#his reward is death??? his reward is the thing he’s had to fight embracing this whole time??

[mellomadness]

okay so I’ve been watching The Magicians for the first time with my boyfriend, and we just got to season 5 and I ???? WHAT THE FUCK

killing off Quentin was so??? WHAT! WHY?! Why would you do that?! And like. Why why WHY would he move on so quickly? He was so dedicated to magic and to his friends and he finally FINALLY got Eliot back and he didn’t even get to SEE OR TALK TO HIM AND THEN HE OVERSAW HIS FUNERAL?!

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT

That betrayed his whole character. His whole arc. HIS WHOLE STORY!! He should have been able to fucking live in peace for a second, with the people he loves, and even if he had to die why couldn’t it have been temporary?? He’s moved on, there’s no coming back from that!!! ARGHHGHGHGHGHG BAD WRITING DECISION BAD

[muddyorbsblr]

the final Lady Sharpe part 5: sent away

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Part of the 500 Follower Celebration Requested by: @ellooo0ooo

Summary: Your plans with Thomas are coming to an end as his machine parts arrive and you both head into the city to set into motion Lucille's arrest.

Pairing: Thomas Sharpe x Reader

Word Count: 5.2k (get a drink ready)

Warning/s: 18+ | smut (minors & pearl clutchers exit the room i only ask nicely once); vaginal fingering; oral sex (f receiving); Lucille Sharpe (yes she's a warning) [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: married blorbos are snowed in (oh no how terrible 😈😏); Thomas is a simp for his wife; mutual pining sad blorbos hours

Dick-tionary: smut starts at "If we cannot lay together, then at least let me pleasure you." and ends at "…except one somber truth"

Logically there was no good reason why Thomas would wake this morning in a significantly better mood, considering that he was still stuck in this manor, a death sentence care of his psychotic murderous sister still looming over your head, and tasked with a nightly distraction that even the mere thought of it made his stomach want to turn. And yet somehow, in these few moments when he got to rouse from sleep before you did, getting to really look upon your features at a seemingly peaceful rest while he held you in his arms, there was a contentment that blanketed him and kept him warm despite the biting cold of winter.

If he could keep even at least this after this treacherous endeavor was done with, if he could keep you, then perhaps he could believe himself still deserving of happiness despite all the devastation he'd wrought throughout the years. There was no version of the near future that he could picture where he would be denied the simplest pleasure of getting to see you, perhaps even hold you. And with those thoughts, his mood had begun to sour, fully knowing that that was what awaited him at the end of the road. Dissolution of marriage.

And he couldn't even fault you for that. Why would you wish to stay with him given the context on why he'd chosen to court you? Why would you have any reason to believe him if he could muster up the courage to tell you that he'd fallen irretrievably in love with you and that he wanted more than anything to try to make this marriage work? To make it real?

He traced the back of his finger across your cheekbone, his heart twisting and melting all at once when you smiled and nuzzled your cheek against his chest. "I love you," he whispered, hoping that somehow his message would reach into your dreams. "I don't want you to leave if we make it through this. I wish to stay with you. Wherever you wish to go, I'll happily follow."

You began to stir in his arms, soft groans coming from you as you slowly roused in your husband's embrace. "Hmm?" The baronet's heart caught in his throat when your eyes fluttered open and met his, a soft smile stretching across your face. "Morning..."

He couldn't resist the urge to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, doing his best to fight back the desire to do nothing more than simply to stay in bed just like this when you rewarded him with such a lighthearted, melodic giggling in response. "Good morning, wife."

"Big day today," you mumbled, failing to fight back a yawn as you worked your way out of his embrace to sit up on the bed. "Your machine parts arrive today if your supplier and the postal service is on schedule. I just have to get all the duplicate documents I've had hidden away in your workshop together so I can send them over to my contacts in Scotland Yard." Excitement colored your features as you reached for his hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "It's almost over. We actually did it. You're almost free."

Thomas' stomach dropped as the reality of the situation dawned on him, mentally counting back on how long it had been since he carried you in his arms across the threshold of Allerdale Hall and you concocted a plan that might grant him his freedom from Lucille's reign of terror. Three and a half weeks. He would be expecting the notice from the post office any day now. Tears prickled in the back of his eyes as your words haunted him.

You'll be free from me, too.

You seemed oblivious to the darkness that begun to plague him as you bounded your way over to the wardrobe, starting to dress yourself so that you two could grab something to eat. And check on your mail for the day.

Thomas made his way to you, gently placing his hands over yours while you did up the buttons up the back of your dress. "May I?"

"Go ahead," you said breathily, releasing your hold on the stiff buttons. Your husband took his time carefully slipping each stiff button through its loop, softly kissing your temple as he worked his way up your back.

He rushed to grab for your collar piece before you reached for it, making you both break out into light chuckles as he tightened his other arm around you, pressing a kiss to your cheek once he'd successfully grabbed the piece of fabric. "Never pictured you to be the type that had a playful mood, husband," you giggled, righting yourself and gathering your hair in your hands so he could secure the piece around your neck.

Before he could stop himself, he pressed his lips to the back of your neck, the sound of your staggered breathing and faint whimper spurring him on to press another. And another. All so that the words that danced on the tip of his tongue couldn't escape. Come back to bed. I wish to hold you a while longer. I have no desire to leave this room.

And the most dangerous words of all. Words that he never thought he would say to another and fully mean them. I love you. And I wish to spend the rest of my life with you.

"Thomas," you gasped his name like you were fighting for breath, reaching behind you and holding on to him to keep yourself upright. He groaned against your neck when your hand met the bare skin of his stomach. "What's gotten into you?"

His adamant words from many nights ago nearly slipped from his lips. You're my wife. I should be with you. It should be you.

"Can I not simply indulge in greeting my wife--"

The sharp rapping of knuckles on your bedroom door pulled you both harshly out of the moment, worsened by the shrill tone of Lucille on the other end. "If you both dawdle about, breakfast will get cold."

"We'll be down shortly, Lucille, just start without us," you called back, muttering something about mood ruiners. "We should go," you told him with a downhearted exhale, your breath hitching again when it seemed that the last few moments seemed to have no effect on Thomas, who resumed with kissing along the column of your neck. "Thomas, didn't you hear your sister? Breakfast will get cold."

"Then we'll eat it cold, darling," he mumbled, setting your collar piece back down on your dresser so he could wrap his arms around you. He turned you around in his arms, mesmerized as he watched your hair slip from your hand and fall to frame your face. "Have I told you how exquisite you look in the morning light?"

You broke out into a smile, averting your gaze from his as you made a motion to step out of his hold. "Thomas come on, we should go you need to--"

"Or how I think you're absolutely brilliant?" he cut you off, framing your face in his hands before pressing a tender kiss to your lips. Will I ever get to tell you that I've fallen in love with you? he thought to himself, savoring the fleeting moment where you returned his kiss before breaking it, taking a step backward and looking visibly flustered.

There was a long moment of deafening quiet before you spoke again, your tone soft, almost wistful. "If you keep this up, Sir Sharpe, I'll have no choice but to miss you when this is all over." Your expression became guarded, veiling to your husband the poignant fact that you, too, dreaded what would come after today.

The truth was that you already missed him, longed for him, even when he was already within your arm's reach. Just as he longed for you.

"There is still no mail that has come for your wife, Thomas," Lucille seethed the moment she made his way to his side as he fixed some tea for both of you. "I am growing quite impatient, it's nearly been a month and still no correspondence regarding her inheritance has come for her. In fact, no correspondence has come for her at all. As if there isn't a single soul that even cares to check up on her. Keep in touch. Could it be possible, sweet boy, that this Y/N is playing us for fools?"

A lump formed in Thomas' throat at his sister's suggestion, panic rising inside of him knowing how close her speculation actually was to the truth. "She did mention her father was quite the busy man, perhaps he has been overwhelmed with his work and will reach out soon."

"Well the old fool better hurry," she hissed. "The sooner we get what we need from this one, the sooner we can build toward an even better life together. Perhaps even make our way out of this decaying house. Finally let it sink to the ground."

The only better life I can envision is with the woman waiting for me at the dining table, he wanted so desperately to bite back. "Has any correspondence arrived for me, sister?" He struggled to keep his composure, forcing a smile on his face as he faced her cold, calculating features. How could you ever have convinced me that what we had, what you had me do, was love?

She was visibly taken aback by how he diverted the conversation, no longer speaking in a hushed tone and ensuring that you could hear from where you sat. "There--There is. A notice that those parts you ordered for your machine have come in. You'll need to sign for them at the post office."

"Excellent, I can bring Y/N along with me. Make a day of it."

Your face lit up at the mention of the notice. His supplier was perfectly within schedule. The end of your time together truly was drawing near; nearer than he ever wanted. "I would love to come with you to the city, husband," you beamed at him. "There are some letters I wish to send to my family as well. Keep them apprised of what I've been up to since getting married. All about Allerdale Hall and its rich history."

"That sounds like a perfect idea," Lucille told you both through gritted teeth. "I hope you two have a lovely time, then. Do try to get home before the blizzard strikes." Before Thomas made his way back to you, Lucille grabbed his arm in a talon-like grip. "The moment any form of correspondence comes for her, you are to tell me right away, dear brother. My patience can only last for so long."

"Ah, Miss Y/L/N, aren't you quite the sight to behold. How long has it been since you've aided us in a case with your expansive knowledge?" Detective Jeffries, a colleague of yours from Scotland Yard, was there to pick up his own mail from the post office and bumped into you and Thomas right as you arrived.

"Too long, Jeffries. Hopefully not so long that you'd all forgotten that the reason for my prolonged absence has been my acclimation to married life. I actually go by Lady Sharpe now," you politely corrected him, giving his hand a firm shake before gesturing toward your husband. There was a noticeable pinch at your heart calling yourself that. Lady Sharpe. You wouldn't be for long if things worked out according to plan. "I'd like to introduce you to my husband, Sir Thomas Sharpe. Lord of Allerdale Hall."

There was a fleeting moment of pure glee on Thomas' face at your introduction before he settled into a more cordial expression, stepping forward to shake the detective's hand. "Good to meet you, Detective," he greeted, placing his other hand on the small of your back before stepping back to your side. "I shall go see to my deliveries now, darling." Before he walked away and let you catch up with your colleague, he pressed a kiss to your cheek, giving you a soft smile before walking further into the post office for his parcel.

"And here I once recalled a feisty consultant insisting that she'd never fall in love or become the marrying type," Jeffries teased, wagging a finger at you as if to tell you 'I told you so'. "Matrimony becomes you, though, my friend. Both you and your husband are positively radiant with your adoration for one another. It doesn't take a detective to notice that."

His remark sat heavily in your heart, every part of you struggling not to give it away that the words struck a nerve. This marriage was a sham, and it would all be over soon. Thomas was just doing a remarkable job at pretending, and you…you didn't have to. Out here in public, feeding into the image of a newlywed couple happily in love, this was the only time you could let your love for him show. To communicate the sentiment that you would never dare to with words.

"Right well uhm…" You cleared your throat, shaking your head as if to shoo the conversation away. "What you said about aiding you all with a case…that's actually what I came here for. You remember those cases on the board that we could never make any headway on? Enola Sciotti? Edith Cushing? Pamela Upton? All missing persons cases?"

"Don't tell me you were spending your honeymoon investigating these cases, Y/N, that's simply depressing--"

"I didn't actively seek out the information, I stumbled into it," you cut him off, clutching the envelope of documents in your hand with a death grip. "Married into it, really."

Sheer horror colored your friend's features, throwing a look at the baronet currently making small talk with the workers inside as he signed for his parcels. "He--"

"No, Jeffries, not him. His sister. Lucille Sharpe. Right piece of work, that one. Sad to say they're no longer 'missing persons' cases." You placed the envelope into his hands, holding his gaze and hoping that he could see the desperation in your eyes. "These are copies of death certificates, marriage certificates, and money transfers. It paints a morbid timeline that will tell you what happened, what's been happening, behind the doors of Allerdale Hall. I've also made a transcript from recordings I found from a phonograph. One of his former wives caught a confession from Lucille Sharpe. There's a map of the manor in there as well, showing you where you'll find all the original documents and the recording cylinders."

"Y/N, if this is all true, you're not safe in that manor." His tone was laced with more than understandable concern. "Neither of you are."

"That's why I need you to get those documents to Scotland Yard as soon as you can and come to Allerdale Hall to arrest Lucille," you told him, your own fears starting to creep into your words as they stumbled out of your mouth. "She's already getting stir-crazy waiting for an inheritance to come to me that doesn't even exist. We've only barely managed to convince her that there's a windfall coming my way, but it won't be long until she grows impatient enough to kill me anyway and start fresh. Jeffries, we can't let her harm another woman for the sake of satiating her bottomless pit of hunger for money and status."

Now the detective clutched the documents tightly in his grasp, giving you a nod before flagging down a carriage. "We should have a squad there tomorrow. Until then you two stay safe. Perhaps try and spend the night elsewhere, just to make sure." He reached out to you, both of you grasping the other's forearm in a show of trust and respect. "Thank you, Y/L/N--I mean, Sharpe. You're about to bring closure to a whole lot of distraught families with this."

You only nodded, fear for your own safety creating a lump in your throat you found near impossible to swallow. "Let's focus on putting Lucille behind bars before we focus on what comes after. Thank you, Jeffries." You closed the door to the carriage and tapped on the wooden panel twice. "To Scotland Yard!" you called out to the coachman, who tipped his hat to you before the carriage began to move.

As you made your way back into the post office, you tried to force a wide smile onto your face, stomping down any fears you had for what awaited you once you made your way back to Allerdale Hall. And any anticipation you had for the heartache that would accompany your inevitable divorce.

Once you were within arm's reach, Thomas reached for your hand, pulling you towards him and wrapping his free arm around your waist before softly kissing your lips. "There you are, sweetheart." He quickly noticed the absence of the envelope from your hands. "It's done?"

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. "It's done," you confirmed. "We really did it."

The entire time that Thomas inspected the coil springs and other machine parts that were delivered for him, he kept his arm around your waist, his hand over yours and lacing your fingers together. His face was a mix of emotions, the plainest to see being relief, no doubt from the realization steadily creeping in that in a few short days he truly would be free from all of this.

There was a disquiet in his eyes, too. One that he tried so hard to mask, but you'd gotten to know him well enough ever since your courtship that no smile, no matter how bright or breathtaking, could ever mask it from you. And you knew exactly where his concern lied. It wouldn't take long for Scotland Yard to conclude that even though he had not been the one administering the potion, or the one holding the cleaver, he still bore a great amount of responsibility for the deaths of all his former wives.

Thomas would be seen as an accomplice to his sister's crimes; perhaps a case could even be argued for third-degree murder because of his administering of the cyanide. Sure the documents would reveal Lucille to be the mastermind, but they would also reveal that in some of those cases that had gone cold, Thomas was partly the executioner.

You flinched in his hold when the sound of the post office's main doors slamming shut hit your ears, all of you inside turning your heads toward the man holding the handles, a frantic look in his eyes. "The storm's gotten too strong," he huffed out, slumping to the ground. "No carriages in or out of the area, if the lot of us value our safety."

Your husband let out a sigh of relief, holding you closer against him before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Perhaps when we arrive at the manor tomorrow we need not even face her," he whispered into your hair.

"Yes, and while that is a marvelous turn of events, husband, we are faced with one…tiny problem." He tilted his head at you slightly, prompting you to continue. "We're still stuck here, and the nearest inn to rent a room is a good walk away. In this storm we'd likely freeze before we even reached the front door."

"Ah, yes…that," he murmured, brows knitted together as he tried to look around the post office for a possible place to pass the time.

"Erm…we might have something that could house yous," one of the workers spoke up, jerking his head towards the back of the office, signaling for you to follow him. "We 'ave a little suite here set up for whenever the owner comes by and wants to spend a few days in the city. Sure he won't mind if you use it for tonight."

He opened the doors to reveal a quaint bedroom that felt a far cry from the echoes of faded opulence that your room in Allerdale Hall held, and yet still emanated the feel of a warm embrace that home was supposed to feel like. When you looked upon Thomas, you could see from his expression that he likely held a similar sentiment.

"This will do more than fine," he stated, holding out his hand to the worker to shake. "Thank you."

"So now that your grievous time with Lucille is finally coming to a close, what are your plans for…well, the rest of your life? Your freedom?" you asked Thomas through the divider in the room, trying to keep your tone casual as you changed into your underdress, preparing for sleep.

He answered you with a sharp huff. "In truth, darling, I haven't even begun to think about it yet. I feel as if I am not completely in the clear yet. Best to focus my attention on that first before thinking about what I wish for my freedom to look like."

You took out the final pin in your hair, setting it down on the little table by the window, next to your blades, before stepping out from behind the divider, your husband immediately catching sight of the furrowed brows and the grimace on your face. "I'm sure Scotland Yard will have a degree of leniency, considering that Lucille's arrest will lead to the closing of multiple cold cases on their board."

"That was entirely your work, Y/N. Your work in making the arrest possible is all that they will see--"

"And I wouldn't have been able to accomplish any of it if I didn't have help," you cut  him off, making your way over to him and placing your hands on his shoulders, giving him a slight shake. "Not just from the spirits in that house, but from you. If I didn't have you in my corner, I would've been caught that first night. I know that I owe you a great debt for what you--"

The rest of your words died in a muffled squeak as he pulled you to him, the jerking motion causing you to straddle him on the bed as he captured your lips in a sudden kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed at the feel of his lips moving against yours, his hands roaming your body freely until they buried  themselves in your hair.

He groaned against you, the sound melting into the sweetest sounding whimper when you crossed your hands behind his neck, pulling him closer. This would be the last night that you could call him your husband; perhaps you could allow yourself a sliver of indulgence. When he broke the kiss, he wrapped his arm securely around your waist before flipping you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress with a soft thud.

"My beautiful, brilliant wife," he rasped, the gravelly tone of his voice sending thrills up your spine. He proceeded to kiss along your neck, softly sucking at the base of your throat while he undid the tie at the top of your underdress. A mix between a gasp and a moan escaped you when he hooked your leg around his waist, pressing your hips together.

"Thomas what are you doing?" you asked him dumbly, breathlessly. "We don't need to do this tonight. Or ever again--"

"I want to," he mumbled, pressing a kiss above your heart. "I wish to lay with you, Y/N Sharpe." He kissed his way back up to your lips, looking at you with those pleading pup-like eyes that made him near impossible to resist. That whittled your resolve down to nearly nothing. "Please…"

You were finding it increasingly difficult to deny him, especially with how he was pressed against you, and you could feel his erection even through the layers of his trousers and what sheer clothing you had on yourself. And considering how you'd come to feel about him in the weeks past, how alarmingly quickly you recovered from the shock of his true predicament and the actual circumstances of your marriage, and you still found yourself falling so recklessly in love with him, most parts of you wanted nothing more than to say yes to him.

But then there was the borderline unwelcome party in your internal argument. The logical voice in your head that rationalized his actions as an overwhelming gratitude mistaken for desire. That you had done so much to get him out of the diabolical inescapable captivity that Lucille manipulated him into, and he couldn't articulate his gratitude to the point that in his mind, he saw it as an urge to lay with you.

"Thomas…" you said his name slowly, trying so hard to keep your head level and work against your more primal urge to just shout your assent. Taking deep breaths wasn't any help; it just pressed your bodies closer together, the slightest shift in his hips threatening to drive you mad. "Think about this for a moment…Wouldn't you rather wait until you could lay with someone that you love?"

There was a split second where a pained look crossed his face, before he leaned back down to softly capture your lips, moaning into the kiss when you threaded your fingers through his curls. "I wish to at least do something for you." He kissed you again before presenting you with another all too tempting offer. "If we cannot lay together, then at least let me pleasure you."

He kissed a trail along your jaw, his breath warming your skin before he traced the shell of your ear with his tongue. His next words had you letting out a whimper of his name, your desire for him that had been simmering for weeks now starting to boil over.

"I've been reading through the books in the manor's library, and all I wish to do is show you what I've learned. To explore these avenues of pleasuring with you. My wife. Please. Let me at least do that."

Another whimper escaped you, the only sound you could manage to make as you finally relented and nodded your head. There was a glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he scanned your face, eyes never leaving yours as his hand made its way under your dress and up between your legs. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan once his fingers made contact with your slick arousal, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a half-smile.

He breathed your name, carefully studying every detail of your face as he traced up along the length of your slit, his mouth breaking out into a devilish grin when you arched your back off the bed, screaming for him when he touched the hardened bundle of nerves above your entrance. "Exquisite," he rasped, repeating the motion and causing you to let out a sharp moan. You could only manage a whimper when he started to kiss along your collarbone while those sinful fingers kept on stroking you, dipping into your warmth before making their way back to your clit.

Before long you felt a tension at your lower stomach, begging to be released. Whenever you'd reached this point in your solitude, back in the city, from your own touch, you would close your legs. The sensation was too great and you would stop yourself. Catch your breath. Having your husband situated between your legs made it impossible to close them now, his fingers still diligently stroking you. "Thomas p-please," you squeaked, struggling to breathe. "'S too m-much for me."

"Not enough," he muttered against your skin, stroking at you faster as he kissed at your collarbone. "Let go, darling. I've got you." He pressed an open mouthed kiss to your neck, flicking his tongue against the spot and letting out a whimper that sent you over the edge, your walls fluttering and clenching around nothing as he continued to stroke at your clit.

Thomas proceeded to kiss down your chest while you tried to catch your breath, pulling back his fingers from you to firmly hold on to your hips, pinning you to the bed as his lips descended further down. You uttered his name in a breathless question, your heart beating even faster when his hands moved to hike your underdress up your legs and place your thighs on his shoulders.

"I'm not done yet," he said with a whimper, kissing his way up your inner thigh and looking up to meet your eyes, his pupils blown out so wide his eyes were near black. Shining with a sincerity that stole what air remained from your lungs. "I wish to taste you."

"Thomas what are you--Oh!" You arched your back off the bed once more, letting out an obscene moan as he licked up your entrance and closed his mouth around the oversensitized nub above it. The sight of his onyx curls subtly moving with every bob of his head, his hands grasping your thighs to keep you in place, immediately burned itself into your memory.

You would remember every devastatingly pleasurable moment of tonight for as long as you'd live. Remember him.

It wasn't long before he brought you to the brink of orgasm again, mercilessly flicking his tongue against you until you came undone, your husband making you ride his tongue while you came down from your high. Soft groans slipped from his mouth while he licked away at your release, kissing along your inner thighs again when he brought the fabric of your underdress over your legs again.

There were no words left in your mind except one somber truth. "You're going to make a fortunate woman very happy in the future, Mister Sharpe."

Thomas couldn't sleep that night, holding your sleeping form in his arms as he absently stroked at your hair. His life felt like a stick of dynamite that could set off and crumble around him at any moment now; while he allowed himself to feel a touch of relief that soon he would finally be free from Lucille and her wretched ways, that freedom came at a heart-wrenching price.

You.

Your words before you went slack in his hold haunted him, ringing constantly in his mind now like an eerie church choir. You're going to make a fortunate woman very happy in the future, Mister Sharpe.

His day ended the same way it began, watching your peaceful features as your head rested on his chest. With him speaking words he hoped would somehow reach you in your dreams. "I want to make you happy, Y/N." He didn't bother fighting back the tears that welled in his eyes as the thought slammed into him that this may very well be the last night he had with you.

And then you would disappear from his life. You'll be free from me, too.

"I don't want to be free of you," he whispered through the suppressed sobs. "I wish to be free with you. I love you, Y/N Sharpe." He pressed his lips to your forehead, a tear rolling down his cheek as he did so. "Please don't leave me."

A/N: In today's episode of "YN is stronger than all of us" 🥴 I know that this is super slow going but I promise there are plans to guide me through writing the rest of the series and I'll get to finishing it 🫡

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hiii I dunno if you're open but.. would you consider doing some Mael hc's with a female s/o 👉👈

Finally having a little character header… sob sob. Anyway, hope you like your headcanons! :D

Mael's devotion toward you is unwavering, his soft-hearted nature is albeit rarely shown towards others in contrast to his ruthless side, but he has gotten better. His love towards you is genuinely one of his greatest sources of strength, and hopes to forever keep it that way, you garnered a side of him he didn't know he had and Mael wishes he can live the quiet life with you. For however long, he hopes it can be for forever.

Despite maintaining a powerful and intimidating presence due to his previous exploits when he had carried the epithet, 'Angel of Death' -- He cherishes the quiet and tender moments with you, where he can actually truly let his guard down and express his affection through small, meaningful gestures.

He is particularly fond of watching the sun rise with you each morning. Even if he had lost the Grace of Sunshine, it always reminded him of the shared hope and new beginnings, and to leave the idea of death and famine behind. Mael will do anything possible to protect that, even if he is gentler and kinder now, doesn't mean he lost his ability to fight.

The archangel has an unfortunate habit of reflecting on his past actions, manipulated into mutilating innocents who had done no wrong. But it was in due part, lucky even, that you were there to help him through that, finding forgiveness and peace can be difficult. Especially with the life he used to lead.

His fierce protection over you would extend to somewhat of an overbearing responsibility. He'd go to great lengths to ensure your safety, even if meant making personal sacrifices. Even if he was well aware of such behaviors, Mael was too fearful of you being suddenly stolen away from him, talk to him and he'll double down to a bearable extent.

Gifts of light, he is still very much capable of imbuing his own personal hand-made gifts with light - his own light. Quite the magical gift, as it can serve as a reminder of his love and protection even when the two of you are apart, Mael wants you to know that, he hopes you do anyway.

Given Mael's long life, he ended up developing a deep appreciation for the various cultures that stretched across the continent. He is always happy and able to share his knowledges and experiences with you, to acknowledge the beauty and diversity. He's come to appreciate things more often because of it otherwise, though he talks like a librarian, you can't help but laugh sometimes when he has such a fond look on his face when he speaks of the stories he's come to learn.

It's not without its struggles when it comes to having such a stable relationship, but the result reaps it's rewards. Mael has his difficulties of balancing his rather intense love for you and the dark influences of his past history, having your identity and memories twisted (additionally with being strongly manipulated) for so long can be hard on the mind and body. He still appreciates you for still sticking with him regardless of his rather awkward moments of depression.

Of course, his concern always surfaces immediately when you have your bouts of hardness and difficulties. Mael wishes he could just fix it right away, and erase the look from your face, but he knows he can't do such a thing that easily. Still, the archangel still continues to persist to do what you would do for him.

After regaining his memories, Mael’s relationship with you will allow and help him rediscover and embrace his true self, rekindling a sense of romance and hope that had been overshadowed by his past traumas. One step after the other, but frankly he still feels embarrassed you saw such behaviors and a side to him he never wanted you to see.

Mael would be deeply committed to creating a legacy of love and hope, not just through his actions but ensuring you know just how much you mean to him and how much you had helped him heal. Surely, he knows and had faced challenges and adversity where he has to work himself through it, but Mael still wants you to know the mark of his appreciation for you.

In private, Mael would show his vulnerability and share his deepest fears and regrets with you, finding solace and understanding in your presence. In a way, he has such an understanding of what Elizabeth and Meliodas felt toward each other, he is so glad to have crossed paths with you in the first place.

There could be common goals that you two work toward together, perhaps to protect those you care about or fighting for a cause the two of you believe in, at least similarly. Surprisingly though, your mutual affection and partnership around each other grew as a source of inspiration and support to others.

Mael might experience jealousy or insecurity, particularly if you showed interest in others. However, this would lead to personal growth and a deeper understanding of his own worth and the strength of your relationship. He understand's that he needs to have better control of his feelings and be more open to communication, Mael is open to growth and change after all.

When engaged in combat, Mael’s primary motivation would be to protect you and ensure your safety, fighting with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. In some ways or more, this truly had allowed him to be stronger and even sturdier.

Mael might envision a future where he and you build a life together, possibly including the idea of a family. He would cherish the thought of creating a peaceful and loving environment for them to thrive. Though, he much rather would want to wait for your consent first, children or not, he still will continue to love you regardless.

Mael would occasionally surprise you with elaborate, heartfelt gestures, such as recreating a special memory or creating a magical display of light in your honor.

[nausikaaa]

Six Sentence Sunday Monday

thanks for tagging me @youarenevertooold @confused-bi-queer @orange-peony @prettygoododds @that-disabled-princess @thewholelemon @artsyunderstudy @bookish-bogwitch @ileadacharmedlife @run-for-chamo-miles @roomwithanopenfire and @j-nipper-95. phew, that's a lot of people!

okay, yes, it's technically tuesday, but i wanted to share and didn't get time to write anything yesterday, but sat down and got out 1600 words tonight, yay!

here's a new POV for my wip, Helenus. ramble under the cut about him because he's very overlooked in most media avoid the Trojan war, and i am incapable of shutting the hell up about my interests once i get going.

but i'll pop the six sentences here for convenience's sake. they're from a flashback to when Astyanax, the main character, was born.

Astyanax came into the world just as the day’s fighting wound to a close, and apparently Andromache pushed aside the midwives and even my mother, and insisted on getting up and taking their son to meet his father, fresh off the battlefield, herself. I saw her shuffle to the gates as they opened, clutching the tiny baby to her chest, half dressed and looking exhausted, but glowing with joy nonetheless. I turned away as Hector cried out and rushed to embrace them both. All the soldiers cheered at the sight, their morale momentarily buoyed by the arrival of the little prince.

Hector actually named him Scamandrius, but all the people swiftly took to calling him Astyanax, lord of the city. They saw him as a symbol of the future, and placed all their hopes in him.

so for those who don't know, and there's no shame in that because it would appear most fans of the Iliad somehow don't, even though he's in the damn thing, Helenus was the twin brother of Cassandra, the Trojan princess and prophetess who was cursed by Apollo to see the future but never be believed after she rejected his advances. as well as being a competent soldier, Helenus was a priest of Apollo who also had the gift of prophecy, but not the curse. sources disagree on whether Cassandra taught him, or if Apollo gave him the gift, but if it was the latter, that begs the question: did Apollo make Helenus the same offer he made Cassandra? and did he accept it?

that's something i explore in depth, relationships with gods are rarely simple or healthy. Apollo has a bit of a micromanagement problem, and once he starts to grow bored with Helenus, his idea of a reward for all his years of dedication is to manipulate him into setting himself up for Apollo's idea of his perfect life, with no regard for the people his plan hurts along the way or Helenus's own wants.

and so, by the end of the story, he is actually married to both Andromache, his brother Hector's widow, and Deidamia, Achilles's widow, and rules over Epirus, a city in the far north of Greece. how does he feel about this, the destruction of his family and home, and death of his foster son Pyrrhus, that led him there? Apollo doesn't think to ask. he declares his work done and promptly loses interest, and Helenus just has to try his best to make it work, doing right by his wives and turning Epirus into a second Troy.

i love the way it's put by Aeneas in Virgil, "you have before your eyes an image of the river Xanthus and a Troy made by your own hands, more fortunate, I pray, than the Troy that was... We shall in some future age unite our cities and the people of Hesperia and Epirus, for we are kith and kin, the same Dardanus is our founder and the same destiny attends us. We shall make them both one Troy in spirit." Hesperia is that probably insignificant little place which would eventually come to be known as Rome. don't worry about it. they'll totally be friends. Rome definitely won't wreck Epirus in the Pyrrhic War in a thousand years or so.

also, fun fact, Alexander the Great's mother Olympias was from Epirus, and claimed to be descended from Andromache, Helen of Troy, and either Achilles or Helenus, depending on the source. sure, Olympias.

oh, and tags, i guess for wednesday at this rate! i hope you all have a lovely rest the week! @forabeatofadrum @artsyunderstudy @hushed-chorus @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @cutestkilla @alexalexinii @martsonmars @meanjeansjeans @harrie-leithillustration @spoonerwrites @ic3-que3n @larkral @blackberrysummerblog @shrekgogurt @comesitintheclover @raenestee @noblecorgi @shemakesmeforget @ileadacharmedlife @supercutedinosaurs @carryonmylovelies @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @otherworldsivelivedin and @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists

[thatoneneuvichiliauthor]

FFWP! What is the line/scene with the most angst you have written?

Oh that's a tough one because I LOVE writing angst, so here are a few contenders, each with their specific flavor of angst (I tried not to pick too many but this will still be long I fear😅):

• First one that comes to mind is this scene from It's Always Been You (Arcane, Jayvik, Rated T, Major Character Death, Soulmate) where Jayce and Viktor are dying in each other's arms. I very rarely write Major Character Death

“Oh, Viktor. Of course it was you. It’s always been you.”

Pain be damned, Jayce uses his last drop of strength to drag Viktor close to his chest. He has no idea how much his soulmate can still feel, if such an embrace can even bring his mechanical body comfort, but he has to try, has to show Viktor how much he cares, even if it’s too late, always too late.

• This part of Would You Live For Me (Arcane, Jayvik, Rated M, Canon Divergence), where Viktor reads into the mind of post-pit Jayce and realizes he intends to kill him, is veeeery angsty too. depending on how you interpret it. The end of the fic itself can be really heartbreaking too (and border on Major Character Death) too, depending on how you choose to interpret it.

And although Viktor would love to drowse off wrapped around the man his heart has chosen, to surrender to the sweet lullaby of his chest rising and falling, there is something he needs to ask first.

No matter how much it hurts.

“If I fall asleep… will you kill me?” He whispers. “Or can I trust you to wait until morning?”

[…]

“I will not stop you,” He continues. “Fighting you, potentially harming you… That is not something I want. You are my partner, Jayce. I… I’d sooner die for you. All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to say my goodbyes to you, before…”

• How to Accidentally Acquire a Half-Snake Boyfriend, a Guide by Veritas Ratio (Honkai Star Rail, Aventio, Rated T, Past Slavery and Torture) also have very angsty moments, almost all of which have to do with Aventurine's past. The fic itself is more about recovery and learning to trust/love again though, and the more the story progresses the less angst there is.

Aventurine never would forget how his master had promised that if he behaved and stayed still while he got branded as a slave, he would get to see his sister again. He should have known not to believe a word that monster said, but he was still young, and so naively hopeful. Even though his guts told him she couldn’t be alive, he refused to listen to this intuition, because he desperately needed his sister to have somehow survived the massacre of his people.

[...]

So Aventurine had gritted his teeth and muffled his screams as red iron was pressed against his neck. He had endured such scorching pain silently, obediently. Anything to be reunited with his sister.

As a reward, he had been presented with a bag of bleached bones and a cruel “Take a good look at your precious sister, slave. Try to escape or disobey me, and you’ll end up just like her.”

• Next one comes from my very smutty fic Before It All Ends (Arcane, Jayvik, Rated E) where Final Form Herald Viktor denies Jayce aftercare.

So Jayce wordlessly capitulates and removes both his legs and arms from around the man he once called his partner, feeling defiled and defeated. He… He didn’t want their precious time together to end like this.

But the Machine Herald doesn’t care for what he wants. He lowers Jayce down on the floor and discards him there, like a failed experiment that has lost all its interest. The process is cold, mechanical. Devoid of any kindness, or even pity. Then, without further regard for his lover, he advances towards the center of the room, eyes fixated on his goal, and obsessed with one thing, and one thing only:

His wretched Glorious Evolution.

A sob rises up Jayce’s throat, but he represses it. What if he yearns to be tenderly held, to have his partner gently wipe the mess between his legs, to fall asleep nestled in his arms? He knew from the beginning he wouldn’t be getting that.

• Another really angsty scene I've written is this one from Keep You Safe (Genshin Impact, Haivakeh, Rated T, Torture), where Alhaitham discovers Kaveh has been tortured by the sages of Sumeru.

“Look, we have a surprise for you, Scribe,” The despicable man announces with unveiled disdain as they reach the cells.

The guards open a door, and then he sees him. Kaveh, bruised and battered, curled onto himself, wearing torn clothes covered in blood, his eyes unseeing. Alhaitham no longer has to pretend to look horrified. He stays frozen in shock, and his captors have to push him into the cell before locking them inside.

It's a nightmare. Kaveh was supposed to be working on some architectural project, hence his absence. Or at least, it was what the rumors said. And like an idiot, he took it for granted, thinking Kaveh didn't warn him of his departure just to get back at him for doing the same.

• Last Jayvik one I promise! It comes from my fic Break The Silence (Arcane, Jayvik, Rated T, Suicidal Thoughts) where Mage Viktor eventually gets a happy ending with his Jayce, but this takes place right before he is reuinited with him, so yup, angst galore.

There are other worlds to save from himself. Other timelines to preserve. Rescuing Jayce, again and again… But not his Jayce, never his Jayce. It might just… ease his pain. Or at least, distract himself from it. Happiness will forever be out of his reach, but he has accepted it…

He has accepted it, hasn’t he?

…Why can’t he accept it? Why must this eternal torture reopen his wounds again and again?

Why did he stupidly make himself immortal?

Why cannot he fall forever asleep here, by Jayce’s side, and just…

Rest?

• Okay, last one! It's from my fix-it fic Turn of Fate (Clone Wars, Fox-centric with a little Foxiyo mixed in, Soulmate AU and Canon Divergence, Rated T) and obviously takes place before the fix-it happens.

However, the instinctive happiness quickly fades into horror, because he knows what words are written there. Words even crueler than Cody’s.

I wish he was alive and you were dead.

Later on, when he’s alone in his bunk, the pain gets even worse once he sees the words CT-7567 left on his skin are green also. His little brother will one day want him dead, and Fox has no idea how to deal with that.

He still takes care of his batchmates, despite the hateful scrawls on his skin, because he feels it’s his duty as their ori’vod to do so. He makes sure they become the best of the best, helps them with whatever they might struggle with, and tries not to break down every time they smile at him. Just enjoy those happy moments with them, he berates himself. Don’t think about how it won’t last.

There might be more worth mentioning, but I think that makes for a good sample already (yes I might have gotten a bit carried away. This was really fun to do, so thanks a lot for the ask anon!)

[archduchessgortash]

Everyone should play Durge as a bard at least once.

Only a bard can get this wonderful scene when Alfira actually stands up and performs a few minutes of The Weeping Dawn for them.

It's beautiful and life-affirming, the complete opposite of what Durge's father expects of them.

Durge is moved by Alfira's story of losing Lihala. The expressions, especially on this face, are compassionate and caring.

This face even has frames when she reacts sympathetically to Astarion's sad 'please' eyes in the bite scene before the tadpole activates.

Alfira is happy at the end, but watch what happens to my Durge:

She's pleased with herself for doing a good deed, for helping, however...

The Urge is not.

It twists her joy and achievement, tainting it

and transforming it

into this...

Now, this feeling comes up in Durge from interacting with Alfira regardless of the class we play, but it feels more fitting to me when playing as a bard. We get a longer scene, which is about five minutes of lovely music and imagery. Durge didn't merely contribute to the creation of something beautiful that helps heal the darkness eating away at Alfira's spirit after the brutal death of her mentor, they did a good, kind thing, seemingly only for the feeling that it gives them to do good, as there are no loot or gold rewards for this act. She doesn't even give a bard Lihala's lute because they don't need it to help her finish the song.

A bard's reward is only the song itself.

Creation not for the sole purpose of destruction is, in of itself, offensive to the god of murder, who glorifies violent obliteration above all. This scene is especially impactful for a Durge bard, given that, in the very first scene at camp, when Durge contemplates their craft, the narrator will state, 'The call to song is a hollow joy. You are more suited to death's dirge.'

That statement, more than most things in my playthrough, cemented my determination that this Durge was not only a redemption Durge, she had fought and beaten her Urge into submission long before the events of the game. Song was NOT a hollow joy to Tyrsa.

To the Urge inside, the drug-like bliss Bhaal bestows from ritual murder was their greatest joy. But that wasn't because other joys were less; it was because the Urge itself could only feel joy from acts that pleased Bhaal.

Bhaal tortures his children with sleepless nights of horrific dreams for resisting him; we learn this from Jaheira in Act 3.

Durge, regardless of whether they have been resisting or embracing their Urge, is constantly tormented by nightmares.

Take a minute to let that sink in.

Whatever they did before Orin's attack, even if they are caving to every Urge, Bhaal is still punishing them.

What did they do?

I'll have more on that in another post. 😉

I crafted my headcanon of Tyrsa as spending her entire life fighting, wishing for a way to fully abjure her father's influence, and to freely be herself. Interestingly enough, there are times when fairly insightful characters like Isobel and Jaheira identify the person Durge is as separate from the Urge, another self that is not merely the embodiment of their father's will.

For my own headcanon, the fact that Durge is forced to kill a bard, whether Alfira or Quil, isn't necessarily about Bhaal hating music or creation. It is Bhaal using the Urge to take out his rage on a symbol of his daughter's core personality. He wants her to annihilate herself, to be nothing but an extension of him, but she isn't. And she never was. The moment she became a living being separate from him, the universe created a soul for her. And it is hers. Not his. She decides her own fate, and Bhaal is not ok with that.

Bhaal's love for Durge is only love for himself.

[smilingmxsk]

"Bathe in their entrails! Show them they're nothing but meat!" [Jae like 'YAAAS- KILL THEM']

Embracing The Monster| Accepting!

Normally, she didn't accept invitations to fighting matches, for multiple reasons. But given this was some make-shift fighting ring in an abandoned dusty construction zone with fewer folks and one opponent, she could accept that easily. Apparently, this was just how the opposing crime lord settled his disputes. One top fighter from either side would be pitted together in a death match. Whoever came out on top got to make final demands for their reward. Easy and simple.

Technically, Margaret wasn't a 'permanent' employee of Jae's, she was just your standard 'Killer For Hire'... but the other guy didn't need to know that. He just needed to know that she was a new hire. Anything to get the other crime lord to underestimate her as a choice fighter. But of course, he decided to bring his best fighter anyhow to 'teach Jae how it's done'. A maskless Margaret rolled her shoulders, squaring up to the taller, well-built individual as the off-white light tower beamed down on them. She had to give it to the guy; he was well prepared. Hell, this guy was probably carrying for the whole team as the sole winner. It was just a shame he'd have to die because of one man's hubris.

The match was 'anything goes,' but anything like substances, poison, and anything used to either boost the fighter or weaken the opponent was prohibited. If any impairment happened, it had to be physically and by fair means. With the rules out of the way, and both fighters hydrated, the referee made the call, the match begun. The larger man took his swings for the Fixer, and Margaret chose to block each one to the best of her ability. When face shots didn't work, he'd take shots to her ribs or kidneys. Either hurt quite a huge deal, but Margaret wanted to see what this tough guy was all about, whether or not his looks matched up to his fists. But from behind her, she could hear Jae scream something over the small crowd of jeering onlookers, and it sparked something inside her.

This chump was nothing. Just a slab of meat getting in the way. Flesh for the taking.

Kill him.

When the opponent threw his next punch, Margaret swiftly dove out of the way around to his opposite side. For such a talented and trained fighter, he sure forgot to keep himself guarded. Her haymaker collides with his jaw, sending spittle and blood through the air. The small crowd recoils in surprise, but the successful punch eggs them on. The Fixer delivers a critical blow to his knee, caving it inward and forcing him down to her level with an agonized shout. The crowd cheers louder, punches continue to connect with flesh, his jaw is knocked loose, teeth broken and sent sprinkling onto dusty dirt, and a final grab for his bruised, swollen face to be brought down onto her knee.

Even though the opponent fighter is laid out on the ground, it's not enough for Margaret. Not enough. He's not dead yet. Claws rip and tear into the man's chest. He's only barely conscious, reaching up to weakly push the blood-crazed woman away from him, but it only earns him sharp fangs sinking into his hand, and into fingers. It's alright, though. It isn't long before his dazed protests begin to fade, his arms growing sluggish, the crowd drowning him out. She'd carved out his chest, pried open ribs, just to tear out the man's sagging, barely beating heart weeping with crimson.

The match was over. It was long over, if you asked her, but it was officially done and over with. Given the pale face of the opposing crime lord, she just cost him... likely a healthy portion of his empire in the following deals including this one. Maybe that was a sign that he should start considering a new tactic to settle things. If not? Oh well. Not her problem.

Margaret spits out the two halves of fingers she managed to wrench from his hand and wipes the blood from her lips. She was looking forward to her spoils for being a worthwhile investment. Which sadly wouldn't include this fresh body... Not while the crowd was watching.

[most-canon-non-canon-ship-poll]

I, the poll runner, made this poll because they suck that much

Why Mileven is shit - a submission-based essay, part 3/3

Mileven - a currently canon het ship from the Stranger Things fandom between Michael (Mike) Wheeler and Jane (Eleven) Ives/Hopper/Byers/IDK

This doesn't mean she will never have another relationship, it doesn't even mean she is "alone" while other people are in relationships (although personally I think there is nothing wrong with not being in a relationship tbh... some people need to unpack this). It just means that she reclaims the power to decide if and when she will give love to someone again, a choice she's never really had. As for Mike, I believe his low self-esteem and what makes him feel so different is his feelings for Will which have steadily stepped out of platonic more and more as time has gone on, and THAT is the truth that is hard to admit, not his apparent love for El that she has been begging for him to say. Mike and Will are written so perfectly as a romantic duo that it is wild to me that anyone would ship Mike with anyone else. Mike deserves more than to be a shitty friend and El's boyfriend (because if he really does just love El, then his actions are just him being mean and weird with no cause or explanation, which I can't imagine is the case), Will deserves more than to be the sad gay in unrequited love who only suffers, and El deserves more than to be some boy's "superhero" who is loved for what she can do more than for who she truly is. She deserves to shake the shackles of male control, and yes... Mike unfortunately falls into this due to his feeling responsible for El's wellbeing because of the unfortunate circumstances they met under. Plus he's, in my opinion, fallen even harden into this parentified role in Hopper's absence (those parallels are insane too, don't even get me started). Anyway, all that to say... Mileven is an objectively bad ship that doesn't fit with the story Stranger Things is telling. It doesn't serve any of the characters involved in a positive way, and Byler is a significantly more touching and well-built couple. Personally, even the argument that El will be "crushed if they break up" doesn't really carry any weight. It's clear that she has already hurt so much IN THE RELATIONSHIP, so ending it just seems like the logical next step (and I'm among the people who believe she wanted to break up at the pizza place tbh). Why should she stay with someone who can only love her in life-or-death situations? Why should Mike be with someone who makes him feel worthless or not enough or like his personal experiences and struggles aren't valid? Why should Mike and El settle for a relationship that takes so much work but makes them both ultimately unhappy (it's giving Karen a d Ted). Why should Will just accept that in a world of demogorgans and alternate dimensions and telekinetic lab children, the craziest and most unlikely thing is a queer boy like him finding requited love with the person who makes them feel better for being different and encourages them to fight on? I just don't think the writers are telling that kind of story. I love El, Mike, and Will... I hope they will get a beautiful ending. To me, a beautiful ending would include Mike and El mutually caring for each other enough to admit that their relationship is not good for either of them as El deserves to be loved and needs time to heal, and Mike deserves to embrace his truth and his own feelings without feeling insignificant or unlovable (and ultimately be rewarded for embodying one of the show's core themes: that forced conformity is bad, you will never feel gratification or happiness by pretending to be something or someone you're not, it's okay to be a "freak" and it's okay to be different and to rebel against the limited, restrictive forms of "happiness" society pushes. After all, forced conformity is one of the real villains in this show, as clearly stated!)

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

"A master's hunger"

Pairing: Vampire! Tulkas x Fem. Reader (Human/Familar | Third person POV)

Themes: Dark

Warning: Vampirism | Blood drinking | Death

Word count: 500+ words

Summary: Vampire! Tulkas sates his hunger by feeding on the familiar who serves him.

Minors DNI | 🔞 | You are responsible for the media you consume.

It was not how she thought it would be. 

She desired Tulkas, yes, but never did she think he would command her to tend to him, his needs. 

She certainly did not think that his need would be his thirst for blood. 

Y/n had to keep still, so very still. Teeth as sharp as tiny spikes pierced her flesh, the pain searing her like a red-hot brand. She grew dizzy, weak, her very life force seeping out of her with each swallow of her blood. Tulkas drank and drank, drinking deep from the sweet, crimson nectar that poured down his throat. 

Y/n was his first, his only, familiar. She was quiet. Diffident. He never knew what to do with her, except to give her orders. 

"Fetch me more wine."

"Procure this and this and this for me."

"Lay out my garments for the night."

And he did not give her a second thought, paying her no mind while she kept to the shadows. Now she was here, in his embrace, her very blood coursing through his veins. And it was intoxicating, filling him to the brim. More, more, more. He needed more. He took more. He did not stop. He could not stop. His skin was on fire, his senses now sharper than a finely forged blade. He drank and drank and drank, taking more, taking it all. He paused, hesitated. Something pricked at him, a reminder of something he said. What was it? Was it important? Did it matter? Tulkas decided it did not. He went back to satisfying his hunger.

Y/n's body grew cold against the rose and ivory tiles of the dining hall floor. She thought of what Tulkas last said, all of what he said.

"I am hungry," he had said. 

"It is too dangerous to hunt. It is too close to dawn," he had said. 

"You need not fear me," he had said. 

"I will restrain myself," he had said. 

"I will only take just enough—just what I need," he had said. "After, I will reward you."

And how could she refuse him? He was her lord, her master. She had sworn to obey him in all things. Everything she had came from him. Her happiness rested in his hands—the very hands that cradled her to him now while he drained her of all she had. 

Lies. His promises were nothing but lies. Y/n tried to fight him. She did not want to die. She squirmed. Tried to pinch him, move, do something, anything, that would bring him back to his senses. Tulkas growled and bit down harder.

It was too late, he was too far gone. Her body went limp. First her fingers and toes, then her limbs, then the rest. It was as if a blanket of ice was being draped over her, inch by inch. Y/n finally closed her eyes, ready to meet her maker. It was not fair. She had so many years left to live, and they were now taken from her. A single tear slid down her cheek. Her final breath came, a wet, rattling sound rising from the back of her throat when it did. It finally stopped. The pain, the sorrow, everything. It all stopped. The world went dark. Tulkas stopped. Drew back. He groaned in satisfaction, and licked his lips, greedy for the last drops that remained. He then looked down at the lifeless vessel in his arms. 

Gone. Tulkas did not have to be told. He knew. Y/n was gone. 

It did not matter to him. 

He could always find another.

 Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil

[parasite-core]

I wrote a thing after Astarion broke up with my Tav and Arabella left camp one right after the other. So here’s Eccardian being…dramatic.

The note crumpled in Eccardian’s hand, and he threw it on the ground with all his strength. He was trembling, fighting to keep the raging storm inside of him in check.

Arabella had learned about her parents’ death and had left, blaming him. He’d had every intention of telling her—when she’d put some distance between herself and she shadow cursed land. When it seemed like she could handle the news better.

But Withers up and dropped the news on her first. And now she was gone and hated him and he couldn’t even explain.

Wasn’t that always the way.

It was one blow too many. Right after Astarion—

Astarion.

That bastard.

That smug, sadistic, beautiful, backstabbing bastard.

‘What did you think I was, some kind of Prince Charming?’

‘This is what I do.’

‘You’re not worth the trouble anymore.’

Eccardian had known the sort of person Astarion was right from the start, of course. He’d have to be truly foolish or optimistic to think he was anything but a manipulative, power-hungry drama queen. But the way he’d spoken to the golden tiefling since that night after they celebrated the goblins’ defeat…maybe he’d been a fool, but he’d thought there was something genuine there.

He’d disobeyed that damned butler for Astarion. He’d spent a night tied up squirming in the dirt like a worm while Astarion egged on his vicious ‘other’, and he’d believed the vampire spawn when in the morning he said they were in this together. That he didn’t have to shoulder this burden alone.

Empty words. Empty promises.

Eccardian’s rapier was in his hand before he knew he’d drawn it. Slashing and stabbing the thick night air, as if he were piercing his own bleeding heart. He should have just killed Astarion that night. He should have just given in to the Urge and embraced the bloodshed when it would have still been a beautiful tragedy and not just more bloody vengeance. At least then he’d be ignorant of the deception, he’d hate himself but he wouldn’t hate that stupid beautiful infuriating asshole.

Eccardian stabbed the rapier into the sandy ground, panting, his tail swishing with the rage that was still roiling inside of him.

He couldn’t even bring himself to kill the man now. Not after he’d gone to such lengths to avoid doing it when he would have actually been rewarded for the act. And Astarion was, admittedly, still very adept with a dagger and bow. Eccardian had seen the vampire spawn become shadow and death with just the right spell and a dagger.

He hated how heart achingly beautiful the memory was, of the silver haired vampire appearing from the veil of invisibility just as his dying enemy’s blood rained down, creating a vivid contrast of white and red.

It matched his eyes.

Eccardian slumped, his hand still loosely grasping the rapier, but his body becoming dead weight.

He’d only even started messing around with Astarion in the first place when Gale showed little interest in his flirtations. He just decided to go for it—might as well hook up with someone who was open and willing than pine over someone who seemed too preoccupied by other matters. The far too real feelings came later.

It was ironic. He’d told the butler that he’d only been toying with Astarion—that he meant nothing to him, that any apparent feelings for him were feigned, to try to get out of being coerced into killing him. And all this time, that was actually what Astarion had been doing. Fool that Eccardian was.

The golden tiefling stood, pulled his rapier from the ground and wiped it off before sheathing it. His tail hung limp but he wiped away any stray tears from his fiery silver eyes. He would go back to camp and that bastard would not get the pleasure of seeing him broken up over him. They still had two Chosen to kill and a Sword Coast to save. Then they could part ways and never see each other again for all he cared.

And Hells if he was going to help Astarion take over the cult now. That cult was going to burn. Burn in the most glorious pyre the tiefling could build, out of the bones of everything that had been taken from him.

[memarrymilf]

When I was offered the chance to live forever, I didn't quite understand the consequences. My parents slaughtered in a senseless act of sacrifice to a God that had never answered someone's prayers before. When faced with a tearful child, she had felt pity. Gods had never felt pity before, and back then, I didn't expect her to either.

I had not known just how rare that had been, she granted me the immortality, it wouldn't start then and there, if I made it to the age of 25 in the barren land we had made home, then eternal life would be my reward. Pity didn't mean much to a God who lacked entertainment, so for 12 years she watched me fight tooth and nail to survive, my brushes with death being more certain than the light that would once again rise tomorrow.

At 25, I finally realised the curse she had bestowed upon me. Immortality was not a blessing, not to humans, at least. A God had no reason to fear living forever. They had no one to lose. The life of one who can no longer be touched by death is a life to be spent grieving everyone you meet.

It took another 20 years to fully understand grief, to understand how shattering it is to lose every person you care for, and know you will never be reunited with them in death.

In spite of this, I tried to live still, refusing to give up. Even if I did, it would change nothing. Making peace with my existence would be my only solace. I clung to the feelings of soft embracing sunlight, I danced within the rain, swimming in every body of water that I would stumble across. I took time to understand the beauty of the world before understanding the way to love without pain.

I fell into the arms of all those who would have me, dancing in the hope of tomorrow. I watch as they age, they live, they love, they do not fear death, and neither did I. I spent a lifetime with every lover, experiencing more love than I thought possible.

I remain steadfast that every love was worth the ache, even if the sun's warmth became colder with every love lost, until it stopped feeling warm at all.

My womb would remain barren, I hardly expected it to change.

Perhaps that is why when faced with a child of the streets, I could not turn the other way, I could not leave them, not as I had been left. The boy was small, smaller than I remember any child being, not that I had spent much time in the company of children.

The boy was only seven.

Seven.

In seven years of existence, he had seen more cruelty than most would see in their entire lifetime.

Seven.

Seven years seems so short to me now.

To him, it was forever.

I took him home with me. In the eternity that I spent living, I hadn't spent much time cultivating wealth. There was never any need. A small cottage in a field of flowers had been all I needed, a garden with everything I could need, everything *we* could need.

There was no spare room, a study, a bathroom, and a bedroom being the only walled rooms in the cottage. The boy had spent the evening telling me of his life, I had listened.

He had told me of his family, his home, his life. The boy had been jittery and had blatantly refused to offer his name, claiming it was not for me to know. I had only smiled in return. What freedom would one hold when the one you deem unsafe can lay claim upon your name?

I had given the boy my bed, venturing to the coach myself. Resolute that tomorrow I would strip the study and buy another bed, a smaller one for now.

I didn't sleep that night, my hands trembling with grief for the first time in nearly a decade, for a boy that I had not even known three hours earlier. That had I not been alone, I doubt I would even have caught sight of.

I dug through my linen chest, pulling old curtains and blankets and tablecloths of lives long gone. I had guessed the boy's size, resigning to the fact that it would not be perfect.

When he had awoken the next day, there had been clothes. The boy had smiled, he introduced himself to me then, sharing the last thing that had protected his freedom.

James didn't seem so afraid of me anymore.

I had baked pies and pastries with the fruit from my garden, and James had spent the day playing in the afternoon sun with the ravens that had made their home in my garden. I allowed myself to feel the warmth of the sun again, if only for a moment.

When the moon rose into the sky that evening, I had read to him until he had fallen asleep in my arms, lulled to sleep by a warmth I had not known that I possessed.

And as Hestai appeared before me for the third time in my life, she had looked upon me with pity once more.

"This will hurt." She had whispered to me with soft eyes.

I swallowed thickly. "It will be worth it." I assured. I cannot be sure who I was assuring, but she seemed to understand.

"I know." She agreed.

The abandoned child you’ve taken in sleeps on your lap as the god who gave you immortality softly warns you. “This will hurt.”

[houkagokappa]

Last time I played dnd we rolled d20 and d100 on the random encounter table and ended the session there, bc it was late already and our dm wanted to give us some time to think if we'd rather take the d99 encounter instead. Ngl I was scared, but also curious to see what the most extreme encounter would be, which we settled on, since it felt good to follow the dice rolls.

This coincided nicely with the holidays, since our dm came to Finland and we could have our first live session ever! (for this campaign, with everyone present, I was traveling last time he came to visit). I haven't seen him in over a year, and I've never met two of the other players so that was super fun!

As for the game, our dm gives us recap rewards and allowed me to decide or roll on a scale from 1-4 how difficult the encounters would be, with the rewards matching the difficulty level. I ended up rolling for it, and we got a 4, the highest possible outcome yet again!

In game, we weren't met with a sudden death, but terrifying situations that kept escalating. First we met a lich candidate with an air elemental and some zombies under his control. Instead of attacking, he wanted to bring us to his master, the King of Thunder, who needed us as "instruments". We followed, since we weren't sure "no" would be an option (and were curious to see what he wanted with us) and were asked to retrieve some of his students from one of the most dangerous places on the island we're stuck on due to a curse. We had to go through a portal to get there and weren't allowed to return without them.

The portal lead to the caldera (which we were traveling to anyway), where we first met some magma mephits and a molten magma roper. Although our dm kindly let us know it was a deadly encounter, we had good strats to deal with them and I wasn't too worried. Every time the roper grabbed one of us, our wildfire druid was able to use their wildfire spirit to teleport us back to safety. I dealt a good amount of damage with a bunch of fun extra dice and modifiers the warlock gets, while our sorcerer and artificer helped out here and there wherever necessary and did really well too. Another fun moment in the fight was when I addressed some pirates that attempted to sit out the fight, urging them to join and rolled a nat20 to actually make them do so. At this point in the session, I was mostly concerned over our resource management.

The druid used a bat to scout ahead and we spotted the students we came after down a chasm with lava all around. They let us know they couldn't move thanks to some monster keeping an eye on them, and while we were talking about what to do, we had to roll for another encounter. This time there was some illusion magic at play, that created a double of our sorcerer, and when I touched her, I was embraced by a sorrowsworn that started to drag me to throw us both down the cliff we were standing on. There was nothing I could do, I failed my throws, and our dm had me falling down with everyone being surprised and unable to do anything. That was until we realised the druid did get an attack of opportunity and backtracked a little. Luckily they had the warcaster feat, but even with that, the options weren't great. The only thing that seemed possible to use was thorn whip, but it has usually failed for them, so they assumed it wouldn't work yet again. The gods were on our side today though, because they rolled a nat20 and I was saved. Well, the sorrowsworn attacked me again and I fell unconscious without being able to do anything, but our druid was a real mvp in this fight and cast plant growth (on moss!) to slow them down and teleport me away once again. Our artificer got me up with a healing potion and I got my revenge by casting repelling blast and throwing the sorrowsworn off the cliff alone.

We skipped out on exploring and looting the place beyond what the bat did, to save the students before running out of all our resources to more encounters and possible traps, and had a great idea of using leomund's tiny hut as a safe base. It worked, but not as well as we thought it would. We were safe inside, and popped in and out to throw some ranged attacks against the monster that turned out to be a tlexolotl. Then we realised I couldn't do that as the caster or the spell would end. Meanwhile, the tlexolotl crushed the ground around us, so no one could get out anymore and if we'd try, we'd fall into lava and our instant death. Luckily our sorcerer could twin fly on her and the artificer and they got some attacks in, while retaining the hut as a safe base. The druid had summoned two eagles for transportation purposes, that they tried to keep away from the fight since we needed them to get back up again, but decided to let them attack and we saw how much damage the tlexolotl was able to do. It would've oneshotted me if I was in range and failed my throws.

In the end, I think our dm got soft on us/our druid specifically (or possibly worried about the fight dragging out too much and it getting late), bc she had some plans that seemed difficult to pull off that she was asking him about (and an early morning tomorrow), and he announced that the tlexolotl got annoyed at went away for a bit (instead of escaping due to how hurt it got which was our initial goal), which allowed us to escape.

The npc's were in a rush to go through the portal, and we didn't want to stay behind. On our way back we met the pirates again who looted the whole place we had cleared up, so we barely got any treasure ourselves, which this place apparently was full with :/

But we did survive. And we got tons of xp.

It was super fun, although last time we exited a deadly dungeon we were robbed right afterwards, so I'm still worried about what the King of Thunder will do next and how we'll get back on our mission to steal some logbooks from a black dragon we probably also gotta fight, which may or may not be that bad after all of this.

[pinkmirth]

PIECE OF WORK!

SYNOPSIS ⨾ hwoarang’s the most conceited man you’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing, and he’s in dire need of a humbling experience.

CONTAINS ⨾ ( 1K+ words of . . . ) ‘maek’ hwoarang x fem!reader (black coded), nsfw/smut, canon-divergent modern tekken-verse, super short porn with very little plot, rivals trope (enemies fucking it out!!!), dark-content warning for (dubcon), dom!reader, sub!hwoarang, cowgirl position, hwoarang calls reader a ‘bitch’ once, explicit language, lowercase intended, not proofread, minors shoo!

MY LOVE LETTER! ⨾ i’ve been playing tekken for years now, and my crush on hwoarang only ever grows! there isn’t much content/fics for the fandom, so i went ahead to add my two cents >.< i just wanna see this man beg for mercy . . . a girl can dream. this is for all my tekken lovers and hwoarang girlies! now, please enjoy my little smut-piece for this sexy bastard of a man! ❤︎

“ooh, shit!”

hwoarang swearing is nothing new. it’s all the writhing and trembling that you haven’t seen before— something you had the very honor of prying out of him.

you're unsure whether you’d call this a punishment or reward; you riding him. it was supposed to quiet him down, make him behave a little, but the warm embrace of your cunt only has him losing his head.

as for a vulnerable hwoarang, he isn’t sure he can take much more of this . . . of you. whenever you bounce in his firm, wide lap, his own hips start to buck upwards in pure desperation. you steadily control; sinking down on him before lifting yourself up, just to slam your ass back down on him all over again. his toned abdomen trembles every time your buttcheeks jiggle and clap down on him.

“fuckin’ hell,” he whines aloud. you shoot him a smile, one so sickly sweet that it makes his cock jump. hwoarang’s gullible beneath you, noises spilling from his raw throat as he twitches like a virgin. whatever happened to that attitude of his, you wonder? that big fat fucking mouth that got him underneath you in the first place? though you surely don’t mind his sensitivity— it only means the reins have officially been handed over to you.

“you seem to be enjoying yourself,” is your soft coo against the shell of his pierced ear. “what, don’t hate me anymore?” the teasing puff of your breath against his neck makes him fight back a moan, trapping it behind a puffy bitten lip. his hands, large and scattered with veins, grip fervently at your waist, the soft warm-brown flesh spills through his thick fingers. you feel his cock throb and jump within your tight pussy. you’re taking him in, clenching around him, swallowing him whole.

“goddamn it, you bitch, you’re gonna be the death of me!” hwoarang cries out, he just can’t seem to help it. he’s never been one to contain himself, anyway. stray pieces of his ginger dyed hair fall aloof from his half-bun and scatter onto his sweat-sheen forehead. the veins in his sculpted arms bulge as he begins to hold you tight, bouncing you up and down on his girthy cock. you fall forward onto him, face planted against his broad chest. “mm, that’s it— fuck me jus’ like that!” you spur him on, tongue flicking out to graze his nipple. the whine he lets out in response is delicious.

hwoarang’s pace grows quicker, more undoing. he pistons his dick into with an urgency; a speed that has you resting against his chest, moaning into his strained neck. you grind your hips down, making it possible for him to slot in deeper than before. with every swirl of your hips, his cocky disposition crumbles into nothing. the man’s needy, melting before you. he’s lava-hot, a fiery magma that pours itself into your open palms.

it’s abrupt when hwoarang cums— mouth agape with deep groans spilling past, brows twisted and raised, fingers pressing against your flesh as if his hold on you is the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. he thrusts upwards, and three— no, four thick loads are emptied into your fluttering cunt with each desperate raise of his pelvis. it’s only after you’re filled to the brim that he thinks to pull out.

he’s panting. you are too. his grip softens, and his calloused palms smooth over the round globes of your asscheeks. you bring your manicured hand to brush down his firm bicep. his embrace might’ve actually been enjoyable if you didn’t find him to be so . . . hateable.

“i didn’t finish,” your voice breaks the post-silence. his brows furrow, and he delivers a smack to your ass.

“that’s ’cause you’re never satisfied.” he’s quick to bite, back to his snappy bullshit as always.

“no,” you lift yourself from the broad surface of his sweat-sheen chest, straddling over him once again. “it’s because you weren’t good enough. god, you always make me do everything myself,” you touch around to find his semi-hard cock, wrapping your fingers around the sticky base of it. he’s still erect enough for you to get your fill. when you slot his cockhead against your entrance and press him back inside, the weakest groan escapes him. his hands fly up in surrender, eyes hazy as he watches you get back to bouncing down on him.

“f—fuck you,” he seethes through grit teeth, adam’s apple bobbing from within his throat. “mm, fuck you too.” your tone wavers, on the borderline of a moan. your full breasts sway as you rock forward, chasing the right spot with the prodding of his spent cock. with him knowing you, there’ll be at least three more rounds until you’re satiated.

good thing he’s got all the fighter’s stamina to spare.

© 𝑃ℐ𝒩𝒦ℳℐℛ𝒯ℋ! — all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. please and thank you! ౨ৎ

[mokonahapuuuuuu]

Box of Beauty - chapter three COMPLETE

He walked through the Plains of Asphodel, careful to put some dirt in his shoe unlike the last time. 

Maybe he should have taken someone else to come along with him, since the Underworld was a tricky place. It was full of booby traps, but this was a journey for Neil, and Neil alone. 

He was in love with Belle. 

Everyone around him thought he could never love anyone else, only himself. She was at death’s doorstep, and he was walking in the Underworld to save her. 

Whatever Hades’ realm brought him, he would fight until his last breath. 

In a mausoleum, there on a display was a silver box. That must be the Box of Beauty. He picked it up. He could imagine every model in the world would go after this box. 

As he walked back to the Gates of Hades, he felt a little weaker. His eyes widen as he saw his hand was aged and wrinkly. He saw his reflection on the Box of Beauty. 

He had become an old man. 

“No…!” 

Was this the price of picking up the Box of Beauty? He and the rest of the gang went to the Underworld lots of times, it’s not like as if they got older after they left. 

Maybe the Box could reverse all this. A little couldn’t hurt, would it? 

The image of Belle lying on the cot went through his mind. 

Hera’s voice ran through his head. 

“If by any circumstances you use the Box first, it will not help Belle at all.”

Neil curled up his fist. Belle need it more to live. If that meant giving up his life and looks, so be it. 

When he came back to the surface, everyone was so glad he survived the journey. They were all shocked to see that he aged that fast since they went to the Underworld all the time. 

Hera indeed confirmed that if a mortal ever got the Box of Beauty, they would age faster. 

Aphrodite placed a hand on Neil and hugged him. 

Probably a good thing that the Box wasn’t that common. Maybe that was also another reason why Hera sent only Neil. The Box would have aged all of them. 

He gave the Box to Apollo. The poison on Belle’s face was finally gone. All that was left was the great scar. 

As Apollo opened the Box, a magenta light came out. He poured the contents onto Belle’s face. A flash of light went around the room, and Belle’s face was back to normal. 

Everyone cheered, their friend was saved. Which is more than they could say for Neil. Though what he did today really surprised them all. They had no idea that he would act this selfless. 

After he got the news about Belle, Poseidon came to the school to see her. 

Poseidon walked up to Neil and Aphrodite. 

“You risked your life saving Belle,” began the Sea God. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done for her.” 

Neil nodded. 

“Love is the strongest force in the Universe,” began Aphrodite. “Only love could cause people to put themselves so completely in harm's way, and then make the ultimate sacrifice. One's life.” 

“Since you’ve saved my descendant, Aphrodite and I thought we should reward you,” continued Poseidon. 

Neil’s brow raised. “How?” 

Both Gods put their hands together over Neil, and soon, the model felt his vitality coming back to him. He got out his mirrors from his pocket. 

He was back to his good looking self again. 

He smiled and leaped into the air, cheering. He embraced Aphrodite. The rest of the teenagers joined him. At least he didn’t have to live his life out as an old man. 

He thanked Poseidon as well for restoring his good looks. 

Neil looked over to Belle. He saved her. Neil saved Belle, and everything was going to be alright. 

He walked over to her cot and placed a hand on her healed face. 

Her eyes opened. “Neil…?” 

“Yes, Belle, I’m here…” he breathed. 

Her smile faded away as she went back to sleep. 

Once she was well enough to walk again, they were on the patio roof of the Brownstone. 

“So, Hera told me it was you who got the Box of Beauty that made my face back to normal,” Belle began. “I’m glad that you made it out in one piece.” 

“I was on my own down there, but I faced it all…!” He flexed his muscles. “I’m just glad you didn’t see me when I was an old man.” 

They both laughed, but remembering when Fortuna turned him into a baby at her casino, perhaps seeing him at any other age magically would have been embarrassing. 

They looked down to the ground once the laughter was gone. 

Neil broke the silence as their hands intertwined. “We’ve been through so much together at this school, have we?” 

“Yes…” Belle nodded. “We have.” 

“And well, I’m just going to go on about myself, and the guys wouldn’t be surprised at all. I mean, you’re probably sick of it, too. I’ve learned so much about myself here. First Nemesis making me Golden Boy, and then becoming an old man. All I’m saying is, if we all didn’t come here to the school, I’d probably still be that self-centred diva.” 

“And I’m glad I came here, too,” said Belle. “If I didn’t come here, I’d probably still be that unassertive girl. It wasn’t Pegasus, nor knowing that I was a descendant of Bellerophon that got me the confidence to go to the Olympics. It was you, Neil.” 

He reached for her face again. All that time, people doubted that he could be a hero. Now he really was a hero, even to Belle. 

Their eyes closed as he felt their lips brush into a kiss. 

Their arms were around each other as they watched the sunset. 

Out of all the places to be in his life, this was probably the best of them all. 

[cosmicjoke]

It seems more and more clear to me, as I read through “Memnoch the Devil” that Anne Rice’s statements about Lestat being “evil” and a “bad guy” must be born entirely from her own opinion of what constitutes evil, that opinion, it seems, being informed by her Christian faith.  Lestat is, at his very core, sort of the antithesis of Christian goodness.  This whole notion of sacrificing earthly pleasures for the promise of salvation, or the promise of Heavenly reward.  This idea that suffering is somehow integral to coming closer to God.  That it’s suffering itself that makes people good, or makes them worthy of salvation.  That’s the very crux of Memnoch’s argument with God in this book.  Memnoch, the Devil, the very symbol of evil in Christianity, someone seen as a tempter and a seducer, someone who leads humanity to evil through temptation of things like the flesh and knowledge and earthly pleasures, believes that suffering is wrong and pointless, and that it’s in SPITE of it that people can be good, while God argues that suffering is what enables people to be good, that there is no greater goodness than the sacrifice of ourselves to... whatever.  Lestat is like Memnoch, in how he, in many ways, flies in the face of that (frankly) ridiculous notion that it’s our suffering which makes us worthy or good.  He’s self-indulgent, he’s materialistic, he loves luxury and  individuality and reason and logic.  He believes in living for ones self, in making meaning for ourselves outside of some vague and unprovable belief in God, outside of a loyalty to a God which doesn’t exist.  He doesn’t agree with or relate to concepts of suffering or self-sacrifice or abstaining in some effort to be godlike or reach for God.  From a Christian point of view then, yeah, Lestat might seem like a “Bad Guy”.

Memnoch says this to Lestat

“I have put my throne above His throne- as the poets and the redactors of Scripture say it- because I know that for souls to attain Heaven, suffering was never necessary, that full understanding and receptivity to God never required as fast, a scourging, a crucifixion, a death.  I know that the human soul transcended Nature, and needed no more than an eye for beauty to do this!  Job was Job before he suffered!  Just as after!  What did suffering teach Job that he didn’t know before?”

And Lestat says to Memnoch

“... we are both sensualists, we are both believers in the wisdom of the flesh.”

From a Christian point of view, this would seem like a sin and evil.  Defiance against the laws of Nature, or a rejection of pointless suffering, the gall of pointing out that to suffer is meaningless and unnecessary.  Christians often try to find ways to justify the worlds suffering because it doesn’t gel very well with their notion of a merciful and benevolent God, or with God’s so called “plan”.  Or that we’re supposed to imitate Christ’s sacrifice for humanity as an expression of our love and acceptance of him.  Memncoh even points this out to Lestat.

“But when He came as God Incarnate, He imitated myths that men had made to try to sancfify all suffering, to try to say that history is not horror, but has meaning.  He plunged down into man-made religion and brought His Divine Grace to those images, He santified suffering by His death, whereas it had not been sanctified in His Creation, you understand?”

Or this part

“Hell is where I straighten out things that He has made wrong... Hell is where I reintroduce a frame of mind that might have existed had suffering never destroyed it!

... The earth is my battlefield.  Lestat, I fight Him not in Hell but on Earth.  I roam the world seeking to tear down every edifice He has erected to sanctify self-sacrifice and suffering, to sanctify aggression and cruelty and destruction.  I lead men and women from churches and temples to dance, to sing, to drink, to embrace one another with license and love.

... He is the only one who can enjoy suffering with impunity!  And that’s because He’s God and He doesn’t know what it means and He never has known.... And the final victory over all human evil will come only when He is dethroned, once and for all, demystified, ignored, repudiated, thrown aside, and men and women seek for the good and the just and the ethical and the loving in each other and for all.”

Memnoch is speaking here of the very philosophy which has always been Lestat’s own.  To give oneself meaning through the seeking of good.  Of finding meaning through and in ourselves in a world which is filled with purposeless suffering.  To overcome that suffering by giving our lives our own meaning.  To enjoy what goodness life has to offer, in SPITE of its suffering.  To not accept that there’s a reason for us to suffer, or that we should. 

I have to say, I gotta’ agree with Lestat and Memnoch here.  Suffering is never the thing that makes us worthy of anything.  Suffering doesn’t make us better, it doesn’t make us stronger, it doesn’t make us more enlightened.  It’s always in spite of suffering that we can be and do good, that we find strength, that we become enlightened, or whatever.  Lestat and Memnoch feel and believe that suffering can only lead to a bitterness and anger and pain being born in us.  That suffering in fact causes evil, it doesn’t absolve it. 

I think Lestat himself is sort of a perfect example of that, as are all the vampires in Anne Rice’s books.  They were all born out of some form of suffering and cruelty.  Lestat’s “evilness” is the result of his own suffering, his own pain, his own misery.  Suffering didn’t make Lestat a better person.  All it did was saddle him with trauma which ended up having an incredibly negative impact on the rest of his life and his relationships with people.  And, in fact, worst of all, Lestat’s suffering made him hate himself.  Memnoch says to Lestat, when Lestat claims he does bad things simply because he likes to

“Is that really why you drink blood?  Just because you love it?  Or isn’t it because you were made into a perfect pretenatural mechanism for craving blood eternally, and thriving only on blood- snatched out of life and made a gleaming Child of Night by an unjust world that cared no more for you and your destiny than it cared for any infant who starved that night in Paris?”

And Lestat answers

“I don’t justify what I do or what I am.  If you think I do, if that’s why you want me to run Hell with you, or accuse God... then you picked the wrong person.  I deserve to pay for what I’ve taken from people.”

Memnoch replies to Lestat

“Do you think I want you to justify it?  What violence have I justified so far?  What makes you think I would like you if you justified or defended your actions?  Have I ever defended anyone who made anyone else suffer?”

He’s pointing out to Lestat that God’s so called justification of suffering is a lie because it doesn’t, in fact, do any good.  It only causes more suffering.  An endless cycle of it, an endless cycle of violence, and misery. 

Truly, what good Lestat actually has in him is in spite of his suffering.  He just doesn’t realize it.  The fact he still loved and cared for his family, despite them abusing him terribly growing up.  The fact he still loves his mother, despite her failings him as a parent.  The fact he still loved Nicki, despite Nicki trying to pull him down into darkness with him.  The fact he still loves Louis and Claudia, despite them trying to kill him.  The fact he still loved Akasha, despite her making him do terrible things and threatening his life and the lives of those he loves repeatedly, etc, etc... 

It’s funny, because if Anne Rice really did feel Lestat was a bad person because he rejected this notion of abstaining and self-flagellation and living a life of self-denial and suffering, because she believed those things are what could bring one closer to God’s glory, or some shit like that, she ends up making a perfect case in this very book for why that isn’t so.  For why that kind of self-denial and self-blame and self-loathing is actually, in many ways, the root of everything bad that happens to people, not any sort of redemption. 

Lestat is someone who believes in the good of self-fulfillment, the value of being oneself, no matter what, the value of refusing to yield to anyone else’ notion of who or what you should be, or telling us that we need to suffer for any reason.  And truly, I think that has more legitimacy as an argument for good than any sort of idea that we need to suffer or pay in order to reach our full potential.