyze this whole book, because a lot of it, frankly, is over my head. (You scoff?) But it's basically about three kinds of flicks--slasher movies, possession films like "The Exorcist," and rape-revenge films like "I Spit On Your Grave." In fact, I'm pretty sure this is the first serious book in the history of the world to do a complete analysis of the PLOT of "I Spit On Your Grave."

But, from my selfish point of view, I want you to know a few things Professor Carol decided after watching about 200 of these movies:

1. Slasher movies are told FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF THE WOMAN! In fact, the "Final Girl"--or, as I call her, the Jamie Lee Curtis Girl--is so much a part of the slasher film that the writer doesn't have any choice. You've GOT to have a Final Girl, and the Final Girl HAS TO BE A GIRL.

2. Since 99 per cent of the audience at slasher movies is MALE, this means that all those men are IDENTIFYING WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF THE WOMAN! They're experiencing the movie THROUGH A WOMAN'S BODY! ... In other words, the OPPOSITE of what the feminist censors have been saying for umpteen jillion years now.

3. Jason and Leatherface are actually FEMALES DISGUISED AS MALES. Kind of a transvestite deal. Think about it. Aren't these guys always real screwed up sexually? Don't they always have trouble DECIDING what they are? It's a tradition that continues right up through Jame Crumb, the psycho killer in "Silence of the Lambs." So the original criticism of these movies--that the killers are always male, and the principal victims always female--is turned upside down.

3. The real villains in horror movies are MALE REDNECKS. "The rednecks have replaced the redskins," she says. In the old westerns, any Indian who came on screen was ASSUMED TO BE VIOLENT AND HATEFUL AND SAVAGE. Today, any redneck who comes on the screen is assumed to be violent and hateful and savage.

4. "I Spit On Your Grave," which has been called the most disgusting film ever made (by Eggbert and Siskel), and which has been banned from cable TV for 15 years, is actually told from a female point of view, so that the audience identifies with the ultimate triumph of the woman over the leering rapists. (As I've always said, what male could ever watch the bathtub scene and think the movie is in FAVOR of violence against women? When I see that scene, I can't walk straight for a week.)

5. "The Accused" and "Thelma & Louise" are both watered-down versions of "I Spit On Your Grave." And "Silence of the Lambs" is just another version of "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre."

You think I'm oversimplifying this deal?

Yeah, okay, sure. Probly. I'm probly gonna get a letter from the whole goldang Berkeley faculty, saying "You ignorant yahoo, that's NOT what it means."

But right now, today, after reading this book, I feel pretty good about it. Makes me think there's some hope. Makes me think some smart people will get their hands on it and become dumb like me.

Hundreds of dead bodies. No breasts. Academic Fu. "Men, Women and Chain Saws," published by--oh my God!--Princeton University Press.

Four stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

#something about his very un-pretentious hick persona perfectly summarizing such a dense text rlly tickles me.#love u carol but some of ur sentences get real thesaurus-y #joe bob ur so much smarter than you’d like anyone to think <33 #joe bob briggs #carol clover #men women and chain saws #joe bob’s drive-in

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balkanradfem · 1 year

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Wanted to drop in and say first of all that your blog is amazing! You have worded so articulately, so perfectly so many thoughts and feelings I've had recently. Well, rather I've had for a long time on some level but never really confronted with honesty until recently. It has taken a bit of time to ease myself into this world, as a new feminist.

I'm currently trying to list double standards between men and women, the ones that men have created to against women, to explain to someone who clearly doesn't "get it", but I'm getting sort of overwhelmed because they are basically ubiquitous, and more like double binds where you are punished either way.

I have beauty standards down. I've had pushback every time on this but I think I'm good there. There's also the way men have slurs for women who have sex (whore, slut) and for women who don't (prude, frigid). Men are not defined by their sexual history nor are shamed for it the way women have been forever.

They treat male cheaters better than female ones, even going as far as to say men should be allowed to cheat.

They say "not all men", but treat women like a monolith. They accuse us of playing victim when we bring up serious systematic male violence against women, in every country, but feel discriminated against if we don't take being expected to pay for dates and being drafted in some countries (all a result of patriarchy) as an equivalent oppression point.

They hold women to higher ethical standards. They hold women to higher standards of parenthood. They cry sexism if anyone doesn't take their crying seriously but relentlessly mock (and make memes out of) women showing emotions online, call them manipulative, and even use them as evidence that women should be restricted from working.

They're allowed to blame women for male violence and general bad behaviour from the men in their lives. They don't get blamed for choosing the wrong partner or breaking up the family if they decide to leave their partners after being treated badly. They're allowed to talk about single mothers like used cars and treat single fathers as heroes. They get free domestic and reproductive labour from women but want everything they do to be compensated.

They consider women focusing on their career instead of children to be selfish but not men.

They expect their loneliness to be taken seriously but consider lonely women defective.

Is there anything you could add, or correct? Do you have your own list of double standards you can share?

You got it down pretty good, I can't think anything off the top of my head, but I think the biggest difference is in the power of one's word, male words are believed to be shaping reality, while words that come from women are believed to be shaping nothing but lies and deceit, especially if they're speaking from the female perspective, and not recounting whatever men want them to.

I don't know if it can be called a 'double standard', but the fact that we weren't a part of the work force from the beginning, and were only allowed to participate in the latest versions of it, gives them a huge benefit, and they're using it to make sure women have the most ungrateful and exhausting work, while they take credit for it themselves, on top of underpaying the same women and making sure they don't progress as fast, or at all in the work field. If women do progress or start overtaking a specific field of work, it will immediately get demoted, underfunded, and disregarded as frivolous and not-serious-enough.

I feel like double standards are very tame words to explain the situation, even though it's a very good way to point out that we're not equal and how it can be visible in common beliefs and common treatment of women. We're basically living in a world that men built and shaped for nobody and nothing but themselves, with women meant only as servants, entertainment and resource for them to use. Nothing is created for women alone, not medicine, not healthcare, not resources, not buildings, not vehicles, not jobs, not families. All of these center men, benefit men, put men in the position of control, while women are seen as 'stepping out of their place' if they attempt to fight and win their own space and resources inside of it.

Women are being shamed and humiliated both before and after they're used and exploited by males, and even if they do absolutely everything they're supposed to, they're still likely to end up abused, wounded by injustice, forced into childbirth and marriage, ending with no shelter, resources, land or economic power of their own. Men, on the other hand, are more likely to inherit resources, gain economic power, hoard resources, land and will expect to trap a woman with what they got. We're essentially always put in position where we either manage to ward off from men or end up being exploited if we make one mistake, have one emotional and vulnerable moment where they get the best of us. Men can hardly say they face the same hardship - the most a woman can get from a man is some of his money, and it's still not going to give her opportunities to gain nowhere near as much as men can in today's society.

It's almost insane we still have to explain there's 'double standards', but I absolutely understand how it's practical to have a few on hand to be able to easily point out when someone is acting obtuse.

Whenever I see a woman online bullied for saying something not 100% considerate to all minorities on the planet, I imagine what would the reaction be if a man said that, and every single time, I can see dozens of men doing hundred times worse shit and getting away with it because they're just not believed to even be capable of that much consideration, and they're forgiven for it by default. If a man had acted online with the same behaviour as any problematic woman, he would be praised to heavens for how progressive and insightful he is. He would be considered a feminist, an icon, the best man in the world for doing even 5% of emotional labour that women do on daily basis. It pisses me off seeing people rage at women for shit they wouldn't make them blink if a man said.

I guess there's also double standards of 'how many men do we make die in childbirth, how many men do we impregnate and abandon, how many men do we use as sexual entertainment and resource, how many underage men do we marry off to older and predatory women who will rape them, how much torture and abuse of men do we watch on the daily basis to get off, how many men do we force to change their appearance to childlike so we'd have a better time predating over them', it becomes bit more obvious when you put it that plainly that we're in a position that cannot even be compared to mens.

If someone else can think of more examples, please add to the post.

#double standards #radical feminism #ask

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susandsnell · 4 months

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1, 6, 24 😉 xx

eeee, thank you so much ditty!!!! you're an absolute gem, hope this solstice thursday is treating you well!! <3

choose violence ask game 🔥

1. the character everyone gets wrong? pick a Batman Rogue. any rogue. literally any of them, and they will be Flanderized to hell and back over one to two traits they may not even have canonically possessed for two to three decades. I readily and wholeheartedly admit that this is not entirely the fault of fandom, and is at least partly owing to the broader problem with having long-running comics universes, because there is such a huge variance in characterization (and quality of said characterization thanks to the overabundance of edgelord and bigoted comics/comic media writers), in the gravity of their actions and where they land on the moral spectrum, and even in motivation that it is nigh impossible to even say what getting said character 'right' means unless the person is talking about a specific iteration (ex.: someone writing fic or making headcanons about specifically Paul Dano's Riddler from The Batman 2022, who has a very particular voice/ethos/motive distinct from your other Riddlers, though there are core shared traits). But of this bunch, i'd have to say my poor Ivy gets it the worst. I'm truly glad she's evolved beyond being just another Temptress of Men Who Hates Them But Also Needs Their Validation Through Constant Sex (although done right she's still a great femme fatale wasting their time and catfishing them for eco-terrorism purposes), and of course as a canon queer character she means the world to me, but as is the case with every popular female character, she's either Holding The Braincell (aka everyone's mom, and I don't mean in the kink way), or Irredeemable. A lot of this does arise from how poor the execution of modern canon Harlivy has been because of respectability politics, but reducing her to Snarky Husky Voiced Plant Lady Rolling Her Eyes At Harley's Antics, making her have her shit way too together (she's always sent to Arkham!), making her the one-sided babysitter/healer of Harley's problems (and by extension, the problems of any other woman), making her a snarky queer auntie to the Batkids (vomit, it's as cringe as the rest of mainstream Batfam fanon), making her have way too much emotional intelligence to the point of counselling others (she's not even one of the psychologist rogues!), having her whole existence revolve around Harley....it's exhausting. (And again, unfortunately something the writers are fucking up in canon constantly, too.)

Fandom as a whole is allergic to women having flaws that impact the narrative concretely without demonizing them for it (when the dudes doing the same and worse are adored and worshipped for it), doubly so if she's BIPOC or queer (because again, double the respectability politics), so they flatten out those flaws and it's like, is she even a villain anymore with her own motivations and ethos, or is she a big tiddy witch gf from a paywalled phone app dating sim? Let her be as complex and angry and jagged and hypocritical as the other male rogues, my god!! (Sidenote that I'm not against retooling characters' designs/presentations/tactics anew entirely for a new universe iteration, especially if it refreshes the narrative, so long as they're interesting and true to some spirit of the character. In other words, masc Ivy's are fine and more than welcome lol.)

6. Which ship fans are the most annoying?

Oh, you really want me to swing my bat at the hornet's nest with this one, huh? While the cheat answer for this is "all of them if you spend enough time in any given ship fandom", I'm the most frequently exhausted by migratory Good Girl Fixing Bad Boy fandom. Fuck it, I'll name names with periods. The Zutar.a/Reyl.o/Darkli.na/Dae.myra et cetera fandom. The ships themselves, I can take or leave (though my main gripe is frequently their execution is just boring). There's no moral objections on my part, to be clear. I'd be hypocritical to take that tack considering my own tastes in markedly more fucked-up shit and like, hello, I cut my teeth in Phantom of the Opera fandom since I was 12 and love gothic romances, so like, glass houses. My issue comes in where these types without fail are consistently smug about the potent feminism inherent to ships they specifically in fanon interpret in the most boring, gender essentialist, wattpad daddy-dom-size-difference kink ho-hum ways imaginable because...it makes them horny, and woman horny about traditional gender roles equals feminism somehow. If it stopped there, I'd've never developed such an animosity, but no no. They make arguments about how much more feminist it is than the (often canon) hero/heroine ships because Feminism Is When Woman Is Treated Like Property By The Man I Find Attractive. They act like cishet romances, usually between two white characters, is the most marginalized thing imaginable and whinge that artists/studios/creators are "too cowardly" to "include romance" if it doesn't go canon in the way they like, as if more marginalized romance stories aren't fighting tooth and nail just to get off the ground. And on that note, the bigotry I have witnessed firsthand in these circles is just appalling; this is a fandom-wide issue and certainly not exclusive to any one shipping community, but the amount of times I have seen them come off as just frothing at the mouth to be homophobic should a slash shipper not bend the knee to the Great Potent Feminism of their ships, and the amount of times the mask as come off is just. Whew. It's okay to just be horny. It really is. One does not have to make a Social Issue Thing about it.

24. Topic that brings up the most rancid discourse? Weird corollary to the above question, and kind of an overbroad answer so I apologize, but Appropriate Amount Of Condonation Versus Condemnation of both characters, and works of fiction as a whole. I feel like the purity culture discourse has gotten so toxic it's gone completely 0 or 100 "if you watch something where something bad happens You Yourself Are Guilty Of This Thing" or "nothing fictional has any impact whatsoever", when my take is a more nuanced idea of media normalizing and reinforcing certain biases, but also, it's not real lmao. If the work itself espouses certain troubling viewpoints it's unsurprising if the audience takes that on (ex: Frank Miller perpetuating racism and misogyny through his writings), but people are such whining babies about so much as glimpsing any kind of Problematic Media (especially miserable if you're a horror fan) that I understand how the knee-jerk defensiveness arose. On the other hand, the baby got thrown out with the bathwater, including by opportunistic bigots who want to shut down any and all critical discussion of social issues present in or surrounding their interests, lest it Spoil Their Fun (and to silence people over whom they're privileged), to the point that any critique from a moral standpoint is immediately branded as Purity Culture with no regard to nuance or the context of the perspective of the person making the critique. So for example, you have people who throw hissy fits about Catra from She-Ra getting a redemption arc and you have people who thoughtfully point out how the writing of certain tropes in a given work perpetuate transmisogyny, and they're all thrown in the same basket and it's exhausting. No space for nuance, you're either Pro or Anti, and to quote Sarah Z's excellent video on this issue, I for one am a tax-paying adult woman.

#thank you SO much for giving me the opportunity to bitch #hope you're doing wonderful!!! <3 #ask night

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foundtherightwords · 11 months

Text

Love in a Storm - Chapter 5

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham (Regency AU)

Summary: A devastating loss threatens the happy marriage of Edward and Christine Munson, Lord and Lady Hurtsfield. However, when Edward is accused of a crime he didn't commit, Christine has to set her grief aside and embark on a perilous journey to prove her husband's innocence.

Warnings: childbirth, stillbirth, infertility, angst, false accusation, wrongful imprisonment, legal drama, some violence (non-graphic), some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter warnings: brief mention of a child's death

Chapter word count: 3.7k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Christine pulled the hood of her cloak low over her forehead, careful to make sure that it covered her face, as she walked swiftly toward the parish workhouse of St. Andrew Holborn, where the family of Robert Adams currently resided. Though Murray had advised against having any contact with the witnesses or their families, for fear it could be construed as witness tampering, Christine couldn't rest until she had to at least talk to Mrs. Adams and gain an understanding as to why Adams was willing to condemn not only his fellow conspirators, but also an innocent man.

At first, she had put her hope into finding Jane. Over the last two weeks, Christine and the Hargrove sisters had exercised every resource they had, visiting all the workhouses and dosshouses they could and asking on the streets, while Murray had turned to his criminal informants, and still Jane remained lost. They were now fearing the worst - that she had either fled from London or been killed. Christine had also written to various members of Parliament and the Privy Council, looking for a sympathetic ear, but despite getting her fingers nearly permanently stained with ink, she had gotten no reply. She felt she should run mad if she continued with all these futile attempts. Talking to Robert Adams's wife was her last resort.

Still, she knew this was a risk, and it could turn out very badly for Edward if she was discovered, hence her caution to hide her face. She had picked her oldest, most faded black cloak, and had asked the cab driver to drop her at a distance from the workhouse, so her approach would be less conspicuous.

The workhouse announced itself by a knot of desperate-looking people mingling about in front of the brick edifice. Night was falling, and workhouses and dosshouses always filled up fast. These people had probably arrived too late to secure a place, yet they lingered on, hoping for a vacancy or for some coins so they could perhaps while the night away in a pub or a coffee stall instead. Christine tried not to look at them as she made her way to the visitors' entrance. She knew, in her mind, that their unfortunate circumstances were not their fault, but in her heart, she couldn't help feeling some fear and revulsion at their deprivation.

At the entrance, she stumbled upon what looked like several bundles of rags on the ground. Only when a matted head poked out of the rags that she realized, with horror, that they were people - with faces and hair and clothes so grimy and tattered that it was impossible to tell if they were men or women. Unlike those who were still standing and walking, this group appeared too ill or exhausted even to move. All she could see were their sunken, hungry eyes, fixed on her with a silent cry for help.

Christine knocked on the door to the visitors' entrance. A stout woman with a ruddy complexion and a grim countenance, whom she presumed to be the mistress of the workhouse, opened the little window on the top and peered out, looking none too pleased to see Christine. "What'd you want?" she barked.

"There are people out here on the ground—why didn't you let them in?" Christine asked.

The mistress gave an exasperated frown. "Why?" she repeated. "Lord bless my soul, the place is full. The place is always full - every night. What can I do? I must give preference to women with children, mustn't I? If you're so concerned for them, help them!" With that, she shut the window in Christine's face.

Christine couldn't shake off the feeling of those eyes on her back. Digging into her reticule, she pulled out a coin and placed it in the palm of the person who had lifted their head to look at her.

It was a mistake. The moment the coin left her hand, the others crowded about her with upturned palms and pleading mouths. She didn't have enough coins for all of them. She clutched the reticule closer to her chest. "Please, let me through," she tried to say, but her plea was drowned out by coarse voices that clamored around her, begging, crying, fighting, while she found herself being tumbled amongst dirt-caked hands that tugged at her bag, her cloak, her cap, her hair.

Suddenly she heard a voice shouting, "Move, you wretches! Leave the lady be!" The crowd parted - or was shoved aside. A man was cutting through them, raining blows and kicks down on them, until the starvelings all dispersed, save for those too weak to move, who were forced to curl up on the ground under the onslaught. Still the man kept kicking and punching whoever he could lay hands on, until Christine had to speak up.

"Please!" she said. "Please, don't hurt them. They're just hungry."

The man finally stopped. To her surprise, Christine found her savior to be a friendly-looking man, almost angelic, with blond hair and bright blue eyes, though the effect was slightly marred by a ragged scar across his left cheek. He held up her reticule.

"Here you are, lady," he said. "No harm done. You best go inside, though, before those animals get hungry again."

"Thank you," Christine said uncertainly. His smile was amicable enough, but while he was chasing the crowd off, there had been a strange, vicious glint in his eyes that she didn't like.

The man rapped on the visitors' door. The mistress looked out again. "What'd you want now?" she said testily.

"I'm looking for a Mrs. Robert Adams," Christine said.

The mistress looked her up and down. "And who are you?"

"My name is... Janet Ives," Christine said, using the first name that jumped into her mind, only remembering in time to change it slightly. "I'm a family friend." She searched her reticule - thank God the ravenous horde hadn't emptied it - and passed a coin to the mistress.

The mistress grumbled, but took the coin anyway and opened the door. Christine glanced back. The man was staring at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. Somehow, that look sent shivers down her spine. Seeing Christine staring back, the man seemed to remember himself. He dipped his head, touched the brim of his hat respectfully, and walked off. She found herself watching him until he was out of sight.

Then, taking a deep breath to shake off the trembling in her limbs, Christine followed the mistress inside, to the women's room. Well before she entered, her nostrils had been assaulted by a stench of unwashed bodies and stale food and damp air, forcing her to clasp a handkerchief to her face. Even this simple gesture earned her sullen looks from the women as she made her way past them. Christine realized that perhaps none of them had seen anything as nice as her handkerchief in a long time. Embarrassed, she put it away and endured the smell.

Mrs. Adams sat in a corner of the room, weather-beaten, painfully thin, her eyes hollow, her hair escaping from her cap in stringy strands, looking not unlike the oakum she was picking. Her hands, roughened by the oakum, were bleeding, but she didn't seem to notice as she picked at the tough hemp as ineffectively as an old dog gnawing at a bone. Two of her children, too young to be separated from their mother, were with her, one at her breast, the other lying on a dirty pallet behind her with feverish eyes. Christine's heart pinched as she looked upon them, as it always did now whenever she saw little children. Her son, had he lived, would be older than the baby, but a little younger than the sick boy.

"Mrs. Adams?" she said.

The woman lifted her glazed-over eyes to Christine's face. "Mistress said your name's Ives. Don't know no Ives."

"My husband... he was also arrested in Cato Street."

At the mention of Cato Street, the dazed look in Mrs. Adams's eyes vanished, to be replaced by a furtive, fearful sideways glance. "What's that got to do with me?" she asked.

"My husband is innocent."

Mrs. Adams smiled without humor. "Aye, they all say that, don't they?"

"Mr. Adams is set to testify against him," Christine continued. "But my husband doesn't know him or any of his comrades. Please, Mrs. Adams. Your husband is helping to condemn an innocent man to a fate worse than death. If you could convince him to change his testimonies—"

"I can't do nothin' for you."

There was no place for her to sit, and Christine was forced to crouch down on the filthy floor so she was at the same eye level as the other woman. "Please, Mrs. Adams. My husband is all that I have." It was true. She had no family of her own. With Edward gone—no, the thought was too terrible to contemplate.

Anger flared in Mrs. Adams's eyes. "And ye think mine ain't all I 'ave?" she said, her face becoming more and more animated. "Without 'im, we'll starve. Look at us." She gestured to the whimpering baby at her chest, to the emaciated child lying at her feet. "We 'ad to sell my other three children into factories. My eldest, John, got crushed by machinery. Tell me, Mrs. Ives, you ever 'ad to bury your own child?"

"... Yes," Christine said, the wound in her heart bleeding again when she remembered the moment the little coffin was swallowed up by the dark earth.

Some of that pain must have shown on her face, for Mrs. Adams's eyes softened. "Well, then I'm sorry for you, but you know why my Robert 'as to do what 'e does. Else they'd 'ang 'im, and the three of us would die as well."

Panic and despair rose within Christine's chest, as cold and clammy and vile as the very air in this room. Yes, she understood. Having accompanied the Misses Hargrove to several workhouses over the past weeks, having witnessed similar scenes to what she'd just been through outside, she had begun to understand the desperately poor would be willing to do whatever it took to keep starvation at bay. Yet to them, the death of a child was no less of a tragedy than it was to her. So how could she doom these children and their mother to more suffering?

"But you won't starve," she said, scrambling for the last shred of hope. "I'm not rich, but I can pay off your debts..."

"Aye, they said that to Robert too, yet we're still 'ere, ain't we?" Mrs. Adams said.

Her words made Christine pause. "Who are 'they'?" she asked. "Did the police offer you money as well?" An excited thought occur to her. If she could bring Murray proof of this bribery, it would discredit Adams's testimony. There could be a chance after all...

"Nay, not the police. A lad, not much older than my John, and 'andsome too, said some nob sent 'im. Promised to pay our debts, but 'e said it'd 'ave to wait until after the trial..."

Of course. They were essentially holding his family hostage in poverty, to make sure Robert Adams would say what they wanted him to say.

"Did he give you his name?"

"Nay, but his nob boss 'as a grand title, I remember that."

"Was it Sidmouth? Viscount Sidmouth?"

Mrs. Adams shook her head. "Nay, 'e was a duke or summat. Duke of summat-Hall. Or was it Wall?" Then the creases on her brow lifted as the memory came back to her. "I know! Hauxwell. Duke of Hauxwell, 'e was."

Now it was her turn to stare at Christine, and her angry, despairing look became concerned. "You all right, Mrs. Ives? You're awfully pale. 'ere, you want some water?"

It took a moment for Christine to gather her wits. She thanked Mrs. Adams and gave her all the coins she had left in her bag for her trouble, but she could barely remember her departure from the workhouse. Her mind felt like a ship caught in a storm. She must write to Edward.

***

Edward tried to stretch out on the hard, narrow wooden cot that served him as a bed. There was supposed to be a pallet as well, but the straw was damp and musty and kept poking through the threadbare sheets, so he found the bare board more comfortable. This was what half a guinea bought him in the Steel - a bed, a table and a chair so rickety that it broke the moment he tried to sit on it, a wash basin with cold water, a chamber pot, and a window that looked out into the gray walls of the opposite building. But at least he was out of chains, he had the cell to himself instead of having to share, and was even allowed correspondence.

He held in his hand the latest letter from Christine. She wrote to him almost every day, though following his advice, she only sent them off once a week. A daily barrage of missives would not endear him to the governor and the guards, regardless of how much he was paying them.

Christine's letters were always full of love and affection, but they did little to assuage Edward's guilt. If anything, her cautiously cheerful and hopeful words only cut him more deeply when he thought about how much he'd hurt her, all in a foolish, misguided attempt to spare her some worry. He tried convincing himself that even if he had told her about Jane, it wouldn't have changed anything, but that wasn't true. If he had been more truthful with his wife, she might have been able to convince Jane to come home with them. Christine had that effect on people, making them feel calm and cheering them up with just her presence. Then there would be no need for him to give Jane the pistols, no need for him to go out to search for her, no need for him to be caught in this conspiracy.

Well, it was too late now. There was nothing he could do except sit in this cell and hope he could get out one day and make it up to her.

He took his time opening the letter, running his fingers over the seal, over every crease in its folds, over every line, feeling Christine's touches on them, inhaling her familiar scent from the paper, before reading it.

My beloved Edward, the letter began, as they always began, and already he could hear her soft voice flowing out from the words. It is a nice warm day, so I'm writing this in the garden. The roses have started to bud. I hope you shall be home in time to see them bloom. I hope you can see some blue sky from your window, and know that I'm also looking at it while thinking of you.

Edward glanced out the hole barely the size of a palm that functioned as a window for his cell. From this angle, he could just make out a sliver of sky between the tall steep roofs of the opposite buildings, but it was obscured by smoke. He sighed and picked up the letter again.

I have received a reply from Mr. Clarke. (Mr. Clarke was the master Edward had engaged to run the village school in Hurst.) He is more than willing to come to London to act as a character witness. Murray believes that with Mr. Clarke, the Misses Hargrove, and your other friends in London, we have a good chance of showing that you are not radical in the least. Mrs. Wayne, Henderson, and all at Hurstfield also sent their best wishes. They have offered to come to London to lend their support, but I've written back to say that you would prefer them to stay and take care of the Hall, making it ready for your return.

Here there was a break in the line. Was she overcome with anguish at the thought that he might not return at all, and forced to drop her quill to compose herself? The vision wrenched his heart. Oh Christine, Christine... His chest felt hollow, empty without the reassuring weight of her leaning against it. If only he could be there to take some of the burden off her...

When the letter continued, it was dated a day later, and her writing was more cramped and spidery, as though she had a great deal to say and her hand couldn't move fast enough.

Today I have done something both you and Murray have said I shouldn't - I've gone to see Mrs. Adams. Edward knew this meant Robert Adams's wife, and frowned slightly. Please don't be angry with me, I only did it in the belief that it would help you. It didn't help, but it broke my heart to see how desperate she and her children were. Having seen them, I no longer blame her husband for doing what he did. It is unjust for them to suffer such misery, and it is unfair of me to demand anything of them. I also understand why you do what you do, why you go out every night to help them. Someone ought to.

Edward's mind and heart eased a little. He had always worried that Christine would be hurt and angry with him for endangering himself, just as he'd once been angry with her for recklessly running away from Hurstfield in the middle of the night, back when their marriage was still new and he hadn't learned to understand her. It lifted his spirit to know that she had understood and didn't blame him.

But she has told me a startling story. It confirmed Murray's suspicion that Adams was bribed to turn king's evidence, but the money came not from Lord Sidmouth or any member of the Privy Council. It was from someone you and I both know - Joshua Craven, the Duke of Hauxwell.

Edward sat up, scarcely knowing how he felt. Hauxwell had been Christine's lover, before he had cast her off for a wealthier bride and fate had thrown her into Edward's path, quite literally. Edward had never resented her past, though in the first year of their marriage, there had been a heartbreaking time when he'd thought Christine still preferred Hauxwell to him, when he'd been prepared to walk away and nurse his wounded pride rather than admitting the truth that he loved her. Thank God Christine had seen through his foolishness. But now, like a malevolent spirit, Hauxwell was back, casting his hateful shadow over their life again...

Hauxwell was acting through an intermediary. Mrs. Adams was quite positive. I found out that Hauxwell is Sidmouth's godson, and with the wealth Hauxwell received from his wife's dowry, it is easy to see how he could afford to pay off some witnesses as a favor to his godfather.

Please know that I did write you this not to alarm you, merely to warn you of what we must contend with. I have brought the matter to Murray, who suggested that I approached Hauxwell to get some proof of this bribery. Of course, Murray does not know of my history with him. He simply thought that my approach would raise less suspicion than his. However, if you are uneasy about Hauxwell, then I shall not engage myself. Just give me your word, and we shall discuss the matter no more. All my love, Christine.

Edward realized he was crushing the letter in his hand and quickly smoothed it flat again. But he didn't add it to the stack of letters he kept in his inner pocket, near his heart, so he could feel closer to his wife whenever he touched them. Instead, he held it and read it again and again, trying to discern Christine's mood and thoughts behind those words. Despite the hurried writing, the latter half of the letter had sounded quite calm and businesslike. Perhaps she'd hoped to reassure him that Hauxwell held no danger to her, that it would strictly be a legal inquiry, no more. And he believed her. He trusted her implicitly. It was Hauxwell whom he did not trust.

He took out the one precious sheet of paper that was his weekly allowance and dipped his quill, ready to tell Christine to not put herself in a position where Hauxwell could take advantage of her. His hand hovered above the paper, hesitant. He had always held Christine's judgment in high regard. He knew the marriage vows demanded that the woman obeyed her husband, and while many women ran the household with an iron grip, they always pretended to defer to their husbands in public. Such a façade seemed exhausting to him. His and Christine's marriage was unique in that they were open with each other in their every intention and decision, and if they did discuss things, it was to seek each other's opinion, not instruction or demand. So to tell her not to approach Hauxwell would be to imply that he didn't trust her to make her own decision. No. Not trusting his wife was how he ended up in this fetid little cell in the first place. He must let her do whatever she felt was necessary, and he would stand by her, no matter what she chose.

Before he could set his quill down to write these words, however, a guard poked his nose into the tiny grate set into the door of his cell and pushed a note through it. "Another letter for you, Hurstfield," the guard said. "Lots of admirers, have you?"

Edward ignored the jab and picked up the note from the stone floor. It was from Murray, and a very short one. All it said was "J.I. found safe. Will take Lady H. to see her as soon as possible and keep you informed."

Chapter 6

#hellcheer #hellcheer fic #hellcheer au #regency au #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #eddie x chrissy #chrissy x eddie #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #stranger things fic

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josiebelladonna · 8 months

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hi, I’m about to torture you again as we’re looking down the barrel of kinktober and i can’t stop asking “what is wrong with me?” whenever i think about it

Perform a word association exercise with the word “sex.”

Nausea. Discomfort. “Big deal”. “No big deal.” Deserving. Undeserving. A contest. Popularity. Anxiety. Depression. Trash. Garbage. Taboo. Caught. Emptiness. Blackness. Immaturity. Disillusioned. Bored. Boring. Boredom. Lame. Uncomfortable. Elusive. Anger. Heartache. Heartbreak. Headaches. Stomachaches. Achy joints. Diseases. Infections. Oversaturation. Annoying. Obnoxious. Violence. Mistrust. Traditions. Daydreams. Nightmares. Awfulness. Disgusting. Stupidity. Tears. Cutting. Hitting. Horror. Trauma. Crosses. Bibles. Eye rolls. Pathetic. Arrogance. Powerless. Hopeless. Useless. Listlessness. Indifference. Anxiety. Uncaring. Cruelty. “Point and laugh.” Ridicule. Tedium. Unsafe. Abuse. Trauma. Bullshit. Horseshit. Gun to my head. Children. Babies. Baby fever. Tools. Sterility. Fertility. Infertility. Pointless. Pleasureless. Mindless. Loveless. Lies. Liars. Ugly. Cold. Gross. Unnatural. Cringe. Avoidance. Pain.

Would you say that you have or have not had a strong sexual drive in your life? How does and did this level of sexual drive affect your intimate relationships?

I have had a strong sex drive… but i don’t have any idea what to do with it. I’m an obsessive person. I obsess. I have fascinations, fixations, all of it, and it’s made me a complete nerd to the point i don’t know how to talk to boys—or girls for that matter. It has made me very confused and exhausted and disappointed and isolated and widely disliked, and what’s worse is I don’t know how to stop. Plus, I’m not straight, either. Imagine the disillusionment.

What do you want me to say? That I’m a conquistador and I’ve got a long line off to the side? That I’m a ~sexual being~ (even though I still don’t know what that’s even supposed to mean?)

Growing up, I just told people I was straight because I didn’t want them to know that I’m actually not straight. But… I do love men, though. I really love men, actually. I think men are absolutely gorgeous and decadent and sexy. Hell, I have a crush on a man right now. But I also love women, and nonbinary people. I landed on pansexual. It’s good to know that there’s a name for it, but I still have so much shame and anxiety and frustration about it. I can’t picture myself with someone, no matter what gender they are, out of both the fact that I’m just terrible at meeting someone and the fact that my libido scares me at times. I’m frustrated by the mere presence of my own sexuality that I don’t know what to do with it and I have disowned it. It’s not mine and it never was mine to begin with. I want you to make fun of it because I know it’s stupid. You’re not gonna hurt my feelings by pointing and laughing, if anything I expect it. “It’s natural, enjoy yourself!” If it’s so fucking natural, why does no one care about it?

What struggles have you had with your sexuality?

All of them, but especially comfort. I just keep hitting my head against the wall with these stupid, cringe questions in the hope that they should be helping me but they only make me feel worse because I just remember how much of a fool I am. I vent but I find no way out of it. The suggested way out of it is so hackneyed that I don’t even want to bother trying it. There has to be a better way.

I don’t know how to feel comfortable with my desires and every time I try and seek out advice on how to feel more comfortable with them, it just… doesn’t feel good enough. The fact I seek out advice should say that I want to feel comfortable, but it’s not enough.

When I was a teenager, no one ever made a pass on me, and I don’t understand why this is so hard to understand, either. Girls didn’t like me, period, and boys always gave me that awkward little smile whenever our eyes met. I didn’t actually start getting looks until about two years ago. I never dressed the part: I didn’t have to, even though I did consider it at times.

I feel so much shame about my sexuality that I find it hard to even so much as move some days. It’s a dead weight on my chest that makes it hard to breathe. I don’t think about it all the time because a.) I have absolutely no reason to; b.) whenever I do, I get angry about it; and c.) it’s just not worth the time or effort. I get no questions or interest in this part of me anyway, so why bother? And whenever I do, it’s always presumptuous. Everyone always thought I was seeing someone and they were shocked when I said I was single. “Really?! You’re SINGLE? In this era?!!?” Yes, I say with a straight face. “WHY?!” I just. Am. I can’t explain it, and I don’t know how to explain it, either.

Now I get absolutely nothing. I’m not saying I miss being interrogated like that—and the day I do is the day we’re all fucked—but why should I even bother putting inventory in something that no one cares about and I find unpleasant to talk about on top of that. It’s unpleasant. My sexuality is unpleasant. Not an iota of good feelings or memories to be found here. No, it’s all shit. It’s all garbage.

I always befriended guys, too, and everyone always thought we were “a relationship” (never was, though, it was all platonic), so when I befriended more, I would hear words like “player” or “not like the other girls” or “secretly lesbian” thrown my way when none of it was true. It got lonely really quick.

Another struggle is labeling it. OH GOD THIS. That whole phase I went through in 2021-2022 consisted of nothing but this. It always felt like I had a gun to my head, too, like I was supposed to figure out a label and right now. They’ll tell you to take your time with it and, believe me I did. But when you’re changing labels like people change their socks, and you’re surrounded by people who are just soooo comfortable in their fucking precious sexuality, it becomes a tall order really quick. The impression I got was one of “ugh, she’s still questioning her sexuality? what a loser.”

I think my desires are trash and I don’t see eye to eye with the “real” raunchy people on this, either. I’m supposed to just be into good ol fashioned missionary and cowgirl and doggy style and maybe some light bdsm, any other kinks are weird and gross.

In what ways do you nurture your personal sense of sexuality, and/or sexual relationships?

I have no relationship. Never have, never will, either. I guess I just have too many biases about sex and sexuality, and I don’t know how to undo them, either. I don’t know how to nurture my sexuality, if anything I just leave it to waste. I don’t care about it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to care about it.

I guess… I draw. I write. …I live on a mountain top, 20 minutes away from a trump bastion. I have no options.

I like jewel tones. I like black and white. I like stuff that’s form-fitting and also low-slung jeans: I do not like anything high-waisted unless it’s worn with crop tops, otherwise I hate it. I don’t get why everyone clutches at themselves at the mere mention of anything low-rise. I like denim and leather and silk and velvet and corduroy. I like stuff that’s low cut—leftover from being heavy and struggling with weight most of my life as I’ve tried to wear T-shirts and the collar always feels like it’s choking me. I like camisoles. I like pajamas. I like underwear: as much as I cringe at the thought of wearing lingerie, I do like just wearing a bra, and I do have a teddy in my closet. I like to wear jeans: I have never felt good in a dress before. I dunno, I find dresses a bitch to walk around in and sit in, and I hate how skirts always wants to blow up (I’ve lived in windy areas my whole life). After a shower, I let my hair hang down for a few hours before I brush it: if I haven’t showered in a few days, I comb my bangs up into this pompadour upon my head so I have this Elvis/Dennis Miller thing going until I feel like climbing into the shower for another round. My mom says I look like I came from the beach, but I feel more Dennis Miller than anything. Only makeup I have is chapstick and nail polish: when I was little, I’d put on lipstick and eyeshadow and mascara but I always look over made. “You’d be so much prettier, though!” Heh, nope. Even just a little bit makes me look like I just walked out of the circus.

Is all of this supposed to make me feel sexy? I dunno, I genuinely don’t understand how it’s supposed to play into sexuality.

Nope, sorry, I can’t touch myself and feel an ounce of pleasure. I touch my lips and my breasts, and I just… I can’t do it. I’m having a hard time seeing pleasuring myself as an art, too—I don’t know, it’s just hard to put my head around it. What’s artful about sticking my finger up my clit to stimulate myself even though I know I won’t enjoy it?

My body? What about it? It was very skinny, it got very overweight, and now it’s losing weight. Any questions?

Why should I play dress up when I don’t get any attention? Dress for myself… I watch project runway and I really don’t see eye to eye with fashion, what’s considered “high fashion”: I don’t know if I just have piss poor taste or if fashion really is bullshit.

Write about your first sexual experiences. Interpret sexual experience any way like, even it’s about you first kiss.

“Even if it’s about your first kiss” I love how this assumes that everyone who does these things have had their first kiss, like yes, everyone gets some no matter how undesirable, unattractive, and fucked up they are.

There was the first time I touched myself. I was very young—I would think all children do this when they’re extremely young. I was in front of a mirror and I opened my legs and looked at myself there. I touched my clit the first time and I remember it really tickled me. I felt my labia and even stuck a finger or two in.

And yeah, naturally, I got caught.

Write about your last sexual experience. How was it different from your first sexual experience?

I guess this could be the last time I touched myself: I was standing up and had my underwear on that time (just to play around a bit). Did very little but then I moved to my nipples and I was starting to go nuts a bit. I also tried between the legs again naked, with a shower head, and that really did something. I guess what I’m trying to say is I’ve gotten a lot more sensitive as I’ve gotten older.

I don’t remember when this was, either, that’s how indifferent I am to sex.

What were you taught about sex as you grew up? What did you not know that you needed to know?

Sex ed from middle school onwards, plus I was told that all guys don’t care about me and just want to get in my pants over and over by my drug addict father. I was never told about pleasure or anything good or that kinks are good or the range of sexual orientations or anything genuinely useful. Just your standard “insert penis into vagina, don’t have babies until you’re ready and only do it to have a baby” and that was it. It was always having babies, too, like god forbid you ever want to have sex because it’s fun or what have you.

I was also bombarded by these messages of “don’t be promiscuous or a slut, don’t get a reputation, no one will want you otherwise” and it was always in junction with being ladylike, too. Level up and always be ladylike or no one will love you (I hate how gen z has adopted this ideology, too. Really, nevermind me for a second: you cannot convince me that this current generation is healthy when they exhibit some of the most inhibitory behaviors ever. And the Barbie movie isn’t helping, either; if anything, that obnoxious eyesore has turned everything into a complete bitch fest overnight. The issue is not misogyny but taking that fucking movie way too seriously). I also heard bullshit like “if you have sex, you WILL get pregnant, FACT.” (i.e., the whole “men force abortion on women” thing that pro-life feminists claim is science fiction to me)

I was also always told “if you have sex, you’ll contract a disease, guarantee it”. I just think of Soundgarden’s song “HIV Baby” whenever I think about this: have sex, give birth to a child riddled with disease as punishment for not keeping your legs closed.

Cue the nausea whenever someone asks me about some sex life that I allegedly have because apparently fucking everyone has a fucking sex life and yet nobody told me *facepalm*

How has your views of sex changed over time?

It’s just this thing that people like to make a huge deal about and I can’t bring myself to it. I’m too tired. I’ve given up on the whole sex thing. It doesn’t help that it genuinely triggers me, too. I don’t care about sex and sexuality and I’m too squeamish to boot.

There’s so much lingo about sex that I just don’t get, either. “Reclaim your sexuality” implies that it fell out of you at some point: you never lose it, it’s always with you no matter how shit and lame it is. “Sexual being”, I hate this phrase simply because it’s one of those things that everyone says but no one explains what it’s supposed to mean. I finally discovered a thing that explains it… somewhat, but it still didn’t really explain it. It was like “it’s expressing your sexuality and doing what makes you feel beautiful! :D”, like, okay, I guess? My sexuality is broken and I don’t think I have ever felt beautiful, can you help me? “Sex life”. Yes, just assume I have a sex life even though guys aren’t interested and girls hate me and I barely touch myself.

Describe a sexual fantasy you have.

I don’t have fantasies. Well, I do but they aren’t sexual. They’re just regular old stories because real life is awful. Sometimes I’ll add a sexual flavor to them but I don’t call them sexual fantasies, though. They just… are what they are. Trust me, I’ve tried to get sexual with it and I can’t. I do kinktober and kinkmas, I try to get things moving, but on my own, I’m left out in the cold.

Turn a sexual experience into a piece of short fiction. Describe the setting. Use dialogue. Write erotic description.

When you’re so inexperienced that even this feels in vain.

Write about the best sex partner you have ever been with. Describe a special time together.

She had five fingers, all without polish on the nails, which were a bit short and freshly trimmed. Her skin was smooth, a little dry but smooth.

I hadn’t been touched in some time and yet, while laying in bed one morning, those fingers wandered down to my belly button for a gentle caress. When I rolled over onto my back, she worked her way down to inside my underwear for a touch. She ever so gently scratched me on the hood and it felt interesting. Neither good nor bad, but interesting. It got me thinking.

(Got really tired of saying I’m a virgin all the time)

What changes if any would you like to make about your sexual self?

All of it. I want to change all of it. This is the worst thing about me. I have felt so much shame about this fucking bullshit, that it’s a chore to even get out of bed. It’s stuck. I’m stuck with this fucking thing. No one wants me and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I hate my gender. I hate my body, and I hate my sexuality. I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, i hate it. It’s all ugly. It’s awful. It’s a disgrace. It’s horrible and disgusting. No. It’s NOT beautiful and you’re a damn fool if you think otherwise. I want it all changed and taken from me so I don’t have to think about it anymore.

I am NOT a “sexual being” and I hate that phrase with a passion. No. NEVER. Fuck off with that.

I really truly genuinely do not care about sex. Why should I? Everything that pertains to my sexuality has been roundly rejected my entire life, what’s going to change the second I do? I’ll just ~magically~ get everything desirable, like all that aches me is just going to automatically disappear? Oh, yeah, that’s realistic. That’s totally what is going to happen. It’s delusional to assume that everything will automatically be right as rain the second I start to care. It’s irresponsible, too.

But at the same time, I have had my boundaries disrespected by… everyone. Everyone apparently thinks it’s okay to invalidate my feelings and my choices, and that it’s okay to make fun of me when I change my mind and think it over again.

Take my whole issue with makeup: I literally hate wearing it, and girls often asked me why I don’t wear it. “I just don’t,” and also “I don’t like the way it feels on my skin”. Cue the “there’s natural makeup” and the “you’d look so much prettier with it”. I GAVE YOU A FUCKING ANSWER. I DON’T WANT TO WEAR IT EVER.

I have no control over this. None. I don’t know how to gain control, either. I have named my problems. I have gone through my history over and over again to dizzying degrees to see if there was any sexual abuse in my life and there wasn’t. I feel like I’m missing something here, like I’ve read on how to “reclaim sexuality”, a phrase which on its own already annoys me just from how loosely it gets thrown around, and… nothing. None of it works.

I’m not only lost but I don’t care enough about it.

Write a sexual confession to your partner or someone you admire. Be straight forward or as kinky as you would like.

This took me a couple of days to formulate and figure out. Last time i did this for you, i was a volcano. I know it stirred you—if it got me, I just imagine how you feel. I’m sorry if it upset you at all—I know it did me. And I still feel ashamed of myself when I think about you. I’m a broken bitch, Alex, straight out of the school of hard knocks. Life just keeps beating me up and I gave up trying to fight back a long time ago. I’m damaged goods. I’m completely unlovable. I’m trash. I’m ugly. I’m not sexy or hot, and I don’t understand why those words would ever come my way, either. I feel bad for feeling the way that I do about you, and also… you know, her. I still can’t say her name without wanting to gag. I’m honestly baffled by what you see in her—believe me, I tried. But I can’t do it. “Always go with your gut” after all.

I’m sorry ahead of time. I’m an asshole. In fact, when I wrote about her initially, I felt like an asshole.

And yes, I feel guilty for having a crush on you, especially now. The stupid sexist taboo that’s in vogue right now, that I’m not allowed to like boys. And I just don’t like her. It’s the whole thing of meeting someone and you cannot explain it, but you just want to avoid them at all costs because something about them just unnerves you to no end. I see her name in junction with yours and I want to puke. I’ve crushed on other guys before who were taken and I wound up crushing on the girl, too, so please don’t think it’s out of jealousy. I still think she’s secretly gay, too, and again, it’s hard to fully explain. It also just feels wrong, too, like… you’re way over there and I’m way over here. It’s not like we can actually do anything in person. You feel so out of reach.

Plus, you grew up in the 70s and the 80s, where I came of age in the 2000s and early 2010s. It’s common, sure, but I care, and I care a lot. In fact, go ahead and say that I care too much, I’m aware so you aren’t going to hurt me.

I really wish I could tell you everything. I have so much fear around how I feel about you, and I really, really don’t know how you’ll react to this should you ever see it. I suck at this. I could push you away. You’re the first guy I’ve ever had a major crush on, and I will wait forever if that’s what it takes.

I still don’t know what to say to you, especially now: really, I feel like I’m bullshitting with you. I feel like I’m just not worth your time: there are far more women out there who are better than me, like they have degrees and they’re accomplished architects who refer to themselves as gypsies for some goddamn reason because it’s racist no matter who’s using it. But what have I done?

What is wrong with me. I’ve already said too much. I hate my desires. I hate how I feel like I’m just not doing this right and no one will tell me what it is that I’m doing wrong. I have to actually go out of my way just to fantasize about anyone, whether it’s you or someone else. I already feel like I’m in trouble for even thinking about you. I am so at odds with my sexuality that I don’t want it: I’ve often said that if I could rip it out of me and light it on fire then I would do it in a heartbeat.

But you’re everything that I’ve secretly dreamed of but was too afraid to share with anyone else, everything I love in another person, and if I’m being honest, you don’t even seem real because you really are that perfect to me. I know you aren’t perfect, but you are to me, though. And like I said, I hate that I feel this way. I seriously wish I could just leave you alone, and I wish I wasn’t such a loser or that I’m imposing or obviously unimportant.

Okay? I’m a loser. A fucking gentile loser. I’m a fucking mess, a waste, a lost cause, a nobody, and I can tell you’re far more interested in her because you’ve been together longer and I’m just some weird girl who came along who’s afraid of voicing her true feelings, especially to boys. I’m afraid. I’m a prude. I’m a pussy. I don’t have any idea what I could give to you. Besides, you would rather enjoy someone who’s more powerful than a heartbroken spineless lunatic like myself, I get it. I was never anyone’s type, anyway—it’s like what Sheryl Crow says, “I’m not the kind of girl you take home.” She was there for you when your mom was sick, and I was thousands of miles away because I just am, I get it. She makes you happy, even though i can see in your eyes that you aren’t. There’s obviously no one else for you.

I get it.

I get it. We all get it, so you can stop tagging her in every other post because that totally doesn’t give off the same vibes as someone who won’t shut the hell up about their relationship. I’m an idiot and a fool for having feelings for you, let alone feelings for a guy who is worlds apart from me. I’m nothing. I don’t compare to her. I have absolutely nothing on her. I do nothing for you. Nothing compares to the “great one”. She makes your dreams come true. I get it. We all get it.

Leave my body, heart, and soul all to waste and hope the next bastard who comes along is crazy enough to pick me up like I’m roadkill. You’ll be holding your breath until you collapse, though. I’m just not desirable by any means.

But I can’t leave you alone. I’m in love, and I’m brushing away tears writing this, too. I wish I could let you go—“if you love something, let it go”—and maybe I’m just too immature for that and for you; I have no experience with this, I don’t know how to “let go of someone if I love them”. It’s how I feel, Alex. It’s how I feel.

And… I have this persistent feeling that it doesn’t… ahem. “matter.”

What would you like to learn about your sexual self?

I have the worst luck with relationships—I really mean it: I didn’t start getting looks until a couple of years ago, NO ONE looked at me and I never believed it when someone told me about that boy checking me out (there never was any boy). I have never been asked out, only fixed up and spent a weekend with a friend that was jokingly treated as a date. I HATE my sexuality, and overall, I’m terrible with this. What is there to learn here? Why am I bad at this? I can tell you that without even thinking twice about it: no one ever encouraged me. I grew up with the most backwards views on sexuality and there’s no end in sight even as I’ve grown up. I’m not good at this, plus it doesn’t matter.

I don’t think about sex, period. I barely masturbate—I don’t even remember the last time I did it. I don’t think about my sexuality because every time I do, I spiral and I get depressed again. I’ve resigned from ever thinking about it. I don’t care about it. I actually don’t even see the point of caring about it: I live in the middle of nowhere and there’s no way out. No one here piques my curiosity. Plus, if I start caring right now, what’s going to happen? Suitors are just going to automatically fall out of the sky and tempt me and motivate me to leave? That’s so delusional. And it’s irresponsible, like yeah, just assume I’m going to boogie out of here with the next meat puppet and leave my disabled mother here alone atop this godforsaken mountain, how stupid are you.

I’m done trying to seek help, too, because it’s always the same bullshit I’ve seen and heard for nine years when I began recovery from anorexia. If it’s so tried and true, then why am I still in agony? “Maybe you’re just not trying it.” Maybe this one-size-fits-all approach just doesn’t work?! Have you thought of that? No, you haven’t thought about anything.

What part of your sexuality seems the most mysterious to you?

Those lesbian thoughts I keep having. Even with as much as I love men, I can’t help but feel aroused by women as well.

Why do I love men, like men are the most despised beings on earth right now, how fucking dare I be attracted to them.

And also why I keep coming back to this. Why did I keep my incredibly high sex drive under wraps when sexual energy is incredibly powerful. What is wrong with me.

Why am I afraid of it. Is this just regular ol anxiety or is this something more serious.

The shame. Why is there shame. Why did you make this. How is this even possible.

When you hesitate to write something, what reminder can you give yourself to be as completely honest as you can, both factually and emotionally?

“I’m the only one here.”

What, if anything, about sex distresses you?

I worry about getting pregnant, and I’ve always known that this is why I’m so bored with regular old penetrative sex, and why I feel genuinely repulsed by the affluence of it in fanfic: it’s the weirdest thing to me, it’s like everyone has baby fever, whereas I don’t want children. Plus, I’m genuinely grossed out by the thought of being filled with cum.

I worry about falling ill, too. Need I say more.

My poor stomach has been through a lot, too: I worry about having to run to the bathroom.

The pervasive feeling that i’ll never have it, either. I’m a virgin at 30. Most 30 year olds have had it several times, i’m lucky to have some rando on the street even look at me.

I just don’t like talking about sex, either. People are so comfortable talking about sex and all things sex and I’m usually thinking about a million different other things. I genuinely cringe when I even think of talking about anything sexual. I’m just not comfortable. I hate this side of life.

What change would you like to make in your sexual behavior?

I don’t know how to be sexy, like I’m genuinely surprised when someone tells me something I did was hot. Worse, I don’t know if they’re saying that just because or if it’s sincere.

What change would you like to make in your sexual attitudes or thoughts?

I almost never have sexual thoughts: the only time I do is when I’m writing (now you know why I thought I was asexual for a time. I genuinely don’t have sexual thoughts unless prompted). No, I don’t like them. I don’t want sexual thoughts.

As for attitudes… you want the truth? What does sex mean to me? You want to know what sex means to me? It doesn’t mean anything to me, it’s just a thing that happens. On a regular basis, I don’t think about it at all because I have no one to share with. No one is attracted to me, I get nothing out of it, and I simply don’t “get some”, either, so why should I bother?

What change would you like to make in your sexual emotions or feelings?

Same story there. I actually don’t want sexual feelings. I feel bad for having these feelings, too, like I said in my stupid little one-sided confession up above. I feel like there’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong with me… for being attracted to men, like I’m so ashamed of this. I’m attracted to men and I feel bad about it.

What memories came to mind from the previous questions?

Oh, fucking hell, let’s see… crying about feeling lost and being treated to insensitive comments telling me to “exude confidence” and accusing me of being an alcoholic (when I can easily tell you that I’m not; I’m obsessive but I don’t “medicate” myself) rather than be a shoulder to cry on and tell me I’m not wrong for feeling this way.

All the times I was asked “why do you do this?” and I’d give a legit answer and then they would respond with unsolicited advice or opinions. Everyone wonders why I refrain from giving an opinion, too.

The phrase “raunchy side” *shudders* and feeling incredibly powerless.

Really, all the times I showed any emotion and no one knew how to react… or worse, they wouldn’t leave me alone to the point of harassing me.

Nothing good or happy.

What do you like most about your current partner? Least?

I’m a virgin.

Make three (or more) sexual wishes. Don't hold back!

I wish I could talk about this freely. I wish I was hot. I wish I was accepted. I wish I belonged. I wish I didn’t have to worry. I wish I couldn’t feel hysterical laughter whenever I say I’m a virgin. I wish I didn’t have a sexuality. I wish I could crush normally. I wish I had power and prowess and agency.

Make a list of your sexual partners and write a few phrases to describe the relationship. What patterns do you see?

After years of research, I finally came to the perfect scientific conclusion: I’m a virgin and I’m lucky to have anyone even look at me.

If you have a sexual partner now, write about this relationship. What works for you in this sexual relationship? What would you like to change?

Boy, you know, my hand not only does things to my clit and tits, but it can also become a fist to break the face of whoever implores the regular use of a clinical, completely loveless and soulless word like “partner”.

Describe what your ideal sexual relationship would look like today.

I don’t know. I don’t know what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like. I know what an unhealthy relationship looks like, so I guess … healthy is the opposite? I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.

I guess I’m not interested in sex, and there have only been a handful of times in my life where I actually was interested. Why should I be interested in something that depresses me and makes me anxious when I think about it? Sex is stupid and overrated and I genuinely don’t understand it.

If you have been sexually dissatisfied, what has kept you in the relationship?

Doesn’t apply.

Are you able to ask your partner for what you want sexually? How do you do that?

Nope, and I wouldn’t know how to ask, either. If I have a hard time asking my mom if we could get soup on a grocery trip, what makes anyone think I am going to feel at ease asking if I want to be fingered.

If you have difficulty asking for what you want, what are you telling yourself that makes asking difficult?

“They won’t care. They’re gonna laugh at me and reject me. They’re going to get angry with me. This is stupid and gross and crass and we all know it. Why do I even bother.”

What are your sexual limits with your partner?

I don’t want to be filled with cream. No, I’m completely turned off at the thought of being pregnant. I’m almost mortified by it, actually: use a condom or pull out, or let’s use our hands or mouths.

I like a little pain… not too much, though. I like little nibbles or scratches down the back, or spanking.

None of that “daddy” nonsense, either.

Don’t ever call me your “partner”, either, i fucking hate that word. I hate how normie it is, I hate how everyone uses it including couples who have been together a long time… I want to know when it was normalized because it’s so sterile and cold and influencer-y. Call me that and I’ll straight up leave. “But nonbinary people use it”, that, I understand completely, barring it’s implied that someone in the couple isn’t cishet. But I can’t tell just by looking at you. Trust me, I learned the hard way on that. I have so much baggage with “partner” that writing it just leaves a weird taste in my mouth,

I also don’t care about sex, either. I could not do it for the rest of my life and I’d be fine with that. Not that I can imagine anyone wanting it with me, anyway. Or maybe I do actually care, given I’m of the belief that if you bothered to say you don’t care, you actually might, and you actually might a lot.

What sexual behavior won't you do or would do only under certain conditions? Write about those to clarify your boundaries.

(see the tidbit with pain) Please don’t overdo it. My body is actually very sensitive and too much pain is too much.

As repulsed as I am by the idea of having penetrative sex, if there’s protection involved, there’s a small part of me that actually might reconsider.

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD BE PATIENT WITH ME. I’M DUMB AND TRAUMATIZED, I DON’T KNOW WHAT I AM DOING.

I don’t like it too rough: I’m slow and sensual for the most part, but a little quickness goes a long way if I think about it.

No period sex, please. I don’t know, just… b l o o d on the good sheets or nice upholstery, and my own, no less. I’m a primadonna that way.

In what way might your relationship with your partner deepen or improve by talking openly about sex?

Hang-ups about… noonewantingtobeinarelationshipwithme aside, I feel like an open conversation could help. For me, it’s a “make or break” type thing: if they aren’t comfortable with it, they probably aren’t for you. If they’re curious, but they’re like me and they aren’t comfortable at all with this stuff, or they’re not sure, or they’re so uncomfortable to the point they hate their sexuality, make them feel safe. Put your arm around them and help them because it’s very daunting, especially when you see they’re alone because everyone is either disrespectful and patronizing or “too busy”. Make it make sense for them.

Can you recall your first discovery of sexual fantasy? What was it about?

All I know is I was very young and I didn’t understand what was happening, either. I have to actually force myself to fantasize, too.

Write out three of your favorite sexual fantasies. If this is new to you, make one up now.

So I typed “sexual fantasy” into Google to give me some insight because I’m a fucking idiot with this sort of thing and…

Oh, god. I went to that first link to women’s health. First off, the fucking slang in that article. No one—NO ONE—over the age of 25 or with more than 3 brain cells should EVER call their spouse “their boo” and even in the mid-twenties, it sounds weird and kind of creepy? Like… do I just not get it or something? Am I missing something here? This shit is so cringey and made me roll my eyes about six times—really, I counted. How is any of this normal? Kicking off a ~sexy article~ with a fucking CARTOON ORGASM is sexually stimulating? This is torture.

Second, I read through the points and… okay, fine. I have worked with fantasy before, and I thought I hadn’t a shred of sexual fantasy before. Seasons Grey is pure fantasy, with the whole teacher-student trope at the core. Love Is Not Enough is fantasy, with the strippers at the root. All my kinktober one shots are fantasies. Hell, you know what, any fics that come out of me have a fantasy inside of them: I just wasn’t really aware of it.

How have you used your sexual fantasies up until now?

Haven’t, at least not outside of writing. I hate how this assumes that I can, too.

What began as a fantasy that you later took into action?

The time I told Alex I’m in love with his voice. It was way before I wrote voice kink one shot in eclipse, too. That one in particular was admittedly fun to write—kind of tricky, but fun, though.

What sexual fantasies work the best to arouse you?

I was pretty aroused writing Chave do Mar: Alex as a merman with a long shark tail, smooth milky skin, and black curls tousled over his shoulder. Same with Blood & Chocolate, too: Alex being over fed and it shows up on his body. The Black Orchid scenes from now it’s dark were pretty hot, too, when I think back to writing them: Joey surrounded by burlesque strippers.

I’m bullshitting, I don’t think I can use any of them to really get me off. I’m trying really hard here,

Have you shared your sexual fantasies with a friend? What was the reaction?

…it’s pretty across the board.

Have you shared your sexual fantasies with a lover? What was the reaction?

I don’t know if I could be courageous enough to do that.

How important is it for you to share your sexual fantasies? What are your reasons for sharing or not? Does sharing fantasies break their "spell"?

You know that fanfic meme that talks about writing your dream fanfic filled with all your fantasies and dreams but choosing not to and keeping it locked away in your mind because you want it to yourself? Yeah, I don’t relate to that at all—then again , i don’t relate to fanfic memes, period (“oh, I should be writing but I’m on tumblr hur hur”, get a life, all of you). I write them out because I want to make sense of them for the most part. I honestly don’t care if no one sees them, either, because I’ve never really seen them as all that mystifying: just these weird little scenes that roll around inside me. I literally don’t care, they’re stupid and pointless and painfully unsexy.

What, if anything, do you find distressing about your sexual thoughts or fantasies? Write about that to clarify it for yourself.

On their own, I don’t think they’re special or gossip-worthy or revolutionary or life-changing. They just… are what they are.

But just the fact they exist distresses me. Why do I feel this way? Why am I doing this? This isn’t normal. Everyone is judging me and mocking me.

If you could say three things to the world about the nature of your personal sexuality and really be heard, understood, and accepted, what would you say?

This is complicated and I’m trying really hard. Sometimes I think I’m making this too complicated even for myself.

My sexuality is a curse, a death sentence, and I hate it so much. I don’t want to be seen but I also do.

Admit it. There’s no room for me. *sigh* I knew it. It doesn’t matter.

When was the first time you experienced feelings of arousal and what triggered those feelings? What did you think of it at the time? What was your emotional response to those feelings?

Like I said, I was very small. May have been from me sitting in front of the mirror and touching myself, I have no clue. I didn’t understand what was happening, either, or why the adults in the room freaked the fuck out over it, either.

Consider a moment in your life of great sensuality, eroticism, or sexuality. Then answer the questions that Mary Oliver does in her poem “Gratitude” as they apply to that moment.

So I’ve been thinking about this all day and… I literally never had a moment of ~great sexuality or eroticism~ Fleeting moments, but nothing earth-shaking, though. Even the time I cybered wasn’t that great.

Describe your first sexual encounter. How old were you? Was it consensual? If not, what resources have you used to help heal from that encounter? If it was consensual, what did that experience mean to you at the time?

I was 18 and it was the day that Dan Wheldon was killed. I had just gotten home and a text from my dad about it. I get online to find a boy who used to sit behind me in geometry class completely beside himself because Dan was his hero. I remember it was Sunday evening, around dinner time: I told him I had to get something to eat because I was hungry and I would be right back. I came back and we talked for hours. Evening became night, and then I blurted out something that made him laugh, and then he made me laugh. One thing leads to another and I say something kind of sexual and it went from there. We chatted and texted back and forth for a few weeks after that until I got slammed with midterms.

As for meaning, I’m not sure. I don’t know how to feel about it, either. I don’t even know if it counts as an encounter, either, but it’s all I got.

Who was your first romantic, sexual partner? What about him or her appealed most to you? What did you hope would happen with that relationship?

Aside from the above, I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Almost 30 years old and I have never even been kissed. I got sick and tired of hearing “oh, you’ll find love some day” when I was 17, and now I know in my heart it won’t ever happen. Really, I could shed 100 pounds and have confidence through the fucking roof and no one will want any of this. Whoever said “everyone has sex” has obviously never met me. It’s so exploitative, too: this unfair assumption that way too many people have had about me and it only makes me hate myself. (Why is that always the response to someone saying they’re single, too? It’s like, i’m just stating a fact, I didn’t ask for you to be fortune teller.)

Do you believe that sex and emotional intimacy are linked, or is it possible to have a sexual relationship without emotional attachment? What experiences influence your answer?

Linked but not exclusive, though. There is a link there but the two can exist without each other. Casual sex is a thing, plus you can be emotionally attached but not want it; don’t believe everything you see on Twitter (especially now, fucking hell).

Just… my own observations about this. I thought I was asexual and, even though I’m not, I did learn this along the way.

If you could have the perfect sex life right now, what would that look like?

The idea of me having a sex life, period, is so beyond me, like I don’t know what it’s even supposed to encapsulate. I ask Google “what’s a sex life?” because I don’t know what it’s supposed to be.

How do you define “awesome” sex (i.e. what makes sex better than good)?

Makes me think of “awesome sauce”, which completely sucks the eroticism out of this. I don’t know?! What even quantifies as “good sex” anyways?

How do you feel about PDA? (You can take this as far as “kinks in public,” too.)

Can’t stand it. Can’t stand seeing it, can’t stand the thought of it happening to me (insecurity and hang-ups might have something to do with that when I think about it), some things are just better left in private. As for kinks in public, though? I don’t know, that seems a bit much.

What do you think about when you masturbate?

I don’t even remember the I last time did, so I can’t say.

What are your sure-fire turn-ons (and/or turn-offs)?

Turn-ons: touches, really all over my body. I like soft touch. I like being held. I like fantasy. I like intelligence. I like sweetness. I’m all about feeling and being close. I guess? I’m not going to give everything away, either, because it’s… stupid.

What are your thoughts about porn?

I still don’t see it as exploitative. One complaint I do have with it is unrealistic expectations. No guy is like that. No girl is like that.

What are your thoughts on foreplay? Favorite types? Best experiences? Wishes?

It’s still underrated. A few kisses or hickeys on a sensitive spot like on the neck or the belly, or fingers on the labia and lips on the thighs can take you a long way, and I can say that just from my own writing.

What parts of your lover’s body are you most drawn to? (If you don’t currently have a lover, feel free to consider past or future lovers.)

“Lover” is another pathetically overused word. My eyes have always wandered to the middle of the body. I don’t care if it’s slim and delicate or round and thick, either, I like to feel and hold.

If you were to “recreate” the early days of your favorite sexy relationship, what would they look like? Would you change anything?

It’s weird to think that I can actually answer this: I don’t think I would change anything. Maybe I could have been a little more upfront with him about how I feel about him earlier on because I just think about that one night in March-ish 2021, but there was a point to that, though. I wanted to ease into it, and there had to be some sort of opportunity to find with him because I see people hitting on him all the time, and I always think I’m being inappropriate with him, oh my god 🫣.

The beauty of it being online is it’s kind of the whole entire point to it.

Really, if Alex and I take it offline, we lose the clandestine nature of watching each other on stories or him fanboying over me like he’s a teenage kid again. I just have this pervasive feeling that *sigh* she has some control over his instagram now. He doesn’t come online nearly as much anymore and he feels so elusive now.

What do you want more of in your sex life?

I feel so bored by sex. Bored and repulsed at the same time. I have so much shame that ruminating on it makes me physically sick, and I feel stuck with it. I feel like I’m boring and underwhelming, like you would think that someone who identifies as pansexual and polyamorous and has a high sex drive would have at least one conquest but… I’ve just never been respected or built up or even seen. Plus, there’s this whole thing about how women are not supposed to chase, either.

Would you ever visit a sex therapist? What would be the reason and what do you think their advice would be for you?

Sign me up.

Why do I have a sexuality in the first place.

They’re probably going to give me some of the same old shit I see when I ask Google, so no, I take that back, I want my money back.

Is there anything about sex that embarrasses you, causes shame or fear, or makes you nervous? Or…what’s the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you during sex?

My fear of pregnancy and disease plus I worry about shitting myself.

Just the act itself. I literally can’t imagine anyone being that crazy about me, like I am not beautiful, I am not sexy… and I hate the expectation that comes with those words, like “you’re a woman! Be beautiful and sexy 24/7!” Fuck off. I could go away right now and no one would care or wonder what it would have been like to make love to me or toss a dick in me.

Talking about it makes me so nervous, too. I HATE what I desire and think about and all of that. I keep saying it over and over and over and over again, none of it matters and I feel weird and gross talking about what and who I’m attracted to. What is wrong with me? Why do I feel like this? WHY DO I HAVE A SEXUALITY!

Yes, the whole suggestion of even having a sexuality brings me titanic pains. Why do I have this WHY DO I HAVE THIS I HATE THIS I HATE THIS SO FUCKING MUCH

I hate my sexuality so much that it makes me cry. I hate it. I hate it so much.

What do you tend to fantasize or dream about when it comes to sex? What kinds of porn or kink are you drawn to?

I have to force myself to fantasize. I don’t watch porn (I don’t, and why would I? So, don’t even think about it). I write about kinks and… whatever. I had a sex dream one time. I don’t even remember what it was about now.

If you were to create a sexy playlist intended for a hot date at home, what would be on it?

I have never made a sexy playlist in my life so I wouldn’t know where to start. This is another thing I have to look up because I don’t know any sexy songs offhand.

What are your love languages and how do they apply to your sexual needs? What about your lover?

I’m all about touch and spending time. I am touch-starved and I have all the time in the world.

My what? My needs? What sexual needs?

How do you feel about being naked?

No opinion. It just … is what it is. I don’t fixate on flaws (I never could, either, even with my troubled relationship with myself), nor do I see it as a beautiful thing: it just it what it is. I take care of myself but that’s about it. What do you do with it. Why is this controversial. Now, when I think about being naked with someone else, look the other way.

What’s your favorite way to be seduced?

You put your guitar on your lap, you brush your hair really nice, you have this little twinkle in your eye like you’re up to no good or you’re secretly going commando out of camera, you have a glass of wine in hand, and you talk in a very soft, husky voice when I ask you about your underwear. I think.

Do you have any trust issues surrounding sex or your sexual relationship(s)?

Do you ever see something that, for whatever reason, you have this inexplicable feeling of drunkenness? That’s my reaction to this. I have nothing but trust issues surrounding sex. I have so many taboos and hang ups about it that I feel them choking me.

What do you look like, and sound like, when sex feels good for you?

Whenever I write something erotic, every so often I have to stop myself and close my eyes because I feel things moving. I get really quiet (everyone talks about screaming during sex: I’m the exact opposite, I get really quiet) and my hands start itching for the feeling. I bite my lip a lot, too—sometimes I do that without even thinking, like it just happens. It’s a long slow burn with me. And yes: I feel guilty afterwards.

What is the most sexually daring thing you’ve ever done?

Flirted with Alex on stories. I’ve always fucking sucked at flirting (I once went for five years without flirting with anyone because I suck so hard at it), let alone with a guy like him. I love calling him “baby” and by his name, especially.

Flirted with Eric on stories (I called him “big guy”) and got him to take a selfie from the toilet. Wish I was making that up.

I asked “are we going to see a Jeff Becerra OnlyFans any time soon?” and mf literally replied with “only if the price is right” and the eggplant emoji.

Any time I post risqué art on instagram because they’re assholes with that sort of thing. No clue how threads’ll react to it.

When now it’s dark was being written and I posted those ink drawings on instagram (completely oblivious to the fact Joey was watching me).

There was also one time in school one of my friends had his pants hanging down a bit and I tried to pants him and he caught me. I did get to pinch his butt when no one was looking, though.

In your opinion, what does it mean to be good in bed?

Thought I knew before but now I don’t. I don’t know what this means.

Have you ever had sex in a public place?

WHYYYYYYYYYYY would I do this?

When and how did you lose your virginity, and how did you feel about it? How do you feel about it now?

I’ll probably die a virgin.

Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time, watched others have sex, been watched? If not, would you?

I think I’m polyamorous so I’d definitely try it. As for voyeurism… maybe I’d like to be watched? Don’t know about watching others, though.

How often do you masturbate and what works best for you?

I go for long stretches of time without doing it, because I get bored with it. I’ve done it sitting down, standing up, on my back, stooped over, topless, with my pants on, in the shower, in bed… all with my fingers. I have no desire to use a toy. I’m sorry, I’m not aroused by putting a piece of glass or ceramic or rubber up a very delicate part of my body.

Maybe I’m not doing it right because I have done it but I barely get off at all, and I’m more disgusted with myself than anything. I lose interest after a couple of minutes. Yeah, I don’t see this going well with another person.

Maybe I’m just not trying enough, but I look at some on lingerie sites like Spencer’s or wherever, and I shake my head. “Find one that’s best for you”, they tell me. Yeah, but nothing here is jumping out at me. I’m going to look ridiculous in lingerie, too.

What are you most grateful or thankful for in your sex life?

Oh, yeah, i’m totally grateful for something that brings me so much shame that it makes my chest hurt and makes it hard to even get out of bed some days. Oh, yeah, totally grateful for the judgements, the dirty looks, the snickers, the condescension, the guilt, the horrible feelings where there should be pleasure and confidence, what have you.

What is your favorite sexual position, and why?

Officially don’t know anymore.

Have you ever had an “inappropriate” crush? What was it about that person that drew you in, and what made it “not okay”?

All my crushes have been inappropriate lol

They all have been either older, or unavailable in some way like already taken or not interested.

I was never drawn to people at my school, so I looked beyond the borders: older people fit that bill for me.

Have you (or would you) ever tried role play? What roles are you drawn to?

Well, I officially don’t care anymore.

Are you more dominant or submissive (or a bit of both)?

Both. Yes, even with as much as I hate the female role and find it restrictive, there’s a sub in me.

How do you feel about your own body?

This body is… I don’t know. Parents called me beautiful but if my piss-poor track record with my peers and crushes and this whole thing here is anything to go by… it should be clear that I have trouble seeing this myself. I’m not good-looking. I only started actually getting hit on very recently, and looking at my appearance when I was a teenager, I did not look good at all. It makes sense that no one ever made a pass on me.

You know, I’ve posted pictures of myself online before and I have literally gotten blocked for it. They weren’t anything risqué, either, they were just… my face. Or me in a t-shirt or a camisole because I like wearing those. But I see people who are *okay looking* (like I could see them on the street willy-nilly but they won’t make me turn my head) get hundreds of likes or notes. I see people—I’m gonna catch hell for this; I have nothing to lose—who are ugly, like uglier than me, get the likes and called “beauty queens” and shit. I hope people realize just how hurtful it is, and I hope that people realize that telling me to “just be confident” in the face of that is genuinely insulting.

How sorry do you have to feel for a person having sex with you?

Sorrier than sorry. Why bother. I can’t give you pleasure or anything, anything other than tears. Just go home.

Could someone know you sexually, properly know you, and still like you?

A certain someone knows about me sexually and I not only have no idea if he likes me but it scares me to think that he likes me because I worry about… what effect I could curse him with. Really, I worry about hurting him and turning him into damaged goods with my own horse shit. and it’s not the boy I cybered with, either.

#text #journaling #personal

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