#I cannot endure the lust I have for that man

[neiptune]

bro I need to snap out of this oliver thing whatever it is

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

AND HE LOVED HER LIKE HE LOVED NO ONE. ( HOTD x READER )

AUTHOR NOTE! missing Hotd and my sexy war criminals Targaryen's during this 2 year gap between seasons / filming <3 pairing: Aegon ii Targaryen x Lady Tully! Reader prompt : It pains you to see the aftermath of Rook's Rest on Aegon. word count: 500+ words ( yep, a short one.. )

You were never supposed to meet Aegon Targaryen. You were never meant to be picked as one of Helaena's Lady-in-waiting's. None of this was supposed to happen. Lord Lannister's daughter was supposed to be in your place. She was supposed to be the one tending to Helaena, to be pestered by Aegon, to offer support and kind words to Alicent. Not you. If she hadn't been ill, if she hadn't caught sweating fever. None of this would happen. The war, maybe always would happen. But, everything else wouldn't.

You would not trapped in King's Landing, as a prisoner of war. You would not pity an Upsurger. You would be able to hate them. You would be able to known where to stand in this war, clear and confident. You would not spend every night hating yourself for not being able to look at them and hate them, for finding pity in the roles forced upon them. You would be able to live without feeling a noose tightening around your throat at any slight mistake you made.

You tried to live through it, to endure as you had been taught young y Septa's. But, this was a burden to dark and heavy for you to bear. War. Death. Betrayal. Greed. Lust. It was not meant for you. You were supposed to live a simple life, marry a simple man and die a simple death. Though, the Gods or mayhaps it was just Aegon that would not allow it. He was..strange.

He did not treat you as most would do to a prisoner of war. He was kind, speaking to you as if the war had never happened and you two were still the two people you were before it. It was unnerving. Uncomfortable a little. But, there was almost something nice about it. The structure of living as you normally would, not allowing things to change too much. A tiny part of you wished to keep it that way, but another part of you knew that it would not last.

Staring down at him, you holds back the urge to turn away at the sight of his burns, almost as if this was to be your punishment for enjoying his presence. The skin of his left side of his body had chunks of flesh peeling back to reveal the muscle and bone underneath. Vile thick pockets of tinted green and yellow puss filled the infected wounds. It was as if someone had taken a hot coal and pressed it against his skin until it blistered and charred, then had left him in the sun to bake for days.

Covering your nose with the handkerchief, you shuts your eyes tightly, now able to understand why Alicent always looked ill after leaving his chambers. The pungent stench of singed hair and burnt flesh filled the air, sticking to him like a second skin. The sandalwood and rosemary incense sticks did little to mask the stench. Aegon was a burnt and charred shell of his former self. But, it did not feel as good as you thought it would seeing him in such a state. He was meant to be your enemy. But, you were never strong enough to wish this fate upon someone so willingly.

"I.." You try to find your voice, "I am meant to hate you, to be happy at the state of you, as you are my enemy."

Silence, just pure deafening silence.

"I am your prisoner after all." You ramble, "And, I cannot help but I cannot help but think that this, having to endure living, is a far worse fate for you."

A soft chirping of birds fills the air, a gentle breeze brushing against the curtains, cooling the air within his chambers. It was peaceful. Or at least, it was meant to be. Lowering your eyes down to the brace on his broken leg, you could see the thick stitches, black and crusted with dried blood. The hair on his legs singed from the dragon flames he had endured. You could only imagine what it was like for him in Rook's Rest, battling on dragonback. Was he scared? Confident? Did he know of the risks beforehand?

"I am sorry, Aegon." You whisper, "Sorry for the pain you feel, that you must live instead of having relief."

Painful silence. You wished that he'd croak, wheeze, grunt, moan in pain. Something to keep the words from spilling out more and more.

"I do not why.." You pause, lowering your eyes to the ground. "I do not know why I feel so guilty, I wasn't the cause of this. But, I feel guilt, towards you."

Feeling your gut churn the more the silence fills the room, you blink back the tears that started to brew in your eyes. You hated him, you were supposed to. You hated him for all that he had done and hadn't. But, you did care for him in a pathetic way. His soul was twisted and mangled, full of the worst sins. But, there was good. For just as he was rotten, he was kind to you when he shouldn't have been.

"It's a nice thing, no?" You chuckle bitterly, "For feel so much towards you when we are meant to be enemies. But, I cannot forget the good and kindness you have done towards me."

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you gently take his hand into your own, giving it a gentle squeeze. Not to wake him, or for your own selfish reasons, just to let him know that you were there. You wouldn't want to be alone if your places were reversed. You'd want someone at your side, waiting.

"I..I do not really know what else to say." You mumble, "Just..I am here."

Silence greets you once again. The hope of him showing some sign of acknowledgement crumbling inside of you. Pulling your hand away from his, you turn around to grab a stool to sit at his bedside. His chest rises slowly, a wheeze escaping his parted lips. Then, his hand twitches, as if it felt empty without yours in it.

---

[aquamarinemarie]

Solavellan & Temptation

Lavellan: Did spirits try to tempt you? Solas: No more than a brightly colored fruit is deliberately tempting you to eat it.

Forbidden fruit, anyone?

Yes, this brief, little, seemingly insignificant exchange got me thinking about the book of Genesis, and how the serpent tempted Eve to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. Which, coincidentally, got me thinking about temptation in general.

Then, more specifically, of how often temptation comes into play in Solas and Lavellan’s relationship; as well as when Mythal tempted Solas to take a body. Or, alternatively, of when Morrigan was tempted to drink from the Well of Sorrows in her lustful pursuit of greater knowledge.

The very definition of temptation is to do something, especially something you know is wrong or simply unwise.

Focusing on Solas and Lavellan, temptation calls attention to the sinful nature of their relationship. The deception at play, the lustful motivation, and the overall selfishness of it. Their mutual lust, in time, transforming into a genuine, enduring love.

Truthfully, a legendary romance. But, as it so often does, their love comes with a price. The price being, in most such cases, pain, suffering, and sacrifice. Pain and suffering often not only felt by the lovers, but, sadly, by those closest to them as well.

Temptation never comes without consequence. No one eats of the forbidden fruit and walks away unscathed.

Morrigan, for example, ignores all warning and drinks from the Well of Sorrows, gaining the knowledge she so desired. Only for her to later discover, and instantly regret, that in doing so, she’d unknowingly made a dangerous, and easily exploitable bond with her mother, Flemyth.

Just as the Evanuris, tempted by their never-ending lust for increasingly greater power, released the Blight, ruining themselves in the process.

Before becoming entangled with Lavellan, Solas, simply put, is a man on a mission. An undercover agent, determined to succeed. Solas doesn’t plan or foresee getting attached to anyone – especially not romantically. In fact, he doesn’t even see those around him as people anymore, and fully intends to keep himself apart, to act solely as an unseen guiding hand in the Inquisition’s efforts to thwart and defeat Corypheus.

Lavellan: We aren’t even people to you? Solas: Not at first.

His ultimate goal being to enter the Fade and tear down the Veil, thus restoring the old world. The world of the elves. Even if this world must die.

Inquisitor Lavellan, unknowingly becomes the “brightly colored fruit” tempting Solas from his chosen path – from his “holy” mission. And she very well nearly succeeds.

Her presence and attention, very quickly, tempts Solas physically; conjuring within him honest physical desire. Just as her continued kindness, curiosity, and unanticipated wisdom appeals to him morally. He respects her judgement and admires her actions.

Engaging in seemingly harmless flirtation is already one step off his chosen path. Choosing to act on that physical desire is another. After all, what’s the harm in a single kiss?

Solas: (Laughs.) I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill considered, and I should not have encouraged it.

We see Solas struggle with this – his attraction to Lavellan. His desire for her. He wants (badly) to engage further, but knows he cannot. That he should not.

He even tries to stop the bond that’s developing between them, by asking for time. He can’t bring himself to tell her no, but instead, leaves the door open. Signaling his weakness, the inner conflict within him.

Lavellan, for her part, continues to be her unknowingly seductive self. She continues to be kind, curious, and respectful of his wishes.

She supports him when a dear friend (Wisdom) of his is killed. And Solas in the aftermath… caves, giving in entirely to temptation.

One last feeble attempt to turn away, and then, “Ar lath ma, Vhenan.”

From this point on Solas is stuck in limbo, torn between two conflicting desires. His ultimate goal and duty, and his love and lust for Lavellan.

In this state, he continues to aid the Inquisition, just as he did before, but all the while also indulging, selfishly, as he puts it, with the woman he loves. The woman who was not supposed to be a person.

He wants to tell her the truth, to let her in on his plans, to take off the disguise. But when the moment for truth comes, fear gets in the way, and with that fear, temptation whispers an alternative. He could abandon his plans, his duty, his people. He could forget about the past and simply live a life with her instead.

He wants it, badly – and that’s what ultimately does it for him.

This simple realization is what finally breaks the spell. Solas, impulsively, steals himself and ends things with Lavellan right then and there.

He breaks her heart and commits to his mission; though he cannot fully deny his heart. He needs her to know that the relationship was real, that his feelings for her will never change.

In dreams, temptation keeps his eyes locked on her. In moments of weakness when he must once again see her face.

The weight of the past is too much to bear, but he can’t allow himself to stop now, not when he is so close (in his mind) to remedying his greatest mistake.

The allure of fixing the past – of fixing one of his greatest mistakes is yet again another temptation.

It’s not until Solas is utterly disarmed by those closest to him (namely Lavellan and Mythal) and given a new purpose, a new mission that he is able to turn away from temptation. To step off the path of death and destruction.

Only, ironically, for another temptation to once again confront him. Inquisitor Lavellan. His love, for a final time, is telling him they will make this journey together.

This gives Solas a choice. He could, for her own good, turn her away, and to his credit, he attempts to. But Lavellan is stubborn woman, hell bent on giving in to her own temptation, and so, Solas happily, finally relents.

For Lavellan, Solas plays the part of the metaphorical serpent, tempting her with both sex and “heretical” knowledge. In Dalish myth and legend Solas is, after all, the adversary, the great and terrible Dread Wolf. The deceiver and trickster who betrayed the gods.

Tragically, Solas doesn’t intend to lead her astray, of course, quite the opposite in fact.

He’d rather she knew the truth, even if the truth is painful and may lead to the shattering of her world view and or faith.

Problem is, no one would believe that, save perhaps, Lavellan herself; once Solas’ identity is revealed. Lavellan from an outsider’s perspective, especially the Dalish perspective, would likely believe her to be a terrible fool. A walking, talking cautionary tale.

A woman tainted by the Dread Wolf, tainted by sin, and wholly unwelcome in any traditional, gods honoring Dalish society. The proof is, ironically enough, written all over her face; if her vallaslin was removed.

For the humans of the Chantry, Lavellan falling prey to the Dread Wolf is an embarrassing political scandal – one which is sure to damage her and the Inquisition’s reputation.

Levallan gives into temptation. She lets love and lust blind her to the holes in Solas’ personal history. She ignores the warning signs, and dreams of a future where the two of them can be together. Perhaps, a future even free of the Inquisition and Chantry.

As a result, she is utterly blindsided when Solas breaks off their relationship. Leaving her brokenhearted and wondering what went wrong.

When Lavellan is finally confronted with the truth, she must accept and come to terms with the fact that she, the Dalish Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste had bedded, loved, and trusted the legendary Dread Wolf. A frightful realization if not for the images depicting a Dread Wolf totally unlike the trickster and devil figure of Dalish myth and legend.

Lavellan could, if she so desired, renounce him, right then and there. Or, if she still loves him, and is willing to once again give into temptation, she can offer instead to join him.

An offer I can’t imagine she’d confess upon her return to her friends and allies in the Inquisition. She’d be an absolute fool to tell her friends that she attempted to betray them.

Solas won’t allow it, of course, even if he’d liked to have had her by his side; leaving Lavellan to stubbornly insist that their love will endure.

The song lyrics from Lana Del Rey’s, “This Is What Makes Us Girls” comes to mind here.

This is what makes us girls We all look for heaven and we put love first Somethin’ that we’d die for, it’s our curse Don’t cry about it, don’t cry about it This is what makes us girls

I’m a Lana fan, okay, please forgive my indulgence.

Since neither Lavellan nor Solas move on, or truly in their hearts let the other go, their love does in fact endure. Inquisitor Lavellan has her duty, she has her mission, but in her heart of hearts, guilty as she may feel, she still loves the Dread Wolf, and won’t give up on him so easily.

This is her temptation, her selfish desire.

Once Solas binds himself to the Veil, I’m certain temptation was once again screaming in her ear. Telling her to go with him. That this was her (and their) last chance.

The choice to abandon southern Thedas, the Inquisition, what friends, family, and allies she may have left to join her love in the Fade is without a doubt a selfish, irresponsible decision.

Certainly, a more self-sacrificing, responsible Inquisitor would’ve stood back, hardened her heart, and watched Solas depart; but that Inquisitor simply isn't Lavellan. Not a Lavellan who is, in this moment, putting herself first.

I’d like to offer in Lavellan’s defense here, that in The Matrix, Neo also always picks his love, Trinity, over Zion. Every. Damn. Time.

For Solas (Wisdom) and Mythal, it is Mythal this time who gets to play the serpent, tempting Solas to sin against the earth, the Titians, and take for himself a body.

Solas, as a spirit of wisdom, first and foremost, knows this is wrong and tries to convince Mythal of the danger. She, however, doesn’t listen.

Instead, she attempts to entice Solas further with the reassurance that the bodies they are creating from Lyrium are the very best of spirit and of the physical world.

She insists that she needs his wisdom, his aid, and most of all, him.

For Mythal to play the part of the serpent, I think it’s very fitting and interesting to note that she can literally take the shape of a dragon. As dragons in western mythology (Mythal’s draconic form is indeed a western dragon) often represent malevolence, greed, lust, violence, chaos, and destruction. Biblically speaking, western dragons are associated with the devil, and have been portrayed throughout history as embodiments of sin and immense power.

In essence, a western dragon is an obstacle to overcome. The hero must slay the dragon, which is often a metaphorical representation of dark desires.

Mythal’s insistence that she needs his wisdom, “to withstand the louder voices who would go too far, like Elgar’nan.” Is particularly insidious to me.

As it implies that if Solas should refuse, then terrible things may happen, and if they do, then that means he would be at fault, since he was the one who refused to help her.

“I need you.” – Mythal to Solas (Wisdom)

And sadly, it works.

Mythal appeals to Solas’ pride, his fear, and his general sense of responsibility; driving home the implication that a refusal would not only be a betrayal of her (his oldest friend) but also a personal failing of his morals.

Mythal expertly wields temptation, and ultimately gets what she wants.

She gets Solas to sin against the Titians, and, metaphorically, take the brightly colored, forbidden fruit.

Time and time again our favorite characters are faced with temptation. Sometimes they succeed, and turn away from their darker desires. But more often than not, it seems, they fall prey to temptation, again, and again.

Is it wrong to love? To desire power? To want for knowledge? No, it isn’t. But sometimes the pursuit of love, power, and wisdom can be fraught with danger and unforeseen consequence.

Sometimes the risk is worth it, and other times the price is simply too much to bear.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 35 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

Winston’s solution essentially turns into a waiting game. 

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because whether he thinks or not, you know John needs time to heal his injuries before you face a sitdown with the High Table, the brat prince, and the top bosses of the Camorra, none of which are exactly eager to convene at a mutual time for the sake of John Wick–and you? You still don’t know what to think about this strange world John Wick has plunged you into. 

Even though you would supposedly be safe on hotel grounds, of course John doesn’t want to let you out of his sight. He rarely wants to leave the room either; you sense this is not just because he’s healing. The thought of wandering around here fills you with equal parts anticipation and dread. Maybe you both have caught a touch of agoraphobia, living your secluded little life in the mountains together. Gone are the days in which you flounced about the house in your designer sundresses with paint on your fingers and no panties to your name. If only you could have known at the time, how idyllic those precious moments had been.

Or maybe your recent trauma has skewed your memory of it all. 

It still feels strange, speaking to anyone but John, even when you’re just calling in your orders for room service. 

You sleep a lot, tangled together in the cloud-soft bed. Sometimes you watch TV or read, and sometimes you just lay there, and at least on your part, marvel that you’re not dead. 

You both have nightmares about the night the Camorra soldiers infiltrated your home. You relive the moment in which you’d nearly lost John, the knife wielding commando trying to stab him again and again in a replaying reel in your mind. In your dreams you cannot lift the gun to save him, or your every shot misses. The scene of John’s terrors seems to go a step further, and you know he has dreamed that they made it past him, up the stairs to you, when he wakes you with clutching arms and desperate kisses on your hair, as though he is assuring himself of your wellbeing.

One morning, he wakes you a different way, with his cock stuffing you full from behind and slow kisses on your neck, his strong arms wrapped around you. Up until this point you’ve avoided such things, scolding him that he’ll pull his stitches [again], and for once he actually listened to you. No more, it seems, and you cannot suppress a moan as he thrusts lazily up inside you with his hand on your breast. “John…” 

“Mmmm. I need you, baby,” he whispers into your hair, flipping you on your belly with his solid weight pressing you deliciously down into the mattress. “Need to feel you.”

“Your stitches–”

“Will be fine,” he interjects, and you can tell his patience has run short for you worrying about it. You don’t mean to be a nag, and you know he’s endured worse–you just don’t want him to have to be in unnecessary pain, again. You realize you would put this man in a bubble, if you could, he is so precious to you. It’s essentially what he tried to do to you, and see how that worked out?

“Please?” It’s the pure need in that last word that melts your last thought of resisting, and maybe, the fact that he actually asked. You realize you have not properly made love, have not felt him inside you since your primal chase turned borderline hate fuck in the woods, what feels like a lifetime ago. He thrusts again, his hips pressed into the curve of your bottom, and you feel your coherent thoughts evaporate into lust. You cant your hips just the way you know will tighten your hole and drive him wild; a ragged moan from behind you is your reward. 

“Temptress,” he grumbles, though you can tell he is smiling. “Trying to make me cum already?” His next thrust is a little too deep, but you take the punishment, only wincing slightly as you hide your grin in the pillow.

“Would I do that?” You sit up on elbows so you can look at him over your shoulder, your heart so filled with love you fear it might burst. He brushes your hair out of your face with tender fingers, a fire in those dark eyes all for you. In this love-charged lull he seems to change his mind about positions, withdrawing only long enough to flip you over before burying himself inside you again. 

Of all the ways John Wick has taught you how to make love, this is still your favorite; simple, vanilla missionary with his delicious weight on you, heart to heart with his mouth locked to yours. Something about almost dying together makes it even more intense for the both of you. When he draws back to look into your eyes while he wrecks you? It’s almost too much–too raw, too visceral. 

Too vulnerable. 

A part of you just wants to flee. 

“I love you,” he tells you between thrusts, one of your legs folded nearly to your chest, the other locked around his hip to hold him deeper.  “I need you.”

“You’ve got me. I love you, John, you’ve got me.”

There’s no room for higher cognition, in this gasping, bone-melting exchange of pleasure and bodily fluids. There is only the ability to speak the truth from the heart, and the breathless pursuit of release, together. It hits you both like a freight train, almost painful in all its ferocity–there’s no way in hell they don’t hear you next door, and maybe down the hall. 

You’re going to get into trouble. 

The absurdity of the thought makes you smile as much as John rearranging your insides. Sweaty and breathless, you stay locked together for what feels like a long time, neither willing to let go. Naturally its John who recovers first, catching your mouth in a deep kiss that curls your toes all over again. “Shower with me?” 

“Yes.”  

***

“Can we take Dog outside?” you ask during breakfast, the gentle beast in question leaning against your leg in pursuit of pets–and bacon. “I think he’s bored, walking the halls.” There was a pee pad for him on the roof–it was not the same, as touching paws to real grass.  

Once, John might have gotten mad that you would even suggest it. You think its a testament to improval, when he just sighs at you. “You know the answer to that, sweetheart.”

It’s too dangerous. 

You sigh too. 

As magnificent as The Continental was…it was starting to feel like you were going to be locked up there forever. 

“Is this a hint that you are bored?”

You consider this question, stirring sugar into your second cup of coffee. It does feel a bit like the two of you are stuck in purgatory, waiting. “Maybe I’m feeling a little cooped up,” you admit. “But the wake up calls here are spectacular…” You grin at him over your mug, and see your comment has the intended placating effect, the corner of his mouth pulling in a small smile, a flash of heat in his dark eyes that makes you clench between your crossed legs.

“I might have a solution for that.” Again, it’s like he’s asking, and he could have pushed you over with a feather. Have you arrived? Even with the sword of Damocles hanging overhead, just waiting for the moment you might set foot outside this hotel, this is the thing that starts to make you feel like everything might be alright someday. 

“Yeah?” 

“I want you to do some work with the Personal Trainer while we’re here. She’s very good.”

Everything is cloaked in double meaning in this place. Somehow, you suspect the title doesn’t mean this woman will yell at you to do five more sit-ups. “You…want me to lift weights?” you ask cheekily, waiting. 

“I want you to learn how to kill a man with your bare hands,” he tells you bluntly. “If you have to.”

You choke a little on your coffee at that. Point: John. 

“Jeesus.” 

“You’ve seen the truth of my world. Even though I’m retired…it just keeps fucking following me. That means…you’re in danger too. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You’ve always thought you were a nice person, but as it turns out your moral fiber must be fairly flexible–at least, for this man. Back at the coffee shop, you’d known he’d murdered those creeps in the van, and you’d done nothing. You’d shot a man to save him without a second thought. Now he wanted you to learn how to kill–and you were perfectly willing. 

A part of you wants to caution him, that you will never be as dangerous as the lowliest clown in this vicious world of thieves and killers. But in the end, you keep it to yourself. He wants to train you out of hope, and you don’t want to take that chance for some peace of mind from him. And, of course…maybe it will save your ass someday. 

You’re in no hurry to die. 

You can see he is troubled, brooding over the danger he’s put you in. You know the dark spiral that can lead him down, and you offer him a lifeline. “John…even if I’d known, in the beginning, about who you are and the risk…I still would have followed you anywhere.” 

It’s the truth. He wouldn’t have even had to kidnap you. You keep that to yourself too. 

He weighs you with those dark eyes–once upon a time, that penetrating look might have made you squirm. But maybe there’s a freedom now, in having traveled through the darkest labyrinths of his mind–and come out in one piece on the other side. You just meet that gaze, letting it wash over you, and in the end it’s he who looks away.  

“I actually believe you now, you know.”

You manage not to grin like a fucking idiot, even if it’s how you feel inside. Utterly unable to remain in your own seat after that, you slide into his lap, pressing your lips to his cheek, the side of his mouth, then lingeringly, his lips. You snuggle like that in the chair for several minutes, just holding each other, and not to be left out, dog shifts to lay on John’s feet. 

“John…” you say quietly, not wanting to break the spell that’s fallen over the room. “What if…we just ran away together?” 

He raises an eyebrow to that, and you get the feeling that the option maybe hadn’t even occurred to him. He’s so accustomed to charging at his problems head first, guns blazing and fists flying–and usually that works out for him… Not so much, for the people around him, though. 

“Where would you want to go?” he asks, his lips against your temple. 

“I don’t know. Where could we go? Does anyone want you dead in South America?”

He’s quiet as he thinks about it. “...Maybe not?”

“We could…get new identities, and…move to Buenos Aires.” 

He blows through his nose as this, but you can tell he’s amused. “What is it with you and Argentina?” 

“It sounds like a great place to go,” you reason. “The Paris of South America. Good food. Culture. Architecture. Adventure… And they sleep in until like, 11 o’clock in the morning, it’s awesome.” 

He does laugh at this. “And I thought you were such an early bird, working at the coffee shop?” 

“I’ve come to find waking up early is overrated.” 

His chest quakes with mirth beneath you, and you reckon that even if he’s not taking your suggestion seriously, at least he’s amused, and that is good for morale. 

“So…when do I start with The Trainer?” John peers at his watch around your body. 

“In an hour.” 

“Fuck. Were you going to tell me?” 

He chuckles at this. “The less time for you to worry about it, the better.” 

“Why?” Now you are worried. “What is she going to do to me?”

“She’s not going to beat you up,” he’s quick to assure you. “I’m not putting you through real assassin school. But…I want you to take it seriously. Please? For me?”

Well…fuck a duck. 

“Ok, I will,” you promise him, wondering what you’re about to get into. 

[temptresstitania]

You wrote this in your caard:

"DO NOT EVER ASK ME ABOUT RACE 'PLAY'. RACE 'PLAY' IS INHERENTLY RACIST."

And you paraphrased that on your pinned post too.

How do you understand this about race fetishes but deny this about fat fetishes?

How do you acknowledge the abuse, objectification, and oppression that one group endures but make a whole ass post denying the abuse, objectification, and oppression of another group?

Your hypocrisy is astounding.

just to preface: i really hope you're not white sending me this ask lol. i think you misunderstood what that post was saying. My post was not about the abuse, objectification, or oppression of fat people, because I did not want to discuss that, not because I do not think it exists. In the notes of that post, I wrote an addendum that I think it would be great for you to read if you haven't. Furthermore, someone also wrote a wonderful sentiment in a reblog of my post that discusses that manifestation of fatphobia through fetishism clearly. I want to make it clear what the difference between raceplay and a fetish for larger bodies is. Raceplay fetishisizes racism. It fetishisizes specifically the oppression Black people face and how that manifests into gender roles and sex. You cannot participate in raceplay without participating in racism. That's an integral part of the fetish. Considering a rounder stomach more attractive than a flat one is not the same thing as lusting after a man with dark skin because you think he will be more "rough" or "dominant" with you. Raceplay is not the same thing as having a preference for an appearance. Fetishizing the systemic oppression of fat people, or fetishizing the dehumanization of fat people is not the same thing as being aroused by a specific body type. But as I mentioned in my addendum, this does not exist within a vacuum. Biases and fatphobia may obviously inform what you find attractive and how you find it attractive. I also use the word fetish in different ways. Fetishization as a concept in terms of theory and how to describe oppression presented through sex, partnership, or aesthetic (because fetishization in this context is not always sexual) is different than the term fetish in the context of something that arouses you. Obviously there is overlap, but I really want to stress the difference here, because my post was not saying what you think it said. I'm saying fat bodies and their attributes can simply be appreciated and enjoyed, in the same way that any other body can simply be appreciated and enjoyed. Also I want to mention acknowledgement of intersectionality. Fat people and Black people are not mutually exclusive. There can be racism within fetishization of fat people and fatphobia within fetishization of Black people. There is nuance to this whole conversation, but do not for a moment think I would ever dismiss the subjugation of fat people. I am literally a fat Black person, I experience this oppression intimately, compounded by my Blackness. That is just simply not what my post was about.

[gabrielemillers]

Maybe you’re not an asshole after all…

Tom Ryder x F!Reader

Warning: smut 18+

He is a real asshole. You cannot stand him, as everyone else on set but you have no choice to endure him. Tom Ryder is the superstar every director wants in their movie. He looks good, has great acting skills, but as an individual, he is the worst asshole.

You are Jody’s assistant, the director of the movie and you love your job. She is an amazing boss and you can even consider her a friend. Colt, Tom’s stunt man, is also a good friend. He is kind and funny, the complete opposite of Tom.

Speaking of the devil, he is walking behind you as you storm off set after he called you a whiny bitch who doesn’t know how to do her job.

-Y/N stop! You can’t walk away from me, we aren’t finished! says Tom angry.

You stop and turn to look at him. You are furious and hurt by his words. You’ve worked hard to be where you are today. Tom almost run into you. He looks at you angry and astonished.

-I can and I will. I don’t let anyone insult me. Especially not an asshole superstar who cares only about himself. I’ve worked hard to get this job and I’m good at it. I won’t let you undermine me. Now excuse me, I have things to do.

You turn back and leave a stunned Tom Ryder standing there. You smirk in satisfaction. It was about time someone puts him back into his place. What you didn’t notice as you were turning aroud, is the tent in Tom’s pants. Your fierce personality turns him on, but he will never admit openly.

Later that day, when Jody tells everyone to wrap up, you sigh in relief. You just want a glass of wine and a hot bath after today.

You say goodbye to everyone and leave to return home. You live in a chic and spacious appartement, your job pays well. You make your way inside then go to the kitchen to get your well deserved glass of wine.

God you love your job, but working with Tom is exhausting. He is such a whiny actor who doesn’t give a shit to anyone but himself. Although you hate to admit it, he is really hot. Physically he is your type, but unfortunately his stupid bastard attitude ruins it.

You take the bottle and the glass then go to the bathroom to take a really hot bath. You need to relax and it will do the job. Once it’s ready you take off your clothes then climb inside. You sigh in relief and pleasure.

You are laying down and enjoying your wine when you hear someone knocking at your appartement’s door. You close your eyes and try to ignore it but the person doesn’t want to give up. You sigh then get out, wrap your body in a towel then go to the door.

Your eyes widen in surprise as you see Tom standing there with a bouquet of red,blue and white flowers. Your favorites. He looks you up and down, surprised but eyes darkening in lust as he see you’re only wearing a towel. You clinch it thighter against your body, feeling hot under his gaze.

-What the hell are you doing here? you ask trying not to blush.

-I wanted to apologize. You were right, I was an asshole and you didn’t deserve to be treated that way. says Tom remorseful.

You are stunned. Never in your life you’ve would thought to hear Tom Ryder apologize and admits his wrongs.

-Please say something. Don’t leave me hanging here. he says chuckling.

That gets you out of your stupor. You open the door wider to let him in.

-Well it’s unexpected. Not that I’m not thankful for the apologies and the flowers. you say with a chuckle.

-There is a first for everything. I’m sorry. You do an amazing job and you do deserve to be here. Will you forgive me? asks Tom with puppy dog eyes.

With this look you know you’re gone. And he seems honest with his apologies. So against what your head says, you walk to him and kiss him hard. He moans in surprise then with one hand puts the flowers aside and the other one holds you against him.

One thing leading to another, you find yourself naked in your bed, Tom’s head between your legs. The man knows what he is doing. You moan in pleasure as he switches from licking your wet folds to sucking on your clit.

-Oh god Tom… you’re so good at this… you breathe between moans.

He stops just for a second to smile, not smirk, at you.

-Glad to hear you like this baby. Means I’m doing my job correctly.

Tom returns to eating you out while now pumping two fingers in and out of your dripping cunt. He finds you g-spot immediately and it makes you come on his face and fingers. That was the best orgasm you ever had.

Tom slowly pulls back, his hair a mess because of your hands and his face is covered in your release. You blush. Especially when he moans as he sucks his fingers clean.

-You taste delicious baby. I could spend hours between your legs. says Tom smirking.

-As much as I would love that, do you have the intention to fuck me? Your apologies would be accepted entirely. you say smirking.

-You don’t have to tell me twice. You’re going to enjoy it so much you’ll never want another dick than mine.

Now you recognize the Tom arrogant from set. But instead of being turn off by his answer, you feel aroused at the idea of how good being fucked by him will be.

-Now spread your legs like a good girl and let Daddy fuck your pretty pussy. says Tom eyes dark with lust.

You moan at his dirty words and do as he says, spreading your legs wide. Tom groans as he sees your folds wet with arousal. He takes place between your thighs, grips his cock with one hand to align it with your pussy.

He thrusts inside you to the hilt. You squeal then moan at the fullness. He groans as he feels how thight you are. Tom let you adjust to his size. He his big and it’s been a while since you had sex.

You nod once you’re ready then wrap your legs around his waist. He slowly pulls out before thrusting back in again hard. Tom starts a fast pace, deep and hard. You whine in pleasure, the feeling of his cock moving in and out is heavenly. He moans loudly and it’s the most beautiful sound you have ever heard.

His balls hit your ass with each movement of his hips. Your breast bounces and Tom is captivated by the view. He brings his mouth to one of your nipple to lick and suck on it. He fucks you hard, making you see stars.

-Fuck Tom! Please… you beg on the verge of cumming.

-Please what baby? Use your words if you want something… says Tom smirking as he slows a bit down.

-I want to cum please! you say tears of pleasure in your eyes.

-Then cum for me Princess. Cum for Daddy. orders Tom circling your clit with the palm of his hand.

You explode, your mouth wide open in a silent scream, your cunt clenching his erection hard. You don’t have the time to recovers that Tom is pulling out, turning you on all four and thrust back in. He sets up the same pace, gripping your hair with one hand and your hips with the other one.

-Again? you say breathless.

-Sweetheart, I intend to make you cum at least three times on my dick tonight. he says into your ear.

Tom thrust two more times before halting, spilling into the condom as he comes. His release triggers yours and you climax again screaming his name. He groans in pleasure and your arms give up. You fall on your stomach, eyes half closed, completely spent and satisfied.

He pulls out then use his shirt to clean the mess between your legs then lay down at my side. You roll over to cuddle against him and he wraps an arm around you. You both lay in silence for a while, the only sound being our breathing. That was the best sex you ever had and you understands now the rumors about him.

-Apologies accepted. you say giggling.

Tom laugh. A real, sincere laugh. It’s the first time you hear it and you like it.

-I’m happy to hear it. I was wondering if well… if you want to go on a date with me? he asks suddenly shy.

You don’t hesitate when you answer him. You realize he might not be a complete asshole after all and you want to know the real him personally.

-I would love that Tom. you reply smiling.

He looks at you surprised but happy. It makes your heart melt.

-Really?

-Yes really.

Tom kisses you tenderly before it slowly turns into something more heated. You feel him harden again and you look at him surprise but aroused.

-Again? you say raising an eyebrow.

-Well I did tell you that I would at least make you come three times on my cock…

You kiss him again and he kept his promise. When you wake up the next morning in his arms, you are sore in a very good way and have a soft smile on your face.

My first ever Tom Ryder fic 🥵❤️ I love him so much it’s unfortunate that there is not enough fics about him :(

Tag: @tangerineboss @pretty-little-mind33

[banana-with-a-bow-tie]

does the Bible say marriage is only one man and one woman? I’ve been seeing some controversy about that on my dash and some saying the scripture was never clear about that.

The Bible could not be more clear about this. Marriage is rooted in the created order. Genesis 2:24

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh.

Jesus affirms that design in Mark 10:6-7 citing God's created order of marriage between a man and woman committing to each other until death is not meant to be broken. God wants this relationship to be completely pure, no third parties involved, not even in the thought life which He considers adultery of the heart (Matt 5:28). Proverbs 5 warns to be faithful to the wife of your youth and not go straying into relationships with adulterous women.

This design of God is good because He is good. Humanity cannot exist without this design. Man and woman getting together is how human beings are born. It doesn't work any other way. Nature makes it obvious, but our sinful opposition to God makes us pursue unnatural desires

Romans 1:24-28

Therefore God gave them up in the lusts of their hearts to impurity, to the dishonoring of their bodies among themselves, because they exchanged the truth about God for a lie and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever! Amen. For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions. For their women exchanged natural relations for those that are contrary to nature; and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in themselves the due penalty for their error. And since they did not see fit to acknowledge God, God gave them up to a debased mind to do what ought not to be done.

God hates unfaithfulness in marriage and the corruption of His design because He created marriage to reflect His own goodness.

Ephesians 5:31-32

"Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” This mystery is profound, and I am saying that it refers to Christ and the church.

Paul, quoting God's created order in Genesis 2, says that the relationship between a husband and wife shows us what Christ has done for His Church. Christ nourishes and cherishes those who believe in Him and gave up His life for them, and the Church loves and honors Him.

When we say marriage doesn't really matter and can mean whatever we want it to mean we are saying God's love does not endure forever, that we do not need Him to provide for us and we do not need to honor Him. We can be our own gods and find love in our own ways. You cannot have love without God because God is love (1 John 4:16).

Love becomes entirely about me and what I want instead of sacrificing and serving for someone else. That self-centered world is how we create our own destruction.

[simp-ly-writes]

Personal Hell (pt.9) Snippet

Pairing: (Hazbin Hotel) Lucifer Morningstar x demon overlord!Reader

A/N: a bit of what is to come, thank you all for waiting so patiently- really appreciate it!! School is fighting with me but only a bit longer to go! I'll try and have the complete chapter out as soon as I can. :)

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Clapping your hands together, hundreds of fireflies hurry themselves towards the ceiling- illuminating the space as you spin with a satisfied hum. Mahogany shelves line behind a grand desk that sits on a taller platform than your own. The chair demands a demanding presence without a body filling its seat, memories of you refusing to look up towards this very desk has you looking back over your shoulder as Lucifer leans against the doorframe with a lazy smile across his face. “Sometime it has been since I have been in this room…” he sarcastically comments, watching as a spider crawls its way across the floor and into a windowsill filled with cobwebs as your cringe in thought to all the eyes of the creature staring back at you. 

Shaking your head, disrupting a shiver, you make your way up to the desk, leaning on its surface as your hands trail over the various letters you had sent capturing your adventures and battles before taking up a full-time position at the palace. You hum out, picking up a letter with dried black blood, flipping it over and ushering out the note as it reads, “Best of Mornings, Queen Lilith and Company. I write to you today as an update from the front lines of outer rings. The civil war is soon to be under control once again as discussions have progressed with the deadly sins, I report that from now on I will no longer be talking to Lust after a… personal encounter. Flipping the page, there is a list of necessary equipment to be sent towards the western front that I will be maintaining come morning. To address your earlier concerns, I have endured minor injuries in the fight yet I cannot speak for the hundreds of my fellow brothers and sisters that have become ill in recent time- I cannot urge enough for supplies to come at the earliest moment. Sincerely, General Peacekeeper: your entrusted confidant, historian, and ally.” 

Your finger glides over your panicked writing, you remember writing this note while swords and bullets crashed over your head while knee deep in the trenches. Dead-man's land was littered with corpses, the scent vile- burning your nose with its decay as you readied the line for yet another charge as you powered up your shadows in the turning of nightfall. You fail to notice as Lucifer has taken a seat at his desk, his legs spread as he pats his thigh, motioning for you to take a seat as you both continue reading through yet another distant lifetime. 

One of his warm palms rests on your thigh, sneaking its way upwards as your breath hitches, swinging yourself to point him a glare. You both freeze as the door slams open and a dozen staff members present themselves to you, wide-eyed and seemingly in a frenzy. Taking a stand quickly, you jump down the stairs and listen to the hurried sentences they all speak out at once- barley picking up any of the words except for three that continue to get repeated, “Charlie, Speech, War.” 

Shit. You whisper underneath your breath, your battle armor settling against your skin in an instant, clashing against your spear as you swing it to rest on your back. Lucifer stumbles to a stand, running around the desk yet you fall to the floor and into the cracks between the wood in a blink, travelling through the shadows towards the Hotel as the King grips out his hair- cursing himself. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hazbin Hotel Masterlist

↳ Taglist: @jtcat305 @tati-the-fangirl @randomgurl2326 @22carolina08 @amarokofficial @cynjinx0 @legacyreadsfics @repentant-repeller @ly-doodels

[rapha-reads]

To those of you wondering (aka no one), I finished both The Vampire Armand and Merrick and I have a lot of thoughts and feels. I'm skipping Blood and Gold for now to go directly to Blackwood Farm (I'll read B&G later), but first I'm going to read something else, just to take a break.

TVA thoughts: man, Armand is messed up. And extremely compelling. But so messed up. As always, the theme of faith crisis, which seriously reaches new heights with these bitchy vampires, is not something I can fully immerse myself in, but it was fascinating to see his numerous metamorphosis. I liked how he bridges Western and Eastern Christianisme, especially through art. Now I'm thinking that if Rolin Jones makes him originally Muslim in the show, that could expand even more the conversation on how faith, and especially Abrahamic faith, has been in conversation for thousands of years and could be such a rich, diverse and spiritual, intellectual and artistic theme. I can already imagine some fascinating discussions comparing (not in a superior way but in a complementary way) coming from Muslim faith to Roman Catholic faith, the way book!Armand talks about the richness of his life in Kiev Rus despite the poverty and ascetism, and the richness of his life in Venecia despite the luxury and abundance.

As for Benamin and Sybille... I don't have much thoughts about them. Sybille is one of those female characters AR seemingly favors, not so much human as a nymph or a dryad, "perfectly splendid". And Benji is a caricature of an Arab child. Nuance? 401 not found.

Merrick thoughts: David for the love if everything, shut. The. Fuck. Up. Holy moly. I like David, I do, but damn the entire recollection of his history with Merrick was looooooong. I'm here to see Louis haunted by Claudia and haunting Lestat's coma, not how hard you're pining for the kid you practically raised! Also. ALSO. You're just going to leave that whole thing with the Olmec or possibly another more ancient Mesoamerican civilisation without ever giving us more? That was the most interesting part of it all! The vodoo history, the connection between Louisiana and Caribbean vodoo and old Native South-American religions! More about this, less about Merrick's perfect breasts, I am begging you. (It is at this point that the reader of this post realises OP is 100% definitely ace and more interested in books and witchcraft than breasts and whether a 70yo man can still get it up - also, hey, Anne Rice's vampires are practically asexual and their lust and pleasure is mostly derivated from blood, with some notable exceptions like Armand and Marius, and a love relationship between two vampires is then based on romantic love and blood sharing, so can I hear a hell yeah for some ace representation or are we still conflating eroticism with sex)

Another thing I kept thinking about throughout the book is how Louis is perceived by his fellow vampires. Since basically the second book, since we've lost his own POV, everybody who's ever said anything about him (so Lestat, Armand and David) have insisted on two points: how very weak and meek Louis is, and also how irresistible, beautiful and charming. Granted, I've known Louis first through his portrayal on the show (hi Jacob you're so fiiiiiiine), and then through his own narration in the first book, but I've never had the impression that he was weak. Beautiful and seductive, yes. Weak? I see a human man going through tragedies and still enduring, going through vampiric transformation and then suffering for decades the loss of his humanity, struggling with reconciliating both sides of himself, but mostly I see a vampire who rebuilt himself after losing everything without sacrificing his sense of self. I see Louis as very strong actually (up to the point where resilience breaks, because resilience cannot be sustained on a long term, but that's another debate). He knows who he is, and don't you know how hard that is? He doesn't cling to faith or pride. He knows he's doomed, he knows he's monstrous, he knows there's nothing he can do to change that, and instead of railing against his fate, he goes on about his undead life. He gets his books and he reads them, he surrounds himself with literature and what little comforts he thinks in his shattered self-esteem he deserves (his ragged sweaters and soft trousers); let's not lie to ourselves tho, Louis doesn't like himself, or more exactly he doesn't care about his corporeal body - what matters to him is his mind, and once again, this author is extremely ace and also very aro and very nonbinary, so Louis to me is very much ace and agender coded, though really not aro, because his love for Lestat (and sometimes his fondness, shall we say, for Armand) is the only thing that can rouse him up from his literary slumber.

...

Oh, man, I have a lot to say about Louis, for how little he appears in the books so far. Still have BF, BC and the PL trilogy to devour. So I guess you can say, for as much as Lestat is occupying my entire brain, very much like him, my favorite is Louis? Yeah, that tracks. Melancholy, quiet, dark-haired green-eyed monster with more humanity than humans, preferring his solitude and the company of books to anyone else, hopelessly and helplessly devoted to one person, expert in brooding and grieving, literature specialist, not very attached to his physical self. Yeah. I'm not surprised.

[lilymooreauthor]

"Ghost, Can I please see your face?” I purr, leaning forward, resting my hands on his knees, he lifts a hand to cup my chin rubbing his calloused thumb over my bottom lip. I part my lips and he pushes his thumb into my mouth and I lick the tip. Slowly he pushes more into my mouth and I moan as I suck his thumb into my mouth before biting down gently.

“That’s better love, much better” and without a seconds warning, he loops his arms under my underarms and lifts me to straddle on his lap. Our faces are millimeters away from each other, I can feel his cock harden underneath my ass and I take the opportunity to move forward grinding

against him. Simon’s head tips backwards and his Adam’s apple bobs and his hands lower to grab my ass.

He leans forward whispering into my ear, “Love, if you’re going to start grinding those sexy little hips against my cock, don’t stop”.

I grind myself against his length again and we moan in unison as his head falls back again. I take the opportunity to slide my hands up his bare chest, tracing over his shoulders before hooking my thumbs under the base of his mask under his chin. I feel his heart rate pick up as he uses his hands on my ass to firmly grind my hips back and forth on his lap.

“Don’t be scared love, lift the mask but once you do, there’s no going back. You’ll be mine, I’ll own you, all of you, just like you’ll own me, there won’t be a place on this earth that I cannot find you, there’s not a part of you that won’t belong to me.”

Simon reaches up, grabbing my wrists but not pulling me away, “I’m serious Sam, you lift that mask, and you’re mine,” he breaths into my ear. He removes his hands from my wrists, placing them firmly back on my hips. He squeezes my ass, hard enough to bruise tomorrow, hard enough to be intoxicating. My breath hitches as I begin to lift the mask.

I’m all in.

The dried blood has stuck the mask to Simon’s face so I try to be gentle not forgetting the reason he came to me in the first place was a huge laceration to his side, multiple broken ribs, a swollen eye and a possible concussion with a side of internal bleeding. In all the lust I have completely forgotten that this man just came back from a three month mission in complete and utter pain, yet here I am grinding myself on his rock hard cock desperately hoping he’ll fuck me to oblivion before the sun rises.

“Sam, just take off the mask baby, I’ve endured worse pain than you tearing this off. You’ve seen most of me already,” he winks.

[xjulixred45x]

OKEY I know I should be working on JJK's other works now, but I have to talk about Helluva Boss as someone who studied the Divine Comedy (a work that Vivziepop based on to create hell and some characters) and say that it is INCREDIBLE.

First of all, ASMODEUS AND BEELZEBU, I saw a lot of people confused about why they seem like good people while Mammon is an idiot, but it is actually something that is repeated in the book in a way, let me elaborate.

In the divine comedy, the sin of lust is just below purgatory, that is, it is the first sin, the first circle, the least serious of all, and contrary to what some believe, they are not people like rapists, but people who did "inappropriate" or taboo sexual acts for the time (such as sodomy), had sex before marriage, "forbidden" romances, etc.

Even the punishment given to these people is that they are separated into the air with hellish winds, and just when they are about to come into contact with someone/the person they love, they are separated at the last moment. My teacher even said "the worst punishment for lustful people was to have the person they loved within reach and not be able to touch them."

Which fits Asmodeus very well! we are literally told in the show that it is the least threatening sin of all. It's quite appropriate. Don't talk about the relationship he has with Fizz, I mean did you see how he was when he was kidnapped? He almost went crazy.

NOW WHAT I WANTED TO TALK ABOUT, THE BEE DESIGN.

Many, and I mean MANY, people complained about the design, I get it, it's a bit overloaded. but i was also able to find a VERY good reference to the Divine Comedy that somewhat excuses her appearance as a dog rather than a bee.

In the divine comedy, the Gluttons endure an endless hail shower under the ATTENTIVE EYE OF CAN CERBERUS.

CERBERUS.

The legendary 3-headed dog! Because yes, in the divine comedy they put several characters from various mythologies (although the Greek one was Dante's favorite, since Charon, the old man who passes souls to the other side of the Acheron river, also appears).

I think it better explains why they decided on that design for Bee and her attentive attitude towards the people in her circle. After all, gluttons eat without measure and don't know when to stop, but in theory Cerberus prevents them from escaping the circle, so Bee prevents them from reaching that extreme.

Regarding Mammon, I can see why they made him an idiot, in the divine comedy the greedy were seen as plainly selfish who withheld their goods or squandered them without control, it is something that you cannot get anything positive from (not like being a glutton at parties or being lustful for your partner for example). I really like that they made him a pure and simple villain.

and my last comment regarding the serious work of the circle of laziness, yes, we barely have anything, but from the little I saw, I already have a reference.

The people in the circle seem to be amphibians or reptiles, even fish (except for the goat doctor), which is quite ironic considering that in the book the sloths are constantly DROWNED.

(EDITH: I FUCKED UP, THE FISH AND AMPHIBIANS ARE FROM THE ENVY RING, FOR THE LEVIATHAN, NOT FROM THE SLOTH, THE ONLY FISH THAT IS FROM THE SLOTH IS THE SHARKS, SORRY ABOUT THAT ONE)

ahghg sorry you have to put up with my fangirling over La Divina comedia and Helluva Boss, I know many hate the series but I love it.

I'll write something about JJK soon, don't worry. Love ya.

[foxdev1l]

you need to share more of your thoughts because i know they are good tell me tell me tell me teeeell meeeee

thank you so much for this sweet message. since it's kept vague, i wasn't sure what kind of thoughts you wanted to hear, but i've recently spent a lot of time thinking about and writing down notes about a/b/o headcanons for the rg characters which you might be interested in. i've got notes for basically all of them, but Six's headcanon kind of grew a mind of its own. if anyone's interested in more, feel free to let me know

◇Sierra Six – Shed Skin◇

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54652036

Wordcount: 2.507

Summary: Six does not feel comfortable in his own skin

A/N: much love to @hollandstrophyhusband for helping me brainstorm and beta reading this for me. i hope you guys enjoy my little spin on Six and the omegaverse. might write a second part one day, who knows. there was some talk about six/colt...

Content warnings: nsfw, canon typical violence, self-destructive behavior, rough sex, dub con, identity issues

He presents unusually late, at the age of fifteen, and without any prior warning. It's almost like he's grown a second skin, one that is simultaneously too large and too tight on his scrawny body.

Courtland expects to feel relief. He's an Alpha, after all, the only child to follow in his father's footsteps.

His mother is born an Omega, awfully timid and quiet, and too afraid to raise her voice. His brother has presented as a Beta young, too gentle and too defiant at the same time. His father has always resented them both for different reasons.

So Court should be relieved, to have dodged a bullet, to escape his father's cutting disappointment.

But then his father takes one look at him, his ragged features contorted into a strange expression, something almost akin to pride. He sweeps his gaze over Court's haggard form, breathes in the heavy stench of a newly presented Alpha, and smiles. The smile is twisted, foreign, wrong; like the newly grown skin pulled taut over his frail bones.

Court feels nothing but repulsion.

“I don't think it fits,” he tells his father.

“It doesn't need to fit,” his father says, the contentment on his face turning sharper, more dangerous. “Just wear it like you own it.”

And so he does.

He tells himself things can be different. That it is still about choice. That his second skin does not come sodden in blood. He can learn to be comfortable wearing it, can accept his status, and still reject society's expectations. He can grow up to be a better Alpha than his old man ever was.

It's only when he's standing above the dying body of his father – the powder burns from his gun tainting his fingers black – that he's struck with the sudden realization that he's always been destined to inherit the violence of his father; that this blood-lusting rage is so deeply carved into his DNA, he cannot have one without the other.

He hardly gets any time to think the first few years locked behind bars. He's too busy avoiding becoming a target. He makes himself bigger than he's ever been, plays his part as the aggressive and strong Alpha, and it feels wrong, sickening, but it doesn't matter because this is not about his comfort but the mere act of survival.

He doesn't experience a proper rut until the CIA has him catching the chain. The abuse and trauma he physically and mentally had to endure over his lifetime have taken a toll on his system and fucked with his hormones enough to suppress any prior ruts.

Though he's never experienced one, he's heard of it. How it takes over one's body and mind, burning up the insides with a maddening fever of raw lust.

Court mainly feels pain.

The CIA pairs him up with an Omega. Court is far too gone to protest at that point, but he doubts it would've mattered anyway. The CIA doesn't seem to care much about his autonomy.

He doesn't know the Omega's name, can barely make out their face past his blurred vision. But he knows what's expected of him.

The Omega is nothing more than a piece of meat for the CIA to dangle in front of him, not much unlike a gnarled bone thrown in front of a starving dog. He's supposed to claim them, feast on them, gorge himself on their willingness to submit.

The Omega tells him it's alright, that they don't mind his roughness, the bruises he leaves behind no matter how much he tries to hold back. Court almost wishes they wouldn't have said anything at all.

His rut ends eventually, the fever subsiding without him ever finding relief. The Omega is taken away quickly afterward. Court never sees them again.

The CIA has provided him with a soulless room in a depressing, gray building, and he's allowed a break, an undisturbed couple of days to gather himself back up.

He takes a shower to try and wash away the last traces of his rut, turns the heat all the way up. It burns him worse than the rut but he doesn't step away from the water. Instead, he uses his hands and nails to scrub, scrub, scrub his skin raw, till it's red, red, red, but still there. Despite everything, it's still a part of him no matter how hard he tries to get rid of it.

He wants nothing more than to shed his own skin, peel it away until it detaches from his flesh, tear it apart, so all that remains is a bloody and shredded framework of bones.

What he once reluctantly accepted and exploited for the sake of safety and survival, he's now grown to outright despise, to reject.

He showers multiple times a day over the next week, rubbing and clawing at his skin until it's stung and irritated. It doesn't make him feel better, only leaves him aching and longing for a different life.

Once his break is up, the CIA gets his training underway. It's brutal and laborious and keeps him busy once more, but it also makes everything worse. The once scrawny, lanky boy has grown into a strong, deadly man who seems to fit every stereotype he's sworn to dismantle.

His hands seem to be constantly coated in blood nowadays. He has to stop looking into the mirror when his reflection keeps twisting into the wilted image of his father.

At least he gets put on heavy military-grade suppressants. It berefts him of his ruts and fucks with his pheromones enough to dampen the aggressive smell of his Alpha; but above else, it mainly makes him numb. Court doesn't complain. It's better than the alternative.

He tries to keep to himself, avoid other Alphas at all costs though that's not always possible. He hates it, feels so out of place, uncomfortable, and strangely alien when he's around others.

Rumors begin to spread like wildfire, and as much as he tries to stay unbothered, it makes his hackles rise. They assume he's an omega because why else would he be so tight-lipped, act so odd and deflective whenever the topic gets brought up.

He doesn't know what to think of that. The word Omega doesn't feel as scalding as its counterpart, but it still doesn't fully seem to fit.

It's a bitterly cold winter night when Six makes the decision to hook up with an Alpha for the first time. He finds him in a seedy bar, his cheeks flushed and lashes wet from the snow.

He's freshly off a mission. The gun has left indents in the palm of his hand and he believes he can still feel the sticky, crawling sensation of blood despite the hour-long shower he took.

The alpha is leaning against the beer-sodden bar when Six spots him, nursing a cheap whiskey with one big, calloused hand. He's tall, taller than the Sierra agent, a burly, broad frame with a handsome, aged face.

The stranger turns, then, meeting his gaze dead-on. Six's pulse ticks up, his insides twisting. He isn’t quite sure whether it's from arousal or repulsion.

His instincts are reeling deep below his sternum but he's feeling daring, still drunk on the adrenaline-fueled high of his most recent kill and desperately chasing for more, to break through the heavy, numbing haze of the suppressants.

He ends up with his face shoved against the rough wall behind the bar. The stranger doesn't grant him the comfort of a bed, merely tugs down both of their pants as far as necessary and kicks Six's feet apart. Six thinks he prefers it this way.

The man's merciful enough to work Six open, though it still hurts when he pushes inside. They have nothing but a condom, and Six has never done this before, is hardly prepared to take a single finger, much less the thick cock of another fucking Alpha.

The Alpha's obnoxious scent is filling up the entire alleyway. It's thicker than the smoke of cigars, impenetrable like the billowing fumes of the streets. It clogs up Six's nose, lays heavy on his tongue, sharp and bitter all at once.

Everything about the experience is uncomfortable; the fingers in his hair, tugging and pulling and pressing his cheek into the sharp bricks; the hand on his hip, digging into his bones, squeezing bruises into his flesh; the mouth on him, panting against the shell of his ear, licking and biting up the side of his throat.

Six flinches away when teeth scrape over the skin just below his scent gland but he doesn't get far. The Alpha crowds him further against the wall, keeping an unbreakable hold on him as he relentlessly thrusts into him from behind.

A grunt escapes Six's bloody lips, gut twisting in fear but when the stranger reaches out and grabs his cock, it's already painfully hard and it doesn't take long for him to spill all over the Alpha's sweaty hand.

The Alpha doesn't stop, taking more pleasure than he draws from him, and Six is left to moan against the cold brick wall. He's cold and his legs are trembling by the time the Alpha finishes and pulls away.

“You're not an Omega,” the stranger acknowledges and Six just shrugs because his lungs have yet to fill up with oxygen again.

“And neither are you a Beta.”

Six shakes his head.

The man regards him with a flat, unreadable expression, “I didn't peg you as an Alpha.”

Six simply spits a glob of blood onto the dirt-stained pavement, the inside of his cheek sore where he's bitten through it. Then he shrugs once more and stumbles away, out of the alleyway and back into the shadows.

It becomes a common occurrence after that. The CIA keeps him on a short leash but Six still finds time to slip away every few weeks. He goes looking for meaningless fucks with willing Alphas every chance he gets, in the dark corners of whatever shabby bar is closest to him. He keeps seeking them out no matter how uncomfortable they make him feel.

It's painful, shameful, to be reduced to nothing but a whimpering mess under the aggressive grasp of another Alpha, but he cannot help himself. There is a certain thrill at being forced to give up control. It's strangely alluring, addicting.

He doesn't get off on the pain. In fact, he deeply despises it. But there is a certain sense of detachment that comes with it. It's still not enough to chip away his second skin, but it makes it less restricting, more bearable, gives him something else to focus on.

And then Lloyd comes along and ruins everything.

Lloyd manages to do something no one else has ever done before – he takes one look at Six, gasping and writhering where he's pushed into the wall, chin forcefully tilted back with the muzzle of a gun, and sees right through him.

“Ohh,” he croons, “What a little, pathetic Alpha you are.” He leans in, nuzzles at the column of Six's throat, digs the gun deeper to expose more of the heated flesh.

Gritting his teeth, Six keeps himself deathly still. He swallows down a rising growl, not willing to give Lloyd the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Or,” Lloyd continues, “Is it Omega?” His smile is full of teeth, his leer predatory, and Six does the only thing he can think of.

He fishes for the grenade safely tucked in the pocket of his pants, and pulls the safety pin.

In hindsight, he should've killed Lloyd then and there.

What follows isn't Six's fault. He is aware of that even though it doesn't stop the guilt from eating away at him. His handler is dead, his protégé traumatized, and Six just yearns for a fucking nap.

He's never felt such deep-rooted anger like he does for Lloyd. The Alpha is loud and arrogant and violent, and Six would've torn his fucking face off if Suzanne hadn't stopped him in form of a bullet to his thigh.

The next few weeks are a blur of heavy sedatives and strong pain medication. He's used to feeling trapped but the cuffs binding him to the hospital bed make him sick to his stomach. He finds great satisfaction in ripping them apart.

Tracing Claire's whereabouts is easier than expected and it pisses him off because the CIA obviously doesn't care enough to provide a proper safe house.

He steps onto the property, the smell of blood of his guards at the hospital still sticking to his clothes. The violence of his actions, though necessary, has torn something open deep inside him, a festering wound he fears will never heal again.

Perhaps he is his father's son, after all. Perhaps he's never been anything else.

He feels like a stranger, not only in his skin but his very own bones as he gets closer to the safe house.

His body aches, most of his injuries still not fully healed but he sets his jaw and pushes forward. Breaking open a window at the back of the building, he heaves himself up onto the ledge.

As soon as both his feet are flat on the ground, he goes to work, not daring to waste time. The suppressants have dulled his scent enough to stay hidden as he puts down the vinyl cover and a sloppily written note.

Incapacitating the guards hardly takes any effort. It doesn't bring him any satisfaction, only further rips and gashes at the wound inside. But it's worth it in the end, when all is done, and the blood has begun to dry, and Six pushes open the door separating him from Claire.

Being reunited after being forcefully pried apart feels a bit surreal. Claire looks tired, worn, but her smile is sincere as she clings to him, her nails sharp as claws where they dig into Six's shoulders but he doesn't have the heart to step away.

Instead, he buries his face into her hair, catching the subdued but familiar scent of a young Alpha; intense but gentler somehow, softened by the sweet and mellow taste of wild flowers dried by the sun.

Claire.

The scent slips below his skin easily, effortlessly, soothing the ragged edges of the wound beneath.

Claire is still so awfully young. Too young to be burdened by bearing the weight of her status. And yet, she does not seem to let it drag her down. Despite being impressionable and at the mercy of her biology, through all the illness and grief and trauma, the brutality of the last few weeks – she's remained unchanged.

Her eyes are still kind, her touch still gentle, and her heart untinged.

Six presses her tighter against his chest, his grip white-knuckled where it's clutching the back of Claire's shirt. He takes a moment, then, allows himself to linger, to breathe in the soft, calming scent of his protégé. For once, it does not feel like he's suffocating in the confinement of his own skin.

[walkwithgod07]

2 Thou therefore, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus.

2 And the things that thou hast heard of me among many witnesses, the same commit thou to faithful men, who shall be able to teach others also.

3 Thou therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.

4 No man that warreth entangleth himself with the affairs of this life; that he may please him who hath chosen him to be a soldier.

5 And if a man also strive for masteries, yet is he not crowned, except he strive lawfully.

6 The husbandman that laboureth must be first partaker of the fruits.

7 Consider what I say; and the Lord give thee understanding in all things.

8 Remember that Jesus Christ of the seed of David was raised from the dead according to my gospel:

9 Wherein I suffer trouble, as an evil doer, even unto bonds; but the word of God is not bound.

10 Therefore I endure all things for the elect's sakes, that they may also obtain the salvation which is in Christ Jesus with eternal glory.

11 It is a faithful saying: For if we be dead with him, we shall also live with him:

12 If we suffer, we shall also reign with him: if we deny him, he also will deny us:

13 If we believe not, yet he abideth faithful: he cannot deny himself.

14 Of these things put them in remembrance, charging them before the Lord that they strive not about words to no profit, but to the subverting of the hearers.

15 Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.

16 But shun profane and vain babblings: for they will increase unto more ungodliness.

17 And their word will eat as doth a canker: of whom is Hymenaeus and Philetus;

18 Who concerning the truth have erred, saying that the resurrection is past already; and overthrow the faith of some.

19 Nevertheless the foundation of God standeth sure, having this seal, The Lord knoweth them that are his. And, let every one that nameth the name of Christ depart from iniquity.

20 But in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and of silver, but also of wood and of earth; and some to honour, and some to dishonour.

21 If a man therefore purge himself from these, he shall be a vessel unto honour, sanctified, and meet for the master's use, and prepared unto every good work.

22 Flee also youthful lusts: but follow righteousness, faith, charity, peace, with them that call on the Lord out of a pure heart.

23 But foolish and unlearned questions avoid, knowing that they do gender strifes.

24 And the servant of the Lord must not strive; but be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient,

25 In meekness instructing those that oppose themselves; if God peradventure will give them repentance to the acknowledging of the truth;

26 And that they may recover themselves out of the snare of the devil, who are taken captive by him at his will.

[squadrah]

So you had two asks about La Squadra being toddlers, but what about them being old/older men? Maybe in their 40-50's or as senile old people. And my mind ain't exactly wondering there, but what do you think they'd be like as dilfs?

I managed to find an old post where I was asked what they would be like as old man: here it is! You also reminded me that I had once written about them as parents in general, and I could have sworn I published it, but I ended up finding it at last in my drafts, so I'll make sure to queue it after publishing this ask!

That just leaves the question at the end, ehe... I will try to do these from the perspective of a young adult, probably a friend of their child(ren), while they themselves are in their forties and fifties.

Risotto: His sheer size and deep voice are already enough to set the butterflies aflutter, so the way he wears sleeveless shirts and dirty overalls at home is almost too much. He is best observed in the garage where he enjoys quietly working with power tools, and nobody can look at his work table without imagining him sweeping off the clutter to make room for them instead...

Formaggio: He ages so gracefully he looks like he could still be in his thirties, but the way he cracks open a cold one while giving clever responses and showing at least basic knowledge of just about any topic introduced hints at decades of experience in a variety of areas. Whenever he playfully manhandles his spouse in the kitchen, guests cannot help but chug their own cold beverages in vain.

Prosciutto: Never seen without his signature dress shirts and crisp trousers, and when he's around, the temperature always drops enough that all unnecessarily noise and frolic dies down. Most agree they would not want to live with him as their father, the bar is just too high in that respect, but nobody would mind him in a hotel chair with a bourbon in his hand and ordering them to get to work...

Pesci: At first he seems nothing special, especially because he's not much respected by his children, but as soon as he easily lifts something that he ought to struggle with at his size, and tells you how much he think it weighs by touch, the magic begins, and those who have gone on fishing trips with him on the weekend and watched him reel in that big bass are now smitten for life.

Ghiaccio: Whenever you meet him, he's either preparing to go for a run or has just returned from it all sweaty and glistening, and no real decrease of stamina to show for it. Going to the gym with him is a rite of passage; he will explain every machine and challenge you to various feats of endurance. Spotting is obligatory, and many hit the showers afterwards in greater frustration than they began.

Melone: That one anon ask of "your dad looks gnc af" sums him up perfectly, he is so impeccably and unabashedly A Look and An Icon that all his various issues are easily buried in a tidal wave of gender envy and lust. His children are so confident and well-educated when it comes to sex that their friends can only imagine what a wealth of experience could be gained from the fountain head.

Illuso: He always lets his luscious long hair down at home, physically and metaphorically, and exudes such minor soap opera antagonist vibes that his heckling his children and spouse come off as almost entertaining, a good example of how much people forgive to a pretty face and a nice tall figure. He's not above teasing his guests either, and you will either hate him for it or want to kiss him.

Sorbet: He's not conventionally attractive and seems to love his plants more than his children, but he has a certain Addams Family aesthetic about him that carries his dry wit and odd ways perfectly, especially when he's trimming his bonsai or is outside gardening in the shade in special gloves and up to his neck in dirt. You are welcome to indulge his obscure opera obsession, but watch out.

Gelato: That one extremely friendly dad that claps you on the shoulder and shoves a drink into your hand as soon as (and even before) you hit drinking age, and is always two seconds away from hugging you and kissing you on both cheeks in a fit of camaraderie and general mirth. Watching him grill sausages and cook in a big outdoor cauldron permanently changes your brain chemistry.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Not too long ago, I inquired about the specific areas of Rosie’s physique that captivated Ida most. Now, I'd like to reverse the query: which particular feature of Ida's form, extending from the neck downward, captured Rosie's admiration most profoundly? Furthermore, which part of his own body does Rosie find most attractive?

Ooooh lovely anon, delightful to have you back!

Ugh what part of her doesn’t this man love? He often zones out just admiring this or that, she can be bundled in a trench coat and he’s still going to be mildly enamoured with the taper of her waist or the strong set of her shoulders, she has oddly pretty and quite muscular forearms and he’s afraid he lusts after them without really knowing what it is he wants of them. Just, he thinks they’re very nice, that’s all. He’s as puzzled as you are about it.

Now her legs, if she can admit they’re nice then he can attest they belong to a goddess, his lanky woman has legs for miles and he wants to kiss every kilometer every morning. Oops. But then there’s her strong back, without a starlet’s hourglasses and in fact almost boyish, strapping back but just soft enough to lay one’s head on after a long day. There’s the flat plane of her belly, too lean still by his own and her mother’s estimation, by streaked with tiger stripes, testament to what she’s lost and what she’s endured. Somehow, it suited her so throughly he wasn’t even surprised to find them there the first time he saw her undressed, they looked fearsome and at home on her body, and he cannot imagine her petite and firm breasts without their silver slashings around the large nipples.

Yes, plenty of these things were from a time before him so mapping them and caressing them makes him feel closer to her, bridges the gap of their times apart. But perhaps his chiefest delight is her throat.

Ida has a Brady neck™️, and as such, it’s swan-like expanse was meant to be bit and kissed and licked. It also flushes the prettiest cocoa pink when she’s flustered or pleased, and Robert exerts himself regularly to make it do so.

For himself? Oh how interesting and I’m honestly a bit stumped. He seems so not preoccupied with himself? Besides his hair, perhaps, ha. But I feel he appreciates his good health in general, knowing that’s not something to take for granted, good proportions or strength either. I’m going to go with hands, since they seem to please Ida and he likes utilitarian things. 😉

[narrowroadministry]

James 1:2-18

I've been rolling through some emotions lately that have led me having many questions for God. "Why do I feel this way? Why is this happening to me? How do I answer people when they ask why you allow bad things to happen to good people?"

The other day I had an overwhelming sense of gloom and just felt low. I made time to go the altar at church and just give it over to Him. I prayed and I begged "God please give me some guidance here. Help me to understand and take away any bitterness I feel."

Then...it happened. It doesn't happen everyday, sometimes I feel like I am talking to a brick wall. I now realize sometimes God has reasons for our periods of waiting, He knows when we are truly ready to not only hear but listen. When it DOES happen, it's the most amazing feeling. God spoke to me. Repeatedly, over and over I kept hearing "James 1....James 1....James 1". So I finished my business at the Church and came home and went straight to book of James.

WOW. OKAY GOD.

Let's dive into the first several verses.

James 1:2-5 says "My brethren, count it all joy WHEN you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him."

Not IF, but WHEN we have trials. See, trials TEST our faith. Then, trials PRODUCE patience. Trials and temptation are simply inevitable, especially when you walk with Christ. This is why to us, it seems the unbelievers have an easy life. Of course, why would satan mess with them? They are exactly where he wants them to be.

God WANTS us to lean on him during these times for wisdom and to help us through. Remember in 1 Kings 3, King Solomon prayed for WISDOM, and God was so delighted that he blessed him abundantly. This is one thing we know we can ask of God and be SURE he will give to us, wisdom to endure.

James 1: 12-18 says "Blessed is the man who endures temptation; for when he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life which the Lord has promised to those who love Him. Let no one say when he is tempted, "I am tempted by God"; for God cannot be tempted by evil, nor does He Himself tempt anyone. But each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own desires and enticed. Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, brings forth death. Do not be deceived, my beloved brethren, Evey good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning. Of His own will He brought us forth by the word of truth, that we might be a kind of first fruits of His creatures."

Trials lead to temptation, temptation leads to sin, sin leads to death. It's very clear here who is behind all 3 of these...satan. Yes, God ALLOWS us to go through trials because this is satans world. However, He uses these trials for our good even though it's hard to see it that way from the human flesh and perspective. He uses our trials to test our faith in Him. See, satan can not force us to sin, he can only put thoughts into our head to entice us to make that decision ourselves. Satan would love to see us turn to unbelief, alcohol,drugs, lust, and anything else besides Gods word to help us cope during difficult times. He even uses our blessings from God to try and twist and turn us to sin. This is why He reminds us that every good gift is from above. If we fall into sin as a result of temptation, we bring death upon that gift.

This is why it is SO important to cling to Him during our trials, and not to the things of this world. I pray this helps someone else as much as it helped me.