back view of a women's body

i often mourn the kind of discussions we could be having about intertwining experiences all lgbt people have, but it’s nearly impossible to talk about them because people can’t stop and think for a minute and will instantly appropriate that discussion to back up their own views

like, it’s a fact that historically, lesbians/wlw have had intersecting spaces with trans men or transmascs. yet that cannot be discussed without some people thinking it means that a trans man can be a lesbian or can be in lesbian spaces, or that cis lesbians who experience body dysphoria can discuss trans stuff the same way trans people can

plus any discussion about historical wlw describing their feelings about themselves and women gets hijacked into some “uhm sounds like a trans man to me!!” just because in the past, gender and sexuality wasn’t seen as that separate and many wlw would compare themselves to men or say they feel like men feel about women etc. many butch lesbians especially have gender dysphoria and 200 years ago they did not have the tools or words to go “hmm maybe I am agender or my lesbianism makes it difficult for me to identify with womanhood”, and it’s lesbophobic as fuck to look at those kind of stories and instantly go uhmm this is transphobia they were clearly a trans man :/// especially when many wlw lived as men to avoid sodomy charges etc

but it also cannot be denied that there were also trans men with similar experiences, and not every afab person who lived as a man was wlw. it’s not even necessarily correct to call them these identities they had no knowledge of, especially when they are so colored by their ties to our time and culture.

it’s so true that it’s impossible to fully separate gender and sexuality when many identities exist in this space between them, and the only thing that separates two people with same experiences is how they define themselves. we cannot fall too deep into identity politics or born this way rhetoric, nor can we act like identities don’t mean anything and we’re all the same and experience the same forms of oppression

i identified as a trans man/transmasc from 12 years old to around 19-20 years old, and it would be really redundant to say that all of that was Fake and didn’t mean i was unaffected by transphobia because my True, Born This Way identity is and always was, lesbian. yet, now that I identify as an agender lesbian, I do not experience the same things anymore (though i’m still dysphoric and want many things i used to as a trans man) and it’s not my place to push myself into discussions about being a trans man

but all of this seems to be very hard to grasp for many, and so we get some truly wild discourse about lesbian trans men and non-transmascs like rcdart defending their transphobic art with “but uwu i’m nb” even when the fetishization of trans men does not affect them directly


klaus mikaelson x reader 

prompt: seeing another woman all over your boyfriend has you fuming, klaus takes it upon himself to show you who he belongs to. 

warnings: swearing, smut + daddy kink. (loosely edited.)

the champagne glass in your hand felt heavy as you watched on. people around you bustled but you paid them no mind, instead your sight was fixated on the scene in front of you. another mikaelson ball was in attendance and you donned a beautiful gown, even surprising yourself with how well fitting it was - classy and just the right amount of trashy for you to feel like a goddess. 

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The Many Uses of Modern Technology

Originally posted by themegalosaurus

Jared Padalecki x Reader

Summary: Imagine being actress who’s having an affair with Jared. Your relationship is revealed when sex tapes are released.

Warnings: Cheating (kind of), graphic descriptions of sex tapes, filth, public humiliation


It’s just after four in the morning when you hear the first message. The soft tone of your phone wakes you from a shallow sleep, but only for a second before drifting off again.

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Before I became radicalised as a man-hating, separatist feminzai hell-bent on installing a matriarchy and imprisoning men as its slaves, I possessed a nominal amount of internalised misogyny. Women were bitchy and mean. They cared about irrelevant rubbish and talked in loud, shrill voices. Their laughter was annoying and tinny, and they did it performatively and too often. Women were boring and dumb, especially if they were pretty and nice.

Were I born a few years later, I’ve no doubt that I could have easily fallen into the horrifying hole that is Women Against Feminism. Being down on other girls was a gesture to reassure all the boys around me that while I may have looked vaguely like a girl on the outside, I wasn’t really like a girl-girl. 

Like so many girls caught in this trap, it wasn’t enough for me to be considered an intellectual and social equal by men (because really, that’s what a lot of this scrabbling for their approval comes back to—the misplaced desire to achieve equality for ourselves by being welcomed into the inner sanctum rather than to destroy the sanctum and redefine the dynamic entirely); I also had to climb a tower made of the discarded and disdained bodies of other women in order to prove myself worthy to enter.

Because I was born a girl, I was taught to fundamentally distrust other women. Whether it arises as bullying, cruelty, or viciously-applied sexism, girls are separated from each other (and from organising into a bloc of power) by being encouraged to view each other as competition for male approval.

—  Clementine Ford, Fight Like A Girl
Small Rant (Leafy vs. Onision)

okay but why are people still acting like leafy is worse than onision?

i understand that leafy has done some shitty things such as the videos about kids and feminism and i don’t condone those videos as being right.

but the thing is, unlike leafy who has made videos about kids and making fun of mostly their music, greg SEXUALIZES these kids. (not the same ones, mind you) i’m not saying i condone his actions but you have to consider which is worse, making fun of them or sexualizing them? especially when the said person is in his 30s.

and people keep bringing up that leafy made a video on an autistic guy. you can see that leafy made a full apology video and said what he did was wrong. the only way he defended himself about it was by saying he didn’t know the guy was autistic. he took the video down and never mentioned it again.

Then you have onision who makes apology videos and then proceeds to defend himself in the apology videos over and over again. (which makes the apology pointless, btw) Then after the apology he has nothing to show for it. He keeps the videos up and then a week later he does what he said he wouldn’t do in his apology video. An apology video is worth absolutely nothing if you don’t act on what you’re apologizing for. It shows he doesn’t care about the people, he cares about the views and the money.

Also, leafy never claimed to be a feminist in his videos and actually showed the opposite. Unlike greg who claims he’s a feminist and then goes along shaming women but then back it up saying “no guys it’s okay because its BODY POSITIVITY!!!!” meanwhile shaming girls bodies and calling them shrek because they have a bit of weight on them.

I just don’t understand how people can say that leafy is as bad as greg when gregs on a whole other fucking level.

TL;DR: greg is a sack of shit and is way worse than leafy.


(A/N): I wanted to write something angsty. I usually write fluffy or neutral things (smut included - but NOT NOW) because nothing nice to me ever happened to me (especially when it comes to love and all that jazz). I read so many angsty stories that I just decided to write something angsty but, you know, the ending is just the way I like. Anyway, let me know what you think, enjoy and sorry for mistakes! Love. x

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: First summer weekend/vacation with the team didn’t go as pleasantly as they wanted. Who knew Bucky could be such a douche toward a girl who loved him. (This is the worst summary ever.)

Warning: ANGST, so many feels, language

Words: 6600+


Originally posted by allthisherostuff


She had only one condition – picking the music while they’ll be spending the weekend at Tony’s mansion where he had a massive pool. (Y/N) wasn’t a fan of bikinis, swimsuits and all that jazz that were related to summer activities.  As the only person, she wanted to stay in the Tower alone with books, peace, and quiet. At least she wouldn’t be looking at the man she was head over heels for several long months.

Ever since Barnes got over the Winter Soldier period and realized he’s not a bad person, he became a mean, teasing man who would flirt with any woman that got near him. The girls couldn’t believe how his behavior changed one day and as Steve said, the old Buck was back and he was even worse than the old him. It was good he got through the Winter Soldier phase but he forgot one important thing – it was (Y/N) who helped him with his nightmares, helped him overcome all the issues and negativity that was in him. After all, she did for the brunet, he repaid her by ignoring her once a party had started.

It was Friday morning when Nat came to (Y/N)’s room in Tony’s mansion. She sat on the edge of the bed next to the sleeping woman and brushed her hair with the long digits. “(Y/N), wake up, breakfast is ready,” she tried to wake the girl up with a positive voice and a smile on her face. “We have banana pancakes your favorite.” Natasha was like an older sister (Y/N) never had. “Come on, you can’t stay in here until the end of the short vacation.” 

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Ramsay x Female Reader

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Imagine being Ramsay’s new toy and he discovers your biting fetish when being sexual.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

\ Request from @lj-laufeypevensieweasley /

Hey! Love your stuff. If ur taking requests/are comfortable with writing Ramsay smut, could u do one based around the readers’ biting fetish? If not its fine! Love u! Xx

♡ ♡  Warning: SMUT & KINKS  ♡ ♡

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Tatted - Alfie Solomons

A story where you see Alfie shirtless and he’s littered in tattoos like Tom Hardy is and he’s worried you’ll think he’s ugly now but you comfort him. Telling him tattoos are sexy because they definitely are. :)

Tatted - Alfie Solomons | prequel to Jitters

Most of his tattoos had come from the war. He’d gotten them in memory of fallen comrades and friends. There was one for his mother and one for his grandfather. He didn’t regret them, the pain was a symbol of his resilience and the ink was a reminder of his past. He was proud of the tattoos that littered his skin. But he was also aware of the way women looked at them.  

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Transitioning from female to male can be a kind of consciousness raising experience because it often changes how others see and treat you. Shifts in social status, such as moving from being seen as a woman to being seen as a man, from being seen a genderfreak to blending in as just another guy, can lead to insights on how society treats people according to what sex they’re seen as.

After a few months of taking t, I started passing as male almost exclusively and people started treating me differently than they had when they saw me as a butch woman or couldn’t tell what sex I was. I call this experience “joining the human race” because of how much better I got treated. I didn’t know how poorly I’d been treated before until I had something different to compare it to. That shift in treatment, that realization of what a difference it made to be seen as male or female, that experience is the root of my present radical feminism.

I would suspect that other detransitioned radical feminists would trace their radicalization back to experiences they had when they transitioned. Maybe it was passing as male and suddenly being taken more seriously and respected, getting a taste of male privilege. Maybe it was hearing what men say when they think no women are around, all the crude misogynistic bullshit so many men sprout. Maybe it was realizing that one’s transition was a response to living in a hostile woman-hating society or getting assaulted for being female. Figuring out that you changed your body in response to society tends to shift your world-view.

Joining a community of women who were so traumatized as a result of being female that we changed or considered changing our bodies in order to escape from harm brings home how violent this society is towards women. As a community, we know a whole lot about how people in this society attack the female body. We know they attack it whether it’s seen as feminine or masculine, whether it’s “clearly female” or “sexually ambiguous”, whether it’s fat or thin, judged attractive or ugly. Our bodies are often attacked in specific ways due to our race, ethnicity, class and perceived sexuality. We know how our own bodies were attacked for being female and we listen to other women describe how their bodies were attacked too. We hear each other describe how differently we were treated depending on what we called ourselves, how we dressed, how we changed our bodies or didn’t, whether we passed for male or didn’t. We come to see how our past alienation from being female actually had everything to do with living as a female under patriarchy. We come to see how much being female has shaped the course of our lives.

Taking t or getting surgery can radicalize you. Transitioning, socially or medically, can lead to experiences that change your perspective. Changing your body and how people react to it can end up changing your mind and how you see the world in unexpected ways. Transitioning and living as a man taught me what it means to be a woman, to be female in this society. It transformed me in ways I never imagined, from a genderqueer trans man to a radical feminist dyke.

I consider that transformation one of the only positive long term effects of my transition. Transitioning cost me a lot and caused a lot of problems but I’m glad it broadened my perspective, woke me up to just how fucked up our society is and eventually lead me to radical feminist culture and community. I know so many bad ass women now who I wouldn’t have met otherwise. It was a blessing to witness and take part in the creation of the detransitioned and dysphoric women’s community. So I do think transitioning can be beneficial at times, just not in the ways most people think.

Letter to the Ankhs, Hoteps & Fake Deeps

Dear Ankhs, Hoteps & Fake Deeps,
Alkebulan is not the original true name of Africa. The name Africa was not given by the enemy to make us forget or destroy our history.
You should also know that Egypt is not the only country in Africa and with that being said, Africa is neither one country or one nation. Africa is a continent with 54 beautiful countries with over 2000+ languages, over 3000+ tribes and a huge amount of different cultures. Please respect the diversity of this vast continent. Also keep in mind that Egypt was not the only place in Africa where advanced ancient civilizations once existed or where Kings and Queens ruled. There is therefor no need to always and only mention or uplift Egypt because as you know or may not know, majority of the victims of the trans-atlantic slave trade came from the west & central parts of Africa so basically you’re most likely a descendant of African people who came from those areas.
Please do not spread false information about Africas history or cultures just because it screams pro-black and when you are called out for spreading misinformation on social media, do not block, delete comments. There is also no need to be rude. Just read your history correctly and always have sources to back up your facts to avoid such things.

Do not post pictures with captions like “A Black Queen should…” It is not your position to demand, command or advice women on how they should act. Your point of view or standards does not equal everybody elses.
Also, most of us black women are not like the women in the pictures you constantly post or repost. We are not all half naked, walking oil lamps with a tight curved body with gold painted on our butts and titties.
Please understand that the black female body is not yours to use for your sexist captions, memes, quotes, and misogynic thoughts and behaviour that you hide behind your so-called consciousness.

Homosexuality was not introduced to black people by the white man nor was it introduced to black people to whipe out the entire ‘race’. Babies are still being born within the black community so do not panic because maybe the only reason you did not realize that the black LGBT community is big might because you were not bothered to care that much before you became “woke”.

Respect other indigenous beings and their history, land and cultures! Just because the first of the human mankind appeared and came out of Africa does not mean that we are entitled to claim other groups, appropriate cultures and remake their history.

Every so-called unconscious black person are not coons, whitewashed, Uncle Toms, Massa’s puppet, house negroes or negropeans. The reason you call yourself woke is because you too were once at sleep, remember that.
So instead of spending your days online on social media bashing and insulting other black people for not being down with revolution or not being woke, try instead to understand what lies behind it.

Last but not least, demanding people to unite and build when you are most likely not doing the same is very hypocritical.

-Sincerely, tired black woman from the African continent.

i sort of wish it was possible to swap bodies. for two people to consensually slip into a new life. i sort of wish instead of saying “i wish you could see my view” we could just jump into it.

men who learn exactly how much it wasn’t asking for it. who laughed at catcalling because she’s pretty. where the jokes stop being funny. women who finally understand why they’re wrong about transgender individuals, why they’re still woman in the body of the man. who learn that their gay child really can’t “just control it.” who sob in the bathroom for hours because they’ve got to give the body back. 

people with mental illness who get to feel how much someone loves them, who don’t have to rely on just words. who take that with them. neurotypical people learning exactly what they’ve been ignorant of; trying kale shakes and yoga and sobbing because nothing is working. learning to be understanding. mentally ill people who at first are sick in their heart about how much easier it all is but at the same time finding out: they really are ill, nothing was laziness, nothing was a lie. that they accomplished so much more than anyone could have thought possible. 

just learning things about people. how your happy friend is quiet and shaky in front of her father. how good he is at drawing, how much his hands hurt. their pride in their immaculately decorated room, their extensive set of dog movies no one else will listen to them talk about. the obvious and explicitly consensual exploration of a partner’s body, the insane trust of knowing someone won’t do that exact thing.

just imagine how much we don’t know about someone. all their cool facts or small talents. imagine returning to your body and saying: i’m sorry that was boring i know it’s not nice to be i’m sorry - and having them gush because they’re so impressed with how you never complain about those achy hips or how they’re really proud of you for those poems you never show anyone. discovering you’re not weird, that what you thought no one would understand is exactly what someone else is going through. 

and someone finally saying: hey. i’m proud of you.

BBRae Week 2017 - Primal (M-Rated)

All their lives, people have feared their primal side. Their raw, untamed side of their shared personality was enough to make even them wary. Too many times, they let their primal nature show in public. It happened at parties, whenever a guy moved too close to her, or a girl started rubbing up on him. It happened when they went out on dates, and some bystander happened to mumble a nasty comment as they past. It happened right at home, whenever their leader pushed a little too far for their liking. Most common of them all, was when they were in battle, and forced into life-threatening situations that were less than ideal to his beast and her demon.

No matter how much of a nuisance their primal side could be, it was only when they had an audience that they disapproved of it. Hidden from any judgmental eyes, however, made a dramatic difference toward their feelings for their darker sides. It was moments like the one they shared now, alone in her darkened room, deep into the night, where no soul could know what kind of activities the couple were partaking in, that made them feel excited to freely use their primal side.

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Two trips to a clinic and I would have been on hormones despite records of two years of therapy and 3 trips to ER for suicide attempts in the last two years.

Submission by: anonymous

I spent most of my childhood being gender non confirming, getting asked if I was a boy or a girl, acting like/spending most of my time with/hoping to be seen as a boy till I finally got sick of being treated as a bodyguard by the girls (as the only one who would fight the boys to protect them) and not being treated as a boy by any adults but patronized as a girl (told to reform my behavior because it was “unladylike” and that I couldn’t help with physical tasks, having to fight to be able to play rugby and ending up with a girls “tag rugby” team etc.) so I decided to “just be a girl” and conform for an easier life. I also repressed any attraction to females and forgot my first romantic/sexual relationships were with girls till mid adolescence. When I got my first girlfriend we were both very into liberal feminism, trans activism, gender theory, sex/kink positivity and a shallow understanding of the left. I started getting body and social dysmorphia and got her to refer to me as her boyfriend instead/ started presenting as male and felt amazing so I thought I was gender fluid because I didn’t want to think I was trans. Fast forward a few years I found radical feminism and agreed with most of it, at the same time however, I started having intense body dysmorphia that required unhealthy binding (several layers of binding materials with a proper binder on top) and talked to trans/liberal feminist friends who were convinced I was trans from my past experiences and what I was feeling. I found a way to fit transitioning and coming out to close friends with my politics by telling myself, “yes I’m female, I just would rather be seen as a man, dress in a typically male fashion, and have the body of one” and because I knew gender couldn’t be innate I used the fact I had physical dysmorphia to “prove” I was trans (and lessen the confliction of my politics and what I wanted.) But I was lying to myself. There WAS a distinct feeling and identification with maleness and what it represented, and even after talking to detransitioned rad fems who advised non-permanent solutions to the dysmorphia I sought out medical attention and saw a nurse about a referral to a gender Identity clinic. In the UK, hormones are free and most people report being given them at just the second appointment at the GIC. I didn’t go through with it because after a few months I woke up without body dysphoria. I thought it was just a day off but it didn’t come back/only came back in mild or social ways (which I never trusted as much because daily treatment of women isn’t something pleasant for most people anyway.) After another week I released I wasn’t trans and apologized to my friends and my doctor. My hardcore genderist friend was clearly disappointed and refused to hear my views on gender or what had happened as soon as I realized I wasn’t trans but stayed friends with me.

Here’s the thing. Whilst my past added up to ‘gnc or trans’, and my personality and social preferences where typically male “That feeling” was the defining factor (beyond even dysmorphia) and it wouldn’t add up with what I believed about gender being constructed and not innate. Whilst the majority my experience can be chalked up to internalized homophobia, not wanting to be affected by misogyny/wanting actual equality with men, and oppressive gender norms leading to physical dysmorphia, I think the idea of “feeling” like a gender shouldn’t always be ignored as just that. A factor I very stupidly ignored was mental illness, I have BPD (a key feature of which is an unstable sense of identity, values and goals.)  Which would explain the dysphoria coming in waves and the “feeling.” There is no way to “feel” like a gender. I think if you do ‘feel’ like male or female it is a mental issue it is not how people of those sexes/genders feel, it is an abnormality that should be addressed (not with surgery or hormones if that can be avoided but with mental health help.) What’s worrying to me is that no one ever talks about the prevalence of mental health issues in trans and non-binary people and how easy it is to make life changing health interventions even despite records of mental health issues. Two trips to a clinic and I would have been on hormones despite records of two years of therapy and 3 trips to ER for suicide attempts in the last two years. This is a real issue and I think mental health could explain the mysterious “feeling” trans people always talk about.

A Shadow Seen: A Nuala/Cerridwen Fic

Maybe the taste of danger would make her feel something.

Thank you @sparkleywonderful for giving it a proof read!

Part I

Nuala was beginning to resent her sisters presence. The only constant in her life, it seemed. Her conscious was her own, thankfully. To an onlooker, it wouldn’t seem that way. Every movement she made was matched by Cerredwin. Cauldron damn her, they even wore the same Night Court attire. She felt as though she were becoming a shadow, seen by only those who dared to stare. 

Cerridwen seemed to have accepted this fate. Looked as though she was ready to reduce into nothing but information for the High Lord that ruled them. Nuala couldn’t fathom it. Her sister’s willingness to become nothing, just a whisper of a shadow between pillars and walls. 

No. Nuala wanted to be seen. Especially after recent events at the Night Court. After their new High Lady found her place in Lord Rhysand’s home. Had become Rhysand’s home. It had been beautifully heartbreaking to watch. It was no mystery to those who resided here that Feyre and Rhysand truly loved each other, a perfect paring by the Mother. And it was that love that broke her out of the dream like trance she had been in.

She wanted that. She wanted companionship that differed from sisterly love. A person to combat her darkness and shadows. Someone with a flame like touch and a smile bright enough to end the darkness forever. Because it seemed the shadows were getting to her more easily these days. No one was able to cut the endless fog that surrounded her. 

What are you thinking about, sister? You seem as though you are deep in thought.

She jolted slightly, once again thankful her mind could not be read. Well, at least not by Cerridwen. 

Nothing. She shot back, trying desperately to conceal its venom.

Good, because spymaster Azriel ordered us to gather intel on Her Lady Amren.

Yes, yes. 

From then until her duty had ceased, Nuala tried to shut out thoughts of forbidden love and lives lived in bliss. Lady Amren hadn’t done anything suspicious, and Nuala couldn’t help but feel annoyed at Spymaster Azriel. Had he not realized, after multiple centuries, that the woman would not do anything to risk her position in the Inner Circle? Typical Illyiran protectiveness, Nuala supposed. 

To be quite honest, her and her twin were lucky to be able to serve here. Typically, faeries aren’t the gifted sort. Thought it was by some stroke of luck that they inherited their mother’s abilities and their father’s immortality. Together, they could do most anything in a Court setting. For it was their abilities that allowed them to gather information easier than most could. Because of this, they were granted positions as spies for High Lord Rhysand. 

It had been difficult at times. Especially being under the mountain. The creatures down there had been the most gruesome she’d ever seen. Cerredwin, in her blind determination, had been the stronger of the two. Nuala wouldn’t have made it through the fifty years if it hadn’t been for her twin.

After hours of surveilling, Spymaster Azriel had given the twins the night off. They now entered their quarters at the far side of the Night Court. If anyone where to stumble on their room, they would’ve seen nothing but a vacant room. Two beds on either side of a melancholy room. Trunks sat in front of them, both filled with nothing but shear black Night Court attire. One window hiding behind wooden shudders, and a dead flower plant Nuala had failed to Nurture. Destruction, it seemed, sprung from her finger tips. 

Cerredwin took a place at the vanity and began to un-spool her intricately plaited hair. Cerredwin did little to conceal her narcissism. Every morning, she lined her eyes perfectly with kohl and put on earrings of luminous gold. She always told Nuala, a good spy must look as though she belongs. So Nuala held her tongue and allowed her twin to duplicate the look on herself. They were the same side of a coin. Looks were as far as the similarity went. Where Cerridwen was content with silence and stern looks, Nuala yearned for spaces filled with laughter. It was all she could do not to sit down at the dinner table among the Inner Circle. They had such fun. 

While Cerridwen readied for bed, Nuala laid down and feigned sleep. If was often that she slept in her Night Court garbs. After some time, Nuala heard sounds of sleep from her sister.

She gathered herself and left the room through the wall rather than the door, if only to avoid its clicking. The feeling of solid matter around her never seemed to become normal. Once bone met flesh and skin again, she walked through the gardens Lady Elain had planted. They were beautiful in the silver light of the moon. The feeling of grass beneath her feet and plants tickling her legs made the corners of her mouth turn up in a quiet smile.

“Nuala.” Spymaster Azriel’s voice came from behind her, and her body turned to face him. 

“Yes?” She cursed herself for addressing him with such a lack of respect. 

“Where are you going?” The steel in his voice had been something she had grown used to. 

“Just for a walk. Cerridwen is asleep.” 

“Ah, so she doesn’t know about your little walk.” The implication rattled her. What exactly did he think she was doing? Taking a lover? Nuala hadn’t had one in centuries.

“She never does. You know she would attempt to stop me.” This was true. It was far too dangerous in the eyes of Cerridwen. 

Understanding veiled his features, and she found herself resenting the pity on his face. She took this job willingly and knew what it meant. There were to be limited outside communications, as well as no relationships outside the confines of the Townhouse. 

These thoughts echoed through her mind as she left him behind her. Most nights, if there weren’t assignments to be completed, Nuala was free to roam Velaris. And it was among the fae and faerie strangers alike that she felt solace. For though they could not see her, she could feel their warmth. Their joy and laughter pulsed through Nuala’s very bones. 

The light of the lanterns allured her. The smattering of stars across the sky made her feel that she wasn’t so alone. It was their light that chased away the shadows, made her feel as less of a spy and more of a person. 

Azriel had lectured her before leaving on the dangers of mostly everything. Little did he know that Nuala dared the night to claim her, take her away for just a little while. Maybe the taste of danger would make her feel something. The thoughts of a madwoman, she scolded herself. She acknowledged her spymaster’s worry and left the house in a rush. Soon the sun would be coming up and her shadows would return, following her always. 

She passed shops and people of all sorts while walking the aged cobblestone street. The journey back would be more difficult if her burning thighs were any indication. But she liked not using her magic for once, not relying on the ability to float where she wished. It reminder her that she wasn’t her abilities only.

Usually, she stayed in the shadows surrounding bustling streets, content to be alone in her thoughts. But tonight, she ventured to a corner of Velaris that wasn’t easy to miss. Music called to her, and she went along with where it might take her. 

At the base of the narrow street lay a dance floor of sorts. Faerie lights were strung in between two shops. One of the two looked to be closed for the night, as if its workers were too joining in the festivities. And the other, emitting smells of delicious spices and meats, appeared to be a eatery. They were obviously taking advantage of the men and women gorging themselves on faerie wine. It was fascinating to her, the lives of these people. They were not afraid of the darkness. They were not afraid of the triumphant mountains at their backs. Velaris’s people basked in the starlight, looking as if they’d be content to stay that way forever.  Between the shops was empty air, filled with the view Velaris was known for. A sky full of stars met by a body of stagnant water, glistening in the starlight. As if it, too was used to the darkness. Even the boats, usually trading or moving about, stood still. Down the street a bridge stood, astride with people all looking skyward. It was a sight that healed her weary soul again and again. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a pair of strong hands cupping her mouth and pulling her back into a solid force. She had forgotten the alleyway behind her and the peculiar feeling she got from it. 

“Try to get away, and i’ll let your blood stain the streets.” The voice was hissy, as if not used to speaking in a long while. 

Someone from the Court of Nightmares, then. So far they had done well in the transition, as if worried their High Lord would punish them individually for any misstep. They should be worried. 

Nuala was not panicked. She could easily materialize into shadow and escape. Yet, for some reason she remained in the hands of this scoundrel, daring him to make the cut. Daring him to condemn himself to death at the hands of her High Lord. More likely, her High Lady. Nuala was the only one who could get her hair the way she liked it. If her blood spilled, it wouldn’t be in vain. 

“Look at these fancy clothes,” he whispered. “From the Night Court, are we?” His voice was echoed by the laughs of what seemed like two other men. Her spine tingled with the thrill of danger. 

“Tell me, lady. Why are you walking these streets alone?”

He foolishly loosened his hold on her mouth, as if he truly wanted the answer.

“Because I was under the impression that I could walk about my city and feel safe, you oaf.” Her voice was a sensual purr made to alarm any threats.

He bristled at the insult. “I should kill you for that.” 

Do it. End this miserable life. 

The man angled his dagger towards her neck, only to be stopped by a deep growl coming from down the alleyway. Whoever- whatever it was, was cloaked in the darkness. 

The men were smart enough to look alarmed. One even called out in a shaky voice, “Who- who’s there?” It was echoed by a devious laugh from the creature, now seeming to be man. 

Looks were exchanged between the three, as if questioning their lives worth over a wealthy Night Court dweller. When the outline of a hulking a muscle bodied figure materialized, they chose to flee. 

Nuala remained where she stood, if only to prove her rescuer that she had some semblance of bravery. When the beast of a man came closer, she didn’t falter. 

“I didn’t need help!” she shouted towards the figure, now approaching at a quicker pace. Her voice shook, despite efforts to appear formidable. 

“Is that right?” His voice took a playful tone, stark against its gravelly bite. Though Nuala couldn’t see him, she knew he was smirking.  

“You arrogant beast. I had it under control.” She was surprised at the shear honesty in her voice. Rarely did she emit her her true feelings.  

A booming laugh skidded across her skin. “Was it the knife at your throat you had under control? Because it looked to me like your guts were about to be scattered about the street.”

His features were now distinguishable against the darkness of the alley. A strong jaw offset by eyes of the richest blue. His body, encased in muscles, looked to have been honed over centuries. A lean waist and strong broad shoulders that probably charmed many women over the years. He was bred for perfection, and that worried her the most. Men of that appearance were usually used as weapons. After all, it was easy to trust a face meant for charming. A face that was now split with a impish smirk.

“I know. Gorgeous, right?” His smirk widened into a grin, and it took all of her efforts not to swoon. Had she not been trained in the art of a stone face, she would have.

“That was some growl. Part animal, maybe?” 

“Only in the bedroom, sweetheart.” 

Unable to generate a response, Nuala scoffed and began to walk away. 

The beautiful man guffawed, and began to catch up to her. “Wait. Stop.” His face had become slightly serious and infinitely less boyish. It’s severity halted her steps. 

“Whats is your name, lady in the alleyway?” 

She wanted to smile, and that realization made her still.

“Well, my name is Hyram.”

gook whore begs to be white man’s sex slave

In Singapore, over 70% of prostitutes come from mainland China. They work in massage parlors, bathhouses, karaoke bars, and hotels as the bottom level in the hierarchy of women, offering sex to the common people of Singapore, Indian migrant workers, Malays taxicab drivers; the young and pretty ones are luckier to be brought by Japanese and western businessmen.  They are treated very harshly by the local police, who view them as “yellow cockroaches” encroaching upon the holy soil of tolerance, diversity, and equality.  Any Chinese prostitute who is arrested will be fined, jailed, and even beaten, and then, deported back her home country.

“Filthy little chink, is that little yellow body of yours getting ready for some good use this weekend?”

Janice Hsu, a pretty 20 year old from Taiwan, came to Singapore as an international college student, and in her spare time, she enjoys selling her body for pleasure, and being very pretty—with luscious big breasts and a wide hip to match—she is exclusively available to Japanese and western men. The western businessman she accosted in the Smith & Wollensky steakhouse located on open roof of a seven star hotel was wearing a slick black suit and seemed not unfamiliar with the sex scenes of Singapore night life. Without even Janice’s asking, he has determined her to be a sex worker and was bluntly asking for her price.

“2000 dollars for the whole entry, all you can eat, China buffet.” Janice replied with the bizarre sex jargon of her trade.

Ms. Hsu was wearing a black backless evening gown with two slits on both sides of her legs and a match pair of black open toe stiletto, showing off her assets to anyone who was white, handsome, and wealthy enough to buy. She leaned close to her potential buyer, her breasts chafing at his arms which were tucked in his pockets, and whispered, “For just 4000 dollars, I will be your sex slave for the weekend. I have always dreamed of being with a White Man.”

The white man in black suit led Ms. Hsu back to his presidential suite where she was fucked hard, repeatedly, her screams muffled with his soiled socks. Later on that weekend he hired a professional body artist to have her pierced, branded, and tattooed. Her nipples was ringed and primped with small bells. Her left buttock was branded with the initial of her master’s name, and in the front, above her vaginal opening, was tatooed the words “WHITE ONLY”. 

It was the fulfillment of the dream, the fantasy, the yearning of every Asian girl. Ms. Hsu was in ecstasy of pain, suffering, humiliation, and most important of all, lust. 

“Though I have to admit, those chink girls look fragile on the outside, but are really tough they more than make up for their discrepancy in looks with their dedication to serve. I suppose chink whores are the only non-white people that can properly serve in the world of white people.” The slick white businessman openly mused.

Which, quite frankly, is quite true, since Asian women tend to worship white men as gods and it is in hindsight that the white man realized Ms. Hsu would have offered herself to him for free.

Later on Ms. Hsu was smuggled to Germany to serve her White Master as his full time domestic sex slave.

Not everyone is as lucky as Ms. Hsu, however. Most Chinese prostitutes toil on the small smelly dicks of chinks, curry niggers, sand niggers, and other non-white subhumans. And when they are arrested for prostitution, they must serve a year in prison before being sent back. Ms. Jiang, 35 year old and a mother of two, was caught giving blowjob to a Pakistani migrant. She served a year in prison, and when she was escorted back to China, she had realized, to her dismay, that the Singaporean police had sold her to the Chinese triad and she was re-smuggled to a brothel in Thailand. 

Because of ordeal her daughter was turned to a Japanese porn producer, and her son was given to brothel owner who coerced him to become a cross dresser and put him on female hormone treatment, while Ms. Jiang herself now had to get fucked inside a Thai brothel. She was never allowed to ask customers to use condoms.

“It is better to be a sex slave to White Man than to be married to a small dicked chink,” the saying goes among Asian whores, who regard white men as the epitome of beauty, wealthy, success and status. Indeed, even serving as a White Man’s toilet, for Asian women, is a better fate than to be living under the scourge of those chinks.

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It’s a piece of news that shakes the Palace. King is thrilled, and everybody knows that. Not only had his favorite concubine bore him a prince, but he might get a grandprince so soon?

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The pressure put on on women, particularly in certain magazines - you know, “How did she get her body back?” - I think that’s just revolting. I think, personally, the whole way that we’re viewing women and the way that we build them up and pick them apart is really frightening. Particularly now, being the mother of a girl, and you think, “How do you navigate that?” And I don’t have the answer.

A Pirate’s Life For Me

Pairings: Robb Stark x Reader

A/N: Pirate Robb would be hot. Oooooo I love pirate Robb. Someone tell Richard Madden to audition for Pirates of the Caribbean

Prompt; After the Red Wedding, Robb Stark has done the most un-Robb thing possible. He’s let his mother, wife, and unborn child die and instead of avenging them, he flees like a coward. Now, a couple years later, Robb’s turned himself into one of the few Pirate Lord’s left pillaging through the free cities of Essos. One day you find yourself aboard his ship and he realizes by the purple of your eyes that you’re the Targaryen everyone's been searching for. At first he wants to sell you to Daenerys Targaryen for an incredibly large amount of gold and jewels, but then the longer the two of you are on the ship together, the more fond he becomes of you.  

Today was not supposed to go like this. It was just supposed to be a simple get in, get out scenario and no one would’ve even noticed. You’d checked three different times and no one was supposed to be on the ship. They’d all gone up to the brothel an hour ago, even the captain. 

It’s not like you were going to take anything fancy; a few loaves of bread, some apples, maybe a small jewel or two that you could sell on the street. Whatever you took, they weren’t going to miss it. The ship had enough supplies to support the largest army in the world. 

The bottom line was, you weren’t supposed to get caught. But, here you were, tied to a wooden poll, feet bound, and watching a grimy pirate pace around in front of you. 

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