#i will condemn them to my grave

[kassifieddocuments]

friendly reminder that you're allowed to enjoy a piece of media and hate the creators! :D

to me, an autistic person, it feels ableist as hell to say shit like "enjoying [media] = supporting [bad shit creators do/support]"

i cannot stop liking a piece of media that easily. i can stop doing things that could financially support those people. piracy exists. please shut the fuck up about "you like this therefore you like bad thing!!!"

[witheredgardenparty]

I will never forgive a single one of you

[joelsgoldrush]

“you can use my skin to bury secrets in” | 6.8k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— ��I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?” OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie. A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3

The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.

Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.

Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.

Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.

But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.

Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.

When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.

Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?

Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.

He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.

And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.

If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.

But there’s no you in his past.

Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.

It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.

Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.

He meets you when he least expects it.

It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.

It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.

When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.

They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.

But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?

No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.

Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.

You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.

There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.

Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.

This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.

But, all good things come to an end, because—

“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.

You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”

He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”

“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.

The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.

This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.

You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”

That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”

“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”

Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”

It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”

Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.

“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”

Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.

He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”

“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.” 

“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”

Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.

Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.

Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”

It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.

Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him. 

Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?

Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?

Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?

A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?

You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”

Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”

“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”

“You drink while you drive?”

“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.

And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.

You: Hi.

He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.

You: Are you working tonight?

You’ve got to be kidding him.

Logan: Why are you texting me?

He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual. 

You: Why are you answering me?

Oh, you’re smart. 

Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.

You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.

Logan: I’m busy.

You: Well, what time do you get off?

Logan: I work all night.

You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.

An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.

Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.

You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.

Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not. 

What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.

He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.

Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.

Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.

There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.

In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.

You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.

He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.

Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.

“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”

I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.

“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.

Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.” 

“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should. You invited me.”

How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.

Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.

An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”

The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.

A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.

When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.

You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”

“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.

The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.

Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.

He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.

Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.

He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.

What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.

Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?

Are you truly that desperate for human contact?

Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?

Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.

Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.

His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.

When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.

It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations,  but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.

Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.

You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.

Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.

You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.

There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.

Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.

He sincerely cares about what you have to say.

This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.

Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.

Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.

Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground. 

Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.

He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.

Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive. 

You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.

You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him. 

“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.

He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.

Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.

Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”

Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?

Bad-tempered, sure.

A pain in the ass? Definitely.

But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.

It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.

He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice? 

When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.

Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.

Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?

As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.

He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.

The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.

Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.

Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?

It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.

Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.

It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.

He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.

Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.

At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?

God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.

You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.

(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)

Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.

Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.

What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.

His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.

Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.

But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.

“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.

What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!

There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”

“My brain is just… off today.”

“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?

“Yeah.”

He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.

How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor. 

“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.

Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.

He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.

“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no—

“What��what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”

He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.

Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases. 

I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?

His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”

Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”

Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.

Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.

Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.

At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.

Indeed, he’s very much alive.

“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.” 

His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.

He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.

This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.

You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.

He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.

“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.

Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.

“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.

He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”

Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath. 

“Words.”

“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”

Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.

“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”

Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.

Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”

Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.

The water stains from flooding on the walls.

The supermarket list.

The rising price of gas.

The—

“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”

You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”

“I said I want you to fuck me.”

Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.

“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”

You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”

Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.

Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.

A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.

So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.

Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.

Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.

If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close. 

What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—

“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”

The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency. 

“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.

With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.

Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.

Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.

Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.

Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”

Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.

Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.

Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.

Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?

“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.

“What is it?”

“I know.”

You do?

Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[hussyknee]

Do not even try coming into my replies with this garbage. I am not going to condemn Hamas. I will grieve for their victims and the lives lost and suffering, and I will never commend or condone anybody's violence. But to see it as anything but the reaction to an unrelenting torment inflicted on their own people tenfold by Israel is utterly reprehensible. There is no monster more evil than the hands that created it.

Condemning Hamas is to deflect from holding Israel accountable and contributing to the alienation and oppression of the Palestinian people. And I will never, ever support "wiping out" Hamas, full of the sons and daughters of murdered, raped and pillaged families, the way I hope the IDF and Israeli government gets eviscerated. I have no sympathy for colonists. The Nuremberg Principle applies.

It's amazing how the word "nuance" has been turned into a cheap coin for colonialism.

Nuance: "It makes me uncomfortable to take a moral stand against oppression and colonization so I'm going to pretend it's too fucking complicated to listen to the people who have been systemically expelled, displaced and ethnically cleansed for the last seventy years."

Someone said in a tag that "white ignorance is called objectivity and white knowledge expertise" and that is exactly what's going on here.

[silver-la-pixels]

help

[tybaltsjuliet]

here's the thing about charles dickens. [discussion of his antisemitism, misogyny, and racism ahead.]

his last, unfinished novel, the mystery of edwin drood, features helena and neville landless, heroic and sympathetic south asian (sri lankan, specifically) characters, and the racism they endure in an english town is relevant to the plot to the point where neville ends up falsely accused of murder. in the wake of the indian rebellion of 1857, dickens applauded the english brutality against "that oriental race," and called for genocide.

fagin is called "the jew" 274 times in the first half of oliver twist. an article in the jewish chronicle asked why "jews alone should be excluded from the 'sympathizing heart' of this great author and powerful friend of the oppressed." at first, dickens dismissed this, and claimed he was just being accurate about london's criminal makeup. but he was moved enough by eliza davis's letters to him on the matter that he halted the printing of the latter half of oliver twist so he could change the text and remove the antisemitic language therein.

dickens was an abolitionist who despised chattel slavery in the united states, and called emancipation a "moral duty." dickens didn't think black americans were intelligent enough to vote, and he wrote an entire character in bleak house who is a joke to be disliked and mocked because she'd rather oversee charity missions to help children in africa than be a proper mother and tend to her own family at home in england.

speaking of one's own family at home in england, dickens smeared his wife, catherine hogarth, publicly so he could justify separating from her and taking up with a younger woman. catherine hogarth was likely mentally ill, likely living with postpartum depression. she was also an author in her own right and loved her family dearly. her reputation never recovered in her lifetime from the claims he made about her. in dickens's novels, time and time again, from nicholas nickleby to david copperfield to our mutual friend to the mystery of edwin drood, men who menace and take advantage of vulnerable women are portrayed as the worst kind of villains, deserving of whatever grisly ends come to them.

charles dickens was both privately and publicly a raging asshole in many ways and the world would be worse off without him, because he wrote for bourgeois, comfortable victorians, the very people who so often failed to "think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys." in the same breath that he calls agnes fleming, who opens oliver twist as an unwed mother dying in a workhouse, "weak and erring," he dares to add that "i do believe that the shade of that poor girl often hovers about that solemn nook-ay, though it is a church." he calculated jo's death to the page in bleak house for maximum effect. but when he wrote of the orphaned crossing-sweeper, "dead, your majesty. dead, my lords and gentlemen. dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. and dying thus around us every day," people listened.

i dedicated years of my life to reading him and studying him and thinking about him and writing about him and his novels. now, i turn to condemn him; now, i turn to justify him. i wish i had a time machine so i could shake his hand. i wish i had a time machine so i could publicly debate him. i wish i had a time machine so i could break his nose.

charles dickens gives me courage and hope. charles dickens makes me want to tear my goddamn hair out. he is everything i despise and everything i love about the victorian age in one; the term "a man of his time" ought to have been invented for him. the leaps and bounds the victorians made for progress in the public good are only matched in greatness by the extremity of their atrocities against their "fellow-passengers" on this earth. the way we think about nearly every modern social ill can be traced back to the 19th century; the way we think about nearly every modern idea of social justice can be traced back to the 19th century. every last one is writ large and small in dickens's novels. he and his age are the greatest contradictions in human history and that's why i can't shut up about them, ever, even when i am exhausted by them, even when i am inspired by them, even when it was two centuries ago and it shouldn't matter anymore, but it does. it always will.

[redvexillum]

Of course, anonnie! This is flufftober after all. I would like to dedicate this story to my wife @nyx-umbrakinesis, my poor nyxy has been feeling unwell. Here's to all the readers battling chronic pain - Alastor will hug it all better!

Pain coursed through every fibre of your being, muscles burning and twitching as they stretched and strained beyond endurance. Each breath was a test of your will, your jaw clenched tightly that the insides of your cheeks ached. The tremors that wracked your body were almost too much to bear, and you wondered, as you always did, if this was your eternal punishment.  

Hell was your new home, but to be condemned to carry the same human frailties, the same agonizing ailments that followed to the grave? It was almost too cruel, yet, fitting for where you were. 

Perhaps even God had abandoned you. You weren’t just damned – you were forgotten, left to rot with the relentless pain that burrowed deep into your bones, a ceaseless torment that whispered you deserve this.  

Some days, you could push through it, the ache a dull roar in the background of your suffering. But today? Today it was unbearable, a storm of agony that left you feeling raw, broken and utterly lost.  

Your eyes flickered toward Alastor, who stood across the room, his ever-present grin almost sharp, as if it hid the grimace of someone witnessing something distasteful. He adjusted his bow tie with a haughty scoff, and for a brief moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes – a glimmer of impatience, perhaps, or even frustration. You couldn’t be sure.  

Still, you forced a smile. It was all you could offer him, even if the effort to do so made your body scream in protest. Alastor had been your saving grace when you first arrived in this forsaken place – lost, terrified, and utterly alone. Like a fragile, starving kitten, you had been desperate for shelter, and he had taken you in. You had never quite understood why, but you hadn’t dared question it.  

Now, your fingers absently played with the silk scarf around your neck, its vivid red a stark contrast against the dim, oppressive atmosphere of Hell. It was one of the many gifts Alastor had given you over time, though you never felt deserving of them.  

He had always showered you with such extravagance, his gestures grand and unapologetically bold, as though he were trying to fill the empty spaces inside you that the pain had carved out.  

 You were just a mere assistant to Alastor, though his enemies would disagree and call you his pet. Perhaps, in a way, they were right. You were always there, just a step behind him, tending to his whims, assisting with his daily tasks, ensuring you were never far from his side. You didn’t care what you were in Alastor’s or anyone’s eyes. It was the happiest you had ever been – in life and death.  

Chronic pain had been your constant companion, dragging you into a void of loneliness so deep it became an invisible wound, festering beneath the surface until it felt like it would swallow you whole. No one had ever seen it, no one had ever cared to notice the quiet suffering that gnawed at your very being.  

Until Alastor.  

He was Hell’s most feared Overlord, his power, and reputation, enough to make even demons tremble. But to you, he was something else entirely – something inexplicably special. He was the only one who had ever been able to stop that wound from consuming you completely, as though his very presence cauterized the edges of your loneliness and dulled the pain that tormented your body, keeping them from spreading further.  

“Can you believe it?” Alastor’s voice broke through your thoughts, his tone dripping with exaggerated disdain as he fiddled with his bow tie for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “I swear, who would've guessed being an Overlord is nothing more than babysitting fools!” He sniffed, his ears twitching flat before springing upright again in irritation.  

You managed a soft laugh, though it felt weaker than usual. The first wave of pain hit, sharp and persistent, but you didn’t let it show. You couldn’t. If you continued to burden him too much, if you became too much of a hassle, he might leave you – just like everyone else had. That thought terrified you more than the pain itself.  

Your steps were uneven as you moved to pick up Alastor’s pinstriped coat, every motion sending a fresh jolt of agony through your body. But you swallowed it down, took a deep breath, and forced yourself to smile. You had learned how to reign in the pain, to push it down until you were alone, where it couldn’t burden anyone but yourself. If you could just keep it together until he left, then you could handle it on your own.  

You always did.  

“Here you go, Alastor,” you said, your voice gentle as you held up his coat with a bright, cheerful smile that felt more like a mask. “Maybe today won’t be so bad.” You beamed, pushing the brightness of your smile to its limit. “Oh! I could also stop by your favourite butcher shop while you’re out, pick up some of your favourite cuts for you!” 

Alastor sighed, a wistful sound, as if indulging in a well-worn ritual. He raised his arms, allowing you to slip the coat over his shoulders, your movements slow and careful despite the pain gnawing at your every joint. “You truly are, my sweet darling,” he murmured, his voice soft as he straightened the coat, then brushed back his bangs and adjusted his monocle with that same practised grace.  

You giggled, the sound light and teasing as you watched him preen, admiring his own reflection. “Alastor, you look perfect,” you said, your tone warm, the smile on your face genuine for a fleeting moment as you saw his tail twitch beneath the back of his coat. He’d always told you it was an involuntary ailment of some sort, something you shouldn’t worry about, but you found it endearing all the same.  

But even as you laughed and shared in that small moment, the pain remained – a shadow lurking beneath your skin, waiting for the moment you could finally let it show. You were determined, though.  

You would never let it burden him.  

Not Alastor.  

He was too important, too precious to risk losing.  

Sweat clung to your skin, rolling down your temples as the pain intensified, pressing on your chest like a crushing weight. Each breath you took felt like dragging air through shattered lungs, but you forced yourself to smile, as you always did, your hands clasped together in a mockery of prayer.  

But this prayer wasn’t to God. No, you prayed to Satan, to Hell itself – please, just let you hold out until Alastor left. The physical agony was nothing compared to the thought of being abandoned again, swallowed by the suffocating emptiness of your own solitude.  

Alastor’s sigh, deep and exasperated, cut through the haze of your pain. He turned toward you sharply, his eyes narrowing, and your entire body tensed in response. You straightened up, biting back the tremors that threatened to ripple through you, squeezing your hands together so hard your knuckles turned white.  

He cocked his head, studying you, his sharp eyes seeming to pierce right through the mask you wore.  

“Are you in pain, darling?” 

The question sent a chill down your spine. Your heart lurched, and for a moment, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Fear gripped you, cold and relentless.  

For you knew, no one wanted to deal with someone else’s burden. You had learned that the hard way, over and over again. Every time someone asked you that question, you saw it – their faces, vivid in your mind’s eye.  

Faces twisted in frustration, exasperation, and annoyance.  

Faces that silently screamed, why won’t you just get better? Why won’t you go away?

Faces that turned cold and indifferent, backs turned as they walked away, leaving you behind, hoping you would simply disappear – too much trouble, too much of a drain on their time, energy, resources.  

It had always been the same.  

Always.  

But with Alastor, it was different. For the first time, you felt needed.  

You felt wanted.  

When the pain became too much, he would hold you, comfort you. But how many times? How many times could he bear your weakness before he decided you weren’t worth the effort? Alastor loathed babysitting fools, and you feared becoming just that – a burden he’d eventually grow tired of carrying.  

Desperation clawed at your throat as you forced out a laugh, the sound far too bright, too strained. “I-I’m not in pain, Alastor,” you stammered, but even as your words left your lips, your voice betrayed you, trembling and unsteady.  

You tried to shake your head, but the movement threw your balance, and you stumbled, nearly collapsing under the weight of your own failing body. Shame burned deep inside you. Oh, how you despised this weakness, this cursed body that refused to let you be anything other than fragile and broken. You would give anything – anything – to be strong, to be whole... 

To not be a burden.  

“A-aren’t you going to be late?” you pushed, your voice a little too eager, too desperate to change the subject. “The other Overlords, they always kick up a fuss when you miss their meetings...” 

But Alastor wasn’t fooled. His eyes narrowed further, dark and calculating, and he bent low until his gaze was level with yours. His red, clawed hands reached out, and you flinched despite yourself.  

He gripped your cheeks, squeezing just enough that your lips puckered together like a fish, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for some hidden truth. He turned your head from side to side, examining you as though you were a fragile specimen he didn’t quite understand.  

“Darling,” he sighed, letting go of your face at last, though the weight of his scrutiny lingered. He began to shrug off his jacket, the smooth fabric whispering against his skin as it slid to the floor. “I’ve told you many times before,” his voice softened, but there was a warning there, sharp as the claws he extended, “if you’re in pain, you are to let me know immediately.” 

His words were firm, but they stirred a new kind of fear inside you. The fear of how far you could push him before he finally grew tired of you. Before he saw you for what you truly were – an unbearable, broken thing.  

Guilt, thick and suffocating, clung to you like a weight you continued to bear. The apology burned on your tongue, heavy with the knowledge that there was nothing Alastor could do to fix your pain. “It’s not bad, really,” you murmured, but the words fell flat between you. It was too late. Alastor’s fingers wrapped firmly around your hand, pulling you deeper into his room, into the place he had made for you.  

He had brought a bed into his room, just for you – a place to rest, though he himself barely needed sleep, if at all. The gesture alone was enough to send a pang of guilt straight through your heart, sharper than the pain that gripped your body.  

Gently, he guided you to sit, and then, with an almost reverent care, he pushed at your shoulder, coaxing you to lay down. You obeyed, but the guilt gnawed at you like a beast with insatiable hunger, tearing at the edges of your mind.  

When Alastor finally laid beside you, he opened his arms wide, a signal that had become a private ritual between the two of you – an unspoken invitation for comfort when the pain became too much.  

Hesitantly, shyly, you inched toward him, slowly closing the distance until your face pressed against his chest, the warmth of his body enveloping you as his arms wrapped around you with a tenderness you didn’t deserve.  

It felt...safe. Too safe.

Too good to be true.  

His arms wrapped around you, holding you as if he would never let go. And yet, as comforting as it was, every ounce of gratitude you felt began to sour, twisting into a cold knot of fear deep inside.  

Until when? 

How long could this last? 

How many times would he hold you, rearrange his life around your fragility, before the day came when it was all too much? 

Tears burned in your eyes, but you fought them back. You refused to cry. Not again. Not when this ritual – this twisted dance of comfort and guilt – only deepened your fears, choking the breath from you in ways the pain never could.  

Each time he held you, each time you ruined his plans, each time you dared to hope that maybe this could last forever, it only hurt more. The guilt, the fear, the shame – it stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your body began to shiver uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry,” you whimpered again, squeezing your eyes shot, biting your lips until you tasted the faint tang of blood.  

You wouldn’t cry. You couldn’t. It was your fault his day was ruined once more, your fault you couldn’t be stronger... 

... your fault that you couldn’t...just get better.  

“Come now, darling,” Alastor’s voice cut through the suffocating silence, still bright, still full of that eerie, unsettling joy. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing! How unfortunate for you to have to endure such a pesky illness. But fear not!” His cheek pressed against the top of your head, nuzzling you with a comforting affection. “I’m sure we’ll find a cure soon!” 

A cure. You’d given up on that a long time ago. The hope of it had dried up, shrivelled into dust. But you couldn’t bear to let him see that.  

So, you did what you always did – you played along, forcing yourself to believe in his boundless confidence.  

“Really?” your voice trembled, the unshed tears making it sound fragile, like it could break at any moment. “If you say so...it must be true.” 

Alastor hummed in response, pleased, his grip tightening around you as if he could squeeze away the pain with sheer will. The silence that followed was thick but not oppressive, filled only by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, his breathing slow and calm – a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. For a moment, the world seemed to quiet, and the storm inside you stilled, if only just.  

Your fingers absentmindedly played with the fabric of his shirt, tracing the smooth lines, grounding yourself in his presence. You breathed in deeply, the scent of him, a heady mix of something rich and dark – filling your lungs. The warmth of his body seeped into you, thawing the ice that had long encased your lonely heart.  

And yet, even in the safety of his arms, that question remained.  

Until when? 

“Alastor...if you ever get tired of me,” your voice wavered, barely more than a whisper as you clung to him, “y-you’d tell me, right?” 

He sighed, not in frustration, but in that tired, familiar way, his fingers tangling themselves in your hair as he pulled you tighter against his chest. “Darling, this again?” his tone was weary, but there was no malice in it, only the weight of a conversation you’d had too many times before.  

This was your ritual – one that had repeated itself so many times it was etched into both of you. When the pain came, he held you like this, his arms wrapped around you as if to shield you from the world. He’d talk of a future free from agony, and you’d ask him – beg him – to promise, to swear, that he’d tell you if he ever grew tired of you.  

You needed him to know he wasn’t trapped, that you weren’t a cage, a burden he had to carry. He was free – free to walk away whenever he wished because as much as the thought of being left alone terrified you, the idea of being a source of misery for him was worse than any pain you could endure.  

“You would, right?” The words came out a little firmer this time, a desperate need to hear the reassurance in his voice, to quiet the gnawing fear in your chest. You closed your eyes, trying to capture this moment in your mind – his warmth, his touch – before it could slip away like a fading dream.  

“I’m quite fond of our little routine, you know,” Alastor replied, his voice light, teasing, but not without affection. His arms held you firmly, one hand wrapped around your waist while the other played with your hair, his fingers moving from your scalp down to the nape of your neck.  

Slowly, gently, they traced the curve of your spine, dragging downwards in a soft soothing stroke. Each caress felt like a whispered promise, his touch tender, calming. 

You let out a shaky breath, shivering slightly as you pressed yourself closer to him, craving the comfort his touch brought. There was something hypnotic about the way his fingers glided down your back, a rhythmic motion that grounded you, as if he were coaxing the pain out of you with each gentle stroke.  

“Who would brew the perfect cup of coffee for me every morning?” Alastor mused, his lips brushing against the top of your head as he inhaled deeply, savouring the moment. His fingers continued their steady, soothing dance along your back. “Who would accompany me on strolls through town, eagerly listening to me about all the latest gossip with such captivating eyes?” He chuckled, his chest vibrating pleasantly beneath your ear, a sound that brought warmth to your aching soul. “And who else would help me decorate my office every Tuesday?” His tone was light, almost playful.  

The last comment pulled a soft laugh from you, a small, involuntary snort escaping your lips. The sound was weak, but genuine, and your arms, trembling from pain, from insecurity, finally wrapped around his waist.  

You hugged him back, a little tighter this time, allowing yourself to melt into the comfort of his embrace. The pain, which had been a constant storm raging through your body, faded into a distant rumble, no longer the monster it once was.  

“Decorating, huh?” you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You mean moving everything just slightly to the left, or right?” 

“Decorating,” he confirmed with absolute certainty, his voice dripping with confidence, as though no one in Hell could convince him otherwise. 

You let out another quiet laugh, burying your face into his chest, letting the warmth of him wash over you. His fingers continued their steady path up and down your spine, each touch as soft and delicate as a kiss.  

It was moments like this that made the pain bearable, moments when it was just the two of you – safe, together, and for just a little while, the world outside couldn’t touch you, pain couldn't touch you.  

A soft trembling laugh escaped your lips, and in that instant, Alastor’s breath hitched, his arms finally pulling you closer with a firm unyielding embrace. It was as if he were afraid you might slip away, and you could feel the tension, the raw emotion behind his usual calm demeanour.  

His grip was not just protective – it was possessive, as though the very thought of you leaving was intolerable.  

“I don’t very much like change, darling,” Alastor murmured, his voice low, soothing, but laced with an intensity that made your heart clench. His touch, strong yet gentle, was a reassurance, his fingers tracing patterns along your back, grounding you at the moment. “And you,” he continued, with absolute certainty, “are very much a permanent fixture in my life.” 

You opened your mouth, starting to protest, to voice your ever-lingering doubts. “Alas-” 

But he interrupted, his hand coming up to cup your chin, tilting your face upward so you could meet his gaze. His crimson eyes, sharp and burning with an almost predatory focus, locked onto yours, filling your vision entirely.  

“If you ever wanted to leave me, darling, you should’ve ran away the moment you had crossed my path,” he said softly, his voice a whisper of velvet that held a darker undertone. The hand on your chin was tender, but his grip on you was firm, keeping you close, tethering you to him.  

His forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with your own, and his eyes – oh, his eyes – burned into yours, leaving no room to escape. “You should’ve left before you decided to invade my routine, my space...” His words trailed off, quieter now, as if they held secrets meant only for you. “My mind,” he finished, his grin curling at the edges, tightening with unspoken emotions that he rarely revealed.  

There was a deeper meaning hidden in his words, one you didn’t need him to spell out. You could hear it, feel it, as clearly as if he had shouted it. You were his, entwined into the very fabric of his existence, and he had no intention of letting you go.  

A single tear slipped down your cheek, a reflection of the overwhelming emotions bubbling within you. Despite the heaviness of it all, you smiled – a bright, genuine smile. “I want to stay with you,” your voice trembled, your desire so familiar, so fragile, as if revealing the very truth that hid in your heart would somehow shatter the delicate balance between you two. “Even if I don’t get better, is it alright,” another tear rolled down your cheek as if expelling the painful memories of your past, “to still stay with you?” 

And as always, as you’d heard countless times before, the answer you longed for came, steady and unwavering, grounding you in its certainty.  

“Always.” The word slipped from his lips, firm yet soft, sinking into the depths of your heart and settling there like a balm to every wound you carried. He closed his eyes, his head dipping to rest in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “Always, darling,” he whispered again, his arms wrapping even tighter around you, as though he feared you’d disappear if he ever let go.  

And at that moment, as you lay in his arms, the doubt that had haunted you for so long finally quieted. Because for as long as he whispered those words, for as long as his grip remained steady, you knew this – this bond – would never fade.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[soon-palestine]

Israel, the world’s most innocent country, fell victim to a horrific attack from Iran with zero reported casualties on the same day Israel killed dozens of civilians in Gaza.

Israel had been minding its own business, quietly bombing hospitals, schools, universities, mosques, and an embassy, when the Iranian regime launched their outrageous attack for no apparent reason. Thankfully, the US and UK scrambled jets to defend Israeli airspace because it’s wrong to bomb countries in the Middle East, unless your name is Israel, in which case you can do all the bombing you want.

Every British and American ship in the region is now in grave danger and the risk of terror attacks on our soil has surely increased, but you will be relieved to know our countries have not benefitted in any way from our intervention. Personally, I can’t think of a better way for Israel to spend our tax money.

Our leaders have condemned Iran in the strongest possible terms, which is confusing because I thought we were supposed to remain ambiguous and say we’re investigating the matter when such an attack occurs. Perhaps this is one of those rules that only applies to Israel though.

When informed of the attack, a calm and rational Suella Braverman screamed: “WAR! I WANT WAR!” and when she’d stopped hyperventilating, she added: “This must be the end of western backsliding on Israel,” because she thinks we have not been sufficiently supportive of their genocide. Anyone who is not on the same side of the argument as Suella Braverman must ask serious questions about themselves.

Iran’s unprovoked attack involved giving Israel adequate warning and launching 30-year-old missiles, 99% of which were intercepted, and then saying the matter is closed unless Israel escalates further. The fact Iran would consider retaliating to further escalation from Israel shows just extreme these lunatics are.

Among Iran’s targets was the Israeli air base from which the missiles that struck its embassy were launched, killing 13 on April 1. As of yet, we have no indication as to why Iran carried out the attack, but we’re going to tell you it’s because they want to start World War III. Psychos.

Conspiracy theorists have suggested it’s actually Benjamin Netanyahu who wants escalation, but it’s unclear why the man who faces political oblivion, and possibly jail, would be incentivised to draw his allies into the fight and cause everyone to forget his many war crimes.

Israel, the country that definitely does not want war, has vowed an “unprecedented” response against Iran which will probably kill many more than zero people. If Iran expresses disapproval at Israel’s next mass murder, it’s because they’re trying to destabilise the region. At this point, we’ll have no choice but to help Israel do to Iran what we’ve spent six months helping them do to Gaza - launch precision strikes that destroy 70% of the buildings in the country and leave survivors living in tents.

Worryingly, we’ve just discovered at the most convenient moment that Iran has enough uranium to build 12 nuclear bombs. If it were true that Iran had so much weapon-grade uranium, it would be incredibly stupid to attack them, but we’re going to insist we must attack them because we’re weapon-grade idiots - and we think you are too.

Please just switch your brain off and accept what you’re being told, you simpletons! What matters is rich people can afford nuclear bunkers if this all goes horribly wrong. In the meantime, you can look forward to lots of exciting stories in the media about bringing back conscription and describing how you are likely to die in humanity's final war. Are you looking forward to radiation sickness and nuclear winter? Because they sound like brilliant fun! x

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this outstanding piece of journalism as much as I did, you can support my work here:

[jackdaw-kraai]

I think there’s something rather strange going on with all the folks who insist that the Jedi Order in the PT was right and didn’t forbid love and Anakin should just have followed their teachings when the whole point of the prequels is that they are prequels. They come before the OT, and the OT proves the Jedi wrong. They literally do not make sense if they don’t do that.

Luke, in the original trilogy, gains his ultimate triumph, his ultimate victory, because he loved in defiance of the teachings of the old Order. He quite literally had the ghosts of the past telling him, explicitly and without ambiguity, that he has to put his love for his father aside and kill him, as is the duty of a Jedi. Luke has the weight of millennia of teachings weighing down on his shoulders, telling him they knew and know better than a young, inexperienced man barely out of his teenager years. That he should follow their teachings or be destroyed. That is an immense weight to carry, and many people would and explicitly have given in to it in-universe. What are your feelings and ideals in the face of such immense legacy, after all?

But Luke doesn’t give in.

He doesn’t bend.

He says “I may be young, and I may be new, but I believe to my heart and soul that love matters more than this legacy. Matters more than your teachings.” And he says this to the ghosts of his mentors. That is such a powerful moment and one I can’t believe George Lucas didn’t create deliberately for even a second. This young man, being told he has to kill or die trying for a system that is dead or dying itself, that couldn’t survive itself, and refusing to do so. He is the living refusing to continue the violence of a dead generation. He is the young man refusing the draft into a war the old generation started, saying “peace and love matters more than you being right.” He is the embodiment of breaking the cycle.

And the movies vindicate him.

The main villain vindicates him with his last dying breath.

Darth Vader, dying, says “You were right.” and admits he and his were wrong. The main antagonist, Luke’s nemesis, in the face of his son’s immense, defiant love, gives way and does the impossible: he comes back to the light and dies a Jedi. The very thing the old Order says was impossible.

They were wrong. They have to be. The narrative demands it, the movies don’t make sense without it.

The solution was never to continue the cycle of the old Order, or Luke would have failed there, would have failed when he said “I am a Jedi, like my father before me.” And claimed that defiant, deviant, condemned definition of being a Jedi over the one presented to him by the Grandmaster of the old Order. If the old Order was right, Luke would have to be wrong. Be wrong about love, be wrong about laying down the sword, be wrong about refusing to fight. He would have to be wrong.

But the old Order is dead, explicitly killed by a monster, in some part, of their own making. It’s members only existing as bones in the ground or ghosts speaking from beyond the grave. They did not deserve it, it should not have been inflicted on them, but the narrative is clear on this: “The old way is dead, and was dying for a long time before that. Long live the new.”

Luke is that new. Luke is the breaking of the cycle, the reforging of swords into ploughs, the extended hand. Luke says “I don’t care how much I was hurt, I refuse to hurt you back, and you don’t need to hurt me either.”

“We can end this together and choose love instead.”

And Darth Vader, killer of the Jedi, End of the Order, lays down his arms as well, and reaches back as Anakin, saying “You were right.”

It wasn’t Obi-Wan, Yoda, Mace, Qui-Gon, or even Ahsoka who achieved the ultimate victory in the end, following the tenants of the old Order. It was Luke. Young, inexperienced Luke, who saw that the age of legacy handed to him was only history, that the sword handed to him as his life was only a tool, and that the decrees of the dead were only advice. And he took it all, said “thank you for your experience, but I’ve got it from here,” and laid it all down to instead extend an open hand towards his enemy.

And his victory, his ultimate triumph, his vindication, was that he was proven right when his enemy reached back and became just another person. Just another person, just like him.

The Jedi did not deserve what happened to them, and they did not deserve to die. But the story is clear on this: the Jedi of old were wrong, and the Jedi of new, the Last Jedi, was right. No sword or death will ever end the rule of the sword or end the bloodshed. But love?

Love can ignite the stars.

[thiscoldheart]

some details that i loved in la chimera (spoiler heavy) :

i posted this on twitter as well but i wanted to include it here too. i love this little moment here where italia rests her head on arthur's shoulder and for a brief moment, he's anchored to the present by that touch, but him being the orpheus that he is, just HAD to turn back and find himself gravitating towards the tombs, the past and his eurydice.

the fact that italia's name is literally italy in italian and by the end of the movie she creates a community of her own where she's looking out for those that are outcasted by society, in an abandoned train station named riparbella which literally means "to start again".

arthur's eye always being blocked by shadow throughout the movie until he sees the light at the very end

according to wiki, the goddess the statue is based on is cybele, goddess of nature, animals, wild places and represents the "creative and destructive force of nature." her phrygian name matar (mother) alludes to the fact that she was a "mediator between the boundaries of the known and unknown, the civilized and the wild, the worlds of the living and the dead." i love that this goddess' presence in the movie symbolizes arthur traversing between the living and the dead worlds and getting closer to beniamina. i love that by the end of the movie, the statue itself becomes unknown to human eyes and returns to the wild, far away from civilization, which is arguably the same fate that arthur meets as he dies.

the red string that's following arthur around is very reminiscent of the red string ariadne gives theseus to find his way through the maze. it's beautiful how this red string seems to appear only in his dreams at first but slowly starts crossing the boundaries of dreams and reality as the movie goes on until he is able to tug at it by the end and cross over into beniamina's world.

arthur, at the beginning of the movie, says "so it's you. my last woman's face." how cool is it that beniamina's face resembles cybele's?

arthur goes back to flora's house after being injured and her daughter finds him in the bathroom. spooked, she says "i thought it was a ghost" which arthur might as well be considering how he's essentially been a walking corpse this entire movie.

also a special shout out from the bottom of my heart to the sped up sequences, didn't even realize how badly i needed them until i saw them. the chaos in these sequences is everything to me. this is REAL cinema!

in general, one of the themes that i've come to love about this movie is how objects can have different meanings to everyone. an object like the bell arthur found was just "a thing that rings" whereas italia interprets it as a gift until she comes to realize it's been excavated from a grave. the statue was part of a shrine back when it was made, but to the tombaroli and the sellers, this is only a means to make more money. the train station started off as a place that symbolizes movement of people from the city to the countryside but has now become a home for the outcasts of society. the apotropaic phallus would've have warded off evil and bad luck back in the day, but is now used as a means of escape from the law. a simple red string is the literal lifeline for arthur as he tries to find his way back to his lover.

also want to give another shout out to the inclusion of the italian troubadours (our greek chorus) who beautifully spell out the tragedy of our protagonist and his gang.

speaking of music, i really liked this particular song italia was singing as she was practicing. the lyrics go "i'd like to explain to you, o god/ where my suffering lies/ but fate condemns me to weep/ to weep" and that's exactly when arthur finds her crying son. at least italia finds a way for her suffering to end by the end of the movie. maybe we can say the same about arthur too?

i'll probably add more as i keep rewatching the movie lol and make a thread of this on twitter too (x) thanks for sticking around and let me know what other cool details y'all noticed!

[heavenlymorals]

Biblical References in Both RDR games.

I love biblical references so much. When it comes to literature, it's probably my favorite type of symbolism. Like I genuinely get so happy when I connect things to the Bible which is what I'm going to do right now 😊😊 I also like the way that religion is incorporated into RDR as a whole, including the main characters' reaction to it.

So yup, here are just a few references or connections that I was able to make in no particular order.

Also, some of these are complete reaches and I'm aware of that, but fuck it, it's my blog and I do what I want 💪🏼

- The character and tragedy of Issac. In the Bible, Issac is the child of Abraham who is asked to be sacrificed by God by his father as a test of faith. God eventually intervenes to save Issac because he only wanted to test Abraham's faith. Dutch is shown as a God-like figure to the gang, as their devotion is to him. Arthur, indirectly, sacrifices Issac by not being there and by following what Dutch wanted. Arthur, Issac, and Dutch are parallels to Abraham, Issac, and God.

- Leviticus is the book that comes after the book of Exodus. After the gang's escape or exodus from Blackwater after the Blackwater massacre, they are met by Leviticus Cornwall, who becomes the next obstacle for the gang. After the gang's exodus, they get in trouble with Leviticus.

- The image of the deer and a mountain. Psalm 18:32-34 in the Bible says, "It is God who arms me with strength, and makes my way blameless? He makes my feet like deers' feet, and sets me upon my high places." In Arthur's condemnation of Dutch, Micah, and their evil, he becomes steady in his identity and beliefs, like a deer's feet on a mountain, which is where he dies in the end. W symbolism.

- The mission "Sodom? Back to Gomorrah." In the Bible, Sodom and Gomorrah were two cities that were so morally depraved and evil that God decided to destroy the both of them, saying that if there was even one good person in those cities, he'd spare them, but there weren't. In those missions, you also do two evil acts, going from one and then BACK to the other. You rob the bank and then go BACK to collect the debt from Edith Downes. So you finish one evil deed and to straight to the next. This can also show how morally bankrupt Arthur's apathy made him at this point in the game.

- Micah's guns say "Vengeance is hereby mine." This could be a reference to Roman's 12:19 "vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." Micah's violent nature makes him take his anger out on the world.

- "Your father is seduced by him with the forked tongue. It's no use hoping." The blind prophet to Arthur. Pretty straight forward symbolism, it's a nod to the snake that seduced Eve, just like how Micah manipulates Dutch.

- Dutch walking away from Arthur when he dies and though he realizes his wrong doing and feels shame, his pride forbids him from apologizing or saying he was wrong. This can be a parallel to how Adam and Eve run away from God when they feel shame over believing in the snake, but their pride won't allow them to apologize to God, hence damning them like how Micah damned Dutch.

- There were twelve ACTIVE gang members before the Blackwater massacre. When I mean active, I mean gang members who are canonically consistent (so not uncle, Swanson, Strauss, or the girls) on going on jobs for the gang. Micah, Bill, Javier, John, Hosea, Arthur, Charles, Sean, Lenny, Josiah, Mac and Davey Callender. Christ had 12 disciples and Dutch is portrayed as a savior to the gang, or a Christ like figure. And would you look at that, there is a traitor in both groups of twelve (Micah and Judas).

- Both John and Arthur's graves have scripture from Jesus's sermon on the mountain (Matthew 5:1-12). John's is blessed are the peacemakers and Arthur's is blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

- The go back for the money ending. If you go back for the money and have low honor, you'll see that the camp is engulfed in flames as you try to get the money. The fight with Micah is brutal and you die faced down in the dark. This death is an allegory for going to either hell and purgatory as you choose a final evil act of leaving your brother to possibly die just so you can get money as an act of revenge. If you have high honor, you are still surrounded by flames, but you still have a chance at heaven given that you die facing up seeing the light one final time.

- The help John ending has similar connotations. If you have low honor, you die by gunshot and are shrouded in darkness, which can symbolize the absence of God's light and how Arthur's final act couldn't absolve the lack of guilt he feels for the rest of the actions that he KNOWS are evil (click here for a my interpretation of Arthur's morality). In high honor, though, you get to crawl to the mountain side and see the rising sun, symbolizing heaven, warmth, and a new purity.

- In low honor, the coyote goes down to a dark cave, representing damnation and the rejection of holy light. In high honor, the deer steps into a heavenly field of light. Love that so much to be honest.

- Just the very Catholic vibe of Arthur's redemption. Doing good deeds, feeling guilt, all that.

- John's new life is basically this: "Let him who stole steal no longer, but rather let him labor, working with his hands what is good, that he may have something to give him who has need." -Ephesians 4:28. John gives up his old life to be an honest laborer, a rancher, and a proper man.

- The Strange Man in RDR rides on a donkey, which is pretty interesting because Jesus Christ also made his grand entry on a donkey.

- Just the Strange Man in general to be honest. Some say he's God, others say he's the Devil, and others say he's Cain from the Bible, which is my personal favorite theory but whatever.

- Dutch's horse could be a reference to Revelations 6:8- "And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider's name was Death, and Hades followed him." Dutch's rash actions caused the death of the gang and RDR's incarnate of Hades or Hell was Micah, following him. Dutch is the only one, canonically, to have a pale horse.

- "Am I prepared for eternal damnation? Am I passed any kind of saving? Or is that just fairy tales?" Arthur in his journal. I love this line so much because of its very agnostic nature whilst still showing the Christian mindset of 1899 America. This line also shows that Arthur is canonically agnostic which is a yippee from me because it's like the only thing me and this man have in common lmao 😭

- "Bad news awaits you, sir. Sadly, sooner than you think. But beyond the news, paradise awaits. Paradise.." Blind Man Cassidy to Arthur. Sorry but I just love that. High honor Arthur lived such an awful life but he still has a chance at paradise and heaven? Love that so much.

- God (pun intended), I love biblical symbolism. Couldn't you tell?

[nofomogirl]

We need to talk about body snatching

I'm not a massive fan of the 1827 minisode - if you're curious why it bothers me, I've explained it in my post about two GO canons - but there's no denying it does an amazing job at exploring the complexity of morality and moral choices. It starts with a very black-and-white two-dimensional image and gradually adds shading and perspective, making it harder and harder to judge as we go along.

I think it's worth digging into (pun not intended but I'll take it).

Layer 1: body snatching bad

We learn someone did something

It's those first few seconds where we see a person robbing a grave, and since we know that robbing graves is a crime and generally not a good thing to do, we can quickly form a tentative conclusion that this is wrong.

Okay, in this exact instance, we immediately get enough context clues to see that this kind of judgment would be oversimplistic and superficial. Only Aziraphale, who for some reason acts as if it was his first day on Earth after a thorough memory wipe, is ready to condemn Elspeth based on just that.

Nevertheless, this is the first layer - the deed itself with no context.

Layer 2: body snatching acceptable

We learn about the person who did the thing

That's the whole journey with the first dug-up body where we get to know Elspeth and become privy to her circumstances - she's desperately poor, she has another person depending on her, she robs graves to survive. Aziraphale's suggestions that she might earn her living by selling books, weaving or farming just serve to prove how inaccessible more honest and dignified professions are to her. In turn, her comment about how she's not hurting anybody who isn't already dead hints that from the realistically available options, Elspeth could have chosen something much worse.

Technically this layer is a significant step up from layer 1 but it still isn't really challenging. Things are spelt out really loud for us, and most importantly everything we learn about Elspeth is just attenuating circumstances. To top it off both she and Wee Morag are immediately endearing. The takeaway is that sometimes things that in theory are bad can be excused which is important but the verdict still comes without any second thoughts.

Layer 3: body snatching complicated

We learn the larger context around the thing

This mostly happens when Aziraphale and Crowley discuss body snatching with Mr Dalrymple. We learn that the stolen corpses are used for a medical study that can advance human knowledge and make it possible to save living people and that surgeons have no legal means to obtain enough of them for their research - hence their need to buy them from body snatchers.

At first glance it's just more of what we got in layer 2 - more agruments in favour of body snatching that aren't all that nuanced and don't really give us any pause - just from a larger perspective, beyond Elspeth's individual experience. But if you glance more than once you'll notice this is when things stop being straightforward and easy to judge.

The moment we enter a proper grey area is when Aziraphale asks why Mr Dalrymple doesn't acquire the bodies himself. This is a very valid question - while we might easily agree that studying the human body to further medical knowledge is a good thing, and with just the slightest hesitation admit that it's acceptable to resort to using stolen bodies if that is the only way the research may continue, it's not as easy to excuse taking advantage of the poor and the desperate to do the actual stealing that we know is very dangerous.

The moment we know without a doubt we are in a proper grey area is when Mr Dalrymple laughs at Aziraphale's concern.

Objectively, the surgeon is right that it's more effective if he doesn't risk his own life in the graveyard and uses his time on actual research, teaching students and saving lives. But it's also clear he doesn't exactly see people like Elspeth as actual human beings and feels he has every right to use them. On the one hand, he is paying, on the other, he happily benefits from the cruel class system and is not even one bit remorseful about it. On the one hand, he takes risks too, on the other he has a chance of rewards Elspeth will not benefit from. It's not the poorest whose lives will get bettered by the progress of medicine, even though they're the ones who pay with their lives for that progress. And if Mr Dalrymple gets lucky and is knighted for his work (we know he wasn't in the end but it was a possibility), the poor still won't be pardoned for stealing for him. Nevertheless, he has no issue with that.

As I said, things get nuanced.

Layer 4: it's different when it's someone you know

The thing actually happens in your life

I think you'll all agree that the turning point of the minisode is when Elspeth decides to sell Wee Morag's still warm body. This is what finally leaves us speechless.

That's because up until now we've been approaching the issue intellectually. It's not that we didn't care about the characters, but we were allowed to keep a safe distance. The whole thing was like a problem to be solved - "Is body snatching right or wrong? Discuss in 500-1000 words" - and everything we've learned so far was data for this assignment. I believe that one of the reasons why this detachment came naturally was that there was a very thick line between people involved in body snatching and the bodies that were being snatched. The former were, well, people, obviously. The latter were inanimate objects.

It isn't until Wee Morag is to be sold that we are forced to see a person in a dead body. This is also when real emotions enter the equation.

This shift forces us to question our judgment for the first time. It was easy to justify Elspeth when she was selling a nameless corpse. But the fact that she decided to sell her closest companion - and most likely lover - shocks us. Something inside us strongly objects to how quickly she makes the decision.

And then there's the transaction, and it is also different when it's someone we know. The fact that we knew Wee Morag fully exposes Mr Dalrymple for the heartless jerk that he is. The way he treats Elspeth is the absolute worst and if you haven't realized he was a hypocrite earlier, you should be disillusioned by now.

But at least Elspeth is not a hypocrite, right? It may seem cold that she sold Wee Morag but it just proves she simply believed it's all right to sell a dead body, doesn't it?

Well, about that...

Layer 5: it's different when it's you

You are forced to face the thing happening to you

This layer is reached when Elspeth plans her suicide and asks Aziraphale and Crowley to bury her "somewhere where no ghouls will ever dig her back up again".

It turns out Elspeth McKinnon really was a filthy liar.

Not long ago she was insisting that body snatching doesn't hurt anyone who isn't already dead, and asking why she should let Wee Morag rot in the ground when she starves. But she wants to make sure it doesn't happen to her own body. The idea that someone might dig her up terrifies her and she calls people who do it ghouls. So why was digging up other people okay again? Why should she rot in the ground while other people suffer? There were other people living in the street where she and Wee Morag hid. Why not ask Aziraphale to give the money to them? Or just anybody in need? Why not ask to sell her body as well and use the earnings the same way?

Also, if you look at it from a certain perspective, Elspeth betrayed Wee Morag in the worst possible way. Wee Morag believed that if someone's body gets cut, that person's soul cannot enter Heaven. Yet Elspeth sold her to Mr Dalrymple, claiming that Wee Morag would have wanted her to have the means to survive. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Wee Morag would have made that sacrifice. But then Elspeth decided to kill herself and use the money she got for Wee Morag's body for her own funeral.

But does it make Elspeth wicked? Certainly not. She's simply torn by grief. I seriously doubt she's been planning to commit suicide when she was taking Wee Morag to Mr Dalrymple. She might have genuinely tried to carry on but the reality of what happened caught up to her. Mr Dalrymple's cruel words certainly didn't help her cope with a personal tragedy. I even suspect one of the reasons she sold her friend was that she had no idea what else to do with a dead body.

Does this excuse her actions? Kind of, but not really.

Elspeth was a tragic character, not an innocent lamb with a heart of gold.

The point is - can any of us really judge her?

Which, coincidentally, is a question that the original Good Omens book toyed with quite a lot.

If you've reached this far, thank you for reading!

[exfil]

one of soap's defining character traits is righteousness. be it helping his comrades in al mazrah over the mission objective (are you saying we shouldn't have helped?) or walking into a cartel villa unarmed to bring down el sin nombre (we came here to stop a missile, so let's stop it), it is clear that his main motivation is to do the right thing. so is the protection of innocent people - soap is almost always the one who articulates the involvement of civilians (what happened to the families here? / they're innocent people. / he's killing civilians - his own people.)

for soap, in this righteousness, and in the protection of these innocent people, the threat and execution of violence is the right thing. killing is not the avoidable means to an end, but the objective - as long as the people killed are evil (my job is to kill the enemy. guess what you are). he shows a clear favoritism for vigilante justice (you're going down for what you did / makes me want to commit a few war crimes of my own / you will hang for this) and has to be actively dissuaded from executing people instead of having them face due process on multiple occasions (you can't be serious he is right here / i will blow your brains out i swear i will do it).

and it is soap who decides who is evil and who is not. while he and ghost condemn graves' killing civilians as putting himself above the law (he is jury judge and executioner now) soap justifies the killing of dozens of mexicans without jurisdiction as part of a foreign army due to their cartel involvement (there are no civilians here). he never judges the violence of his own allies, only the lack of it (should have killed him when we had the chance).

a seargant hell-bent on doing the right thing but operating with both a brutal reverence to violence as the only option and a morality of black and white that does not survive closer scrutiny. he is clearly not a good person - if the amount of people he killed in cold blood is any indication - but he not only thinks that he is good but can tell whether a person is good or not to the point that he sees himself as a rightful executioner. now that's a character!

[sy-on-boy]

My 2 cents on the plot / thematic relevance of Ch 95

This is not about advancing Plot B or showing Anya's school life (which is still true but has been discussed), but rather the overall theme of education and war. There was an excellent post about how Eden is at the frontline of the cold war and it is subtly shown through the innocent lens of the first graders (I can't find it now, would link it if I could). And I think that perfectly applies to Ch 95.

Quick recap on some references about education/students/war throughout the series (that I remember at the moment):

Sylvia gravely condemning the Berlint University Student Terrorists during the Doggy Crisis arc (Ch 20) and saying "did you learn nothing about war at your university?"

Henderson talking about his experience as a history teacher (Ch 27.5, Short Mission 4) and quote: "Yes, well, I have always maintained that there is nothing to be learned from the memorization of time lines. From the grand efforts with which our forefathers crafted society to the foolish notions that sent them racing to war, to not study the human element at history's root is to not understand history at all"

Note that Damian's best subject has been established to be history, and his family (father) has been involved in war, at least Donovan was PM during most of the war (established by Melinda in Ch 91). Donovan is also a graduated Imperial Scholar (Ch 64).

The Red Circus group started out as a peaceful student demonstration "advocating for peace and quality" (Ch 72) and "speaking out to protect the weakest members of our society". And Billy Squire said, "We were a respectable movement that fought for our cause with respectable means. It was the state that turned violent against us. So I'm not taking criticism from a member of the establishment (referring to Henderson, an educator). I'm gonna see to it that they reap what they've sown." Billy's daughter Biddy was killed by the state at a protest.

Less of a point, but Becky is the daughter of the CEO of a major military manufacturer. Despite their very likely involvement in military conflicts because they sell arms, the Blackbell cohort has been depicted positively so far: Becky being a kind, wonderful friend to Anya, Becky's father doting on her, and Martha again being kind and dignified (and also being an ex-soldier and acquainted with Henderson).

Eden Academy is a major setting for SxF and the themes of politics, education, and war are embedded in it. The students involved in protests/groups are older (the university students, Billy's daughter), but the political implications remain even among the youngest of the students— the first graders.

Hence, Ch 95. When mere first graders are shown to fight to gain connections, which can be political as pointed out by Henderson: "In the world of politics, dances serve as major social events". But of course, they are kids, so they see it more playfully and innocently, especially Becky with her shipper lens on.

Of course, there is also the aspect of getting to know other people better out of interest (the boys asking Anya and Becky to dance because they were impressed after the bus hijacking). But as people have mentioned, nobody mentions this to Damian despite him being equally involved in saving the class (all three of them got a star). The girls aren't interested in Damian as a person, they're interested in him as an asset because of his family and their power.

And I can see the teachers trying to diffuse the tension and create camaraderie with their friendly competition. To me, this reads as the teachers fully realizing "the battlefield of political maneuvering", and they want to remind the kids to have fun, to show good sportsmanship, to unite the kids, to operate as a class and be friendly with one another, and overall make it more lighthearted. It's nice to see the classes work together and get excited / win as a unit, especially compared to the more "individual" bits of fighting for a dance partner later.

We get a bit of comparison between Bill and Damian, with Bill showing good sportsmanship while Damian scoffs at him. But Damian ends up becoming ultra competitive and telling his classmates to not screw it up.

Like the Dodgeball chapter, Damian is clumsily attempting to lead the class by doing good in his quiz, while getting stressed and yelling at his peers when they don't succeed like he did. So he's not really a good leader. Like how him being good at history does not necessarily mean he is good at being peaceful (Short Mission 4 ends with Henderson staring in exasperation at Damian + Anya bickering with each other). But obviously, he is merely a child, and he is naturally immature.

At first Loid is all for advancing Plan B and analysed Anya's suitors in a rational (reductionist?) way by ranking them in terms of gaining intelligence, but he remembers this is just a dance, Anya is a kid, and she should do whatever she wants. Loid (and the adults) are very aware of the political side of the gala, but ultimately they want the kids to have fun and not worry / worry less about politics.

Because they're kids! They'll grow up and learn more and be politically active later, but right now, they're just kids. Kids who don't know much about the world but are eager to make the world a better place.

In the end, we get a panel of Anya and Loid "teaming up" to win Damian's hand for Plan B / world peace. The Damian-Anya dynamic is cushioned with the silly crushy feelings, but underneath it, Operation Strix continues to be a core motivation.

I find it interesting that Endo chooses to focus on the first graders and their innocent view of the world / politics. It's embedded everywhere and especially in a prominent school like Eden, but the kids don't really realise it / realise the severity of it. Heirs and heiresses are educated at Eden and grow up to have incredible influence and the power to shape the world. Our protagonist's best friend comes from a family that manufactures arms. Henderson mentions the importance of learning history to avoid making the same mistakes (ie. war).

So Ch 95 is a cute prom chapter. But I think it also helps to show the themes underneath the fun, bubbly interactions.

[inubaki]

Spell Book

Job 40:15-19

7 “Brace yourself like a man;     I will question you,     and you shall answer me.

8 “Would you discredit my justice?     Would you condemn me to justify yourself? 9 Do you have an arm like God’s,     and can your voice thunder like his?

10 Then adorn yourself with glory and splendor,     and clothe yourself in honor and majesty. 11 Unleash the fury of your wrath,     look at all who are proud and bring them low, 12 look at all who are proud and humble them,     crush the wicked where they stand. 13 Bury them all in the dust together;     shroud their faces in the grave. 14 Then I myself will admit to you     that your own right hand can save you.

15 “Look at Behemoth,     which I made along with you     and which feeds on grass like an ox. 16 What strength it has in its loins,     what power in the muscles of its belly! 17 Its tail sways like a cedar;     the sinews of its thighs are close-knit. 18 Its bones are tubes of bronze,     its limbs like rods of iron. 19 It ranks first among the works of God,     yet its Maker can approach it with his sword. 20 The hills bring it their produce,     and all the wild animals play nearby. 21 Under the lotus plants it lies,     hidden among the reeds in the marsh.

22 The lotuses conceal it in their shadow;     the poplars by the stream surround it. 23 A raging river does not alarm it;     it is secure, though the Jordanshould surge against its mouth. 24 Can anyone capture it by the eyes,     or trap it and pierce its nose?

——-

I was always fascinated by the idea of Adam becoming one of the Great Demons from Solomon. But this is mainly all I have time to make today. Sorry it’s bad. Maybe. Someday I can give it more justice. But I hope you all have an awesome day!

[natsarrownecklacx]

Listen To Your Princess

Princess Wanda Maximoff x Hand Lady Reader

Summary- Princess Wanda doesn’t like the way her people talk about people like her. People who love the way she does. She uses you to work through her frustration.

Word count- 2,699

Warnings- Homophobia (relevant to the time period), mention of beating and burning to death, Smut, eating out, fingering, pillow riding, masturbating, power play. Minors DNI (anything else lmk)

AU Masterlist

ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ

“The disease has taken another girl from the village.”

Wanda’s mother, Queen Iryna Maximoff, announces from her place at the table, as if she is sharing a grave piece of information. 

“The men found her in bed with another man’s wife. They did their duty. Beat and burnt them both to stop the disease from spreading.” Iryna’s words anger her daughter. It is not this so-called “disease” that is killing off the girls of the village but the idiotic men. Men who refuse to believe their wife’s get more pleasure and comfort from other women than from their husbands. 

Wanda keeps her eyes downcast, staring at the table as her parents continue talking amongst themselves. She counts down the seconds before she can excuse herself from the table and return to her chambers where you are. 

“We must hope none of our servant girls catch this disease, my love. It would be such a bother to replace them.” Wanda’s father, King Olek Maximoff, speaks from the head of the table, making Wanda’s blood boil. They would kill you if they knew your secret. They’d have the guards beat you and burn you in front of her, making her watch in hopes of “curing” her. Her hand tightens around her wine cup, her knuckles turning white with the strength she grips it with. She won’t let that happen. She won’t ever let anyone lay a hand on you. 

They wouldn’t kill Wanda of course. They need her alive, her fathers one and only heir to the kingdom. One day she will be queen. She will be expected to take a husband, to give him sons who will be her heirs. The notion is laughable. There is only one person Wanda intends to marry and that person is not a man. 

Sometimes, on days like today, when ignorant people speak of people like her as wrong, Wanda likes to imagine the day she will become queen. When she will have absolute power above the kingdoms. When she will use her power to stand before everyone and proclaim you as her queen and her kingdom a place where anyone can love and be loved.

“I’ve heard of a new treatment for the disease coming from the North.” Iryna says, a hint of relief in her voice.

No. Wanda knows what her mother is about to say. She’s heard of the same “treatment” herself. It makes it feel sick, fills her with rage. She wants to hang any person who’d dare try to “treat” another human that way.

“May I be excused?” Wanda asks, looking to her father. It’s been long enough now, she should be able to leave without either of her parents questioning why.

“You may.” Olek dismisses his daughter, waving her off with a flick of his wrist. She doesn’t waste a second, standing from her chair and pushing it in then making her way to her chamber to meet you.

————————————————————

Wanda pushes through her chamber door with the intention to grab you and fling you against the bed, to work through her current swirling storm of emotions by burying herself between your legs. However she can’t help but pause when she enters the room to see your smiling face.

“Princess.” You greet the brunette, curtsying as a sign of respect. “I’ve missed you.”

Wanda takes a deep, steading, breath, trying to hold in her emotions. She loves you. She really, truly loves you. How could that be wrong? How could anyone condemn your beautiful, kind and caring self to death simply because of the love she holds for you and you for her. 

“Princess?” You ask, seeing the inner turmoil written all over her face. You step toward her, wanting to offer any comfort you can. “Is everything alright?”

Your words snap Wanda back to her senses. Her anger toward the world and her parents coming back tenfold. She almost feels bad about what she’s about to do, standing there looking at the concern and love written over your face.

But she needs it. Right now she needs it more than she needs the blood in her veins or her claim to the throne. Plus she knows you’ll enjoy it, you always do.

“Get on the bed, y/n.” Her voice comes out deep, her accent thick on her tongue. Her dark, lust filled eyes trail over you as you do as told, sitting on the bed with no hesitation, your palms laying flat against your thighs, the way you know she likes.

“Such a good girl for me. Such an obedient girl for your princess.” Wanda praises you, closing the door before closing the distance between you. She runs her hands over your body, delighting in the quiet sounds that leave your lips.

Without taking her eyes off of you Wanda reaches behind you, pulling one of her plush, heavy pillows from the headboard and placing it in front of you. “Strip and get on top of it.”

You can’t help the noise that leaves your mouth at her command, nor the flood of arousal that settles between your legs. Despite both these things, your lover has never asked you to do this specific thing before and you can’t help but be hesitant. “Princess l-”

“Don’t you want to be a good girl y/n? Don’t you want to do as your princess commands you?” Her voice comes out demanding, but the look in her eyes is one of desperation. She needs this. Needs you to behave for her. 

Wanda’s hand comes up to stroke your face, giving you the silent comfort and encouragement you need to do as she says. “Go on now.” She says, patting the pillow in front of you. “Spread your legs over the pillow like a good girl. Make your princess proud.”

Her words cause heat to settle in your abdomen. You nod your head in compliance, bringing your fingers to unbutton your dress and removing it over your head. Once you sit bare before her you mount the pillow, looking her in the eye and wait for her next command.

Wanda steps back to admire the image before her. The sight of you naked and waiting in front of her has arousal pooling between her legs. She moves backward until she sits herself in a chair opposite the bed. She takes her time looking you over, ingraining the image in her mind, saving it away for a day when she cannot be near you.

“Move your hips, Dekta. Ride the pillow for your princess.”

At her command you begin to move your hips against the pillow, the friction of it against your clit causing a heat to flush through your body. Your hips move slowly against the fabric, allowing the languid movement to ease you into the new position. 

You don’t take your eyes off the princess as you continue your movements, even as quiet moans tumble past your lips. Your hands come behind you, resting just behind your back to give her a better view. You hear her breath hitch, her eyes darkening more, barley a sliver of green left visible. 

“Faster.” Wanda orders you, slipping her hand beneath her dress. Her fingers find her clit rubbing fast, tight circles over it. 

You do as she says, picking up the pace of your hips against the pillow. Your thighs threaten to squeeze shut at the pleasure it brings you, but you will yourself to keep them open. “Gods that feels good.” You moan out, your thighs shaking around the pillow. 

“That’s right baby, keep riding that pillow until you come like the good little slut you are.” Wanda orders breathily, slipping two fingers inside herself and grinding against the palm of her hand. Watching you fuck yourself as she orders turns her on more then she could have thought, the desire inside her building to a near uncomfortable level.

“Princess- Wanda- Oh gods. I’m going to cum.” You moan out, grating your hips harder against the cushion between your legs, the added friction pushing you right up to the edge.

“Go on baby. Come on your pillow like the whore you are.” Wanda picks up the pace of her fingers, intent on pushing herself over the edge at the same time as you. “F-fuck.” She moans, watching you fall apart in front of her. “Don’t stop, Dekta. Don’t stop until I’ve cum. I’m so close, Dorogoy.”

You continue to grind against the pillow, riding out your high until Wanda comes around her fingers, moaning loudly and keeping her eyes on you as she does so. 

The princess takes a minute to catch her breath, her eyes never leaving your panting figure. But her hunger returns tenfold when she sees you accidentally move against the object between your legs, a whimper falling from your lips at the stimulation.

“Lie down y/n. I’m not finished with you yet.” She orders, her voice leaving no room for debate. Wanda watches as you take in her words, as the uncertainty fills your eyes and you try to close your legs. “Ah, ah, ah, pretty girl. Lie down and spread your legs for your future queen.”

Wanda stands from her chair, riding herself of her dress as she walks toward you and joins you on the bed. She smirks in satisfaction, watching you do as she says, spreading your legs for her. “Good girl.” She mumbles against the inside of your thighs, leaving kisses and bites there, marking you as hers.

Wanda kisses her way up the inside of your thighs, leaving her marks as she goes until she reaches the apex of your thighs. She takes a second to look you over before moving forward, licking through your folds and sucking your clit into her mouth.

“Wanda.” You moan, burying your fingers in her hair to hold her close.

Hearing you moan her name reminds Wanda of the reason she has you in her bed, you specifically. Not just because she wants to feel, but because she loves you.

Then she remembers the words of her parents, the reason she has sought you out filled with frustrations in the first place. Without warning she plunges two fingers inside you, starting out with a fast, brutal pace, causing you to cry out.

She kisses her way up your body, leaving open mouth misses as she goes until she reaches your lips. She takes your bottom lip between her teeth, pulling it away from you as she listens to you whimper and moan. “Please, princess. Slow down.” You whimper, moving your hands to rest on her chest. Without thinking Wanda takes both your wrists in her hand, pinning them above you on the bed. 

“Wanda?” You ask but your words don’t reach her, her mind focused on the rage that swirls around her. “How can it be wrong for me to love you the way I do.” She asks herself, curling her fingers against the spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

Wanda continues her assault on that one spot, making your thighs shake and your back arch into her. “Wanda please.” You sob, the pleasure becoming to much for you. Your not sure if your begging her to stop or fuck you harder, but you can’t help yourself from begging. “Please, Wanda. Please.” She lowers her mouth, taking your nipple into her warm, wet mouth and sucking on it.

Wanda brings the palm of her hand to rest against your clit, grinding it against the bundle of nerves as she continues to move her fingers inside you. She releases your nipple from her mouth, a string of saliva following her as she moves up to mumble against your open, moaning mouth. “How can the way you squeeze around my fingers and cry out in pleasure be anything other than right.” The added pressure along with her words has you clamping down on her fingers, coming apart with her name on your lips.

Wanda continues to fuck her fingers into you at a hard, fast pace, only coming back to herself when she feels you pushing of her hand holding down your own. Her mind clears of its rage filled fog, her eyes focus on tears in your eyes, her ears on the whimpers and mules falling from your lips.

Panic sets into her bones, she hadn’t meant to hurt you, she’d just been so angry. At her parents, at the world. At herself for not wanting men the way she wants you, at you for making it so easy for her to love you.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry y/n.” Wanda stutters out, lunging forward to take you into her arms, flipping your positions so you lie on top of her. She continues to mummer apologizes against the crown of your head, weaving her fingers through your hair to sooth you, tears slipping down her cheeks the whole time.

Only when your body stops shaking and you wrap your arms around her does Wanda’s heart release itself from the vice grip her panic put on it.. “Shh, my love.” You whisper against her skin. “I’m alright, just overspent. You’ve not done anything wrong, it's okay.” 

“I’m so sorry, Dekta.” Wanda whispers into the room once more. You simply press a kiss against her shoulder in response, wordlessly accepting her apology.

The room is engulfed in silence for a minute as you both allow yourselves to catch your breath. You rest your head against her chest and use your fingers to draw shapes over her bare skin. 

“What happened, Wands?” You ask, no hint of judgment or resentment in your voice.  “I’ve never seen you like that before. I’m not complaining I just- you don’t seem quite alright.”

Wanda stiffens beneath you, the hand in your hair halting its movements for a second before picking up its momentum again. “Mother and father were talking about the “disease” that ravages the village again.”

“Hmm. What else?” You ask, nuzzling against her chest, tightening your hold on her.

Wanda stops. She stares at you with her mouth open, shock clear on her face. “What else? Y/n they talk about people like us as if we’re a plague to be wiped from the earth. As if my love for you means less because you are not a man.”

“Yes but they usually do. I’ve never seen it bother you this much.” You look up at her, your eyes narrowed at the woman you love. “What else was said?”

Wanda tightens her hold on your, pulling your body impossibly closer to hers. She can’t look you in the eye, how could she, her parents made clear that if they caught any of the servants presenting with symptoms of the “disease” they would have them killed. That includes you. How could she look into your beautiful eyes and tell you that her parents would have you beaten and burned if they ever found out what you feel for each other.

She can’t. She won’t. Because speaking the words would bring a truth to them all to real. She doesn’t want to entertain the idea of ever losing you that way.

“It doesn’t matter, my love.” Taking your chin between her thumb and forefinger, Wanda makes sure you look her in the eyes as she speaks her next words. “They are entitled to their opinions, Dekta. What they are not entitled to is forcing others to conform to them. They do not get to tell us our love is less or wrong because of who we are. Do you understand me?”

“I understand, princess.” You say, resting your head back against her chest, closing your eyes ready to let the exhaustion take you.

Watching you drift off to sleep in her arms Wanda decides she doesn’t care what she has to do, who she has to strike down, she’s going to make you her wife one day. She places a kiss to the crown of your head, listening to your even, sleepy breaths as she whispers into the room. 

“One day I’ll make you my queen, y/n. And no one in the seven kingdoms can stop me.”

ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ <3 ᗢ

A/n- I got the idea and wrote this so fast it hasn’t been proof read but here you go 🤲🏻