#it is time for decadence. indulgence. hedonism even

[hphedonismfest]

HPHedonism Fest Rules & FAQ

HP Hedonism Fest is a Harry Potter fandom festival for fanfiction & fanart dedicated to the theme of hedonism – all that is pleasurable. In our festival works we strive to explore all human lusts, urges, and appetites of more or less sinful nature. This is a strictly 18+ festival.

Prompting: March 17th - 30th Sign-ups: March 31st - August 9th Submissions Due: August 10th Posting: August 18th (the posting period is a subject to change depending on the number of the works submitted) More under the cut.

You might not be sure what hedonism even means. Well, in the world of our fanworks it is all about indulgence, pleasure, and the pursuit of sensory, emotional, and physical satisfaction in all its forms. Whether it’s carnal desire, excess, indulgence, or the thrill of the forbidden, this fest is here to celebrate it all. Possible themes and kinks that fall under the umbrella of hedonism include (but are not limited to):

Somnophilia – The allure of desire while one partner is in a state of sleep or semi-consciousness Intoxication kink – Exploring the effects of alcohol, potions, or other substances in heightening pleasure and lowering inhibitions Sensory overload & deprivation – The intense pleasure of heightened sensations or the thrill of being deprived of one’s senses Exhibitionism & Voyeurism – The excitement of being watched or watching others in intimate moments Power dynamics – From dominance and submission to authority figures indulging in their deepest desires Indulgence & decadence – The luxurious side of pleasure, whether it’s fine dining, silken sheets, or an over-the-top, lavish rendezvous Taboo & Forbidden Desires – The thrill of stepping beyond social norms into the realm of the unthinkable Feeding kink – The eroticism of feeding or being fed or gaining weight, often tied to themes of control, indulgence, and sensory pleasure Food kink – The incorporation of food into intimate moments, playing with texture, taste, and the messiness of indulgence

This is a space for dark, delicious, and delightfully indulgent works, and we can’t wait to see what you create!

Rules & FAQ

What is the minimum length requirement for a fic? All fic entries must have a minimum of 500 words. There is no maximum word count.

Do I have to use a fic beta? Although it is always preferred, betas are not a must. 

What ratings are allowed? Anything from G to E is allowed (G-NC-17).

Are threesomes/moresomes allowed? Absolutely. The more the merrier? And doesn't maximalism just scream hedonism? 

Are all genres allowed? Yes. We want it all, angst, fluff, space AU! As long as your characters enjoy their endeavours to the fullest!

Is dead dove allowed (both for prompts and final works)? Yes. Since all the ratings are allowed, and dead dove falls within the M or E category, it is absolutely allowed, whether it is submitted as a prompt or a final work. If you wish to sign up for our fest, please remember that because this fest is open to dealing with mature subjects (and possible dead dove), you might come across such a prompt in our prompt list which is left completely uncensored. We expect all participants to take responsibility for curating their own experiences within the fest. 

I like more than one prompt, may I claim more than one? Of course! However, we do require you to finish your first prompt before claiming a second.

Can I claim my own prompt? Yes! Self-prompting is allowed. You can either leave it to destiny, submit a prompt and then try to claim it hoping you are the first one to request it, or you can opt to sign up by requesting “creator's choice” which is a self-prompt, that you might need to specify a little in your reply to the confirmation email for the fest mods. 

How many times may a prompt be claimed? Each prompt can only be claimed once for each type of media. This means one prompt can be claimed twice only if it's for fic and for art. No two fics or two artworks can be made for the same prompt.

How many prompts can I submit? As many as you can come up with. The more the better. A large and varied selection of prompts is never a bad thing. For every new prompt you have to submit a new form.

Can I claim a prompt even if I haven’t submitted one? Yes. Submitting a prompt is not a requirement for claiming one.

Can I submit a prompt(s) even if I’m not going to write for the fest? Of course!

May I submit a story which is part of an existing series or a WIP?There should be no WIPs. When you submit the story, it needs to be complete (it can be either a one-shot or a multi-chapter, but it has to be finished). If you decide to write more after the fest is over, that’s absolutely allowed!

Are non-magical AUs allowed? Absolutely, we support any and every universe you can come up with. 

I finished my entry early. May I submit it early? After you have finished your fic, you can upload it on the ao3 collection yourself (the link goes here). Once you have submitted the first entry, you can fill out the claim form again, requesting the second entry.

Will you grant extensions? Of course! If you find you need an extension, or even think you may need an extension, please email us.

I need to drop out. What should I do? In case you can’t finish, need to drop out (whatever the reason, we understand RL and muses get in the way), please email us on hphedonismfest@gmail.com as soon as possible.

All works will be posted on our fest ao3 collection. This is not an anonymous fest, but there will be a posting schedule - works will most likely be posted at different times than their submission. Please add the account of hphedonismfest as a co-author, so we can change the posting date (which will most likely be different to your work submission date) to the correct one to ensure the most visibility (your work will come up at the top of the ao3 search if it has the current posting date). You can remove the hphedonismfest account once the fic is posted and it appears on your own account. 

The mods also reserve the right to add tags to your work to ensure all necessary content warnings are in place. If this happens, you will get a courtesy notification email about it. What does this mean? We won’t add general tags like top/bottom or tall/short, etc. We will only make sure potential triggers are tagged properly, e.g. non-con, violence, etc…

~~~

[iriemorning]

maybe we should read less, and watch less

it radically sucks to be a primary witness to the literacy rate dwindling in my generation of cyberslackers and doomscrollers. but the fault is not on them. technological advancements over the past decades have helped creatives and artists to produce work more efficiently, and as of late, there are still thousands of books and movies being launched every day.

but the quality is somehow almost always lacking.

marketing also plays a crucial role. if i could somehow summarize the current phenomena we live in in a single word—it’s what "ticks." dictionary refers to it as a regular short, sharp sound, especially that made by a clock or watch. first, there’s TikTok, the hotbed of trends. then there’s the personalized ‘for you’ algorithm on our social media accounts. songs are getting shorter. everything is shortened and timed and personalized. for a business to prosper, you must catch the attention of a bypasser in a single ‘tick’ or else you lose momentum in the sea of shortness.

time hasn’t changed. clocks still function the same a century ago. so where's the problem? in the endless production of pointless content that we all take for granted. there’s a lot to choose from but not everything is worthy to be consumed.

all of these stemmed from me watching a movie that left me hanging dry because there was no real resolution at the end. it bothered me so much that i began to question the writers, producers, directors, actors, staff who were behind it and let it happen. especially the executives who greenlighted the idea. time and effort and money are non-biodegradable so to waste them to produce another waste baffled me even in my sleep.

the literacy rate is down already, but maybe we should read less, and watch less.

that’ll teach them.

but it’s hard to just gang up like that when the trending hobbies these days is to binge and splurge—eating, watching, reading, shopping. the dopamine spree is limitless (or so it looks). not to toot my own horn, i also love indulging, but it’s precisely why im so annoyed about it. we are all stuck in this web of hedonism.

what drives me even crazier are those who quantify these trendy hobbies into a badge of honor. oh, a movie every day? you’ve read 150 books this year? [read: to all the self-proclaimed bibliophiles and cinephiles out there—who treat reading books and watching movies like a rat race, and belittle those not as widely exposed to the classics and canon as them] ask some of them what they learned, and they can barely make up intelligible concepts.

that’s the biggest concern: all input, no output.

there’s a lot we can learn about what we choose to consume, so to come out of the cinema and close the book without your life being changed in some way is depressing. it’s the postmodern tragedy we can save ourselves from before it’s too late.

every piece of art and media can serve as a tool and guide to life. it’s in our own volition to choose quality works over quantity, and utilize them to improve our living in some way or another.

every time we read and watch something, we must contribute and give back something equally meaningful. put it out into the world. write, compose, speak out. that’s where energy flows

not just consuming mindlessly like zombies.

[the-bats-who-simp]

Upon Holy Ground

Chapter 1: Magnolia

A Bat Coven LLC Production

Co-authored by @the-bats-who-simp and @alwaysyourshenry

Warnings: Very light smut (kissing, titty touches, etc.)

Ajax rubbed his back, sore with old age as often happens. He looked sightlessly out on the town fondly, feeling the chill on his face that almost felt like an old friend at this point if not for the small freezing bites it gave him. He remembered his mother, one of the very last women to give birth during the last summer. Her face was always clear in his head, even if the background faded away with the years. His memory could only do so much good. His hair and beard were streaked with silver, his eyes wise and as blue as the summer sky he was born under.

On his back he carried his granddaughter, too young to wear the heavy snow shoes they all had to wear to get around the town. In front of him, sled dogs, happy and rolling around in the snow. For as long as he could remember, it was his job to help distribute food amongst the town. It was a group effort, of course, everybody helped out where they could all things considered. It was in their nature to be considerate and selfless, part of the teachings and values they’d been raised by. Helping those in need, treat others with respect and you’ll receive respect in return. That is, of course, not to say hedonism was frowned upon, far from it. One could indulge and be selfless at the same time. Those two things weren’t mutually exclusive.

Ajax now carried the last of the bread. His grandson, Everest, had made it in the bakery in the middle of town with the last of the ingredients from the last excursion beyond Paradiso’s borders. Not even the cold could get rid of the warmth of a freshly made loaf, perhaps through divine intervention or the insulated carriers he used.

The Preacher and the head of the town, Jamie, was currently out gathering more food though. They always timed it so that they’d always return with fresh supplies the moment the last load had run out. They made sure to make every scrap of fabric and bit of grain worthwhile, not a single bit was put to waste. This time, Jamie left with three of his witches. Eva, Theresa, and Mars. They each had their own specialties that helped the gathering of food, medicine, and other supplies, which was why they were often the ones to go on these extensive trips.

Sometimes other witches would go instead of those three to have time beyond the perpetually frozen stretches of land and time. They’d pile into Jamie’s beat up old truck from the early 1970s with burlap sacks that could carry more than they appeared to and leave for a week or two depending on the necessity. It only happened at most four times a year; Jamie was always very good about cataloging exactly what was needed and how that supply could be made to stretch. It wasn’t the perfect living like the name of the town suggested it would be, but they made it work. In Jamie’s stead, Nora became the new head of town as the oldest official witch amongst them.

Nora always stood at the helm of the ship, so to speak, and now led with great confidence and wisdom. Her eyes glowed golden with divine power, a remnant of the blazing hot sun that used to threaten to burn their beautiful Paradiso to the ground, beautiful pastel shotgun houses and all.

Ajax’s granddaughter, Vivian, named after her godmother, covered Ajax’s snow blind eyes. He had never seen her beautiful face, nor that of his wife, daughter, and grandson. The eternal winter had taken more than just heat and carefree mobility from the villagers over the decades. Back in the beginning, snow came to Paradiso only rarely and only for short periods of time. Nobody knew what the proper steps to take were, so several people suffered. Frostbite, chill-borne sickness, and snow blindness. It saddened Ajax that his children and grandchildren had never known life before. He wasn’t sure how many of his line would never see summer blooms and greenery, if they ever would again. Everyone prayed daily that the summer would someday come back, but as of now, it showed no signs of its return.

Vivian (the Younger, as her godmother and namesake had called her) giggled, sitting high upon Ajax’s back as he climbed up the tall walk to his small, shotgun house, painted a nice robin’s egg blue with white trim. The paint was peeling and the wood was slightly bloated with years of gradual water damage. Even if Ajax couldn’t see it, he knew it was there. It was part of the house’s charm, he said, every single scar bearing a story as they often did. From outside, he could hear the laughter of the town's children, whom his beautiful wife, Athen, often babysat. She had always loved children, and even at her age, she could keep up with the young ones with ease save for the occasional crick and pulled muscle. Other symptoms of the oncoming twilight years of life.

As soon as Ajax walked in, the horde of children scurried over to meet him. They called his name, grabbing his hands and pant legs and dragging him over to a plush rocking chair in the corner.

“Please,” one of the children called, “tell us the stories!”

Ajax could feel the heat emanating from the lightbulb in the tall lamp behind him, reminding him of the stories his mother would tell.

“It was a long time ago,” he started, feeling their eyes on him as they all sat around his feet, “The sun was blazing hot. Everyone in town had sweat creeping down their brow. My mother, Harlow, was one of the very last to give birth before the snow fell. She said that it was so hot in the house that she gave birth to me in an ice bath.”

The children ‘ooed’ and ‘ahhed,’ fascinated by someone who wanted to be cold. They shivered, even with the heat all the way up in the tiny little house. Many of them wore hand-knitted jumpers made by their god parents. The cold was always there, always permeating. It was hard to escape, but they made do. By now it seemed normal.

“And tell us about Jamie!” One girl from the back smiled, clearly having a little childhood crush on the town’s beloved Preacher. Many did, regardless of age or gender. He was a charming man, bearing hair of spun gold and eyes of ocean blue. His smile was the closest thing to sunlight many of them saw most days.

“He was a different man back then, from what I gather.” Ajax said, remembering the blazing heat of the last summer five decades past. The coven had always tried to be transparent about problems in the spirit of integrity and also understanding the villagers weren’t stupid. The flock could always tell when things were going sideways and it was better for everyone to remain honest and maintain that trust. “He has changed a lot for the better. Did you know, Auntie Lili used to be one of his wives?”

All the children gasped, some even pretended to faint. Paradiso’s children tended to have a flair for the dramatic; most of the witches did anyway and that was a behavior very easily replicated.

“It’s true. Then Jamie’s brother came to town and Lili fell in love with him. You know how we’re always taught that love can happen at random with anybody? They’re a testament to that fact.” Ajax continued.

“We all thought that their squabbling was the cause of the Long Winter, but the longer it stretched, the less we were sure that’s what it was.” Athen put in, wiping her hands dry with an old green dish towel. Dinner would be ready soon, the smell of the roast starting to permeate through the house. It made it seem a little warmer inside.

“It caused the heatwave for sure, though.” Ajax added.

“So why is it always cold?” Vivian the Younger asked.

“We don’t know.” Athen said, shrugging her shoulders and sitting on the armrest of Ajax’s chair. “The witches have been trying to figure it out for years with no luck. Mother Juliet willing, someday they’ll figure it out and be able to bring summer back. It’s tragic you children don’t know the joys of swimming in the lagoon or enjoying a sunset in a fully bloomed flower field. I’m even surprised I miss sunburns and sweating during service. It all seems so long ago now.”

“I’m sure someday you’ll see the sun again, darling.” Ajax said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it gently. She squeezed back, resting her body up against his shoulders. Athen looked out the window and let out a great sigh as her husband continued monologuing. Fresh flurries had started floating their way down as the sky grew darker. Night was approaching. She missed the sun, missed when the moon wasn’t just a pale blur in the sky. She missed a lot of things. It was important to be grateful for what they did have, though. Their health, a wonderful horde of children to care for, grandchildren, a place to live, the protection of their witches…

Just not summer.

***

“Viv, hold still, you’re making the line work shakey.” Lili said, using her arm to keep Vivian’s right calf pinned down in her lap, very carefully dragging the thin green Sharpie marker along her skin, now covered in a coil of ivy wrapping all the way around multiple times.

“But I have to move! It’s getting uncomfortable!” Vivian protested, stretching her arms out at her sides, one resting against the back cushions of the sofa they were sitting on.

“If this was real, there’d be no taking it back. You want tattoos, you have to learn to sit still.” Lili chastised, completing the outline of another leaf.

“I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to take breaks when getting tattoos. Besides, Jamie won’t get us ink, so it’ll never be permanent for the foreseeable future.”

“And for good reason, it’s a luxury we shouldn’t waste our resources on when we have a village to feed and clothe, and he knows we’d all start putting half-mad scribbles on ourselves.”

“Yeah because he knows he’d start doing the same thing.” Vivian sat up, yet kept her leg on Lili’s lap. “But I want my roses!”

“You’re such a child, you’ll get your roses when we can afford the ink… and the patience to put up with your hyperactive ass.” Lili waved the marker in Viv’s face as if that proved her point. Vivian put on a mask of indignance as she took the marker out of Lili’s hand.

“Excuse me, Lili, I can sit very still when I know it’s actually a life or death situation. You’re using markers, not needles.”

“You think tattoos are life or death?”

“Not literally, I’m just saying when I know moving would be a bad idea, I can hold still. Sharpie is hardly a permanent decision in comparison.” Vivian let out an impish grin as she shifted her grip on the uncapped marker and drew a green heart on Lili’s cheek. The other witch balked, snatching the marker back.

“Viv! What the hell?” She snapped, wiping her cheek in vain in hopes it would get the marker off. All it did was smudge the ink, making the mark worse. “God, you’re so insufferable sometimes.”

“You love it though.” Vivian said, grinning triumphantly. Lili scrunched her nose in annoyance, getting up close to Vivian’s face with a glare.

“It doesn’t look professional.” She protested.

“Who even cares, we’re not holding service. It looks adorable… and it’ll wash off.”

“I swear to god, one of these days, I’m gonna–” Lili started before she was cut off by Viv lunging forward, kissing her hard. Startled, Lili let the momentum push her back against the sofa’s armrest, Vivian refusing to break away. She only kissed Lili harder, pinning her down with her body weight as one hand gripped her jaw, the other holding Lili’s hip. She felt the whine escape Lili’s lips, making her smirk as she pushed her tongue past Lili’s lips, deepening the kiss. Lili’s arms came up, wrapping around the back of Vivian’s neck to pull the blood haired witch closer to her. The lip colors they were wearing began to smear against each other, a mix of Vivian’s bright red with Lili’s dark plum shade.

“I’m surprised you didn’t pounce sooner…” Lili said breathlessly as Vivian briefly broke the kiss for air. Vivian smirked down at Lili, snaking her hand underneath Lili’s sweater to teasingly caress her breasts.

“I did say I could hold still if I wanted to.” She purred, pulling the sweater off and kissing down Lili’s neck, her teeth gently scraping against the skin. Lili sighed, tangling her fingers in Vivian’s hair the lower the other witch’s mouth went. She had to give credit where it was due, Vivian was notoriously bad at restraining herself from physical pleasures. Her drive and stamina had been the source of many jokes and gentle jabs at her expense over the years. She chose to wear it like a badge of honor, having come from a repressed upbringing that forbade even thinking about anything of the sort. Lili couldn’t find it in her to shame her for it, especially not when she was particularly skilled at what she did.

Vivian’s mouth reached Lili’s breasts, giving a gentle kiss to each one before shooting back up to resume kissing Lili, the open mouthed kisses hot and heavy. Lili moaned against Viv’s lips, her leg moving to wrap around Vivian’s waist and pull her closer. Vivian just smirked, her hand starting to snake down between Lili’s legs. Her fingers ever so gently brushed against the wet mound, searching for the elastic band of her panties to play with.

“Oh… oh, Vivvy… you–” Lili moaned breathily before being cut off.

“I should know by now to not leave you two alone with each other.” A deep voice spoke up, knocking Lili out of her blissed reverie. Her head turned, seeing Alexander leaning on the doorframe of the living room with his arms folded, an amused smirk on his face. Vivian paused her movements, pouting.

“I can’t help it when she looks so tempting!” She protested. Alex just chuckled, approaching the pair with a teasing smile.

“You think everything’s tempting, little rose. You’re almost worse than my brother. Now, would you kindly let me have my wife back?” He said. Vivian paused before smirking, reaching back down and pulling Lili’s damp panties off in a swift motion. She held them between two fingers almost triumphantly for Alexander to see, an impish grin on her face.

“I would, but look at that wet spot my girlfriend made because of me.” She said. Alexander snatched the undergarments away, towering above Vivian with his own smirk.

“You forget I can do the same thing to her… and you, little rose… In fact, if I recall last night correctly…”

Vivian flushed. “You know that just means that Jamie’s going to go extra hard with ‘reclaiming’ me once he gets back… as he usually does.”

“I know, and that’s clearly why you do it.” Alexander chuckled, picking Lili up in his arms and sitting her in his lap, pulling her sweater back over her head and letting her rest her head against his shoulder. Vivian folded her arms and pouted petulantly next to them, although she had a hard time keeping her face straight.

“I’m a ravenous woman.” She said, toying with Lili’s ink black hair, which had grown out long. Lili giggled, burying her face in the crook of Alex’s neck. He smiled, wrapping his arms around her tenderly and planting a small kiss to her forehead.

***

The old model, faded-red pickup truck was heavy with supplies as it made its way back into the town border. One moment, the path was full of trees, the next, an empty vast wasteland of white. It filled him with the same dred as a blank white page does for an artist with no inspiration. He rolled up the truck windows, Mars and Eva sang together to the truck radio, their voices lilting together in an enchanting harmony. Jamie smiled, his partners always sounded so beautiful together.

He shifted the truck into four wheel drive to climb up the snow covered hill. He looked over at the new passenger next to him, her hair a mix between honey and strawberry blonde. Her eyes an enchanting blue just like his. But, her eyes reminded him of flowers, almost the exact same shade as a cornflower.

He smiled at her, her cornflower eyes were wide with wonder as she looked around at all the snow. He could tell how desperately she wanted to play in it, not yet understanding how cold and biting the eternal winter was. He drove for a while, glancing over at her every now and then. Taking in the wonder in her large sad eyes. The old red backpack in the back of the truck held everything she owned. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and took a selfie with Jamie, tilting her body so he could still focus on the road.

“Smile!” she said enthusiastically.

And so he did, he put on one of his most charming smiles, turning away from the road for a second so she could snap the picture before he turned back. She set the picture as her phone lock screen before putting her phone back in her pocket with a smile.

With some effort on the poor truck’s part, Jamie pulled up to the church on the top of the hill. He’d put chains on the tires to help with traction, but in his mind he knew he would need to replace them soon. The tires too, perhaps. Nothing here was necessarily built for the snow, let alone for as long as it had endured. Plants couldn’t grow, the animals burrowed where they could… the feel of an eternal summer had long since eluded them. They all spilled out of the truck like water, taking in the surroundings. He saw the young woman pull her– his– jacket tighter around herself as the chill started nipping at her face.

Her name fell from his beautiful pink lips so easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world, “Magnolia? Would you head inside the church please? There is a surprise waiting inside for you.” He couldn’t tell if the red in her cheeks was from the cold, or reacting to his cadence.

So Magnolia obliged. She carefully walked up to the big sodden church doors and pulled against them until they unlatched and swung open. Inside were three people. Two women that looked reasonably close to Magnolia’s age and a man that bore a striking resemblance to Jamie even through his beard and wire glasses.

Not the surprise she was expecting, certainly, but they smiled at her, pleased to see her. Almost as if they had known her for years, as if they loved her. If Magnolia was put off by it, she certainly didn’t show it.

She smiled back, “Hi, I'm Magnolia!”

The man spoke first, “I am Alexander,” he introduced himself before he gestured to Lili and Vivian, “This is my wife Lili, and that’s Vivian. We are so glad to have you here with us, Magnolia. Welcome to the coven.”

“Coven? Like…witches?” Magnolia asked, her head slightly cocked to the side. Jamie saw Vivian furrow her eyebrows in a similar expression of confusion. Apparently he hadn’t done much explaining before claiming this new girl, bringing her to the town she’d now call home.

“Yes, exactly. Witches. Just like you.” Lili smiled warmly, contrasted by her eyes glowing mysteriously. Entrancing as always.

[morgana-ren]

Absolutely would love more detail on Ilya!

Well, for starters, his name isn't even Ilya-- It's Altaan. He just fucking despises that name and will flay you for using it. Ilya is his middle name and he vastly prefers it if you’re not using honorifics. 

He’s the son of a powerful warleader and his stolen concubine, and the eighth born prince to his father’s conquered empire. He is the only one of his father’s sons that wasn’t born to one of his wives and therefore the only one that wasn’t trueborn, and that made him the outcast, and being outcast essentially defined him. However, his dad ran more of a meritocracy, so he had just as much chance as his brothers and generals to prove himself.

And prove himself he did. 

Forged in fire and bitterness and hate, Ilya became an extremely competent military commander and master of all manner of weaponry despite an extremely slow and gentle start. City after city he took, showing no mercy after giving the people one single chance to surrender before his arrival to ‘save him time.’ Underhanded and cruel, regions fell before him– some without him even having to step foot in them. 

Decadent and ostentatious, Ilya doesn’t quite look the part of strategic military genius. Indulgent silk robes and flashy jewelry and a very clean, kempt appearance you’d expect more from a stuffy noble. He wears his sleek, dark hair very long, opting to have servants braid it and tuck it beneath a trademark hat rather than cut it or wear it in a more practical manner. He prefers vivid, flashy colors and ‘armor’ for him is specially forged metal plating that goes over his opulent robes. His entire strategy is ‘don’t get hit and you don’t need armor.’ 

That really embodies his entire gimmick. 

He’s a risk-taker. Huge gambles with huge payoffs that he rigs in his favor. He is underhanded and ruthless and will utilize whatever means necessary to win. He can best you on and off the battlefield, and he will fight dirty. If that means threatening your wife or having his way with her, so be it. He knows the strings that the heart tugs and he can play them like a harp. He’s remarkably intelligent and resourceful and manipulative, and he’s damn charismatic, especially to people who only see skin-deep. Educated and exceptionally sharp as well. His mind is a better weapon than his spear, and he will slit your throat with both. 

Ilya is beautiful and he is well aware of that fact. Features almost feline in nature, with dark almond eyes and an ever-present sly smile. Olive-toned skin and a condescending air about him. He appears very regal and arrogant, and you’d be correct in that assumption. Long, lanky limbs and a willowy frame that finally grew into elegance. It’s that very beauty that hides the rot and cruelty of what he has become. He’s a master at being whatever you need him to be to get what he needs from you, whether it’s gentle and soft or forlorn and lonely. He can channel any part of himself at all and that mask will never crack.

The best physical representation of Ilya I can think of is actually Batu Khan from Phobs looks almost uncannily like him, which funny enough, I found trying to write him. I would put a picture here but I’m not sure they want their work attached to this kind of writing. I’ll put a link to the pintrest if anyone is interested in getting a feel for him.

He is debauched and every part a man who fed the abyss inside of him with hedonism. Wine, women, and blood. His honor-less behavior embarrased and disgusted his father and eventually Ilya’s disgraceful behavior had a final straw at his brother’s funeral. His father and Ilya became estranged, and Ilya took on his own banner, leaving the previously conquered territories as a final insult. 

At the height of his power, however, Ilya died. Disappeared, and only his closest men know what happened. It broke his father’s heart. 

Thing about men like Ilya is that they don’t die easily. And he didn’t. 

Ilya went to hell. Ilya was useful to Hell’s current regime and they offered him a deal and he took it. And it was there he stayed for hundreds of years until Nightmare came back.

Ilya now serves under Nightmare, having been the catalyst and turning point for his rebellion to overthrow the archduke, treacherous little bastard that he is. He is also now one of Nightmare’s closest friends. Having been robbed of his autonomy and pleasure for hundreds of years, Ilya had plenty of time to come to understand exactly what he thinks is important– and spoiler, it’s still wine and women and blood. He has learned nothing. 

He is still the same conniving, weaselly little bastard he was when he died, but worse. Years in Hell working under some bastard will do that to you. Now he is part devil, and he revels in it. History never found out what happened to the prince Altaan Ilya Boldbaatar, but he’s happy to remind them. He has a place on the surface where he dwells in opulence, searching and searching for something to scratch the itch inside of him– or inside of someone else. 

Ilya doesn’t want the crown and he doesn’t want a throne; He never did. He craved love once but he’d tell you that part of him is gone. What he wants is pleasure, and power untold to do whatever and wherever his whims desire. What is life if you don’t enjoy it? Whether it’s at the bottom of a bottle of vodka or deep inside a sweet girl, wherever you find your pleasure, take it. 

Ilya embodies your worst desires, and your desire to rationalize them. He is intelligence and power without conscience. Selfishness and horror wrapped in a brightly colored, lovely gossamer blanket. He’s the voice in your ear that tells you it’s okay and then encourages you to go further. He is the pitiful voice that tells you that you deserve this, consequences be damned. He is the beauty that masks utter horror. 

Ilya has the worst qualities of the three as that’s how he was born. He is educated and intelligent, but arrogant and snide, and decadent and self-serving unless he likes you. Condescending and cruel and intentionally taunting. He plays with emotions the way some play a fiddle. He will toy with you like a cat would an injured mouse. Capable of atrocities with a smile on his face. 

Ilya will catch you at a museum and play the part of the shy, clumsy man who can’t meet your eye but knows so much and you like him for some reason. You will trust him, even as something tells you that you shouldn’t. You will ignore the nails that are too long, the teeth that are too sharp, the voice that is too smooth– too calculated to truly be helpless. By the time you see the horns blossom through his hair, it’s far too late. It was always too late. 

And that’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever written, and I’ve written the cheesiest shit known to man. 

He has a very elaborate backstory and all that, but I started typing that out again and went 'who cares' so I gave you the quick version-- and the quick version is still ALL that.

Here's the pintrest if you like him. I'm always happy to talk about him or develop him, truthfully. I don't really create OCs that matter; I only have three and he's one of them. Fucking around with OCs when you're an author for preestablished characters is an exercise in foolishness most of the time, but you know he loves the attention.

[explorya88]

Years? Decades? Centuries? How long has it been, since we conquered the world and fashioned it in our image, now I'm visiting my daughter in her domain

Dracaena: Hi dad.

Tyrant Darius: My daughter! How are you doing?

Dracaena: I am fine, father, always diligent to protect the pit of pleasure that allows us to be immortal, even if it is redundant.

Tyrant Darius: Better safe than sorry, I will not underestimate even the smallest threat, like Kozholok. I don't want to repeat his mistake.

Demon Slave: My mistress the lunch is ready.

Dracaena: Let's go to enjoy the finest meats from the breeding camps of my wives Yvette and Vinca, who are currently projecting their improvements.

Tyrant Darius: Ah, good, the lunch is ready. Let us enjoy this fine meal together, and we can spend time discussing the state of the world and how everything is going. I know that Wrath and her Speed devil army are dominating the roads of the whole world.

Dracaena: And her wife Onyx is currently punishing some ungrateful slaves with exquisite nightmares that she promised to teach me later.

Tyrant Darius: Ah, excellent, it seems that our fellow Demon Deities are doing well and doing what they love. That is good to know. I am sure we will all continue to enjoy this world together in pleasure and delight.

Dracaena: Cal and Jezebel are enjoying gambling by using the souls of the rebels they captured as chips, since it is what our enemy deserve. Avi is currently hunting the rest of them down.

Tyrant Darius: Ah, I see. It seems that things are under control and that all of our forces are doing well in this new world we have created.

After finishing their luxurious meal, they sat on their sofas and enjoyed the moans, shouts, and screams of the sextoys who were broken beyond insanity and engaged in a never-ending orgy of pleasure and ecstasy. These sex toys were unable to understand anything else in this world, as pleasure and ecstasy were the only things that they could feel and desire. A warphole suddenly appeared in the pit of pleasure, and several broken sextoys began to tumble out. Dracaena looked at the broken sextoys with annoyance and said.

Dracaena: Geez, the Collins demon pack could be more delicate with the sextoys, producing them is easier said than done.

Tyrant Darius smiled and said.

Tyrant Darius: Don't worry, I will tell them and their wives about this.

He shook his head at the mess that had been created by the Collins demon pack and their rough handling of the sextoys.

Dracaena: Now that we have named them, what they and their wife have been doing?

Tyrant Darius: Lazareth and Malakai are writing our glorious story, while Delilah is indoctrinating the next generations on how to worship us, their demon deities.

They reviewed the activities of each of their family and how they were working to sustain and expand their new world of pleasure and hedonism. They also reviewed the ways in which how Delilah is handling the demonic forces in indoctrinating the mortal races and leading them to worship them in order to further solidify their control over this new world.

Dracaena: What are Quillain and Nahara doing?

Tyrant Darius: Ah, well, Quillain is seeking out those souls that are broken beyond redemption and trapping them in his shadow realm to give them peace. With no hope left for them, their pain will end in his realm. Nahara, meanwhile, is maintaining the flora and fauna of this world to make sure that everything remains in balance and harmony. She is also ensuring that the living beings are still following the laws of nature, even in this hedonistic world of delight and carnal pleasure otherwise they won't be fun to use them. And last, but not least, is my friend and advisor Aeshdeo enjoying his vacation?

Dracaena: Ah, yes, he is currently in the pit of pleasure, indulging himself with the broken sex toys for pleasure, food, and amusement.

They shared a laugh at the thought of Aeshdeos antics in the pit of pleasure, enjoying the broken sextoys for his own hedonistic pursuits. They both knew that Aeshdeos was not a mere advisor and friend, but rather a powerful archdemon in his own right, and that he was enjoying the power and pleasure that this new world offered. This world certainly had its pleasures, and Aeshdeos was certainly taking full advantage of them, making use of the broken sex toys for his amusement and enjoyment. This was only one of many things that the powerful demon was doing in this realm.

Tyrant Darius: Now I shall go home, my wife is about to birth more of our children.

Dracaena: Very well, father, have a pleasant day.

Tyrant Darius warped back to his chambers, where his wife, with the help of their slaves, were giving birth to more of the demon children. The babies would continue to propagate their lineage and create more of the powerful, hedonistic demons and dark virtues, Tyrant Darius would continue to enjoy their reign over this new world full of pleasure and carnal delight with his family and friends.

THE END.

[amaranthnymph]

Just some venting, so plz ignore unless you wanna read my weird thoughts and whatnots

I was feeling fucking INSANE and MANIC all weekend and really down on myself because of my appearance, where I am in life right now, dealing with feelings of loneliness, and had some just bizarre thoughts about, like, becoming a party gay and doing hard drugs and anything to like radically change my life and myself and live a life like all these big city gays who glamorize their lives with travelling and going to clubs and shit.

Seriously, I was having kind of an enormous meltdown and I’m glad one of my bestest friends helped to ground me with some hard truths and advice, but I guess in the end, what I really wanna know is, like, WHY did I feel any of that? I have NEVER even entertained the idea of dipping my toes in the circuit gay/party gay lifestyle and then all of a sudden I break down and wanna start snorting cocaine because some hot podcaster posted a pic of a bump straw?? Like, bruh, that’s not me, that’s not the kind of life I have ever wanted to live. Decadence and hedonism are honestly a good chunk of my self, but self-destrucive habits like chemsex and shit just… it’s not for me, I sure don’t condone it, and I don’t want a boyfriend/partner who indulges in that.

Now, I do wanna clarify, there’s nothing wrong with weed, booze, or poppers (tho of course, those are addictive too and should be used carefully), or getting drunk and having a good time at the club or rave, like, that’s fine and looks like fun! But destroying your body with cocaine, meth, garbage like that just to enhance your sociability and sexual pleasure at a fuckin’ party is so fucking deranged to me and is a nightmare scenario for me. I don’t want any part of that kind of lifestyle and if that’s what you like, cool?? But I want nothing to do with it lol

I wanna look like them tho. I want people to tell me how hot I am, I want guys to wanna fuck me instead of telling me they don’t like fat dudes, I wanna be desired, lusted over, I wanna be like these beautiful instagays with their chiseled bodies and perfect hair and I know, I KNOW that to look like that you need assloads of money and tormenting yourself with extremely rigorous dieting and basically living at the gym, but God, I want to looke like them. I wanna look like the guys I draw, with their hourglass figures, their beautiful hair, their tight clothes that accentuates their rockin’ bod. Honestly, truly, deep down tho, I just don’t want to be fat, I don’t care if I don’t look like Nik Lee or Gabriel Mansur, but I just don’t wanna be fat!!!!

I think this is the real root of my fucking problems. I have to pay more for bigger clothes anywhere I go, there’s so many things I want to wear but literally physically cannot because I’m fat, like dude, I’m so fucking tired of it.

I’m so fucking tired.

[fshoulders]

My cat has an Offputting Habit and the whole Internet and even my vet are like “well that’s a stress reaction, poor baby” and I’m like…I know this cat pretty well and I can attest she is not chain-‘smoking’ her way through anxious days.

She is a very brave cat: when she hears a new sound she backs off warily but comes right back to investigate. I’ve seen her really scared only a few times. When she’s stressed she does something about it, stares at me like I should do something about it, or guards her brother (130% her size) until it’s over.

No: this cat is very specifically and deliberately lighting up when she feels the quality of her excellent day could be improved only by tying one on. She is indulging in this vice like an elegant lady who has just finished an exquisite little déjeuner at her favorite café in Paris and is watching the monde go by under the heaps of pink blossom on the horse chestnuts. She rests replete in the shade under the awning, and thinks to perfect this moment of quotidian beauty by taking out her 1930s antique lighter and adding one more decadence to it.

I promise, she is doing this in a pure spirit of hedonism. And it is gross.

[aestheno]

Sometimes I think a lot about how I can't wait for the day that some music journalist posits about my influences in my work and some fan on the internet rolls my art into their media analysis. I imagine the interviews I could hypothetically be invited into and how I would answer the questions laid out to me. I've had plenty of interviews done before, but this is a specific interview. Instead of questions about what it's like being a woman in the entertainment industry I could talk about the bricks that built my house of art.

When I read about the way music has changed over the last fifteen years, there's a number of cultural and political points that make repeat appearances. For example, the 2008 recession contributed to the explosion of dance pop at the turn of the decade, as people longed for fun, positive experiences that took them out of the real-life turmoil of the era. I turned 12 in 2008, and while I remember the endless headlines about the 'Credit Crunch' and the global crash, I didn't really personally feel the pressure of that. I did enjoy the music though.

As such, even though I was very much a part of the cultural landscape at the time, the sociological analyses given on its popularity are just as academic to me as anything written about punk in the 70s. But the sentiment has been re-emerging in light of the looming 2025 recession and the booming popularity once again of vibrant pop music, and this time I feel a lot more empathetic to the argument.

I've never been the type of person to grow up aspiring to own a house or have a family, so my life isn't oriented on the desperate money-saving to achieve those things like I see in some of my friends. That said, there is still this kind of sense in the back of my mind that's like, 'What the fuck is the point?' Money is worth so much less than it ever has been, and the appeal of a shitty leasehold or a new build on the outskirts of a grey town is so far below the surface I'd sooner pay to not live like that. So the fuck what if I just want to have good experiences and make a real story out of my life?

When I map out my ideas in my music and the world I'm trying to build, I really get lost in how much I love it. The feeling I get looking at images I've collected for moodboards or sound design I've created is like a rush of oxytocin. My world is my baby and I love it, and it's so much safer and more appealing than the state of the real world outside. Even if so much of it is influenced by parts of the real world I truly adore.

I guess my point here is that the love I feel for my creation is a lot like that feeling of wanting to invest in your own hedonism. I've cherry picked the parts of my real-life experience that have blown me away and recombined them into a creation that perfectly stacks those feelings and memories and images into one holistic thing. Life feels so much fuller when you can indulge in your own happiness. You can hold your breath and submerge yourself into an ocean of good times; loud thumping music festivals alongside your friends; fashion pieces that turn your body into art; flights to corners of the planet you'd never have otherwise seen. Once you come up for air you realise how much heavier the real world feels, and question why it would ever be worth spending more time here. Mortgages and babies? Settling down in a developing neighbourhood? White collar stability? The burdens attached to these things feel ankle-dragging in a way that makes them very difficult sells over a life of brief joys.

The more I see my own art take shape the more I realise it's based on my ideal version of the world. The places I've seen that give me solace and happiness, the colours and sounds I associate with them and the exaggeration of my most adventurous memories and personality traits. A lot of my experiences in my early and mid twenties justify these kinds of stories being told, but as we head into the latter half of the 2020s I feel more and more sluggish in my ability to believe the real world can keep up. My own universe becomes far more important to me. And my ability to invest in the feeling of euphoria becomes more appealing against the alternative of saving for a more stable future. I think when the future looks bleak from your current vantage point, art thrives. If the real world provides very few options for a fulfilling life, it's ultimately down to the artists to invent a dimension where people can go to feel that. I think that's what is happening here.

[majorasnightmare]

tbh dirge only really starts indulging in the comforts of financial security once hes stable with minthara. minthara enjoys a really high standard of living and the familiar luxuries that bring with it, but dirge never valued himself as an individual long enough to meaningfully indulge in that sort of thing. and while im sure minthara finds plenty of enjoyment in their high intensity passionate intimacy with each other, i think shed really enjoy being able to peacock a little bit with her expensive tastes in luxury goods and the excuse it gives her to pamper and spoil a partner. she strikes me as someone who enjoys occasionally taking on the role of provider in a relationship as a kind of decadence because it flatters her pride and grounds her in a sense of feeling needed and appreciated.

dirge, for most of his life, HAD money, he just never used it except for pragmatic utilitarian purposes. while he could have easily indulged himself in the spoils of being a religious idol worshipped upon a pedestal, he simply didnt see any value in doing so because it wouldnt help him fulfill his divine duty, and deeper than that he also just didnt like himself enough to partake in hedonism of any kind. his standards were set low in his childhood by circumstance and then self loathing and abuse ensure they never raise any higher even when he has the means, and i just feel like minthara would consider it a point of pride to change that. as much as she enjoys inflicting some well deserved punishment and denial, i think shed also adore being able to spoil a lover, even moreso if she gets to claim any "first times", and dirge is more than willing to let himself be coerced into it.

i also think that when dirges egg cracks and he figures out hes bigender, minthara has a field day with it and relates some of menzoberranzans cultural concepts of gender to give dirge a touchstone for femininity that isnt whatever the fuck is going on in the cult of bhaal. minthara herself has a fairly positive relationship to drow gender dynamics and how that influences her perception of herself and her skills, and while she generally avoids a universal application of those roles to society outside of the underdark (while she occasionally lapses into assumptions about the gender of political office, she does notably typically avoid making blanket statements about surface men and usually specifies either a personal preference (saying that dolors mother shouldve been killed by a daughter rather than a son) or specifies what its like in menzoberranzan), she does still value them as having intrinsic merit and instead merely holds the opinion they arent universally applicable rather than incorrect, and i think thatd manifest as a desire to share what she finds desirable, enjoyable, and empowering about being a woman in menzoberranzan to dirge, who otherwise does not have a positive concept of femininity or womanhood thanks to the patriarchal (and misogynist) culture fostered specifically within the bhaalspawn family hierarchy.

like i dont think minthara plays with gender all that much for herself, but finds surprising enjoyment in doing that with dirges gender. especially cuz dirge doesnt really act all THAT different on a girl day so minthara still gets to see her drenched in blood on the precipice of manic madness, which as we all know is peak. i think minthara doesnt have any strong opinions on fashion and mainly adheres to social customs to signal her class position without any real personal investment in it but i DO think shed find enjoyment in fussing over whatever formalwear dirge wears in girlmode like i think minthy would have a blast with that.

like tldr i think dirge has zero idea what to do with money but minthara has a LOT of ideas on specifically what to do TO him with that money

[pontevoix]

his forearm lays flat over eren’s chest. his leg falls over him like gravity & like a snare. this is what they always do in this life. usually, they’re opposite though. eren showcases internal desperations of wanting for mine, & he often wraps himself around armin as though their worlds were isolated. as though they can make their worlds smaller & memories smaller. as though they can identify the world by warmth alone. as though they were isolated.

they had never been isolated.

armin remembers a library. in the middle of a pasture. a run down building, & it had been a school room sometimes when schedules had frayed too much at the ends. otherwise, it had been forgotten. otherwise, it had been the ceremonial end of the thirteenth commander’s possessions.

someone must have sorted through the commander’s things after he died. after shiganshina had split survivors into burst seams, someone must have sifted through the materials of professionalism in the commander’s office. hange had moved into the commander’s quarters within two weeks, so someone must have.

later, it’s clear that someone must have also made the trip into the city & parsed through an apartment. there’s a wagon that arrives at six in the morning one day, with a tarp tied over over crates. armin remembers ( & he remembers now in this life ) because it had been raining, because he had been pacing in the rain with a hood drawn over his eyes.

at that time, he had just inherited the colossal. his temperature ran too hot to sleep.

later he found the crates stacked in the library & understood that even in death, the thirteenth commander would not be able to preserve a private self. his belongings were uncrated & turned communal.

armin had survived because erwin smith had died. armin had survived because he had not yet been known as a demon. armin had been survived because he because he was lucky.

luck was a good enough reason for him to remember the library. the time he spent in the middle of a pasture, in a run down library. he read uncrated books as though he could absorb another man’s identity & pride.

maybe he’s unlucky to remember how eren had accompanied him. how crass his gestures had been when pressed armin into an interrogation room. he had too much vanity beating against his chest, & it promised that he knew more than armin did. that maybe armin was a traitor. that maybe armin would be biased towards marley.

armin should have paid more attention.

he didn’t.

instead, he knelt at an altar & never forgot it. he watched eren break & saw him properly as the founder, knew that eren saw him properly as destruction.

it’s true that he remembers the way that they had prayed together, with the dry press of their lips. with the fire cracking beside them, with the part of their mouths & eren’s tongue indulgent against the roof of his mouth. he remembers his skin seared red with internal heat. his leg had hooked around eren then too, had pledged how much of himself he would offer to eren if asked.

maybe he’s unlucky to remember how eren had accompanied him, but he doesn’t remember the library by eren’s upset. he remembers the library as a habit.

it had been a place he kept frequenting when eren had lost himself, when he had died. it had been a place that survived the end of things, & it had been a place where armin could keep learning to be a man that didn’t come naturally to him.

the commanders aren’t been allowed privacy in death, so armin inherits his predecessors. he relinquishes the colossal, but he learns to be erwin smith, & he learns to offer the openness of hange zoe.

he has decades of memories with the library. he has decades of memories that he doesn’t remember in full. he has decades of versions of himself, & he remembers the library for what he needed to become.

still, in moments of indulgence, he remembers the library for hedonism.

he remembers himself for hedonism, too. because he doesn’t remember what follows. he remembers not paying enough attention but feeling a little starstruck when he saw eren for the first time with salt-wind striking a chorus through his hair, with sea-tide striking at his skin.

he’s still remembering. & he doesn’t remember the damage now. but he remembers he remembers feeling a little hungover on a good dream when he wakes up with his inner thighs sticky with wet, with residues of want salty on his skin. the night after they had explored marleyan outskirts together & toasted together & almost were something.

that had been the night he drank like a heretic, that he had wanted like a heretic. that had been the night that he felt as though he had been too easily distracted because mikasa was dismayed, because their party was a vulnerable by hangover, because eren had been hard to place after that.

eren had vanished after that. gradually & in pieces, he had vanished. he had left armin trying to make hollow defenses on behalf. he had left armin with mikasa trying to pretend that grief wasn’t permanent.

he doesn’t know what eren remembers. but he knows that eren remembers fewer decades than he does. he knows that eren isolates sometimes so that he can imagine worlds smaller & memories smaller. as though they can identify the world by warmth alone. as though they were isolated.

they had never been isolated.

first there had been the context of grief. as a part of that, there had been the fact that they had existed as three. eren had always been convoluted when it came to mikasa. once he had tried to use that as an attack, as a reason to make her hate him.

she might hate him in this life. armin doesn’t know. he hasn’t seen her, has only heard eren mention her in passing. he thinks he should find her, but he hadn’t been sure how to ask for permission.

he wonders if she remembers. he thinks she probably does, that she had hurt, & that eren had assumed that she hated him because of it.

in this life, eren has a habit of assuming that the world is ending. in the past life, eren had shepherded a world’s end. armin supposes it makes sense. **

the bone of his knee digs against eren’s thigh, & he shifts to drape himself a little more loosely, a little more forever. even while his chest presses against the stickiness of a stale, sweat-stained shirt. even while his forearm turns into a pillow.

in this life, in the past life, in both lives . . . eren hadn’t shied from brutality. it made it easy for him to pinpoint the hardest memory, the one that armin had made a ritual to remember even if he couldn’t ascribe blame to it.

armin presses his lips to the back of eren’s neck, props his chin against the curve of his shoulder.

‘ no, ‘ he muses. he squeezes his eyes shut so that his eyes won’t water again. ‘ you still made me feel important. but i do think it’s possible to be important for the wrong reasons sometimes, you know ? & that was only because we let it get that far. ‘

he drops his chin, presses another kiss to the back of eren’s neck, presses his cheek to his skin instead.

so let’s not let it get that far again, he asks.

it’s difficult request because it carries no concrete solutions. because no matter what they promise, he still remembers the warfare that eren had cast against him as a plea for hatred, & he knew that it hadn’t been honest.

that time at the table had been the first time eren had pressed him into anger. it had been the first time eren had made him bleed. it had been the first time that eren had ever tried to justify making him feel small, making mikasa feel small.

the night he had remembered tabletop warfare, he had nearly thrown up. the night he had remembered, he hadn’t wanted to be touched. the night he had remembered, he had gone home early & hated how quiet his apartment was, how lifeless it was.

it was the first time eren had pressed him into anger. armin has not forgotten. in this life, he’s too worried to forgive.

at the same time, he’s terrified that remembering could be enough to be ruin. that remembering could be enough to make eren spiral, could press him to wanting ruin, to impulse.

they are wretched men.

they are wretched, & armin feels eren’s lips whisper an apology against the skin of his forearm. it’s wretched too, & armin understands it.

his left wrist is pinned by the weight of eren’s head. armin curls his fingers. they grasp at nothing.

even so, he nods against eren’s skin & murmurs his own promise : ‘ i know.’ he thumbs over his stomach. comfort, he says. comfort, he promises.

he doesn’t forgive & he doesn’t forget & he still remains constant.

‘ i know who you are, ‘ he says instead. because it’s true. because he means it. because he otherwise keeps a cadence of assurances. i got you. & it won’t happen again.

maybe it helps. maybe it doesn’t matter.

eren still stutters against him. his breath turns sharp, & he sounds far too lucid when he asks a new question : do you love me still?  despite who i was, who i can't be again?

even if eren wouldn’t repeat what he had done before, he would stay true to his motives.

do you love me knowing that i would still spread ruin to save you from your sins ?

the question shoots ice into his lungs. armin flexes his fingers, curls them into a fist. his nails sting into his palms. his voice sounds too cool when he answers.

‘ i remembered, & i kept choosing you, eren. ‘

so god, they are shattered.

he remembers the library, in the middle of a pasture, a run down building where the scouts were storing the books until they could safely get them to headquarters, could ensure that mitras wouldn't try to destroy it again.  even with historia with a crown on her head, there wasn't a damn promise that the truth wouldn't be tainted.  he had the founder in his veins, but would that be enough to keep them all from being able to erase that binding vow that the king had had for so long?  there's a twist in his heart when he remembers it though, because he doesn't really remember the library itself.

instead, he remembers lips on his own.  he remembers kneeling.  he remembers his knees touching armin and seeing a god inside of his veins, in the depths of his eyes; he remembers thinking of bertolt tucked away there, safe and sound.  he finds he regrets sometimes that he had to die, but he doesn't regret that armin got to live.  it was always going to go that way, and he likes to think that even if his future self didn't have a say over things, he would've still fought for armin to live, fought for erwin to die.  

he remembers the way that he had wanted to devour armin.  the way that he had pressed him back into those damn books that his father had left behind for them to find, a well kept secret in a basement that had driven a commander mad and that had felt like a rite of passage when he had been growing up.  now the key means nothing, in the hands of hange after being around his neck for so long.  now, it means nothing because their past and their future are being rewritten, and he couldn't care about any of it because he's stick in between the two and the present.  ymir is growling inside of his brain, telling him that he needs to erase armin's memory of this moment, of the weakness that overtook him when he had confided in him what he was seeing, had tipped him off to things that are going to happen.

he remembers ignoring her.  he remembers the warm meld of armin's lips against his own, hands fisted into his hair.  he remembers the crackle of fire even though it was already too warm out, remembers swallowing down the noises that the blonde made underneath him.  he remembers the flushed feeling that had curled into his chest, hot and heavy  ––  and remembers how he couldn't erase the memory of it from armin's mind when they had to head back home.  it was the first time that he had defied ymir.  it was the first time he was punished for it with a night of no sleep, with restless growls of the death of the boy that he had kissed.

armin had always been this exception to every rule that had been built.  he had been blasphemy in the walls, learning from his parents and his grandfather; they spent countless hours pouring over that damn book, looking at a black and white photo of something that should've been an absolute myth.  and then they had reached the sea, and it had been a farce..  he hadn't enjoyed it like the others.  he had looked out at the vastness and felt the horror in his veins, felt the reality that had curved up his spine:  things were about to change and he was going to have so much blood on his hands that he would never get them clean. 

he swallows hard; he doesn't enjoy remembering who he was.  he doesn't enjoy the way they flood him, the way that he remembers blood and the taste of death on his tongue as he swallowed down the war hammer titan.  he doesn't like remembering that rage that was unbridled inside of him, that dictated his every move.  this whole revenge plot for something that he had caused.  and how could he look carla in the eye knowing that he had chosen to kill her in order to motivated himself to destroy the world?

his mind keeps swimming, keeps drowning; every time he thinks he bobs closer to the surface, her hands pull him back down and attempt to drag him through the silt at the bottom of the ocean.  he hates it.  he hates ymir more than anything  ––  now that he does not have the weight of the world on his shoulder, now that he is not broken by the reality of four titans inside of his mind, vying and fighting for space, he realizes the things that he hadn't been able to then.  he had made so many mistakes.  ones that he can never apologize for, ones that he can never atone for.

this life has given him so much that he didn't deserve.  it starts with the boy that rests on his bed, that has been staring down at him and watching him carefully.  there's an ache in his chest; it's broken open, dying to make a home for armin even now that he doesn't deserve it.  he will never deserve happiness for the things that he has done.  but he wants to be selfish, because the person that he is in this life isn't that boy.  he is still full of rage at times and his head still isn't on completely straight, but he is better.  he would've never done the things that that version of him had done. 

there's movement and his entire body tenses up.  this is it.  this is the moment when armin leaves and he feels that same familiar isolation.  he gets to feel that ache in his chest grow and grow until it consumes him, until he is nothing but mission and nothing more, just the way that she has always wanted him  ––

a punched out noise leaves his chest as he's pulled against the others, eyes widening at the feeling of warmth against his sticky back.  it makes him acutely aware of how much he's neglected and he swallows hard, thinks about moving away for the sake of armin, but his body collapses into his, into the cage that he creates with his leg over his own.  there's security in those arms, there's home.  he had felt it before, but he feels it now more than ever.  he allows the shaky breaths to leave his lips, allows his cheek to press into armin's other arm that's underneath his head.  the one that isn't splayed against his stomach, holding him together even though he feels like he's going to fall apart.

" i wasn't good at it when i was beating your face in, when i was pushing you away. "  his voice is hoarse; he hasn't spoken, hasn't found his footing when he keeps slipping.  but his eyes slip shut, fall into the lull of the breath against his neck. 

he wants to push him away.  he wants to kick and scream and tell him being alone is what he deserves.  instead, he pushes back into him more, curls his body better;  lets armin consume every part of him.

for the first time in two weeks, that fracture inside of him stops spinning so quickly, begins to slow its division until he is broken apart into tiny pieces, falling through.  it settles itself, the quaking ceasing if only for a moment; it holds its breath too, waits to see what armin will say, what he'll do.  he has always been the best manipulator, the best commander, the best of friends.

" i'm sorry.  i'm so fucking sorry. "   the words are hushed against his arm, eren swallowing hard again as he tries to push his mind back into high gear, tries to have the conversation that they need desperately to have.  but armin's holding him and it makes his brain fuzzy, makes it stop spinning, makes it slow like honey.

he thinks it's the best he's felt in two weeks, and it's a selfish, horrible thing for him to think. 

" don't leave me.  please.  i'm sorry for everything i've done.  i don't deserve you.  there's literally no forgiving what i did.  but i'm not him.  here i'm not…i'm not… "   eren lets out a shaky, harsh breath as he feels the familiar sensation of his stomach roiling again.  it makes him curl up tighter, makes the cage tighten around him more.  armin's cologne settles into his senses and he tries to focus on it, on the familiarity of it, how it clings to his clothes when he leaves.

he's hit with another memory in the moment, one that he hasn't seen yet;  he remembers a tent, low light in the marleyean outskirts, an adult now who will be destroying everything, leaving it behind.  he remembers alcohol on his tongue that he has no right to and on armin's and whimpering into his mouth as his hand worked, as he whispered that he loved him, that he'd never leave him, that he's sorry.  he's so damn sorry.  and armin kisses him and it's the first time there's not this protest of wanting to talk about things;  they're swept up in the sweetness that flushes their cheeks and pleasure slipping through veins and ymir is hissing in his ear, telling him not to do this, that he'll have to erase this too.  but when eren kisses him and he shudders, spilling over his hand, he knows this is going to be the hardest memory he'll ever have to take.  so he makes a compromise  ––  makes ymir promise to give it back once he's gone.   she agrees and finally silences, and eren peppers kisses all over his face and tells him he's beautiful, he loves him, he did so good, is so good….

eren's eyes open and he pulls in a sharp breath  ––  there's an ache in his entire being as he remembers it, remembers the beauty in the night and the way that it felt against his flushed skin.  but there's also that ache that sweeps in when he realizes the things he's taken, how selfish he's been, how he doesn't deserve him.  but he is selfish. he is so horribly selfish, he is a fucking bastard but he wants so desperately to be loved. 

face presses further into his forearm and he realizes how clammy he feels, how horrendous this has to be for armin.  but armin is steadfast, he is control, he is anchor.

he is everything that eren has ever wanted and needed.  " do you love me still?  despite who i was, who i can't be again? "

will you love me even though i can't shoulder your sins any longer?

[xoshepard]

im trying to feel a little better and more capable regardless of my Circumstances, so 1) im dedicating myself to getting to bed on time, meaning i will stop what im doing andget ready for bed as soon as “bedtime” turns on on my phone, unless stopping will lead to my house burning down (or unless im in class, bc class ends at 7:20 and my phone switches to bedtime at 7:15, but those days i just have to brush my teeth and get in the shower as soon as i get home) and 2) whenever i go to do something that i know is not necessarily in my best interest im going to bring the thought of what i want to do out into the open and ask whether this is going to contribute to my “suffering” so to speak, and i hope i can find things a lot more doable when i stop overindulging bc of impulsive thoughts and when i start getting enough sleep every night

[egg-emperor]

Yass. I love the egg empire existing as a fucked up, cyberpunkish, smog-covered Citadel where everyone, aside from Eggman and his harem , lives in complete squalor 😍

The average being would prolly struggle to even find food, meanwhile Eggy gorges himself on the finest foods and booze. Every day he has a feast for himself. He'd probably cheekily giggle with delight knowing that people and animals are starving , while he gets to stuff his fat gut. Food goes to winners like him and not losers like them. Hell he'd probably broadcast himself feasting, just to kick everyone while they're down.

It sounds like an absolute paradise 😍 In Eggman's eyes and mine because I love anything that makes him happy lol- but absolutely terrible for everyone else. He gets to live his dream in a perfect world by his twisted definition as it's completely reshaped in his selfish image and he the has high power and total luxury he's always desired, and a big gay harem to serve his needs and entertain him. It couldn't get any better!

He wouldn't treat his harem the best either but to my masochistic ass that's a plus and it'd be an honor to be a part of it hehe. Everyone else would experience the absolute worst of what this new world entails though. They've lost their homes, people they love, passion and enthusiasm for living and all meaning as he's stripped it away and replaced it with his plan and rules for them and they have to follow it all or be eliminated!

Ohh yes I love that so much, I've actually shared a concept very similar... elsewhere (in one of the blogs hinted at in my blog description), for reasons. 😳 People would definitely struggle to find food to survive, Eggman would want people to starve so it will make them give in to the robotomy treatment. If the propaganda didn't get them, they'll be begging for it just so they won't need to eat, only to regret it because they also have to give up all freedom and free will!

I imagine that as emperor, he heavily indulges in all the luxuries of life to an excessive degree in total hedonism and decadance and one of those is food of course. Because all the food in the world will belong to him alone then! And he can't let it go to waste he says, so he has many huge grand feasts to himself, but it's to celebrate his brilliance most importantly hehe. He deserves good food fit for an emperor and lots of it.

He loves to kick back before his big long dinner table full of tons of wonderful foods the entire way across and dig in to it all. He's free to gorge to his heart's content and eat like the emperor he is. Plenty of booze too! He always enjoys having a very full belly, being happily drunk, and getting some love and action from his cute harem as they feed him, give him his cuddles, kisses and belly rubs and other things while he relaxes ;)

It's endless elation, pleasure, and bliss for Eggman 💜 It's what everyone's lives, freedom, and happiness were exchanged for as they suffer in the hellish world he's created. He'd enjoy broadcasting his time lounging on his throne, feasting on all the food they don't get to eat while they hunger, and being loved up by his harem while he gloats about how great and powerful he is and shows off how much better of a life he's living than them!

He'd smugly ask if they're enjoying his beautiful new world and their new lives as much as he is, knowing full well the real answer and loving it. He'd ask if they're hungry while he gorges happily on delicious mouth watering food and say "well too bad, it all belongs in here now" and slaps his fat gut proudly while they watch longingly, desperate for even a single bite. The torment gets them closer to giving into robotomy everyday.

Their biggest nightmare was his biggest dream, their suffering is his entertainment, their detriment is his benefit, their squalor means his luxury. He took away everything from everyone from the world they knew, who they were and the freedom they had, and everything they loved and owned and left them with only suffering, all for his selfish gain. He loves to remind them of that every single day with great pride!

And I'd be delighted to be at his side as part of a harem of cute boys, as we all now exist solely to serve in entertaining and pampering the handsome emperor 🥰💜💘

[bubblegum-blackwood]

Personally, I love the subtle horror of The Vampire Chronicles. To me, the horror isn’t in the vampires just plain being scary vampires - the special thing about Anne Rice’s vampires is that they are so human. They feel human emotions but ten times stronger, they do human things but ten times more powerfully, they are humans, just ten times more. The horror isn’t necessarily in “ooh, a scary vampire wants to drink my blood” but more in what the shred of humanity left in them says about regular humans. The horror is their moral decay: the general culture of Anne Rice vampires is one of hedonism, decadence, and, really, toxicity - there’s attempted murder, paedophilia, incest, rape, and on-and-off emotionally abusive relationships, and everyone just ignores how problematic all of these things are, because they all indulge in such behaviours to varying degrees and don’t wish to change this culture. Yes, they’re beautiful, they’re inhumanly beautiful, as opposed to the “traditional” vampire look such as an ugly, hairy Dracula or a whole-ass Nosferatu, but their beauty serves both to make them even more terrifying in their seeming innocence and to make us somehow forget a bit of our terror and like them despite their glaring flaws, which actually makes the horror of their monstrosity even more potent. Whether you prefer scary villain vampires or young, hot sex symbols, to me, this is proof of how awesome Anne Rice’s vampires are: they’re human monsters; they’re a little bit of both.

[blueiight]

I'm so sorry if I'm not making sense lmao I guess what I'm trying to get across is the concept of Lestat wanting everything and everyone, living life to the max, endless hunger and all that would've been better illustrated if they showed him actually indulging with multiple partners (as he's seen eyeing all these different types of people) vs. his more specific desire to punish and hurt Louis that's illustrated by the prolonged affair with a white woman who will always remind Louis that what he has with Lestat is wrong, dirty and socially unacceptable.

I guess also the question of whether the cheating was inevitable and done for indulgence or is it a targeted sadistic response to being denied what he feels he is entitled to from Louis? Surely when he seduces Antoinette in front of Louis its entirely about Louis refusing him and denying the blood than anything else. Later it's about him feeling outside of Louis & Claudia's bond and Louis physically and emotionally icing him out for many years. I guess I find parts of that interp difficult to reconcile with HOW the show portrays this singular affair as a specific way to hurt Louis when Lestat feels he's being denied rather than affairs plural that he uses for maximum hedonism or whatever.

Anyways sorry for the long spam lol I enjoy your takes so I was just curious to hear more.

awww ur okay i do appreciate how understanding n patient u r w me& im sorry if im not getting my own intention across clearly enough. i have a slower capacity for thought than my friends on the blogsite think<3 but i feel like the repeated act of cheating on louis with the same person does convey this sense of greed[or hubris/ego? idk] in a sadistic drawn out sense. his greed and desire for and to provoke the full gamut of emotionality out of louis thru this drawn out affair and constant violation of boundaries is ultimately rooted in the fact that lestat is terrified of being alone, bc being alone means recognizing ‘self’, and hes disgusted if not terrified of what his own ‘self’ even is. he loves the game, the chase, committing the acts of provocation, but he does not like who he fundamentally is. his maker magnus chose him for his appearance, not for who he actually was. and unlike his novel counterpart, amc lestat has a hundred years of time between his early vampiric life in europe & when he ends up in new orleans, so we can assume hes lived up a life of mayhem , decadence , who knows what . both lestats approach & view this city of new orleans as a proxy for the home they found in companionship, yet this desire for companionship stands out with this older lestat in amcverse. when this companionship for amc lestat is not instantly gratifying, when hes not instantly getting what he wants like how he says in the qotd quote i sced, whether its sex and/or his companion in the dark gift as he words it, hes going to find a way to get what he wants. its a very greedy, self motivated approach dont u think :3

[chasingfictions]

new game where it's six degrees of kevin bacon but it's me arguing that anything in the buffyverse is actually queercoded FIRST STOP mr. gordo..... THIS STARTED AS A JOKE POST BUT MAYBE IM SERIOUS NOW

first of all his introduction "just dropping by for some quality time with mr gordo?" "excuse me?" "the pig" ..... the way angel is spending time with him and it has this implied datelike quality... the way angel at first doesnt even perceive what buffy's saying bc AGAIN queerness is about being past the realm of what's supposed to exist. .... but the second buffy DOES bring it into the valence, angel shoves the pig away, feeling shame ... the way the shooting script specifies he is "feeling dorky" holding it, and the way heterosexuality is performance, is cool, is social norm, the way queerness becomes cringy and wrong, the way angel is a character obsessed with the performance of suaveness and carefully removing access to himself in accordance with straight masculinity, but this is a moment of specifically dorky vulnerability .... the way the pig is pink, and a girl's stuffed animal, and so represents angel's aversion to his own present or perceived femininity ....the way — @marinxttes voice — there is Excess there, the fact that mr. gordo is specifically a pig, the masculine honorific, the way mr. gordo is revelling in both his maleness and his femininity,,, homosexuality as excess and decadence and indulging in the flesh, the way pigs are so societally coded as about gluttony and hedonism that they're mentioned in the same breath ...... the way it's about a fear of debauchery, a fear of pleasure for pleasure's sake, a fear of the masculine and a fear of the feminine all in one, which loops back to the catholic repression specific to angel and the puritan ethos that looms over the show at large..... the way this all can ultimately relate back to how angel's entwined misogyny and homophobia drive all of his actions and create the fundamental wound of season 2, and spiral into one of the fundamental wounds of the show itself .......

[terrence-silver]

Some Yandere!Terry Silver headcanons, please?🐍🖤

giffie provided by the beautiful @atmostories

- When Terry hates, he hates all the way. No middle grounds. Without limits, reservations or boundaries. Same goes for when he loves someone, as rare as that may be. He relinquishes all sense, all reason and absolutely embraces bias and favouritism without even hiding that he does. As I keep reiterating, his person is simply the best, the greatest, the loveliest, the most correct person that ever was, purely by virtue of them being his person. There might be a great trace of narcissism to such a stance too seeing as how Terry can't comprehend a world where anyone associated with him isn't purely the most admirable individual because why on earth would he of all people associated with anything less in the first place? Sure, objectively, you might be the most commonly mundane person, but not to Terry. No. To Terry you're extraordinary and he'll demand everyone else to hold such an opinion under duress if need be, and he tends to turn real antagonistic and standoffish real quick if he finds someone isn't fawning over his person the way they ought to. But, if they fawn too much, well -- that doesn't please him either and might just inspire jealousy. No winning with him. He loves that he's so hard to appease.

- He is also one for control. He is a control freak to excess. So, a Yandere!Terry might hold a certain resentment if he falls in love. Because one can't control who and when they fall for someone. It is usually entirely spontaneous and unpredictable and Terry doesn't like surprises, especially not of the emotional kind because he might feel it leaves him exposed and vulnerable. Endows him with another weakness he didn't previously have - so, in light of that, for a while, he might be out to hurt you. Toy with you. Test your resolve. Prod and poke at you, like a voodoo doll - sadist that he is. He might even take you and tuck you away somewhere within some dark corner of his mansion and not let out out until he figures out just what to do next, strategically. Or he might observe you. Stalk you. Research you from afar. Collect some of your things, or steal them rather. Outright manipulate and induce mental anguish in a roundabout way - he doesn't quite enjoy the emotions you've inspired in him, due to his own issues of just needing to have ever miniscule thing in order, at all times, even the things connected to his own heart. Especially those things. So, once you do, for the longest time, you're Terry's enemy and you've officially declared war. The devil works hard, but Terry Silver works harder.

- He gives obsession by definition a whole new meaning, because in spite of his partial resentment and adoration towards you, he'll also want all of you. All. Literally all. The good. The bad. The very worst. The very best. Everything in between. There's honestly just no telling how far it goes when he starts adopting actual tid-bits of your behaviour or mannerism into his own because that's how he shows his love. His attachment. Through imitation. Through...adopting some miniscule trace of your habits or your appearance, or maybe he just starts tapping his fingers to excess on the surface of a table in anticipation once he catches wind of you doing, or perhaps, he starts incorporating your favourite color into his attire, purely because it's your most preferred one. Not unlike a black hole, Terry has the tendency to consume. Consume fear. Consume power. Consume markers of hedonism. Consume identities, if need be. Either due to grief. Remembrance. Possession. Merely because he can. Because he wants to. Your body's his. And your heart is his. Your soul is his. Everything you own is his. Your very personhood might as well be his as well. He sees no reason why he shouldn't usurp everything his darling has to offer and then some. What he does with his new stake of ownership is another thing entirely - whether he loves or destroys or both is of little importance, because he sees, he likes, he claims and then proceeds doing whatever he pleases. End of discussion.

- People from your past might mysteriously start, uh, falling off. Disappearing. Distancing themselves from you. Surely, Terry had no part in it, except, well, now that he's here, he sees no reason why you should need anyone else? Isn't it a given he's the best? And as such, more then a worthy replacement for any amount of individuals serving as your support system prior to him arriving? Surely, he's a far superior choice. He outmatches anyone and everyone. You don't need those other pesky nobodies. Those distractions. He slips sweet poison into your ears and convinces you he's all you ever needed and craved, but you simply didn't even know. But, oh, he's the face of kindness and he came along in the nick of time to help you. What an angel. He's all favours. Good, well-meaning advice. Strategic encouragement. Protection. Being eerily there whenever you need him. And he'll make sure you need him all the time. He wants you to be unable to function without him, crippling all your defenses. He says the exact perfect thing you want to hear, at the exact, perfect calculated time, like someone capable of reading minds. He gives affection and then removes it. Gives it and removes it. Hot and cold. Hot and cold. He keeps repeating the process, both overstimulating you emotionally, only to suddenly deny you enough times where you're a simpering, stuttering pathetic, dependable little mess for him. Putty in his hands. He'll play you like a fiddle. And you'll dance to his tune eagerly because he'll make sure you adore him and want to appease him so much he'll land himself with a sweet little slave. No, no - he's not an egoistic narcissist, he's just looking after his investment and making sure nobody infringes upon it. And how could anyone possibly, if there's nobody beside you but him?

- Although, that being said, nothing's for free, right? Not even him caring for darling you. Don't you know how very exclusive that is? How rare? How unusual. Terry hasn't been significantly close to much of anyone but John Kreese, and that's a camaraderie forged in blood and war, two decades in the making, so for you to be deemed so very special, above all others, the least you can do is repay Terry's emotional courtesy, after he's allowed you into his inner circle like this. After he's allowed as much as your fingers to graze his skin. Don't you know he doesn't fancy being touched by much of anyone else, almost? Don't you know he isn't kind to just about anyone, but his people? Don't you figure you owe him something after he's provided you with every luxury and comfort known to man? Practically pampering and fussing you to trips and trinkets and indulgences? How lucky you are. How privileged. One in a million. And of course, being something of a petulant, unpredictable Yandere himself, what he expects in payment is your undying desire, devotion and discipline. He wants you yearning for him, always. He wants your undying, absolute loyalty. And he wants you attuned, focused and his. He expects to domineer every aspect of your life just due to the fact that he showed you the vague mercy of allowing you in. He's nitpicky and a perfectionist, so, if he singled you out as something or someone he wants, he expects the fact he put in actual time, effort, conditioning and proper seduction into you to a fruitful venture. Don't you know that for a billionaire with his own world-wide conglomerate, time's the most expensive capital in the world? So, if he gives you some of his, he expects it given back by the tenfold.

- For all his many shenanigans, cat and mouse games, tricks, ploys, schemes, obsessive outburst, denial, once Terry loves you, he loves you, and not in five, ten, fifteen, fifty years will that state of mind ever change for him and in spite of his best, most desperate borderline strategic methods to prevent being commanded by a feeling, he still ends up very much controlled by it and really, everything he does to you, ultimately, he does to himself too, invertedly, falling into a trap of his own making. If he strived to make you his slave, he becomes yours. If he tried to make you putty in his hands, he eventually became just that where you are concerned. If he wished to make you disciplined, devoted and full of desire for him, that's the stance he takes towards you. He becomes a mirror image of all his actions and they reflect back on him, and his dedication to you becomes a lifetime affair. You're his most prized person. His madness. And rock. And light. And everything. Where Terry's concerned, you're one. You're an Ouroboros. Snake biting a snake's tail. Infinity. Where he begins and you end is hard to gage, because in his plans to slowly consume you, you've consumed him as well, it's best not to test or try him where the question of just how far he'd go for your sake is in question, because Terry would go to any lengths, by any means, for any and no reason, and if he had to pollute and burn down and kill and manipulate the whole world for your sake, he would. His adoration, turns out, can be a very dark place to be.