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joannechocolat · 1 year

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On why women’s rage is a superpower

My mother hates my new book. I gave her a proof just a few days ago, and although she’s still only halfway through, she can’t wait to tell me all the ways in which she hates my novel.

“Is this science fiction?” she says. (She detests science fiction.) “Were you ill when you wrote this?” (I was.) And repeatedly, she says: “Why are the women so angry?”

I get it. She’s out of her comfort zone. At 83, with no internet, no interest in pop culture and a deep-rooted hatred of anything close to horror or the supernatural, she wasn’t my target audience. And yet it’s never easy to hear such criticism from a loved one. But in some ways, she isn’t wrong. Broken Light is an angry book. It came from a time of lockdown, when social media was my only window onto the world. It came from a place of trauma, when I was fighting cancer. It came from a place of corrupt hierarchies, self-serving politicians, anti-vaxxers, Covid deniers, victim-blamers, and those eager to blame all their woes on minorities. And of course, it arose against the background of the #MeToo campaign and the Sarah Everard murder – a murder that shocked the nation, not least because the murderer turned out to be a serving police officer with a reputation for sexual misconduct - which unleashed a collective howl of protest, as well as an ugly, misogynistic backlash. Even so, my story came as something of a surprise to me: the story of a woman’s rage, and, on reaching the age at which women often feel least valued, her coming into her power.

It surprised me, most of all because I wasn’t an angry person. At least, I didn’t think I was. Those who know me describe me as someone who tends to flee conflict, who generally tries to find common ground, who gets upset when people fight. And yet, writing this story, I found myself saying and feeling certain things on behalf of my heroine, Bernie Moon; things I might not have said for myself, but which felt right and urgent, and true, and strangely liberating.

Anger has a bad press. A woman’s anger, especially. While men are encouraged to express feelings of justified anger, women are often criticized when they try to do the same. Angry women are often portrayed as “harpies,” “banshees,” “Furies.” It suggests that a man’s rage is righteous, but that a woman’s is unnatural, making her into a monster. Male anger is powerful. The God of the Bible is one of wrath. Seldom is he ever portrayed as expressing any other emotion. In the same way, men and boys are often led to believe that expressing emotion is weak - except for anger, which is seen as acceptably masculine.

In comparison, women are often criticized when they show aggression. Angry women are hysterical, shrill, out of control, unreliable, unattractive, unfeminine. A perceived lack of “femininity” makes a woman less valuable, less worthy of respect and of protection. The Press coverage of women victims of violence is a case in point. A victim of violence needs to be attractive, white, gender conforming and virtuous in every way if she is not to be overlooked, or worse, portrayed as somehow having contributed to her misfortune. When trans teenager Brianna Ghey was stabbed, the Press were very quick to state that her murder was not thought to be a hate crime, whilst at the same time obsessing over – and questioning - her gender. When Nicola Bulley disappeared, police felt obliged to divulge details of her struggle with the menopause, as well as her alcohol issues, even though this was privileged information and of no public relevance. When Emma Pattison, the Head of Epsom College, was murdered alongside her daughter, the Press immediately assumed that her husband George must have felt “overshadowed” and “driven to distraction” by his wife’s prestigious job. In all three cases, the victim falls under the hostile scrutiny of the Press, while the perpetrator is given an excuse. In all three cases, the victim – one trans, one hormonal, one better-paid than her husband - is effectively portrayed as “unnatural”. Subtext: Unnatural women do not deserve the protection of the patriarchy. Unnatural women come to bad ends.

Once you start to acknowledge it, rage grows at a surprising rate. Over the past three years, I have found myself growing increasingly angry. Angry at the injustices committed by our Government; t the greed of corporations; angry at the prejudice extended to those who are different.

Connecting with others on social media has made me more aware of the lives and experiences of those from different backgrounds to mine, and with different levels of privilege. For a long time I’d been resistant to calling myself a feminist. Feminists are angry, I thought. What right have you to be angry?

Growing older, I realize that this was my mother speaking. A woman of a certain generation, who although she was aware of the challenges of living in a patriarchy, still had a level of privilege that many women do not share. White, professional, cishet women can sometimes have the luxury of choosing not to be angry. White, professional, cishet women can sometimes have the illusion of equality. But feminism isn’t only for just one kind of woman. A feminist must look beyond the limits of their own experience. And that’s where the anger really starts: anger at injustice; anger at corruption and lies. Most of all, anger at the prejudice against certain people for just being themselves; for being transgender, or Black, or old, or simply not conforming to what a white, patriarchal society expects and values. And once you start seeing injustice, you start to see it everywhere. It’s like an eye, which, once opened, cannot unsee inequality.

My anger flourished in lockdown. A time of growing divisions. Masks are invaluable in a pandemic, and yet they inhibit connection. They serve as a kind of reminder of who can speak, and who is to be silenced. While Boris Johnson was urging the public to trust the police, a vigil for Sarah Everard was broken up, with violence, by officers citing lockdown laws. While elderly people were dying alone; while I drove for four hours just to go for a half-hour walk in the park with my son; while I sat alone in my chemo chair, politicians were partying. Billionaires were enriching themselves. Behind the mask, the eye opened wide. I caught myself making faces behind my disguise at strangers. There was something weirdly liberating about this; as if, behind the piece of cloth, I could express myself at last. Not unlike writing a book, in fact. On screen, the eye opened wider. Bernie Moon, my heroine, was unlike like me in many ways, and yet anger connected us. The anger that comes from helplessness; from seeing others mistreated. Anger at a society that propagates inequality. And the anger that comes from hormones – those mood-altering chemicals that everyone produces, and yet which allegedly make women erratic; unreliable; hormonal.

In his novel, Carrie, Stephen King tells the story of a girl, whose telekinetic powers are unleashed by her teenage hormones. Carrie is unpopular, bullied, isolated. Her rage finds an outlet in her power. Driven to breaking-point by the bullies, she becomes a monster. Of course she does: after all, the author of this tale is a man, writing from the perspective of a couple of thousand years’ worth of patriarchal inheritance. In literature, a woman’s anger is unnatural; monstrous. It leads to terrible, unnatural things: makes murderers and infanticides of Clytemnestra and Medea; monsters of Medusa and Scylla. Unnatural, monstrous women are always punished in literature, even while acknowledging that they are often the victims of men. And unnatural women are often seen as physically repulsive – a reminder that, to be valued and loved, women must be young, and pure, and conform to the standards of beauty set out by their society. In literature, just as in life, those women who do not conform tend to be less valued, less seen, and when they do appear, do so as wicked witches, evil stepmothers, ugly crones and hideous travesties of womanhood.

But what would happen if a woman took control of the narrative? In recent years, we have observed a number of retellings of Greek myths from the point of view of the monster. Stone Blind, by Nathalie Haynes; Medusa, by Jessie Burton; Circe, by Madeline Miller. In both cases, the monstrous woman is seen from a different perspective; her rage absorbed and justified; her narrative reclaimed from a patriarchy that seeks to tame and subdue a woman’s rage, even at the cost of her life.

My new novel, Broken Light, comes from the same process of reclamation. It owes a debt to Carrie, but I have avoided the explicitly paranormal theme of the original, as well as the girl-on-girl bullying and the psychopathic mother. In my version, Carrie lives; marries her childhood sweetheart; internalizes all her rage and suffocates her power. Until the menopause – a topic which until recently has been largely misunderstood and taboo – at which point her power returns, and with it, a new kind of freedom. Freedom from the male gaze; from the responsibilities of motherhood; from the largely impossible expectations of society. Unlike puberty, menopause is triggered by a lack of certain hormones; and yet the symptoms can be just as dramatic and isolating. Loss of libido, exhaustion, depression, emotional outbursts as well as unpredictable and alarming hot flashes – my version of Carrie’s pyrokinesis. Whether my heroine’s powers stem from any kind of paranormal source is very much up to the reader to decide – after all, paranormal is only a step away from unnatural. And what counts as unnatural is in the eye of the reader – an eye that has been opened, I hope, to a series of new possibilities.

One is that rage is natural. Living in a patriarchy, women have a right to their rage. In fact, it seems more unnatural to me when women are not angry, given how much misogyny remains in our society. And growing old is natural. Being hormonal is natural. Differences are natural; so are disabilities. All women matter; whatever their age, or colour, or sexual orientation, or marital or reproductive status. The value of a woman’s life should not be defined by her popularity, or her age, or her looks, or her kids, or her value to the patriarchy. And no-one else gets to decide what a woman ought to be. A woman is not what, but who - a person, not an object; an active participant in her world. Women have lived too long behind the mask. They deserve their own stories. Stories in which they are allowed the full range of human possibility. So, to answer my mother’s question: Why are the women so angry?

Because it’s a superpower.

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familyabolisher · 10 months

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Would you elaborate on why you don't really believe in addictive personalities? I find that a useful descriptor for myself that reminds me how easy it is for me to get into unhealthy behavior patterns. I have to fully stay away from tiktok and gacha games(I will never go gambling) because I know I can't trust myself with them. I also have to be REALLY careful with alcohol, etc. I have adhd and bi-polar, and I like having a phrase that describes my experience without being too over-medicalized and relating everything to diagnoses. I'm curious why you don't like it as a construct/whatever your opinion is!

personal explanatory power is one thing and i wouldn’t begrudge you that but i don’t really see how it has any materialist usage; and ultimately, like, i’m a marxist, any way in which i evaluate a framework that’s supposed to explain something in the world has to come from the assumption that the world is best explained through historical materialism. ‘addictive personality’ with no further elaboration is an idealist claim which obfuscates crucial points of discourse around addiction and the conditions that give rise to it—and indeed the conditions which cause us to name one substance or action as ‘addictive’ over another in the first place. addiction is materially punished; through social stigma, but also through housing discrimination, workplace discrimination, policing & incarceration, psychiatry, the sorts of forces that add up to eventually facilitate the conditions of social murder. we only have to look as far as the war on drugs to understand how ‘addiction,’ the consumption and circulation of substances regarded as ‘addictive,’ is not a prediscursive state but one that can be leveraged to violently enforce conditions of hegemony and quell insurgence through carceralism and social murder. i also just heavily distrust psychology as a field and certainly don’t buy these appeals to an essential self as a self who ‘has’ xyz tendencies as though xyz tendencies (such as the traits given in the five-factor model which is applied to ‘explain’ a predisposition to addiction) are anything other than postdiscursive descriptors we’ve imbued with meaning relative to a postdiscursive normalcy. i think psychological theorising around personality tends to obfuscate materialist frameworks in favour of methodologies which presume and reify normativity (eg. the claim that those more vulnerable to ‘addictive personalities’ have a stronger tendency towards ‘social alienation’ and ‘nonconformity’ without defining what constitutes ‘alienation’ and ‘conformity’ in the first place—as though personality traits simply appear out of thin air).

as we’ve seen dozens of times, “addiction” is a slippery term easily wielded towards reactionary ends. “porn addiction” is a line taken by anti-sex work radfems; “food addiction” is infamously unscientific and preying on cultural predispositions towards fatphobia; “internet addiction” is similarly flimsy and frequently deployed in theories of cultural degeneration. this doesn’t mean that the clusters of behaviours we term “addiction” aren’t “real” in the sense that some people do develop dependencies on particular substances, but that the term can be used to draw connections between the reactionary attitude held towards addiction & its attendant connotations (of infantilisation, justified removal of autonomy, incarceration, psychiatric intervention, and so on) and whatever the wielder wants to malign (porn, food, using the internet). if we reify the idea of there being an ontological state within ourselves by which we are more or less prone to “addiction,” we by implication act against the necessity of interrogating what is meant by “addiction” and why it is being invoked in the first place; we also place all our explanatory eggs, so to speak, in the basket of the individual cast as “addicted,” rather than turning our attention towards the source of the “addictive” substance or object and its material origins + usage.

so it bears asking what we’re obscuring and what we’re facilitating when we give legitimacy to the idea of an ‘addictive personality’ in the public discourse, which is what i meant when i said that the term has no materialist explanatory power for me—casting someone in the role of an addict, even if only in the hypothetical, allows others to enforce the stigmas that such a role entails, through, for example, infantilisation, denial of autonomy, and reluctance to treat the individual’s behaviour as worthy of respect, compassion, and mature response. it creates a telos out of addiction under conditions wherein addiction means incarceration (literal or psychiatric), discrimination, ostracisation, everything i just laid out in the first paragraph. it makes addiction into a fundamentally individualist discourse which must therefore have individualist solutions, rather than a complex nexus of social conditions and discourses that we can describe and then fight against.

#ask

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ladamedusoif · 9 months

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Tempered in the Fire (Blacksmith!Din Djarin AU) - Masterlist

With his hammer in his hand/He looked right clever… (‘The Blacksmith’, British or Irish folk song from the early nineteenth century)

Series Summary:

Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798 was brutally suppressed. In this seemingly quiet part of the country, the people work the land and stay quiet about the recent past. You are an unusual woman in this little world: married, but living alone; a widow, with no certainty that her husband is dead. You have made your own life since he vanished into thin air, managing the smallholding you live on and making some extra money through your skills as a seamstress.

This is a time when the local blacksmith is at the heart of any rural community. One such smith is a man of few words, whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals, but whose skills with hammer and anvil have rendered him indispensable. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel on to this man’s forge - and are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure…

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (series); Explicit (eventual chapters)

Content: Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to domestic abuse; period-appropriate terminology and misogyny; anti-Travelling people discrimination; alcohol; strong language; explicit smut (eventually); technical infidelity; almost certainly incorrect depictions of blacksmithing; some slightly dodgy history (I literally took advanced seminars in this topic but come on, it’s fic); most likely some not quite correct Irish language content (again, I studied it for years so forgive me and move on).

Cross-posted to AO3.

Author’s Note: I spotted a sign at Disneyland for ‘Rose’s Forge’ and @julesonrecord and @lunapascal were immediately on the “which P boy would be a blacksmith?” train. And there’s only one answer, isn’t there? It’s Din.

This is intended as a short series of around four chapters - essentially a chance for me to scratch the blacksmith!Din itch, while also indulging in some historical fiction set in my homeland. In part, it’s inspired by the image of the blacksmith in eighteenth and nineteenth century popular culture and their role in supplying rebel weaponry in the 1798 uprising against British rule.

And it’s also inspired by the image of Din sweaty and beautiful at an anvil, because why the hell not?

The image I’ve used for the header image, by the way, is a wonderful engraving from about 1833 by the French artist Eugène Delacroix, who’s one of my absolute favourites. It’s called ‘Un Forgeron’ (A Blacksmith) and you can see it in all its glory here. (Yes, it’s hot as fuck.)

Chapter List:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

#tempered in the fire fic #din djarin au #din djarin fanfiction #new fic announcement #fic coming soon #historical AU #the mandalorian au #the mandalorian fanfiction #blacksmith!din djarin #blacksmith!din djarin x f!reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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ruthlesslistener · 1 year

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happy 4/20 here's some headcanons about the shit bugs used to get elevated

Alcohol: good 'ol alcohol. Found everywhere in every tribe of Hallownest, brewed in pretty much every way possible. Unregulated in trade by pretty much all tribes except for the stuff the Pale King consumes, which is often strong enough to give an entire room alcohol poisoning (wyrms are resistant to pretty much all toxins). Even the Hive have fermented honey and nectar, though they are much stricter about who indulges; it's more often exported for trade than consumed. Among the tribes, limitations only exist among the beetles and mantises, as both have violent tendencies and are liable to pick a fight when drunk; mantises regulate it to festivals and mating season, when sparring is likely to happen anyways, while drunk beetles outside homes and bars are often picked up and stuffed into trash cans to sober them up (and hopefully teach them a lesson in the meanwhile)

Gulka venom: an intoxicating substance with mildly hallucinogenic effects. Unregulated in trade, though that's mostly because there is no trade- the Mosskin refuse to collect it for other tribes, going out of their way only for the snail shamans (who are herb-masters with great healing knowledge) You'll have to harvest it yourself if you want to indulge, and that means there's a bit of a black market for it in Hallownest

Shamanistic Death-Herbs: a blend of relatively common herbs that, when dried together in a certain way, creates an extremely toxic blend if consumed or inhaled (when burned). Typically used to give those suffering a peaceful, painless death, it has powerful hallucinogenic effect under its killing threshold, and is one of the few toxins that can affect void creatures in any way (it puts them to sleep/makes them high). The fear of the void worshipers using them in battle against her moths was one of the excuses the Radiance used for her genocide against the snail tribe, though the shamans themselves have strict oaths to use them only for healing, and have never broken those oaths or used them against another tribe (at least, as far as the few who remember the age of dark can recall)

Bitterroot: an anti-contraceptive and abortion drug that can have an intoxicating-but dangerous- effect if too much of it is chewed. Grows primarily in the Crossroad region, and is heavily regulated in Hallownest- it is easily attainable and available to all, but herbalists are required by law to cut it and sell it in specific portion sizes for different species of bug, to prevent fatalistic overdosing. Tribes with overlap of the growing range tend to follow this rule, though it is not as strictly monitored as in the City (where many different species of bugs congregate, and thus require different doses to be effective)

Lifeblood: A life-boosting substance with magical roots that invigorates the self, at the risk of overestimating limitations and causing irreversible harm to the body when infused with it. This risk, while minimal with supervision, was what the Pale King used as an excuse to ban it, when in reality the main reason for the ban is because it is directly tied to an unascended abyssal god (the Lifeblood creature). Pretty heavily regulated in the Pale King's realm, but is used pretty regularly outside of his lands because nobody outside the most religious of the Beetle Tribe gives a shit

Brightpede poison: an extremely bitter, cyanide-based toxin that, like the death-herbs, can get one high if consumed in extremely small amounts. Secreted by pink and yellow-banded millipedes in the Deepnest region, used most commonly to kill political enemies or ease the passing of mortally wounded individuals. Harmlessly intoxicating to wyrms and their kin

Smokeweed: marijuana. It grows pretty much everywhere in Hallownest where greenery thrives, and is used both recreationally and medicinally, though the extent of it varies from culture to culture. Among the mantises, it's reserved only for strong warriors, to ease pain, battle-rage, and battle-lust. In the City of Tears, use is limited to smokehouses to prevent air contamination in close quarters, but is perfectly legal in private quarters, cheap to buy, and is typically recreational or therapeutic (there is, however, more variation in strains and expensive variants available to those of higher social rank, with the blooms grown in the White Lady's gardens going for the highest). In Deepnest, it's technically limited from the working castes to prevent injury, but is allowed during times of leisure and is unlimited to the injured or sick (if trade allows it). The Mosskin, Snails, and the Moths typically used it for religious reasons. Only the Hive have strict regulations against it (as they do with everything else).

Shrooms: Several species of mushrooms in Deepnest and the Fungal Wastes offer a variety of intoxicating and hallucinogenic effects, with a variety of different toxicity/fatality levels. Really only the Mantids know how to correctly harvest and identify each species responsible for each effect, a secret they hold closely guarded within their own tribe, but that doesn't stop certain individuals from different tribes to come in and sample the shrooms (and, if overdosed, become a fun little treat for the mantises)

The sap and nectar of the White Lady: really only attainable if you go praying to her for reproductive help, as it is an intense healing agent and potent aphrodisiac. Momentarily cures infertility, and brings about a high, but also induces heat. Tea can be made from her bark with similar (but less potent) effects, but again it must be provided from her willingly, and such examples are rare. Technically intoxicating, but only given to those struggling with infertility, miscarriages, suffering from injuries related to childbearing or birth, etc

#hollow knight #hollow knight headcanons #yeah i had to make some of them up but also like. kinda at a limit for bug drugs in canon #most of these dont work on gods rip pk and escaping his depression

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buggywiththefolkmagic · 1 year

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Personal Do Not Read Witchy Author List

There will be a google doc with updates as I find more authors to avoid. These are all my own personal opinion and I do take the author's actions into account when judging their ability to write legitimate information.

TW: Slavery, serial killers, racism, TERFs, creeps, neonazis, asylums, and a slew of other super unsavory things. I tried to make this list as PG as possible while highlighting the issues with these individual people.

*Alestier Crowley. *

He's a literal piece of garbage. Misogynistic, thief of a toooon of closed practices, has entire cults still dedicated to him, called himself a voice of God (both Abrahamic and apparently like 5 Egyptian deities??? I mean excuse me sir how about no??) He also declared himself ‘above’ Gods back in 1922 calling himself Ipssissimus. I hate Crowley so much I have literally stuck a picture of him to a dartboard before. He can suck an egg in the afterlife. He also put his own wife in an asylum for 'alcoholism’ because she wanted a divorce. The only thing he ever did right was get kicked down a flight of stairs at a temple once by a poet.

*Anastasia Greywolf*

Appropriates at least Jewish practices if not every Indigenous practice there is. Wholeheartedly encourages people to use magic instead of going to a doctor for things like oh I dunno EPILEPSY And claims she has spells for like Marvel-level super powers which uh no Ana. You don't. Lots of Christianity for a supposedly FULL pagan and wiccan author. Her spells are all controlled like...so wrong. So, so wrong. Don't ask please. I can't begin to describe it. Advocates for smudging and uses phrases like "Cherokee Rituals", and the Romani G-slur.

*Gerald Gardner*

Made his own branch of wicca, the first technically, and his own coven had to make rules just so he wouldn't spill everything to any reporter that asked. Used Crowley as a main resource.

*Jason Miller*

Claims to do Hoodoo. A horrible formatter, and generally super dismissive of being a rootworker and other potentially closed practices, has not been initiated. Has claimed that anyone can petition/pray to Papa Legba without initiation because "Vodou is a congregational religion/practice". From the Vodou and Haitian Vodou practitioners I have talked to that is VERY incorrect, it may be congregational but you still have to be involved in the community to be trusted with those practices because so much of it has been bastardized for media and racism purposes. He is also a student of Catherine Yronwode, who is another SUPER problematic figure in the Hoodoo/Rootwork community.

A link of his own words on culture appropriation which includes mild inaccuracy towards Indiginous Peoples and that they don’t ‘own’ certain practices when it’s very clear the wording of those practices DOES in fact come from those peoples. He’s fine with people being Yogis, or Shamans, or calling satchel spells mojo bags, and other such phrases and won’t correct people if they use such words out of context because “language changes”. Also says if someone within a practice says it’s closed to go to ANOTHER AND ANOTHER until you find someone willing to teach you??? That’s not how it works sir.

Source: https://www.strategicsorcery.net/on-cultural-misappropriation/

*Lisa Chamberlain*

Not an actual person. This is a ghost writer name for a bunch of garbage literally copy and pasted from wikipedia into books. I wish I was kidding.

*Lisa Leister/Lester/whatever other spelling she's used.*

Such a major TERF. Like JK Rowling level TERF. Claims magic comes from a womb so anybody that doesn't have one isn't a real witch. Like WTF lady.

*Raymond Buckland*

Where to start...uses the G-slur often. (His grandfather was romani so it blurs the line of blood quantum.) Very sexist and obsessed with the idea of a woman getting uh...undressed for rituals while men stay dressed and more things I cannot say ina PG space??? As magic?? VERY anti-minor and LGBTQA+. Toxic, just plain toxic. Can't do it. I have read his Blue Book and it's the least problematic thing he wrote. I'm alright with it.

*Silver Ravenwolf* WhOOO boy. So super anti-christian, which is fine and dandy...if you didn't claim to be in a lineage of braucherei/hexerei. Wiccan, like the type of wiccan that says no other witchcraft exists and yet has written folk magic books??? She really needs to make up her mind. Claims Satanists don't actually exist. Claims most Jewish powers worshiped "the Goddess" (whoever that is)??? Very cult-like language about "not telling friends and family about your new life/reality/experience/whatever". Also SO MUCH APPROPRIATION. SO SO MUCH. She also gets her history wrong, on a lot of basic information that most non-witches know about like say the Salem Witch Trials.

*Catherine Yronwode* Ooh man. So Catherine Yronwode’s career started as a comic book artist. She’s worked on such things like the Elvira comic, DNAgents, and a gaggle of super controversial trading cards which included the Kennedy Assasination, a serial killer collection, and the AIDS epidemic. Of which she was sued for using one half of the Hillside Stranglers duo in said killer trading cards without his permission, the judge sadly threw the case out because and this is a quote, “ If Bianchi had been using his face as a trademark when he was killing women, he would not have tried to hide it from the police.” There were two more from her comic days, but those aren’t super relevant besides the one that pushed the envelope of what sort of trading cards should be sold to children. On the magical side of things, I will be blunt here: As one of the ‘big bads’ of the Rootwork/Folk/Hoodoo community? I really REALLY dislike her. She has made numerous false claims about New Orleans/Haitian Vodou and that it’s only a very recent practice, non-religious, and slaves never used it because it didn’t exist yet??? History books and entire generations will disagree. An example would be this link of an open letter to her written by a New Orleans Voodoo practitioner and someone she wrote a whole article about: https://conjureart.blogspot.com/2013/10/open-letter-to-cat-yronwode-and-lucky.html

She owns a few different websites namely https://www.luckymojo.com/, has written numerous Hoodoo based books, and actively has accused numerous people who have asked her for sources and or disagreed with her of plagiarism and has slung more mud that you can shake a stick at.

She also praises a book on Marie Laveau and yet discredits herself by calling New Orleans Voodoo a new religion/neopractice??? She’s just confusing as all heck to me.

*Christian Day* This guy’s just a creep. One stuck in the early 2000s mall goth phase even though he’s over 50. He also appropriates Hoodoo and owns two Hoodoo shops as well as multiple other witch shops in Salem and recently New Orleans on the French Quarter (Which is pure tourist fodder and not a reflection of true New Orleans Voodoo/Vodun/Rootwork). He has also harassed ex-employees so badly it’s landed him in court. His book The Witch’s Book of the Dead also reads very much like a list of accomplishments rather than anything useful. All about his television spots and experiences doing that. (Did I mention he was in an episode of Ghost Adventures? Yes, that one with Zac Bagans??? And it did not make us witches look too great, honestly speaking.)

Sources for Harassment Claims: https://www.cbsnews.com/news/salem-witch-gets-protective-order-against-warlock/

https://www.wcvb.com/article/warlock-christian-day-ordered-to-stay-away-from-salem-witch/8228072

*Yvonne and Gavin Frost* I dunno how else to say this, I really don’t. These two? Pedophiles. Multiple writings of theirs included not-safe-for-work-or-children rituals that must include minors. Avoid. AVOID AVOID. AVOID ANYONE WHO USES THEM AS A RESOURCE! This should NOT be okay in any circle. They are VERY used within the Wicca religion so please be careful!!

*Orion Foxwood* Some of his information is very sound! I can’t fault him there. He does have a tendency to blend different traditions without actively TELLING you he’s blending them though. He’s and this is a direct quote, “He is a witch and Elder in Romano Celtic-Traditional Craft, High Priest in Alexandrian Wicca and teacher of the Faery Seership tradition. He is also the founding Elder of Foxwood Temple and a primary founder of the Alliance of the Old Religion, a national network of covens in his line that have united to preserve the ways of his Elders. He was the co-director of Moonridge, a center for metaphysical, Craft and Faery studies in Maryland” That’s an awful lot of traditions to juggle and not only write on but actively teach. He also performs conjure, which in of itself might not be an issue but Conjure usually blends into Hoodoo really quickly if one isn’t careful! A lot of the traditions he talks about from his family sound quite familiar, he’s clearly from Appalachia but his books on the subject blend in his other practices instead of keeping them separate.

*Starr Casas* She’s in the same category as Orion, only she doesn’t necessarily give her credentials to be teaching Hoodoo, and even wrote a whole book filled with Hoodoo love spells. She also co-owns a French Quarter Conjure Shop, which if you ask any practitioners from New Orleans...is catered to pure tourists and not a true example of the crafts from the area.

*Shawn Engel* I’m gonna be blunt here. More appropriation of the Jewish practices, Hoodoo, and other information that is just plain UPG without saying it’s UPG and encourages throwing hexes at political party members solo. I read The Power of Hex and had to put it down numerous times just to gather myself and not throw it away, I don’t know if it was tone or sheer level of appropriation...likely both.

*Kate Freuler* Of Blood and Bones is chock full of Hoodoo, full stop. Only acknowledges that something comes from Hoodoo once and also gets basic mythology information on the Deities she mentions wrong in some cases. Also a lot of the book seems to be UPG because the bibliography is super small for a 300 page book.

*Dorothy Morrison* I picked up Utterly Wicked once. A very odd book full of Hoodoo and Vodun spellwork and misinformation, the author is also Garderian Wiccan so even the writing of a book full of hexes is slightly...concerning compared to the Wiccan traditions and redes. Odd is the best I have to describe how I personally feel. I will say this again: Voodoo Dolls are not used to cause pain, stop bastardizing that single aspect of the practice. Thank you.

*Helena Blavatsky*

I dunno how else to say this either, her philosophy and occult knowledge, called Theosophy is a portion of what inspired Hitler. Pure unadulterated racism veiled in a ‘Atlantian Race Theory”. Horrible stuff, read for a class project once and felt disgusting.

*Christopher Penczak*Whoo boy. On the surface he seems alright, one of the first ‘male’ witches I had ever heard of except for Scott Cunningham. But the more you dig into his work the more inaccuracies and Christian bashing you see. For example: Christianty was the first patriarchal society. Uhm...I believe you’re kinda forgetting the men who ran Rome and Greece there sir. He also fully proposes the ‘burning times’ were like a ‘witch holocaust’. NO! NO IT WAS NOT. You can’t compare the hundreds of years and MAYBE a thousand-ish people dying to the millions that died in the short timespan the Holocaust was a thing. Fuck Christopher for that comparison and also for claiming it was a ‘burning time’ to begin with. (History says that most were hung...or tortured. Burning is a very small number of that list in general.

He makes a lot of sweeping statements and sees witchcraft as a religion and NOT a practice. He whitewashes, fully harps on the Wicca = witchcraft = religion thing and THEN hones in on the difference between “white and black” magic and how cursing is evil and yet highlights certain practices that actively practice...cursing...as they have for generations??? He (atleast) doesn’t demonize Satanism but does still backhand the idea anyway, that they CAN’T be witches because witches only ‘heal’. Cultural appropriation and fetishization of ‘Native’ practices while calling them primitive all in the same breath, I just can’t with this guy. I really can’t.

*Amy Blackthorn*

Owns a tea brand called ‘Blackthorn Hoodoo Blends’ she is white. When questioned by BIPOC individuals she complains and blocks them instead of explaining why she chose the name Hoodoo for just teas. TEA. She is also the author of Blackthorn’s Botanical Magic, Sacred Smoke (A book on smudging yikes on trikes), and Blackthorn’s Protection Magic.

Proof of blocking: https://thisblackwitch.com/2016/04/01/blackthorn-teas-whose-culture-is-it-anyways/

*Tarl Warwick *

Is more commonly known as Styxhexenhammer666 on youtube and other social media sites. Has written a pile and I mean a PILE of occult based books including ones on Hermetic magic, ritualistic magic, demons, solomon, folk plants and healing, Kabbalah, and many MANY more.

He makes no claim to being Jewish, and given his political wishy washiness, and multitude of controversies which includes claiming the Holocaust wasn’t ‘that many dead’, Charles Manson deserved release because he was ‘extremely innocent and didn’t kill anyone’, and fairly recently also wrote and published a book on Critical Race Theory and why it’s ‘garbage’. I can’t support him no matter how accurate some of his information may be (if any at all).

*Temperance Alden* This really pains me to say, Temperance in her Wheel of the Year book made a claim that birth control “stunted her magical abilities” because it affected her hormones…in OTHER words unless you are a perfectly hormone producing WOMAN you don’t have great magical power. AVOID. AVOID. AVOID. That is a slippery slope to claiming medication will harm you, not to mention how TERF-y it is AND completely disregards that magic is for well…everyone. Such a stupid gatekeep-y concept.

*Sarah Kate Istra/Dver*

Advocates for using ‘spirit animals’ regardless of Indigenous beliefs and concerns. Is also a known ally with the Piety Posse, a neo-nazi group of pagans who claim the term polytheist can only apply to them and if you aren’t a Hellenistic pagan…you aren’t pagan at all. They also advocate for animal sacrifices, blood tests to prove purity, and other horrible HORRIBLE stuff.

*Sannion/H. Jeremiah Lewis*

Obvious Neo-nazi, keeps images of swastikas on his personal blog, and not the ones that the nazis stole from, the nazi one. And super SUPER transphobic.

*Edward P. Butler*

Major persecution complex, spends half his twitter complaining about how monotheists are destroying…I dunno…everything? Also defends Krasskova quite heavily. Antisemetic as well.

*Galina Krasskova*

Hellenic pagans watch out. Defends the AFA. A ringleader of the Piety Posse. There’s a lot more horrific stuff about her and I won’t go into extreme details. But TW: Romanticizes SA with deities, human sacrifice, animal sacrifice. Compares debating to the holocaust, lots of victim blaming, gatekeeping, and screams folkish.

*Diana Cooper*

Racist. Hard stop. Also appropriates chakras. Has a weird belief that food controls skin color and that Africa will never be a good country because it’s the solar plexus of the universe…or something like that. I got 20 pages into the book and literally couldn’t go any farther. Did I mention this book was supposedly on dragons???

*Judika Iiles* So much appropriation, advocates for making altars and working with closed deities. Lots of incorrect information including dangerous spellwork like obsession spells. And one in particular that has roots in a racist stereotypes. Avoid please!

#witchblr #witchcraft #Authors to avoid #Will update in the future #If anyone has any questions about any of these please feel free to ask

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angellic-critique · 6 months

Note

Hey, I want to ask something: why Is using a drag queen's persona to create a female character a bad thing?/genq

The implication of cissification/forced gender norms is what I take issue with.

You're okay anon. I am going to clarify that this is a queer person critiquing upon a poorly mishandled drag persona of an animated Italian mobster spider that is named after cocaine. I am aware of the extremities here but I cannot stress enough how harmful viv's surface level writing for only her character designs is genuinely harmful and hurtful to me, as a queer person.

I see the themes she attempted to write but having angel dust only centered purely around sex, sexual advantages from the porn industry [without substance[, the pimp abuse and nearly racist depictions of Italians [Gold tooth mobster who only likes guns, violence, sex, drugs, money, alcohol etc,]-

I could go on and on and on as to why Angel Dust despite seeming to come from some level of apathy to drag kings/queens is nothing but surface level tripe. I do not care if the show releases and all it is focused upon is Valentino's abuse and misdeeds towards angel, IS THERE ANYTHING TO THIS CHARACTER BESIDES BEING ABUSED.

there is a difference of wanting to design a drag persona and having the gender be ambiguous but it is an entirely different level of tripe bullshittery to have a character that is allegedly surrounded around drag performing and openly being himself, is supposedly forced under a guise of abuse to undergo the said drag performing...????

Having a AMAB crossdressing to be a drag persona but then take that empowerment away from him, as if he was never allowed to be feminine in the first place. Angel Dust screams tryhard sexy appeal. I do not understand his, alastor, or Stolas for that matters' 'sex' appeal if they are not written well nor with any care for that regard about the communities they are representing.

Viv just wants to write the themes of addiction, gay trauma and industry abuse? That's perfectly fine as long as there is nuance and reasoning and justification for those characters turning to those types of aliments for aid. What do I meaaan????

Alastor has no asexual/aromantic representation, if anything the fandom has proven that it is APHOBIC !!!

Stolas takes pills and it never going to be brought up until Octavia finds out and then SHE is casted to be the villain over calling out the fact that her dad is a POS that only cares about Blitzo! GENUINELY WHAT?

Blitz is an alcoholic stalker SEXUAL HARRASSER that has NO REPRECUSSIONS WHATSOVER FOR SAID DRINKING, IF ANYTHING THE SERIES PRAISES HIM TO BE ONE!!!!

Husk is also a surface level alcoholic that doesn't get called into question! I'm sorry I'm not talking about the main point you asked anon but genuinely please look at the larger scope over why viv just depicts abuse and substance use as 'haha comically funny' while attempting to 'humanize' her Demons. It seems that the show is just pro-abuse and of they genuinely actually have Valentino try to be threatening or a well written pimp ill laugh and delete my blogs honestly since I have no hope from script leaks revolving around him comparing guns to cocks. Viv really loves writing about industry abuse with no nuance here.

I did not bring up Molly whatsoever because unlike Viv I actually love the drag performer community and empowering culture they represent. It's the same reason I believe that Brandon Rodgers is anti-drag despite constantly crossdressing/displaying it within his videos. It's harmful because his drag didn't NEED to be a separate person angel dust should BE the DRAG PERFORMING NAME.

HELLUVA BOSS HAS PROVEN THAT ALL VIV CARES ABOUT IS EXCUSING AND MARKETTING ABUSERS RATHER THEN CALLING INTO QUESTION WHY ABUSE IS HAPPENING IN THE FIRST PLACE.

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beansricejc · 1 year

Text

JOHN WICK x READER - The Courier

part 3!

[part 1] [part 2]

summary: John’s being a little slut and finds out you’re more dangerous than you let on. More background details of Y/N. You invite him to your base for a few drinks, and John seems to be asking too many questions. In response, you use an unconventional method to make sure he’s not a snitch. John desperately needs to relieve some tension after you finish, so he takes matters into his own hands. Female reader, John x Crime Boss Reader, slow burn, 5500 words.

author’s note: thx for the love! i love writing these, and i really like making the reader (you!) an anti hero. (you’ll see). i would highly recommend reading the first and second part if you’re new here! linked above! lmk what you think! tysm! 💕

warnings: nsfw, organized crime, implied death, violence, alcohol, cursing, sex work, significant age gap, male mast3rbatįön.

A few days have passed since your encounter with John in the Continental, ending with that steamy and tense kiss in the hallway. You had even given him your number. John hadn’t actually texted you yet. His mind was racing with the possibilities between the two of you.

Well, there was you. A young, powerful, self-made crime boss. Or as your employees would say ironically, a girly-pop criminal.

Right.

Of course, there was John, a middle-aged hitman with a dark reputation, even for the criminal underworld. Retroactively feared throughout the industry, there was a general unspoken rule to not fuck with John Wick. That was just common sense at this point.

And here he was, fidgeting with this metal-engraved business card you gave him during that makeout session, so he could keep in touch.

He’s anxious about the feelings he was developing for you. John had kept up with his playboy culture ever since his wife passed, and in his mind, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to give that up.

“Mm, mister Wick, you look awfully distracted.” the escort he had called over to his hotel room to help him relieve some tension he had after his encounter with you.

Her name was Bethany, or Brandi, or something. He didn’t really pay attention. What he did know was that she had excellent hand and blow job skills.

This Brandi chick was right. He was distracted. She’d been trying to get John hard for 15 minutes, and he couldn’t manage. How fucking embarrassing.

John took a peek at your name that's engraved onto the thin piece of metal. Ah, that seemed to do the trick. Blood swam to his shaft, growing his erection, and Brandi smirked a bit.

John’s pride wouldn’t allow him to admit that the sight of your printed name could do such a thing to him.

If anyone were to find out, he would simply die.

It didn’t take long for Brandi to take John into her mouth, stroking what she couldn’t fit with her hands. John closed his eyes, not wanting to establish any emotional connection with the woman to give her the wrong idea. He would simply sit back, and enjoy the pleasure he paid for. Even if the passion wasn’t there, it would have to do.

Meanwhile, you and three other women had a man wrapped in tarp and duct tape in their grasp, shuffling down a long pier towards the body’s destination. The Hudson River. The sheer pollution would eventually eat away at its flesh. A sure fire solution to you and your little problem at the moment.

The four of you grunt, count to 4, and swing the corpse out of your grasp, a splash following the collision to the water.

You sighed, snapping off your latex gloves, feeling your phone vibrate a few times in your pocket. God dammit, what now? You attempted to get rid of the fresh corpse body stench from your nose when you pulled your device out, and seeing a text from an unknown number. It was directed for your personal line, and not your business line. Interesting. That’s when it hit you, in your drunken stupor, you shared a personal business card with the one and only, John Wick.

Of course you did, you moron.

You huff out and click on the bright notification on your screen, opening the app up.

Unknown #: Hey, hope you still remember me. It’s that smoking hot guy from the bar a few days ago. You doin' okay?

You rolled your eyes at what John called himself. The smell of swamp water and bird shit entered your sinuses. Thank god that it successfully replaced the cold, damp, dead body smell. You can hear seagulls caw above your small group of women, heading back to your SUV as if nothing had happened.

Now, you're typing away at your screen to reply to this middle-aged man who had taken two days to even utilize your number.

You pause, raise your eyebrows, and slowly read the message over again. Interesting.

The feeling of his hands around you, squeezing your hips and biting your lower lip. The sensation is teasing your mind, so much so that you block everything else out.

You’ve touched yourself about 5 times since then, and you can’t seem to get this stupid man off of your mind. You craved him. Everything from the glares he shot at you with those dark eyes of his, to the sting of his scruff on your soft cheeks.

“Hey,” one of your employees interrupts your midday fantasy. You jolt slightly, blinking at the taller and muscular woman, she’s been working for you for about a year, her name is Jenny. “You ready, boss?”

You take in another deep breath, more lake smell entering your nose, and you can feel the moisture in the air. Somehow you managed to find a time when no one was even outside. Even if they were, no one asked questions. Mind your own business in this city, and you’ll go a long way.

You nod and climb into the back seat of the truck, get situated, and let your employees handle the rest. The truck starts driving, and here you are again, focused on that damn phone screen.

You grunt.

God dammit.

Y/N: yeah, I remember you, old man.

As if you haven’t been thinking about him since you escaped to your hotel room the other day.

Look at you. Crime lord. Criminal mastermind (sort of). You're a big-time player.

All of that, just to act like a schoolgirl when any guy you’re remotely attracted to gives you some sort of romantic interest.

Classic.

Of course you still knew how to talk to them, charm them, get them wrapped around your finger. That was a piece of cake. But what if one wanted a kiss?

Well, time to skedaddle.

John had just finished onto Brandi’s face, handing her one of the hotel room towels so she can clean herself off. It was a lot, thick and stringy ropes of cum had landed on her cheeks and lips. He was still recovering and catching his breath.

Then he hears his phone vibrate. It’s you.

He smiled. You texted back quicker than he anticipated.

Great, she’s calling me old again. John sighed to himself.

Sometimes he forgets he’s damn near old enough to be her father. Was that.. weird? Maybe he just shouldn’t think about it.

John: alright, girl boss, whatever you say.

John set down his phone and waited patiently for Brandi to finally leave for the night. He slipped her a wad of cash, and she was gone faster than she came.

John can’t get his fucking mind off of you. The number of times he has had his way with you in his head was too many to count on two hands. Does he feel bad about it?

Yeah.

Did he want to stop? No.

He oh so desperately wanted to see what was lurking underneath your clothing. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time.

John was a total slut, don’t get me wrong. A few times a week he’d have different women over. Some were regular hookups, and some were random girls he picked up at the bar or club. If he wasn’t doing a contract, he was definitely balls-deep in some random chick on his couch.

That was just life though. At least for John.

He used to be a romantic, date nights, flowers, gentleman type acts. But now, well, you know already.

John sighed and decided to double-text.

Of course a man his age wouldn’t understand the almost taboo nature of the double text. A rookie mistake some would call it, others would think it’s stupid to look into it that much.

John: u wanna have some drinks with me tonight?

You’re still shocked that John called you a girl boss over text. You’re still staring at your screen, bewildered at the thought.

A girl boss?

No way. Absolutely not, those chicks were always pyramid scheme fanatics that would reach out to you over Facebook to convince you to join their cult company.

That wasn’t you! You were a hard ass. You ran your crew well and knew what you were doing at all times.

But you were a woman.

And a boss.

Oh fuck.

You and the few employees in the truck hop on out. You had driven from that pier back to your warehouse headquarters. This is where the magic happened.

Right on the outskirts of Brooklyn, your enterprise came out of this warehouse. Filled with fast and reliable motorcycles and other expensive toys. There were a few women who were scurrying around to get some deliveries finished before the end of the night. You notice that one of your assistants decided to change the music on the stereo system.

The same assistant, Marissa, hurried over to you, took your bag, and handed you a coconut Redbull. You mumbled the lyrics to an Ice Spice song that was blaring in the warehouse.

The realization hits.

You look up, looking Marissa dead in the face.

“Please. Be real with me.” you speak to her, and she awaits your question. You take a deep breath. It’s the moment of truth. “Am I a girl boss?”

Silence breaks out in the warehouse. Everyone dropped what they were doing to wait to see what your personal assistant would have to say to that. The only thing being heard now is that Ice Spice song.

Oh god. That wasn’t a good sign.

Marissa pressed her lips together, her green eyes shifting around the warehouse.

“I mean, technically speaking, I suppose someone could call you that, you’re not cringe though!” Marissa assured you. Your breath hitched, and your heart felt like it stopped.

How embarrassing.

You swallow your pride in, nod, and shove your hands into your big overall pockets.

“Alright. Alright. Cool.” You nod, pulling your phone out and walking away from the main action, everyone went back to work as if they didn't just eavesdrop on that conversation.

What a fucking question that was.

You look at the last text John sent you and are surprised to see that he asked to have drinks.

You pause, staring at the text message. You know John doesn’t understand the concept of double texting, he was like, 45, or something. Poor guy didn't know any better. You sigh.

“Is Wickathan bothering you again?” your assistant Marissa asked, chuckling over the nickname you made for John.

“He wants to have drinks tonight, but look at me. I would rather smash my head into some bricks than go out tonight, I’m exhausted.” You groan, the feeling of disappointing John hits you right in the chest.

Why are you so worked up about him, bitch?! You ask yourself. You’re too hot to stress yourself out about this.

Marissa gives you a grin.

“Well then invite him here.” Marissa provides an idea for you. You raise your eyebrows, and nod affirmatively.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You tell her, flashing her a grin and quickly texting John back.

Y/N: you wanna just have drinks at HQ?

You liked calling your work headquarters, or HQ to shorten it up. Really made you sound like a secret spy with a base.

Well, you weren’t a spy but it was a base.

Sometimes you forget that you’re running an entire criminal enterprise, the Ice Spice blasting at your self proclaimed headquarters wasn’t helping.

John can only imagine what this headquarters looks like, and is quite intrigued by the idea of having drinks with you there. Now that he’s planning on seeing you tonight, there’s a bad feeling in his stomach.

Does he feel bad about seeing an escort right before meeting up with you? That can’t be it. Can it?

Dammit, John. You’re a bachelor, you can’t be falling for some girl because she’s pretty and powerful. He cursed at himself internally.

His eyes glaze over his reflection in the mirror as he ices his shoulder, which was hit pretty bad by some asshole with a golf club during a job yesterday. It left a very purple bruise and was sore as hell.

He wondered if there was an appeal to his battle scars all over his body. There probably was, right? Whenever he was shirtless in front of a lady, her attention would immediately focus on all of his tattoos and marks on his flesh. Of course, they were stories from a younger and less experienced John.

Sometimes it would even scare them off entirely. But if they got past the tatted-up back and several scars, you could get a glimpse at his toned body. John's not a bodybuilder material by any means, he was lean and in shape, the ideal size for a professional killer.

He was perfect for the job.

John’s mind is racing, he knows you’re dangerous. You built an entire empire in a mere three years, people would kill for your skill and position on the food chain.

It kind of turned him on.

Especially ever since he found your business page, where all of the information for clients was readily available.

John noticed an "As Seen on Tv!" tab on the professional-looking website, he clicked on it out of pure curiosity. He didn’t know what to expect.

It was a YouTube video of a compilation of CCTV footage, showing various car and motorcycle chases. They were cut and spliced into a well edited video that had Industry Baby by Lil Nas X playing in the background.

That couldn’t be you, could it?

Oh, it was. You and various people in your crew who also did deliveries for your company.

John could tell from your figure whenever it was you on screen, and he was particularly shocked from seeing GoPro footage of you.

He sees you jumping out of the window from one moving car to the hood of another, shooting at the driver through the windshield, killing him instantly. Of course, as soon as the bullet was fired from the barrel of your gun, whoever edited the video censored it. John could still see the blurred-out figure slump to the side but was obvious that he was dead. You had even climbed through the shattered glass and took over the driving, shoving the corpse off of the seat as if it were a regular work day.

You and your crew obviously knew what you were doing, that was a fact. Ruthless, violent, and skilled, a dangerous combination for anyone. John noticed that you seemed to be more precise, the difference between you and your other employees was noticeably significant. They were still very impressive nonetheless.

As skilled as you were, you were still an amateur compared to John. He figured you most likely excelled at combat on the road but in a regular circumstance? You probably weren’t as efficient or deadly.

He was right.

“Fucking hell,” John mumbled to himself, it wasn’t anything new to him, but seeing this as an advertisement for their business of a website was… something. That’s for sure.

It was like watching a bunch of kids goofing around and getting it all on tape. Well, that was exactly what it was. A bunch of young women on the screen, and swap out the word goofing with maybe, rampaging?

His eyes were glued to his screen as he watched the video boasting their skill set, even showing a worker and you drifting your expensive bikes down the highway.

And now John's in his car watching the video once again in the parking lot of the warehouse that Y/N had invited him to.

John was pleasantly surprised that this young crime lord had invited him to her home base after only meeting him once.

Well, technically twice.

John hadn’t bothered with his work attire, he had thrown on a pair of nice jeans and a long sleeve black shirt. He even went the extra mile to put on cologne and touched up his beard.

John sighed and exited his car, locking up and sauntering towards the large industrial looking warehouse.

He could hear a plethora of noises from the building, the big garage door was open, and he raised his eyebrows at the image of dozens of women doing advanced mechanical work on modified bikes, or even riding off on said bikes.

John wasn’t sure what to expect but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

Especially with the Latin girl pop that was blaring from the very impressive stereo set up.

Your chop shop was clean, organized, and busy. Extremely busy. John had been squeezed past by about 7 women already who were hard at work.

It was clear that John was a fish out of water, he was quite literally the only man in this warehouse. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not.

What’s the opposite of a sausage fest? John asked himself.

But where were you? John narrowed his eyes and did his best to find you, which happened to be squatting near a motorcycle that was suffering from some serious curb rash, which you were attempting to fix.

It was a sight that was a complete 180 from the other day at the cocktail party. Compared to the long and elegant black dress, you were now in a crop top and some denim overalls, that looked like it had seen better days.

John had to admit, it was pretty cute. He was used to only flirting and going out with women who were refined, and classy. That's what you displayed the other night.

But after seeing those clips of you online, and seeing you here, he knew that was all a front.

You were feminine for sure, however, you obviously had a masculine energy to your personality. John wasn’t used to that, it was really refreshing.

Before John could, one of your workers had hurried over to you.

“You think I should go hybrid or classic?” One of your modification technicians asked, her name was Marie, and she had worked for you for the past 2 years. You looked up, checking out the pictures on her phone she showed you.

This was a difficult decision. Lashes make or break a woman. The choice of a lifetime really.

“Hybrid, you’ll serve cunt with hybrid for sure.” You answer, and the two of you laugh at the ridiculous statement you just said.

Your attention turned to John, who was about 20 feet behind Marie, who was also trying not to laugh.

“Serving cunt? Do I even want to know?”

That was the first thing John had said to you today. You bursted out laughing, trying your best to contain it. It didn’t work. Marie turned around, and her blue eyes widened at the mere sight of John.

He was intimidating by nature, tall, dark, and mysterious. Now add in his deadly reputation, he could make anyone’s skin crawl with just a glance.

“Holy fuck, you didn’t tell me that Wickathan was coming.” Marie blurted, immediately covering her mouth afterward. Your eyes bulged at her, that name was meant to be an inside joke between everyone in your crew.

Dammit, Marie.

“Oh my god, bitch!” You stage whispered, smacking Marie on her shoulder in disappointment.

Did John hear that right?

“Wickathan?” John repeated, stepping up towards you and your current project. The man was a force to be reckoned with, he towered over you, especially now that you weren’t wearing heels. “Did you come up with that yourself?” He asked. It suddenly became hot in the room, caused by his husky voice that was directed towards you.

You forgot that you had just been staring at him for the past ten seconds, with awkward silence swirling between the two of you. Oof.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I thought it was funny,” you admitted. “I bet the Boogeyman gets fucking old, huh?” you asked, using a mocking tone on the nickname.

John respected your bold attitude.

You could see the way John was looking at you, despite you being a mess from working on bikes all day. His brown eyes trailed up your body and he smiled at seeing you without anything fancy on. He could get used to this.

A woman of many talents? Sign him up.

I might not be a bachelor for long, I better be careful. John thought to himself, smiling down at you.

“Come on, squirt. Let’s have that drink.” John teased, and your face starts to pinken.

Squirt?! What the fuck? You think, stepping from behind the bike, arms crossed while glaring at the menace of a hitman.

“Hey hey, I’m no squirt. What the-"

John interjects by grabbing you by the waist, physically picking you up, and holding you up in the air. You shout at him, and he’s chuckling devilishly at the sight.

Jesus Christ, in front of everyone? I’m their boss! This looks terrible! You’re internally panicking.

“Hey!” You exclaim, attempting to wiggle out of his death grip.

“Oh yeah, you’re a total squirt.” John teased, setting you back down and ruffling your already disheveled head of hair. Your cheeks are beet red, and you grab his forearm and tug him behind you to your private office.

You were a crime boss for fucks sake, is John out of his mind?

John’s laughing at the sight of your much smaller frame guiding him by hand to your office, in fact, he was getting a little excited over it.

Excited would be the understatement of a lifetime.

The sight of your smaller feminine frame compared to his towering large body made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. John shut the door to her office behind him, listening to you sigh and grab two beers out of her fridge.

Interesting. Beer fridge in the office. Respect. John notes.

You handed him a beer but your eyes went straight to his face, on further inspection you noticed a healing black eye and a few new scrapes. Those weren’t there a few days ago. You furrow your eyebrows at him.

There was no way he finished a contract that quickly between seeing you then and now, right?

“Hey, what the hell happened to you?” You ask him, walking closer to him and grazing your dainty fingers over his new wounds. John felt a lump form in his throat.

Oh sweet baby Jesus, she’s so close to me again. Shit! Shit! He’s thinking to himself. John chuckled in an attempt to cover his flustered nature.

“Oh you know, just work. Typical Wednesday for me,” he tells you, he can barely think straight since you’re standing so close to him. You’re wearing that same perfume that you wore when you saw him last, however, it’s overcast by the smell of exhaust and rubber, probably from working in this warehouse all day. “Nothing crazy.”

You rolled your eyes at him and went to go sit on your couch.

“Uh-huh. Who was it this time?” you asked John as he sits fairly close to you on the sofa. Just close enough for his leg to graze your thigh.

John knew exactly what he was doing. A classic playboy tactic, but why did he get this feeling he didn’t want to just hit it and quit it?

John cracked the beer open and read the label. PBR? Unexpected, alright. He couldn’t be mad at that. He took a long sip. Fantastic.

“Ah, some guy that pissed some Cartel member off. The usual.” John sighed, playing back into the couch, stretching his left arm out and laying it on the sofa, coincidentally right behind where you were sitting.

Coincidentally.

This is when John noticed that your couch was purple and velvet. That was some taste you had there. He scanned the room, it was obvious that whoever had this office was a woman in her 20s.

So, you, clearly.

John was shocked that this incredibly feminine office belonged to a crime boss, but he has seen weirder things. But he did have to admit, the office was quite eclectic. Bohemian? What was the word for it? Well, it was something.

“So, how’s work for you? You guys seem awfully busy out there.” John commented as you opened your own beer, his eyes trailing down your body again.

Oh boy. You notice his chest puffing out ever so slightly, god, he was the real deal.

Don’t show weakness, he’s expecting you to fold! Absolutely fucking not! you reaffirm to yourself.

“Pretty good actually. We’re gonna have to do a plate swap on all of the bikes soon though.” You explained, your eyes never leaving his chiseled face.

Shit.

He’s fine as hell.

You stop yourself, you were talking about work. Details about work. Well, not the nitty gritty but, wait a minute.

“Oh? How do you go about that?” John asked, flashing one of those mischievous smirks that he was giving you the other night.

The worst part about it? It fucking worked. His stupid attractive face, those dumb strong hands, his fucking hair that was perfectly styled backward.

He knew it too.

The question he gave you threw you off though. He wants more details on how work is. You raise your eyebrows as your brain goes into panic mode, almost like it’s wired to sense danger or threats.

John can sense that your whole demeanor has changed, long gone was the spunky girl from a minute ago. You were a whole other creature now as you analyzed him, what did he want? Why was he asking questions about your work?

You set your beer down on a side table and sigh.

God dammit.

Whatever, hopefully this would work. Your legs stretch over him until suddenly you’re straddling his lap. John has to cover his mouth to prevent beer from spitting out of his lips, just from pure shock.

“H-hey!” John exclaimed, the feeling of your bottom on his lap and thighs was almost heavenly. Was this seriously happening right now?

You take your hands and wiggle them up his black long-sleeve shirt, in a frantic search for any sort of wires, recording devices, anything really.

But to John, he’s only seeing the attractive young woman feeling him up, her small hands grazing over his lean and muscular torso. They travel to his sides, and then up and down his back, unknowingly tracing over skin that’s covered in tattoos.

Your fingers are making John melt, plus, here you were, only inches from his face. He can’t stop looking at your lips as you’re determined to find anything that would be used to record a conversation.

You’ve lasted this long and built your empire because you were clever, ruthless, but more importantly, cautious.

And here you were, feeling up John fucking Wick to see if he was bugged or not. The most lethal man in the world is centimeters away from you, his hot exhales sticking to your face and neck like sweat.

John can feel his cock grow to the sensation of you straddling him and searching around his body.

John’s heart is pounding, you sigh and take your hands out from underneath his shirt.

Alright, hair it is.

So now, like the little shithead you are, you sit up slightly to dig your fingers through his head of long black locks. Of course, your chest is at eye level with his face, even almost touching it.

“Y/N, w-what are you doing?” John laughed nervously, he wasn’t sure why he was nervous, and his hands were already advancing to your thighs and hips.

What if I just fucked her right here and now on this couch? What I would do to make her scream my name, shit, I want her to ride my cock so bad that she aches for me the next day. John’s mind is screaming with this and other absolutely filthy images.

“Looking for a bug! You keep asking me questions about my job! That is such a federal ass thing to do…” you explain hastily. John’s heart drops. You don’t even notice his hands gripping hard on your hips until he slams you down onto his lap again, snapping you out of your persistent state.

All you can feel pressing up against you is his rock-hard dick.

Oh shit. I’m an idiot.

“You sure do know how to get a man worked up, you know that?” John hisses out. His hand latched onto your small neck, giving it a stern squeeze, you’re too in the moment to even try to move it. He flips you off of his lap, and stands up from the couch, readjusting his clothing and his long hair.

“I’m, uh, going to use the bathroom. Alright?” John asked, you nod, not even putting two and two together since you were so stunned by that move.

Fuck, he sure knows how to manhandle a girl, huh? You silently ask yourself as he quickly leaves the office.

John had to take a few deep breaths once he left the room and shut the door.

“Fuck,” he whispered, all of his instincts are going wild right now. John finds the nearest bathroom in this large warehouse, and locks the door behind him.

If he stayed in that room for another second, he would have absolutely ruined you. John knows damn well you’re no innocent angel, that doesn’t stop him from viewing you as one. As ruthless and dangerous of a woman as you are, he has made up this false sense of purity surrounding your very aura.

John wastes no time in unbuckling his belt and pants, grabbing his thick shaft out of his boxer briefs, and begins to tug. One of the hands that has brought wrath upon so many, now gripping his cock and attempting to relieve himself in a timely manner so he doesn’t raise Y/N's suspicions.

God, she’s way too young for you dude. You shouldn’t be doing this. I bet she’s so tight and wet, oh fuck. John’s mind is racing to the possibilities of what could happen in this bathroom if Y/N was in here with him.

He’s imagining grabbing you by your tiny throat and slamming you against this wall, ripping those overalls off, and throwing them on the floor. He’s so strong that he could lift her up by her thighs against the wall, spread her legs, and thrust right into her tight little cunt.

John’s breath is staggering as he tries to make his grunts and moans as subtle as possible while he pictures himself plowing into you. He’d be torn between being a generous lover or a selfish one.

On one hand, he’s starting to develop feelings for you, his heart flutters when he thinks of your laugh. The way your nose crunches whenever you smile, or the weird slang you use whenever you talk to him.

With all of his hookups after his wife, he never cared too much about making the other women feel good, but he would always succeed.

John was just that good in bed.

You were the exception.

In the very short time he’s had to get to know you, he was starting to catch feelings, and he’s scared of it.

So instead, he's thinking of devouring your pussy and making you cum over, and over again before using you as a hole.

The mere thought of it is enough for John’s knees to tremble as he climaxes, gripping the sink for dear life. He ejaculates into his own hand, his chest rising and falling at a rapid rate, and he met his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

The mirror shows a half nude John, breathing rapidly, cock in hand, with beads of salty sweat trickling down his damp skin.

Post-nut clarity is hitting in 3, 2, ah. There it is.

John’s mortified at who he sees in front of him, and he cleans up as fast as he possibly can.

What the actual fuck is wrong with me? Am I this much of a perv? Holy shit! John’s internally screaming, zipping up his pants and clearing his throat.

The thought of doing any of those acts with a woman as young as you is, tempting, to say the least.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

He had a drink to finish with you, and he’s praying you didn’t notice how long he was gone.

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