#mid read commentary

[pathos-bathos]

Ursula K Le Guin I love you so much

[mapsofnonexistentplaces]

only took a peek in the brba tag and i’m already amazed at how much people are like ‘oooh poor jesse he’s so sweet and nice’ like the dude who says slurs and is a constant misogynist and is extremely unbothered by killing brown people. that guy. i know you people want to project on anything thoughtlessly and be like ‘oh haha transmasc baby who did nothing wrong and was tortured by the evil walter white’ but i think almost everyone in this show is morally bankrupt as fuck and jesse is not entirely blameless for putting himself in his own situation and i can’t believe how many people woobify and kin him LMAO

[chiropteracupola]

I LOVE WHEN MAGIC SYSTEMS RECALL HUMORIC MEDICINE!!!!

[wingsofhcpe]

just got spoilered for the entirety of interview with the vampire help fjskrkks

[mysticalsadgirl]

Random account that posts weird, no commentary clips of minecraft playthroughs suddenly uploads a 7hr long video titled "I made my pulitzer prize winning journalist boyfriend solve FNAF for me" and the thumbnail is a guy in his 20s that looks like a renaissance muse sat in front of a corkboard and there's an old frazzled man in front of the corkboard mid gesture. You read the comments almost all of them are "Is that Daniel Molloy?????"

[fipindustries]

watching defunctland

the kids cities concept is just so incredibly fascinating to watch. it almost feels like unintentional commentary, there are some many directions in which to read this. it almost feels like something out of a magical realism novel from the mid 20th century.

the concept of children doing adult things, pretending to be adults, while a few actual adults around take care of them and make sure they are doing things right, having fun and not hurting each other, while their fathers and mothers rest above them on a lounge. is hard not to see a commentary about humans guided by angels while the gods rest atop mount olympus.

this is begging to be adapted into a lord of the flies style horror movie or a weird surrealist dark comedy or something. its such a rich vein to explore. what if we take the concept further, we got children doctors and children pilots and children police. why not children garbage collectors? children homeless? children drugaddicts?

[joaeriz]

8 LETTERS (Paige Bueckers x Fem!Reader)

📎 inspired by “8 Letters” by Why Don’t We 📖 fluff | slow burn | soft romance | college AU 💌 word count: ~2.8k

summary: When Y/N is assigned to write a feature on UConn’s star player Paige Bueckers, the last thing she expects is late-night FaceTimes, secret hangouts, and catching real feelings. As the line between friendship and something more starts to blur, both girls are left wondering if they’re brave enough to say the eight letters that could change everything.

authors note: (Okay, so before you jump in—I just wanna say I had so much fun writing this. It’s honestly a mix of two of my favorite things ever: Paige Bueckers (who I adore) and “8 Letters” by Why Don’t We (which lives rent-free in my head, always). The idea hit me out of nowhere—like, what if that kind of soft, slow, “I love you but I’m scared to say it” kind of story played out between Y/N and Paige? And it just spiraled from there in the best way. I got way too emotionally invested in these two (not sorry), and writing all the cute moments, the late-night FaceTimes, and the feelings they’re both too scared to admit? Ugh. I loved every second.So if you’re into a little angst, a lot of softness, and some seriously sweet vibes, I hope this gives you butterflies the way it gave me butterflies writing it. Thanks for reading—it means so much. — Jo)

P.s: this is my first fic i have posted on here!! Im not new at writing, but let me know if you guys want more :)

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with your story subject.

That was rule number one of journalism school. No dating your interviewees, no crushes on profile pieces, no getting involved. But rules felt irrelevant the first time Paige Bueckers smiled at you like you were more than another face with a notepad.

Your assignment was simple—write a semester-long feature on the UConn women’s basketball team for the student paper. Paige, naturally, was the center of the piece. A star on and off the court. Already a national name. Every sports journalist dreamed of covering her.

You were supposed to remain objective.

Instead, you were falling for her.

Hard.

—

It started with a dead recorder.

Your first real conversation wasn’t planned—unless you count fate as a planner. You’d been huddled near the sideline at practice, trying to record a quote from one of the assistant coaches when your recorder sputtered out and died mid-sentence. You swore under your breath and slapped it, like that ever helped.

Paige had been walking by, sipping on a water bottle, and stopped. “Need backup?”

You looked up, startled. “Only if you’ve got a time machine.”

She smiled. “Nope. But I’ve got the Voice Memos app.”

She handed over her phone like it was no big deal—like she hadn’t just offered you her lifeline. You blinked. “You trust a random reporter with your phone?”

“You don’t seem like the type to scroll through texts.” She leaned in with a smirk. “Besides, you’ve got an honest face. And a tragic relationship with electronics.”

You laughed, cheeks heating. She stayed next to you for a few minutes, watching as you wrapped up your interview with her phone in hand. When it was over, she texted you the audio file with the message:

“Try not to let your technology trauma ruin your career.”

You responded with a lame thank-you and a joke about threatening your recorder with a hammer. You didn’t expect her to reply.

But she did.

“Violence is rarely the answer, but I’ll allow it.”

From there, it snowballed. Texts turned into full-blown threads. Threads into daily check-ins. She started sending random memes between practices—some sports-related, some completely unhinged—and you’d match her energy with cursed TikToks and sarcastic commentary.

Then came the first FaceTime.

You were editing audio at 11:47 p.m. when her name lit up your screen. Paige Bueckers is FaceTiming you.

You stared at it for a second. Then answered.

She was wrapped in a hoodie with damp hair and tired eyes, lying in bed. “Hey,” she said softly. “Didn’t wanna be alone tonight.”

That first call lasted three hours.

You talked about everything: your major, her injuries, your complicated relationship with your hometown, her fear of letting people down. She confessed that sometimes, the pressure made her want to run away to a place where no one knew her name.

You said you understood.

After that, it became routine. Late-night FaceTimes. Morning Snapchats. Study breaks where she'd call and say, “Tell me something random,” and you’d ramble about your day while she half-listened, half-dozed.

—

The first time you hung out outside of school was under the guise of an interview follow-up.

She invited you to a local coffee shop—some cozy little place with plants in every window and tables just slightly too small. You showed up with your laptop and pages of notes. Paige showed up in a hoodie and beanie, no makeup, looking infuriatingly good.

You talked for two hours.

Only twenty minutes was about basketball.

She paid for your drink when you weren’t looking.

“I’ll Venmo you,” you said, pretending to dig for your phone.

She just shrugged. “Nah. Call it a reporter’s hazard fee.”

After that came more not-quite-dates. Study sessions in the campus library where she never actually studied. Walks through the trail behind the dorms where she'd kick pebbles and talk about life like it was something she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

One night, she invited you to “movie night” with the team.

You showed up with snacks and nerves, expecting a whole crowd.

But it was just her.

Two mugs of hot chocolate already on the table. A blanket tossed casually over the couch. She tried to play it off. “The others bailed,” she claimed with a sheepish shrug.

She was a terrible liar.

You stayed anyway.

She fell asleep halfway through the second movie with her head on your shoulder, and you didn’t dare move.

After that night, everything shifted.

—

There were moments. God, there were moments.

The way her hand would brush yours when she passed you something and linger—just a second too long. The way she’d light up when you walked into a room, like you were the only one she’d been waiting for. How she’d say things like:

“Sometimes I forget how to breathe around you.”

And then immediately pretend it was a joke.

You wanted to say it.

You almost did—on Valentine’s Day, when she left a note in your dorm mailbox with a chocolate bar and the words “you’re my favorite notification.”

But you chickened out.

Because if she didn’t feel the same way, you’d lose her. And that possibility was more terrifying than staying quiet.

But then came the silence.

She started pulling away. Fewer texts. Missed calls. Short replies like:

“Practice ran late.” “Sorry, just tired.” “Talk soon?”

And soon became never.

Until the day it broke.

—

It was cold. Rainy. The kind of day that made everything feel heavier. You were walking past the practice facility, hood up, heart aching, when you saw her.

Paige. Alone. Leaning against the wall like she was waiting for something—or someone.

You slowed. She looked up.

“I think we should stop,” she said.

Your stomach dropped. “Stop…?”

“This. Us. I don’t know what this is to you, and I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with not knowing.”

You blinked, throat closing.

“I’m not asking you to guess,” you managed to say.

“Well, then tell me,” she whispered. “Because I think about you all the time, and I don’t know how to make it stop. And it hurts, Y/N. It hurts not knowing if I’m just another story to you.”

And finally—finally—you said the words.

“You asked what love looks like to me.”

She held her breath.

“It looks like you. Like FaceTime calls at midnight and cold coffee on a Sunday morning. It’s how you fight through everything and still smile like you’re not carrying the weight of the world. I didn’t say it before because I was scared, but I’m more scared of losing you.”

Her eyes glossed. She stepped closer.

“You love me?” she asked, barely a whisper.

“I do.”

And when she kissed you, it was soft and shaky and real. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

—

That night, your article sat unfinished.

She lay beside you on your tiny dorm bed, her hand brushing yours under the covers, the silence between you humming with peace.

“Say it again,” she murmured.

You smiled.

“I love you.”

Eight letters.

—

It had been twenty-six days since you told Paige you loved her.

Twenty-six days since she kissed you in the rain like her world had just started spinning again.

Twenty-six days since things finally became real.

And every single one of those days had felt like waking up in the softest dream.

Being with Paige wasn’t loud or flashy—not most of the time. It was slow mornings in bed, tangled limbs and quiet whispers. It was FaceTiming just to sit in silence while you both worked. It was warm hoodies borrowed without asking, and her stealing your socks because “they’re the soft ones.”

It was peace.

One Sunday morning, you found her asleep on your couch, wearing your crewneck and hugging your stuffed animal. She’d crashed the night before after watching movies in your room, the two of you curled together on your tiny dorm bed until she got too warm and rolled onto the floor, dramatically sighing, “This is why we need a queen-sized mattress and a lease.”

You’d laughed, thinking she was joking.

Then she blinked up at you and said, totally serious, “Like… a place. You and me. Off campus. Someday.”

Your heart soared, and you tucked the idea away like a wish on a star.

Later, she sleepily mumbled, “I want you in my mornings and my nights.”

And you knew she meant it.

—

Dating Paige came with little adventures.

Like the time she surprised you with a picnic—on a Tuesday.

You’d been having the worst week: deadlines, papers, zero sleep. Paige texted you in the middle of class: “Be ready at 6. Trust me.”

You met her behind the student union, expecting takeout and a movie.

Instead, she’d laid out a blanket under a canopy of fairy lights she somehow got from the volleyball team’s gear closet. There was music playing from a Bluetooth speaker, a thermos of your favorite hot cocoa, and a little box of cupcakes from the bakery you once mentioned you liked.

“I know you’re overwhelmed,” she said, pulling you into a hug. “So I’m forcing you to pause. Just for tonight.”

You nearly cried.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered.

She kissed your forehead and grinned. “Nah. We deserve each other.”

—

Her love came in a thousand small ways.

When your period hit hard, she showed up with snacks, heating pads, and the world’s ugliest cartoon pajamas she said were “scientifically proven to improve moods.” (They did.)

When she won a game, she didn’t go out with the team—she came to your place and danced with you barefoot in the kitchen to 2000s R&B.

When you got a bad grade on a paper and spiraled about being “not good enough,” she held your face in her hands and said, “You’re brilliant. One grade doesn’t get to rewrite the story.”

She never let you forget your worth—even when you did.

—

Your favorite tradition was Sunday mornings.

You’d wake up slow—her arm slung lazily around your waist, her cheek against your shoulder. She always looked soft in the mornings, voice scratchy, hair messy, face unfiltered.

“Don’t look at me,” she’d mumble, burying her face in the pillow.

You always did anyway.

You’d take turns making breakfast—read: burning toast and debating whether Pop-Tarts counted as a real meal. You’d play records on your vintage player, dance around the room in socks, kiss in the doorway like it was a scene from a movie.

She called you “home” once.

You didn’t say anything in return.

You just pulled her into your chest and held her tighter than words could manage.

—

There were no more secrets now.

People knew. Slowly, sure. But Paige had started holding your hand in public. At first on quieter streets, where no one looked. Then at campus parties. Then at a game.

After a home win, she ran over to the bleachers—where you were waiting—and kissed you in front of a thousand fans and a dozen cameras.

“I love you,” she said breathlessly. “Needed you to know before anything else.”

The video went viral. The team teased her endlessly.

She didn’t care.

Neither did you.

—

One night, lying in bed with your laptop open on your stomach and Paige half-asleep beside you, you said, “This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

She looked up. “Because of me?”

You smiled. “Because of us.”

She kissed your shoulder and whispered, “Let’s stay like this forever.”

And maybe the future held more challenges—graduation, jobs, long-distance talks if things got complicated.

But for now, you had everything you needed.

Her heartbeat beside yours. Her laughter echoing in your chest. And the words you once feared to say now lived freely between you.

“I love you.” Eight letters. Forever on repeat.

[imorynn]

⸻ ✛ 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬, 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 (j. ramsey )

✛ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Joan Ramsey x fem!reader ✛ 𝐰.𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 5k+ ✛ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 / 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 : SMUT, fingering, religious overtones, strap ons, blaspheming, blood, biting, marking, power dynamics 'using the Lord's name in vain', reader wearing a cross, masterbating, teasing, vaginal sex, mentions of oral sex, subtle choking 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 : @multifandomme ( thank you for beta reading and yelling at me, you impatient hoe :) ) @liliasenbyhusband ( thank you for beta reading, absorbing and matching my chaotic ranting, my friend 🫂) @awlwgeneraldinosaur ( thank you for sending me to heart failure with your compliments, ya lovely human being <3)

⸻ no notes. just read and enjoy life.

⸻“JOAN, c’mon, just move your hand for me…”

A rather swollen lower lip that belonged to you lolled once more between your teeth. The corners of your mouth had lazily twisted into a smirk. One that brought a prominent twinkle to your eyes, one that clashed with the silver around your neck, something gifted to you with joy by Joan herself; a pendant that swung languidly above her heaving chest, an obscene, not to mention exhilarating sight. 

God help her, she had prayed over that piece of jewelry the night she gave it to you. She had clutched it between her shaking fingers and whispered blessings over it, thinking perhaps if she gave you something holy, it would wash away the filth consuming you both.

But now here it was — dangling between your breasts while you split her open with something much thicker than a crucifix.

The perspiration that clung to your complexion glistened with the flickers of simmering candles and warm lights within her bedroom, and your abdomen constricted with the restraint you so desperately contained from plunging into her sealed entrance.

“You can take it.” So light, so tender it almost sounded like a promise rather than a filthy condescension.

“I’m not sure I—”

The roll of your hips cut her mid-sentence, letting the faux dick stroke her — slick and swollen from the two fingers you had inside of her, teasing her open thirty minutes ago while she tried to keep her mouth shut.

This strap had been different from the one she was used to receiving from you. Bigger. Better.

Another jolt pulsed down the brown-eyed woman’s stomach, bottom lip jutting out as she exhaled in agitation, no less ardor. “I-it will not go in.”

A ‘tsk’ hissed from between your teeth, mouth puckering in a feigning disappointing manner, and a deep breath once more emerged from Joan. The pink flesh of her walls fluttered around the imperceptible while your plump tip teased her, her delicate palms applying the slightest of pressure to your lower stomach as if she could actually stop you. 

Joan Ramsey was a master of disguise when it came to pretending, you will give her that. Pretending she was not lifting her hips to meet the leisured drag of your cock against her slit, her own body failing her the second she released that same quivering and virginal whimper, harshly shaking her head no.

Your head could not help but tilt in wonder while a crinkle appeared between your brows. Really, you could just disregard her commentary, ignore the way the surface of her fingers jabbed at your lower stomach without true purpose, or so she claimed to keep you from moving forward and pound her. 

But how could you dismiss that endearing panic striking that fawn-like gaze? Really, you could have just grabbed those trembling wrists and pinned them above her head. Force her open. Fuck her dumb. Have her become a mess of nothing but tears and flesh. Where would the fun be in that?

So instead, the expanse of your thumb reached to tip her flushed face up to look at you. “It’s always the same little white lie with you, love,” you murmured so sweetly, so soft she nearly convinced herself you were being merciful. “telling me it won’t go in after my fingers just stretched you open, and yet, it always does, doesn’t it?” 

Another lustful coat of chocolate glazed over her hues, making their shade darker, absorbed into those now dilating pupils of hers as she peered down your bare body and the veiny curve of silicone nudging at her sopping hole. 

She then glanced back at her attire, the shredded fabrics were a reflection of her faith and sense of self. Or so what remained of it at least. Your stupidly impatient hands and lustrous incisors had ripped through the blouse until her full breasts were liberated and her weeping hole clenched from the biting air.

Your eyes could not evict from analyzing every tiny detail upon the canvas of her face; those lines upon her forehead deepened with her stifled sounds, her brow pinched as she watched how you devoured her every curve, her parted mouth moistened with her slick. 

It was a reminder of how mere seconds ago, that greedy tongue of yours was between her legs, deliriously assaulting her clit, those prim hands fisting in your hair, fucking your face with all the clumsy desperation of a woman who had not been touched in decades. A wide and wet smile had sprawled across your face as you stared up at her crumbled expression before crawling up and smearing her taste across her lips. 

You relished in this part; the battle that played out behind those irises. Every time you laid her out like this, she contemplated so viciously in convincing herself it was the last, that she would find her way back to righteousness as soon as the sun ascended. But here she was — once more, slick thighs branched out, cheeks flushed, breath coming out in those little broken gasps.

“I thought this was what you wanted, Joan?” Your query was assisted with an edge of taunt. “Hm?”

Her tear-cluttered lashes fluttered and kissed beneath her eyes. Her hands pushed harder at your stomach, but there was no real strength behind it. Just something for her to hold onto — some fragile, pathetic little resistance she could whisper about in her prayers later.

“I-I don’t know what I want.”

Such bullshit. You were well aware of what she wanted. To be relieved of herself;  her guilt, her virtue, and her self-discipline. She wanted you to fuck her like she was just another weak, sinful little lamb, so easily led to slaughter  — like the rules did not apply to her when she was with you.

It made you want to coo at her. Poor thing. So hungry underneath all that fear. Your thumb swept across her cheekbone, tender, before tucking into the pocket of her bottom lip. 

The cross above your chest swung forward, right against her sternum and she flinched like it had scorched her. Those pretty browns swished between your face and the pendant, trying to decide which one was more blasphemous to stare at.

Your smile honed, teeth gleaming. “But you’ve been letting me fuck you for weeks now, and still, you can’t admit how bad you need it.”

Your hips inclined forward, just enough for the swollen head to push inside, just enough to make her wince and spasm around you all at once.

“You think God is watching us right now?”

Her nails sliced into your flesh, searing, ecstatic.

“Y-you… you should not s-say things like that.”

You grinned against her throat, at her pathetic attempt to regain firmness, dragging your teeth over the elegant stretch of her jugular. Right where you had left blemishes behind. Right where she will ghost her fingertips the next morning in front of her mirror; half-sickened, half-throbbing at the proof of what she had allowed you to do to her.

The rush of color across her cheeks and pronounced nose surged even more with how she felt your features morph against her pulse.

“You think He minds?” you whispered, so saccharine it made her lungs stutter. “You think He would’ve stopped us by now if He really wanted to?”

A shaky swallow worked her throat and then came rumination shaping her expression. Her hands descended from your stomach to your waist, not resisting anymore, and simply feeling.

“Move your hand, Joan.  I won’t ask again.” 

You slowly uttered it, as if you were speaking to a child. Like she was not a woman in her early sixties with your cock attempting to push inside of her, slick oozing down to the mattress beneath her ass.

She despised it when you spoke to her like that. She despised it even more that she clenched whenever you did. 

The brims of your incisors found a niche below her jawline, seeking the faint puncture they had left minutes ago, and the mark enhanced once more as they sank in.

That was when her jaw went slack, rose lush lips shaping a pretty ‘O’ while her palms pushed at your dampened nape. Slender fingers threaded through your hair and wounded around the curve of your head.

You inundated each one of the older woman’s senses; your scent bled into her atmosphere, saturating each breath she inhaled. Your frame eclipsed her petite one, almost as if shielding her from His gaze. The chill of your lavalier grazed the heated swells of her tits — similar in cruelty as the edge of your teeth etched her. 

Heat liquified through her limbs, sinew, and muscles quaking while her walls stretched beyond their threshold; she was made to mold around you, pussy halfway swallowing you. “Good gracious —”

Thrusting forward, half of the cock's width disappeared between her legs, and the twin-sized bed below created a screeching creak from the act. A droplet of sweat trickled between your brows as you grunted a low cuss word, teeth clashing together at the sight of her cunt swaddling around the shaft. 

“Almost there, love, almost there...” Your saccharine croon was assisted with a stroke of your thumb over the strands stamping her temple, eliciting a muffled whimper from her throat.

Inhaling another ardent breath, she gave into a slow, involuntary little rock forward, like her body was attempting to fuck itself down onto you before she could control it.

The other half of your shaft soon followed until your pelvis hovered hers. All plump inches going beyond her capacity. Those eyes of hers were blown out now as she stared up and then down when your palm came to rest over her lower stomach— not only did your eyes broaden but so did that smirk of yours when you applied pressure to the flesh of her belly, finger pads kneading into the pleasure. 

“Would you look at that beauty… fuck, this is what God wanted to keep me from seeing?”

Ever so lightly you pushed down, and when you did, whine after whine ascended from her lungs.

You did not dare to move though not until she gave you the green signal that she could, giving her time to modify and gain control of her inhales and exhales.

You were no better though, not when you stroked her tummy, not when she tried pulling you even closer, sputtering out a low chuckle and grimaced breath when she clawed at your neck. “And here you thought it wouldn’t go in—”

You were cut off by the way a dainty hand spiraled around the loose band drooped over your chest, enclosing it tightly around each length of her fingers until she was mere inches away from the pillar of your throat.

Your eyes widened at the sight of hers; round, abyss with lust. “Ruin me, y/n.”

Your rasped chuckle pulsated her insides, and a low groan erupted past your mouth when blunt nails sunk deeper as the octave of your taunting laughter picked within the deepest parts of her.

“I thought patience was a virtue? Don’t want me to ruin tiny innocent you if you don’t give yourself a minute—”

Your voice faded amongst the dense air, words deeper in its tangle with every twist and wind your necklace made, a subtle hiss created when her knuckles practically pierced the flesh of your throat, nearly leaving no passage for air to transmit through.

“Ruin me.”

“Well aren’t you a pretty sinner—”

Joan huffed, hands releasing your necklace and shoved you away. This caused you to stumble and lose balance, knees digging into the rumpled mattress and hoisting yourself up as she slid away from you, snug cunt releasing you with a wet pop that made the both of you moan out loud. 

You were about to protest, to condescend as to why in the hell did she move, why she turned away from you.  Yet all you could do was let your eyes follow the way she got on her knees, mapping the familiar terrains of her back and descending to the curves of her ass; no line left untraced, so fucking eye-catching and mouth-watering that you had to restrain yourself from craning forward to take a sharp bite.

Of course, she felt you watching, eyes searing through Joan, pooling down her body and between her thighs as they rubbed together to add friction to the burn. She had propped herself onto her forearms, leaving her whole ass up in the air and perfect display for you. 

Brows perched high, grin stretching the more he arched,  following the way her dress tore further when her torso pressed into the sheets. Your palm had slithered down your stomach, fingers wrapping themselves around the silicone when her adorable fingers reached back and parted the globes of her ass, parting them so fucking perfectly until both her holes were calling out to you.

“Fuck me, y/n.” She left no room for argument, pushing her hips further and further back until her ass met your front.

Oh, how well you taught her. Coaxed her into abandoning her fear for pleasure, her virtue for something unholy.

“I’ll be damned…” Lithe was your movement when you rose, and the sound of your palm colliding with her ass blocked out the creaking. “Whatever occurred to ‘won’t go in’, hm?”

You taunted her, yet she felt you align yourself once more, tip kissing her awaiting hole. “ ‘It’s a sin’? ‘It’s filthy human pleasure’?”

You slipped in just an inch, drenched were her puffy lips, cascading down the inner dips of her thighs. Of course, you thought a little teasing never hurt anyone, so you were quick to slide out as you slid in.

Desperate thing she was, squirming and canting her hips back for your touch, the blaze of your body mingling with yours. She moaned when you grazed along her pussy lips, teasing right over her swollen clit.

It hurt, ached terribly, the sexual frustration that consumed her carnal state. “Y/n..”

The noise she created would be humiliating if anyone else heard it — some frightened animal caught in the back of her throat. She could not even breathe.

Two digits of yours swirled in, the calloused texture rubbing over her adhesive, soft walls.  “Is something wrong, Joan?”

Your arrogant voice conflicted even further if it were not for the way you whispered her name, tempting her like the forbidden fruit.

You took pleasure in this, smug in the way her walls became one with your fingers, watching the way she fell apart for you ; wearily moaning, pussy drooling with no shame. Not a proper fuck yet and here she was, her small silhouette disintegrating amongst your touch.

The very touch of yours within her began sliding with the assistance of your dick. One hand smoothed over her hip, gripping tight, feeling the fevered skin beneath your palm. 

“Want me to fuck you?” Joan nodded eagerly, her forehead pressing against the mattress. “Then stop running from it.”

She released a strangled sound, pushing back onto you, beseeching. “Stop — stop playing your games.”

Nothing but another chuckle huffed out, amused at the way she moved, already scheming and toying with her pussy for as long as you wanted. “But you love it when I play with you.”

Screw you and your damn schemes. 

Your mouth pursed in distaste at how she perched forward and away from your shining tip. But all you managed to do was roll your shoulders as you watched her shift into her back. 

Your head slightly inclined to the side as you watched her hands begin to trace her freckle-dusted skin, thumbing her flushed peaks. “What’re you doing, sweetheart?”

You sharply inhaled, your throat being greeted with every droplet of drool collecting in your mouth at the sight of her in such a position, legs spread apart without shame, toes tipped high to the heavens. The room’s small scale of space only allowed the sounds of her labored breathing to enter its atmosphere.

A warning was close to spilling, yet she did not give you the chance. Your attention was punctured to her fingers, mesmerized to the way she slowly brought them lower with each second.

That damned, ignorant Christian.

Her gaze bore into yours, dark and daring, and then she moaned, sweet and filthy, as if to rub her rebellion in your face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you—”

Ah, but Joan would. You, kneeling on her bed, were disposed of all for a pair of hands, hands that claimed would never be soiled by sin, that kneaded her swollen clit. You almost laughed, almost, at the sheer audacity of it all. The same woman who once scolded others for their sins, who once turned her nose up at indulgence, is right before you, defying you with every glide of her own fingers.

The celerity of those fingers muggled the liquid pouring from her cunt, seeping through every direction. You watched in awe at how it all came into little crystalline spheres, trickling down and pooling into an entire puddle absorbed by the disheveled sheets.

This was what she wanted from you, what she needed from you; to give her the pleasure she was providing for herself. Yet she had to admit it was enjoyable, the way your gaze stayed tranced on her pulsing bud, a twitch of your eye giving her the satisfaction that you desired to be the one making her feel this good. You desired to be the one she crumbled apart for, the one that cunt drooled for. 

Yet you knew Joan was never a woman of forbearance. She would like to think she was, that her faith had gifted her such virtues, but at the moment? She was not in the mood for your foolishness. 

“Look at my desperate girl.”

An incoherent response spewed from her mouth, no logic to her words whatsoever that it made you grin. The bed screeched once more, this time with your back flat against the wall but not before you reached out to pick up her body with ease. 

You lowered her on your lap, and she could feel the hardness pushing against the area of her lower back. Her thighs were dangerously apart, and her faltering movements augmented when your palm, forceful and certain, enveloped her fingers and clamped more pressure there.

“Y-Y/N—”

Your laugh reverberated within her, adding to her helpless attempt to moan out a plea. “If you’re that needy for it, then do it how I taught you.”

The tension escalating in her lower belly became ferocious, you knew this rather quickly with how her slurs climbed octaves when you mouthed her neck. 

Chin propped on her shoulder, you scrutinized her course of action when she mimicked your movements. Slow, prolonged, degrading, carving. Just as you have done to her a hundred times before.

But you were not as cruel as to just watch. You lent a hand, plunging one, then two fingers deep into her cunt and she squeezed deliciously around them, pushing her close to the edge and into the pools of ecstasy. 

Fingertips smoothed perfectly over the mushy parts of her walls, one of her hands curling around your wrist. “There’s a good girl, that’s it—” your hushed voice joined her breathless and sharp exhales.

“I-I’m — goodness—”

An ignition flared your core, with her so fucking pressed up against you, at the knowledge of the woman nearly undone all over your hand, just for you. The more your fingers thrust in while the flat of your palm nudged her mound, the more cum oozed out; translucent and sticking to your skin and a wide smirk morphed your features, waiting to get a taste.

“You’re near, darling?”

Her chin pushed into her chest, jaw trembling as the words elongated, “Uh-huh, I-I’m close—”

“Gonna make a bigger mess for me?”

“Y-yes—” You withdrew your hand from her hip and over her belly, right near her pelvis area, pushing there. This emitted an increase of the dribble that was already splattering your fingers and thighs until the sounds had become an ensemble with her moans. 

“Oh, fuck!” Blasphemy was torn straight from her soul. 

You grinned. “Listen to you,” You planted soft kisses behind her ear, sweetly lapping the skin. “So filthy… c’mon let it out for me.”

Your hand was unrelenting, still spurting in with the same merciless force despite already reaching her peak. 

“M-my God—”

“Nah, Joan,” you husked right in her ear, breath heating the delicate spot. “It’s me. I’m your God.”

The overbearing rapture she experienced slowly eased, bringing her down to God’s green earth. The pace of your fingers settled for a slow, sensual one and they jittered slightly within her when she pinched your forearm. 

“Shut your mouth, you wicked thing,” she sighed out in disdain, glowering back at you who gave her a grin too lovely, too pure for her liking. 

You pulled your digits out, groaning at the squelching sound her cunt created when you did. Though they were quick to hook beneath her thighs, lifting her just slightly so you could turn her around.  

Her lips unsealed in astonishment at the way the damn girth rested against your stomach, fat tip shining with the trails of her arousal. It was unfair how alluring it was, how alluring your entire existence was to Joan. How quickly her resistance crumbled the moment you touched her. Spoke to her. And you knew this, reveled in it, and beamed when her pretty, blushed pout trembled.

“Still want me to fuck you ?”

With a tap of the head on her tummy, both her hands rested on your shoulders, stroking the subtle muscle there, silently admiring, pushing through, anchoring herself. 

Her touch slid up your throat, trembling as they ghosted over your pulse, memorizing the rhythm of something real, tangible, something she could not find in the cold halls of a church.

She lifted herself without any trouble when your hands gripped her waist, her cum functioning as a lubricant as you slipped almost entirely in. 

Her whimpered “yes” was all you needed to proceed, and the extent of fingers splayed over her thighs, thumb pushing below her navel. You slowly pushed her much further down, watching as the awaiting cock stuffed her. 

“I can move, sweetheart?” 

Brown strands swayed with frantic bobs of her head and that allowed you to refresh some manners in that pretty head of hers. Teeth excavated into the interstice where the graceful line of her neck ran and became shoulder. You did not release until the tang of iron became one with your taste buds, the smooth surface of your tongue wasting no time in lapping the trickle of scarlet leaving her abused skin.

A hiss whispered from her lungs, and you soon managed to sweetly stroke your wet muscle over the pain you were responsible for until it was nothing but exhilaration and murmured moans.

“Those aren’t the words I’m looking for, Joan.”

“For God’s sake, Y/N—”

“ ‘For God’s sake, Y/N’ is kind of an intelligent statement, love, don’t you think—”

Your sentence failed to reach its near end when her palms had latched onto the curves of your breasts, hips giving a slow roll before ascending herself until the thick tip of it remained slightly in and slammed back down with a throaty moan.

Your back pushed hard into the wall, and Joan saw your sly grin, bracing yourself for whatever action she had next.

One turned into two, two into three surprisingly hard impacts of skin and bone that had the silicone nuzzling further against her g-spot with each burning stretch.

“Just fuck me, goodness, I need you to ruin me. To turn me into nothing but a mess. Your mess.” she beseeched, she whined, not caring anymore to withhold herself from the indecency.

Chuckling, your hand curled around her wide hip. Your spine curved off the wall so your other arm could loosely curl around her midsection. The older woman had no other option but to surrender full control over you without a single complaint or shift, leaving it all to you.

Swiftly, you began rocking into her heated chasm, giving her almost no time to acclimate to your girth. You continued until the choir of huffs, moans, and whimpers featured with skin plastered and striking against one another recapitulated within the interior. 

“Tell me it feels good to sin, Joan.” Protracted strokes sent apocalyptic waves of pleasure through her core, the feeling building and stacking on top of itself as it was evenly dispersed throughout her body. She felt it in her stomach, surging through her limbs, thighs, and shins, all the way down to her curling toes. “Look at how pretty you are...”

Vehement you grew when it came to sex and her, and every time, with every touch and utter, she mollified for you. This time was no different; the feel of you embedded in her innards was all the reason to bring her close once again. 

She was deprived of words.

“Come on love, tell me how good I feel inside you,” you leaned forward, your lips sucking on the abused skin of her clavicle. “You wanted me to fuck you, and now I am. So tell me how good I’m stretching you.”

Joan whimpered, allowing your lust-charged words and the sloppy, sticky sounds coming from her cunt to heighten her arousal.

You did feel good inside of her, beyond the simple term of ' good'. Giving her aching pussy finally what it had been waiting for. Fingernails burrowed into your shoulders, disturbing the once-healing flesh there.

A nasty gurgle flew out her mouth as your dick brushed against her nerves. Not a response to your command, but it was all she had, too blissed out from the feel of being stretched and feel of you everywhere. 

You tsk’d softly, dragging your teeth along her pulse point. “You don’t even realize what you’re saying, do you? My poor, stupid lamb.”

A pearlescent circlet scintillated at the base of your shaft, disseminating over the dark hue with every drag her cunt gave you. 

Moan after moan dragged from her hoarse throat, revealing the pretty column of it with the head tilt she gave until an ache came upon her shoulders.

“You’re not gonna talk to me, huh?” You grunted in between strokes, hot exhale stinging her already boiling skin. “I think you like it when I make all those nasty little thoughts in your head just disappear. Make you go stupid.” You inhaled sharply, parting your lips against her jaw. “Fuck, you’re so wet. Look at how good you’re taking me.”

A blaze that flooded her cheeks, mortification. And on instinct, her face went to hide within your neck, tip of nose nudging your jaw. An act that seemed not permitted by you who did not falter in plowing her depths.

“Uh uh. Look at me, Joan.” Your hand dragged from her hip to the back of her head, tangling within her hair before giving a sharp yank that drew forward a loud groan. “I said, look at me when I fuck you.”

You bucked into her hole, hand keeping her head in place as you moved her against you, splashing her wetness everywhere. “If I’m gonna give you a proper fuck, I need to see those eyes. Do you hear me?”

She nodded in between muffled cries and through the burn of her thighs. She could feel her eyes rolling to the back of her skull, she was close. So close. 

“Y/N—” Her first coherent syllable since you slipped into her cunt. Low but audible nonetheless. 

“Yeah, love? Talk to me.”

“I-it does feel great.”

“What exactly feels great? The act of sin? Me?”

Her chin tipped up, then down, browns wide and frantic. “Y-yes.”

You frowned in taunting disapproval, and you watched as she winced when your grip on her hair twisted. You drew her in until your nose traced down the bridge of her own.  “Yes? Yes what, Joan?”

“A-all of it! You feel great, this sin, it’s filthy — f-fulfilling—”

“You like how deep I am?”

“V-very much—”

She could see the glimmer of something dangerous in the depths of your irises, that silent strike of pride in your chest. It was a look she knew well. It appeared when you tried helping her in the kitchen when she softened and accepted you to lead in small, domestic moments. Or when you had first taught her how to touch herself, right in front of you, pleasure herself, drag it out, and relish in every touch without rush. 

And it appeared then when you were hypnotized by how the thick strap tunneled into her oozing abyss.

Her eyes gravitated down to where you sat below her, and just because you were in that position did not signify you had lost the upper hand. She was focused on the bead of sweat that leisured down your forehead to your nose, then lastly to the intention above your upper lip. 

She was tempted to lean forward and suck the droplet off your skin. Tears cleaved to her waterline and lashes when she peered down at the spot where your eyes were fixated.

Your sight was transfixed on the image of her swallowing you whole. Wonderstruck. Curving inside of her in the most exhilarating and immoral way.

“Are you going to come for me?” 

The hot palm that was once in her hair released and made its way to her throat, unconsciously tightening there. It had her inhale cut short, heavy eyelids momentarily shutting. There was no way you actually expected her to speak. 

You were still caught up in the way her pussy clenched around you over and over on command. Thumb finding its path over her throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing. 

Uncoordinated sentences left her tongue now, foreign to anyone besides you for you have seen Joan Ramsey in this state more times than you could ever count.

Her grunts grew louder with each sloppy thrust, incisor hooking over the corner of your bottom lip. Deep enough to nearly draw blood. “Talk to me, Joan.”

Your brows had pinched together, an affliction of your orgasm being the cause of their shape as your remorseless thrusts upward had settled for a slower pace, though the force did not falter, and though it brought a scorching pain to settle deep within her bones and muscles, she did not repent it whatsoever.

Mean, hungry, frenzied you became when you were on the precipice of an orgasm. 

And Lord, in all sincerity, in all necessity, she would do anything to see you like this, keep you like this. Under her, on top of her. Inside of her. Everywhere. Anywhere. 

“C—close, yes! Hell, I’m so close. I’m going to come all over your cock, please—”

Your stare snapped from her cunt to her eyes, stunned at her highly confident, thoroughly coherent, foul-mouthed declaration. You brought her closer, tips digging further in as the arm around her retracted, palm stretching and shoving the small of her back until her spine shaped a lovely curvature. 

And you smiled again, long and wide. There was that swelling pride. Not just at her speech but how she allowed you to bend her to your will.

“There’s my filthy fucking girl.”

Your mouth cloaked her canted chin, palm applying more pressure to the lower column of her spine, swirling her over your girth as her whines increased in pitch.

She squeezed you tighter, and you could tell she wanted to throw her head back. Yet she would not dare let her gaze leave yours, not with the way you looked at her. 

“D-don’t stop, darling—”

You kissed her through it, all lush tongue and wet lips until she was panting into your mouth, hands clutching at the nape of your neck like you were the only thing holding her together.

Perhaps you were the only thing that had ever properly held Joan Ramsey together in her miserable, righteous little life.

“That’s right, look at me. Keeeep looking at me. Right here.”

Her heaving hole locked your strap in place, allowing for one last stroke before everything stopped completely.

And then you felt it. Felt her warm cum spill around you immediately after. Eyes screwed tight as you watched tears trickle down her cheeks, and your heart snapped.

You were expelling your own stream of cum, watching how she felt so full, so whole. Pleasure surged through Joan, blinding her, immobilizing her as she heaved against you shaking and panting, mumbling your name in prayer and a string of other words jaggedly. 

Your tight grip relinquished into a soft one around her neck, releasing her. Eventually, you were to ease your way out of her center, pulling strings and ropes of cum out before you so very carefully, very gently drew her into your arms. 

It was an entirely different story when it came to aftercare, how sweet, how swaddling you were with Joan when she went boneless after, body melting into yours; your fingers stroked the damp tendrils of hair pasted to her forehead and cheeks, so you could actually see her and the features you had laid to waste, your mouth softly falling over her temple, cheekbones, neck, shoulder, with hushed praises meeting her perspired flesh. 

You shifted a bit, bareback meeting once more with the coolness of the wall.  You let your other hand spiral along the contours of her spine, featherlight, teasing. “You still with me, sweetheart? Must’ve been too much for you.”

A huff. Small. Barely perceptible, and you released a gentle laugh.  Joan’s head lifted enough for her hazed gaze to find yours, a sluggish glare forming. “D—don’t. Don’t feed into that ego of yours.”

You bit back another chuckle because she was always like this afterward. Having to reclaim some piece of herself, like she had to remind herself she was not so entirely lost to you.

Endearing and futile it all was. 

You softly repeated her words, two fingers stroking the delicate slope of her cheekbone. “Joan, I’m sure I had you praying a few seconds ago.”

She scoffed, a soft, weak, barely a protest of a sound but relinquished to your touch anyway. “And don't ruin the moment with your galling.”

“Galling is what we’re calling adorable now?” Your thumb swept over her swollen lower lip, humming at how the flesh simmered beneath your attention. “Then you’re galling when you’re pretending you’re not the neediest thing I’ve ever touched.”

You smirked at the whimper rumbling in the back of her throat. You expected anger, vexation brewing that coffee-hued gaze.

But Joan’s features softened, undone in ways she would never verbally acknowledge. But you knew it already when she sighed and burrowed further into you with a light kiss to your jaw, leaving alone the last scrap of a clever retort.

[wendichester]

Could i request reader suffers with an eating disorder and sam and dean are her bestfriends and try and kinda help her through it? encourage her to eat🥺

࣪ ִֶָ☾. one bite at a time,

summary. sam and dean notice that you've been struggling and they try to be there for you.

pairing. dean winchester x reader x sam winchester genre. fluffy angst

wordcount. 503

notes / warnings. mentions of eating disorders / i hope i was able to write this in a respectful way! thank you for requesting love 🩷

The bunker’s kitchen smells like bacon and coffee, but your stomach still twists like it’s filled with rocks.

You push the food around your plate—scrambled eggs, toast, a few slices of fruit Sam must’ve added when you weren’t looking—but you can’t bring yourself to take a bite. The numbers flash in your head like a neon sign: too much, too heavy, too much.

Dean slides into the seat across from you, his own plate piled high. “Damn, Sam,” he says through a mouthful of eggs, “you outdid yourself.”

Sam shoots him a look before turning to you, his voice softer. “You good?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Just not hungry yet.”

Dean’s fork pauses mid-air. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flick from your untouched plate to your face, and something in his expression tightens.

It’s Dean who finds you later, curled up on the couch with a book you’re not really reading.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He just sits beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and holds out a protein bar—the kind you used to like, back when things were easier.

“One bite,” he says, voice rough but gentle. “That’s it. Just one.”

You stare at it, your throat tight.

Dean doesn’t push. He just waits, his hand steady, his gaze fixed on the far wall like he’s giving you space to decide.

Slowly, you take it.

The first bite tastes like cardboard, but Dean’s quiet “atta girl” makes something in your chest loosen.

Sam tries a different approach.

He starts leaving snacks where you’ll find them—a granola bar on your nightstand, a bag of almonds in the Impala’s glove compartment, a single chocolate square on top of your research notes. No pressure, no commentary. Just here, if you want it.

One night, you find him in the kitchen, slicing apples into careful wedges.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say quietly.

Sam doesn’t look up. “I know.”

The worst day comes after a hunt gone wrong.

You’re exhausted, your body aching, your head pounding, but the thought of eating makes you want to crawl out of your skin. You lock yourself in the bathroom, your hands shaking, your breath coming too fast.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Open up,” Dean says, his voice firm but not unkind.

You don’t move.

The door creaks open anyway and then Dean’s crouching in front of you, his face unreadable.

“Listen,” he says, his voice low. “I don’t get it. Not really. But I know you’re hurting. And I know you’re stronger than this.”

Sam appears behind him, holding a mug of tea and a single slice of buttered toast.

“One bite,” Dean repeats, his hand on your knee. “Just one.”

You take it.

And then another.

And another.

It doesn’t get easier overnight.

Some days, the numbers still scream in your head. Some days, you still hide in the bathroom, your chest heaving. But now, there’s always a knock on the door.

Now, you’re never alone.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[slavdollz4mangione]

luigi supporting you making content on tiktok hc 💌:

shoutout to the anon who got my vision, this one’s for you! <33 as you can probably tell, i went HAM on this one 😭

- luigi hates tiktok. he finds it overwhelming, chaotic, and way too fast-paced for his taste. he’s more of a ‘read a book in silence’ kind of guy, so the idea of endless scrolling and loud trends just doesn’t appeal to him.

- that said, when you tell him you’ve started a tiktok account to talk about your favorite things—books, philosophy, movies, debates on different topics, and even your hot takes on agriculture and politics? he’s immediately intrigued.

- he loves how passionate and articulate you are, and he can’t help but admire the way your mind works.

- despite his dislike for the app, he downloads it just to follow you. he tells himself it’s to “support you,” but deep down, he’s genuinely curious about what you’ll share.

- your videos are nothing like the content he expected. you’re not doing dances or trends, you’re just yapping lol. you talk about your favorite substack articles, analyze the themes of your latest read, rant about why tea is superior to coffee (or vice versa), and even dive into deep topics like religion and politics. safe to say, luigi is hooked.

- he becomes your biggest hype man. every time you post he’s there in the comments, leaving thoughtful responses. if you talk about a book he’s read, he’ll add his own analysis. if you delve into a philosophical concept, he’ll write paragraphs agreeing with you or gently challenging your perspective. his comments are often longer than your videos, and it becomes a running joke between the two of you.

- sometimes, you catch him in the background of your vlogs, quietly sipping tea or reading a book. he’s always smiling softly as you rant about whatever’s on your mind, completely enamored by your passion and intellect.

- one day, while filming a tiktok about your favorite philosophy book, lu chimes in from the background. you’re mid-sentence, explaining why you love the author’s take on existentialism, when he casually interjects:
“but don’t you think their view on free will is a little too optimistic?”
you pause, turn to him, and immediately launch into a spirited debate. the camera keeps rolling, and your followers lose it over the unexpected cameo.

- after that, it becomes a recurring thing. your followers start noticing that the same soft-spoken voice in the background that’s always adding thoughtful commentary or playfully challenging your takes, is the same person leaving those long comments under every video.

- comments start flooding in like:
“wait, is the guy in the background the same guy who writes essays in the comments???”
“luigi_from_fiji in the comments vs. luigi in the background is the best character arc of 2024.”
“the way he just casually drops the most profound takes while she’s filming�� i can’t. they’re adorable.”

- one of your most popular tiktoks is a video where you’re talking about your favorite coffee shops, and ofc luigi interjects in the background:
“but tea is clearly superior. it’s more versatile, and you can’t deny the cultural history behind it.”
you stop mid-sentence, turn to him, and say, “oh, we’re doing this again?” before launching into a full-blown debate about coffee vs. tea. the video ends with both of you laughing, and your followers absolutely melt.

- one day, you decide to make a video about one of your favorite authors, fyodor dostoyevsky (self indulgent sorry). you’re gushing about how crime and punishment explores the psychology of guilt and redemption but halfway through your analysis, lu, who’s been quietly listening in the background, can’t help but chime in:
“but baby don’t you think raskolnikov’s redemption arc feels a little rushed? i mean, after everything he did, the ending almost feels… too neat.”
you turn to him, eyes lighting up, and say, “okay, first of all nicholas, how dare you,” before diving into a passionate defense of dostoyevsky’s writing. the two of you end up in a full-blown literary debate, with lu arguing that notes from underground is the better psychological study, while you insist that crime and punishment is the masterpiece.

- your followers go wild for the video with comments pouring in like: “luigi coming in with the hot takes on dostoyevsky?? i’m obsessed.”
“the way she said ‘how dare you’ and then immediately launched into a 10-minute rant… mood.”
“luigi’s face when she starts defending raskolnikov is priceless. he’s so whipped.”

- another time, you’re talking about white nights and how the dreamer’s idealism and loneliness resonate with you. lu, who’s been quietly reading in the corner, looks up and says softly:
“i think the dreamer’s problem is that he’s too afraid to live in the real world. he’d rather stay in his fantasies than risk getting hurt.”
you’d pause, tilt your head, and reply, “but isn’t that what makes him so human? he’s flawed, but he’s real.”

- lu smiles at you, his eyes soft, and says, “i guess i can’t argue with that.”

-the moment is so tender that your followers immediately start spamming the comments with:
“THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER??? I’M CRYING.”
“luigi’s a simp for intellectual debates and i’m here for it.”
“this is the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen.”

- luigi secretly starts to enjoy tiktok but only because of you. he’d do anything to support you, even if it means spending hours on an app he claims to dislike.

[pathos-bathos]

Piranesi? What are you doing in my "the priory of the orange tree"?

[calware]

oo ooo i saw your posts on june and vriska in rapid succession so i wanted to ask: what makes vriska a trans character? if you can’t articulate it yourself, can you lead me to someone who can?

sorry it took me so long to respond to this; it's just that there's truly so much to say. WARNING this post is so so long

vriska being a trans woman has been incorporated in official homestuck works like pesterquest and homestuck 2, which i could start with, but i think it's better to start with how it was conceived of by fans. i've only been around the fandom since mid-2019, so i can't give a very detailed overview of anything before that year, but i can tell you that for years, fans have picked up on themes from her character that resemble and represent the experiences of trans women and transfemininity overall. because of this, i'm going to be linking quite a few posts from others, both because i would otherwise just be repeating something someone else has said but also because it's these readings that have influenced my own reading of the text. this is a topic that is, at times, very subjective, and because of that, i think it's important to recognize that everyone has a slightly different reading—even if it all adds up to the same conclusion—and i want to be able to show the ideas that my reading stems from

before i get into the transfem reading of her, we have to first be on the same page on what her character is telling us within the story. in general, vriska is an incredibly complex and nuanced character, so there is a lot to jump into right off the bat. the fairly surface-level understanding we can get from vriska is that from birth, she was intentionally and deliberately molded into a weapon by the people around her. this leads to a lot of problems, obviously, but focusing on how this affects her is the important part here. she faces daily expectations on how to behave and feel; she's supposed to kill for survival, and she's supposed to like it, to the point where she's desensitized to it. this leads to her not growing healthily; she desperately wants to be more mature than she really is, she struggles to maintain friendships, etc.

Everything about what's happening here is wildly overcompensatory, meant to repair damage she's done without really having to face what it is she actually did. Aradia's extremely passive nature as a ghost makes her an easy target for this kind of overbearing attention. Because what Vriska seems to want most is acknowledgement, and more importantly, to foster strong reactions. Good or bad, love or hatred, this seems to be what she demands from everyone. So for that reason, Aradia's impassivity seems to add fuel to Vriska's sycophantic need to make amends. Not caring much one way or another about what Vriska does is guaranteed to drive Vriska crazy. Neutrality is insufferable to her because it makes her feel irrelevant. Being irrelevant is her biggest fear and ultimate enemy. She struggles to keep herself in the spotlight, and when the narrative is finally done with her and tosses her into the gutter, she fights her way back into relevance. Fighting against the forces of narrative marginalization completely define her entire batshit arc, from her introduction here all the way to the end of Homestuck. – Author Commentary

more notably, on friendships, she lashes out (as she has only been taught to do), which drives others away from her. then, when she doesn't know how to cope with the loss, she lashes out further, creating a vicious cycle

she also looks at the hardships she (along with everyone else) endures and has accepted them as "normal life"

she enforces that on others (tavros, most blatantly) as 1) the only way she knows how to "help" and 2) out of anger for others finding peace when she is unable to. with all of this together, she is consistently regarded in bad faith by others (both in and out of the story), becoming more and more isolated

it's only when terezi (through john) gives her a second chance that she's able to break the initial cycle

now, if you've never thought about it before, you might be wondering, "what does this have to do with her gender" and to that i will remind you that most aspects of alternian society are heavily gendered. for example, lord english/doc scratch's oppressive influence on the planet is a pretty strong symbol for the patriarchy, and practically every instance of oppression on alternia goes hand-in-hand with misogyny in some way. another one of these aspects is the castes themselves; highbloods specifically are referred to as male-dominated castes, putting vriska in a masculine context, something she strongly pushes back against. she leans into femininity with desperation (i.e., asking kanaya to sew a dress for her mindfang/summoner roleplay). and, to that point, she idolizes her ancestor in both her ruthlessness AND femininity. going even further, she does this to the point where she forces herself into a specific conventional feminine ideal—not because it's what she wants to be, but because it's what she thinks a woman should be. she struggles hard with her role not just in the cerulean caste, but also as a woman. as she does with her caste, she consistently fails to live up to gender expectations, unable to be a woman "correctly" in the eyes of society. it's a bootstrap paradox. again, these things go hand-in-hand. now, that's a pretty broad overview of everything, but this post is already pretty long, so we're going to move on

now we can look at it through a transfeminine lens, asking "what would a transfem reading of the character add to what already exists?" there probably isn't anything i could say that hasn't already been said by victoria (doomsdaydicecascader) so i'll link her thoughts here

another analyst i feel is crucial to include is valerie (stabvariation), who has a collection of posts on their own transfem vriska reading. make sure to click through all of them and come back here (this is an older blog of theirs btw, their listed pronouns are outdated, they go by they/them). the reason i bring up valerie in particular is that during the 2019 toblerone hunt, someone found one of the toblerones and, in continuation of the june reveal, saw an opportunity to pitch transfem vriska to the current team (they mention an essay, but i'm not sure if it was ever completed as i was never able to find it). that last post by valerie is the pitch; we can assume that it worked because 7 days later, vriska's pesterquest route was released with some pretty direct indications to her being a trans woman. this is where we leave the Fandom zone and enter the Official zone. we are no longer being subjective and are now being objective

(which to me means that their posts hold some significant weight, in my mind. and, even if it was by coincidence, and this had been written into the story in advance, i think they make good points and that they're worth including)

outside of pesterquest, vriska's now-official transfemininity has been given some nods in HSBC with the hell-tier rungs:

now, nods are nice, but the meat/significance/message/etc of this implication is once again on the reader to extract from the text (back to the subjective zone). for example, ado (gendertrickster) posted a reading on how vriska's recent developments as a character intersect with her being trans, which to me makes me think about the demonization of transfemininity throughout our society and the stigma that surrounds trans women... especially in the context of caring for children due to stereotypes of being predatory, & the fact that she's done the work to improve herself and break the cycle adds another layer to her development as the new kids' pseudo-guardian. vriska being a trans woman changes the context of this development significantly, making it 100 times more meaningful to her arc overall. and i'm sure that there are other things to add to this as well, but hopefully by now you get the point

something i want to mention before i wrap this post up is that i place emphasis on subjectivity/objectivity and what originates from the fans vs. official content not because i see subjective/fan readings as necessarily lesser than what's officially stated or what's word of god. i'd argue that they both have their own unique strengths. i think that there's a lot of power in being able to form your own perception of a work of fiction, or where readers build off of each other's ideas. what does it mean to YOU? granted, most of the time, fandom takes just kind of suck. but i think that this is one of those special cases where people came together to make a really meaningful reading of an already significant and impactful character. the stength of something being official (or even "canon") is that it's an undeniable representation of a marginalized community, something else that holds power on its own. but i want to recognize that it doesn't mean much without you being able to look at the text, read between the lines, and decide what you think it MEANS (let alone deciding if those official works are actually "good"..... frankly i think vriska's pq route could have been better). anyway i just wanted to elaborate on my thought process with the way i wrote this post & view these sorts of discussions in general)

did anyone actually read this extremely long post? (and yes, the linked posts do count). if you made it all the way down here i'm giving you an award

[rottenpumpkin13]

https://www.tumblr.com/cute-catts/777745842211880960/sound-on?source=share

which of AGSZC sleeps like this and which sees it happen and does anyone believe them

There are precisely three places in the Shinra building where Genesis can read in peace: the emergency stairwell (excellent acoustics for dramatic recitation), the executive bathroom (outstanding lighting), and the SOLDIER break room at 3 pm (perfect couch to window ratio for optimal reading conditions).

Today, he's claimed his usual spot on the weathered leather couch, armed with a cup of tea that cost more than a cadet's monthly salary, with his annotated copy of Loveless (collector's edition, gilt-edged, with margin space specifically designed for his enlightened commentary) and the intention to have a peaceful afternoon.

And there, sprawled across the other end is Sephiroth. Dead to the world, one arm thrown over his face, legs neatly tucked in, because Gaia forbid the man be messy even while unconscious.

Genesis is mid-metaphysical annotation when he hears it.

"Mrrp."

His pen freezes mid-scribble. Surely not.

"Ahhh... pip."

Genesis slowly lowers his book, staring at Sephiroth like he's just announced his retirement to become a chocobo farmer. The most feared man in Wutai is… squeaking. Like a kitten. A very large, leather-clad, mako-soaked kitten with a sword taller than most infantrymen.

A soft "mrrrrrr" followed by what can only be described as a happy little sigh escapes Sephiroth's lips. One foot twitches. His nose scrunches ever so slightly.

This is it, Genesis thinks hysterically. This is how I die. Killed by acute cute aggression.

He tries to return to his reading. He really does. But then Sephiroth makes this utterly content little chirping sound, and Genesis' last remaining brain cell throws itself off the metaphorical plate.

He can't help it. Genesis launches himself across the couch, sobbing, gathering Sephiroth in his arms, tears streaming down his face as he strokes that ridiculous silver hair.

"Look at you," he whispers wetly, utterly destroyed by another tiny chirp. "The most terrifying man on the planet, and you're making kitten noises. This is devastating. This is precious. I'm going to need therapy."

Sephiroth, still dead asleep, just nuzzles closer with a soft "mrrp," completely oblivious to Genesis having an emotional breakdown over his head.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, Zack is on his way to the vending machine when he hears it: the unmistakable sound of Genesis talking to a cat

"—such a precious kitten, aren't you? The cutest little thing!"

Zack's face lights up like a reactor core. They got a break room cat! He's been lobbying for a SOLDIER mascot for months! This is perfect! He can already picture it: a tiny combat-trained kitten in a custom uniform! His heart is racing. Maybe it can ride on his shoulder during missions.

He bursts through the door, beaming. "We got a cat?!?"

The words die in his throat.

There's Genesis, tears still streaming down his face, cradling their supreme commander like an oversized kitty while Sephiroth dozes peacefully in his lap, making tiny chirping noises.

They stare at each other.

Zack shuts the door and pretends it was all a fever dream.

Two weeks later, Sephiroth opens his locker and finds a cozy stuffed cat plushie, and a note that just says:

"You deserve comfort! :D —Z."

Sephiroth stares off into the distance, confused.

[s1utlvr]

Candy ༯

synopsis: Your boyfriend’s an asshole, but everytime you break up without fail Clarisse always welcomes you with open arms.

a/n: hihi!!!!! I wrote this as a kind of quick drable to prequel feather but can be read as a one shot as well guess I should mention it is a college au sort offfff. General warnings asshole ex Luke suggestive themes weed things are implied but nothing outright said you know the drill read it or don’t!!!!

inspired by Candy by Doja Cat

You really didn’t mean to make it a habit.

But you knew if you went to your friends and told them about how you’d broken up with Luke for what had had to have been the fiftieth time this semester they’d tell you the exact same things they’d been preaching to you since the first time you “broke up”.

So there you were once again, standing outside of Clarisse’s dorm teary eyed in your pajamas knocking at her door.

It took one glance of you for Clarisse to figure out what had happened.

“So what was it this time?” She asked with a smirk as she motioned for you to come in.

“Good he was just being such an asshole about me going out with my friends” you say as you plop down onto her bed as you embraced one of her pillows.

“When is Luke not being an asshole?” Clarisse scoffed as she grabbed a lighter and a joint she had pre-rolled.

“For me?” You asked looking up at clarisse with bright eyes as she sat down next to you.

“No im just gonna smoke while you watch in misery” she responded as she lit up the end of the joint before placing it up by your lips.

Clarisse always knew how to make you feel better even if it came with a side of sarcastic commentary.

“Gee thanks” you replied with a sarcastic smile as you took the joint between your fingers.

You couldn’t help but admire Clarisse in this lighting. The way sweatpants hung low on her waist and the way her sports bra hugged her chest, but little did you know that you were staring…very hard actually..

“Stop looking at me like that” Clarrise scoffed snatching the joint that laid between your fingers her voice snapping you back to reality.

“Like what?” You asked.

“Like you wanna kiss me” She said taking a drag from the joint. You were staring at her lips now.

“What if I do?” You asked watching the smoke escape from her lips as she laid back.

“I wouldn’t let you” You frowned at her words as she passed you the joint.

“Why?” You asked placing the joint between your pouty lips before passing it back to Clarisse.

“Cause” she said taking a hit mid sentence “You know you’re gonna get back together next week and then you’re gonna feel all guilty for fucking around with me and I’m not gonna be at fault for that.”

You rolled your eyes at her words as you adjusted yourself your legs now on either side of hers as you straddled her

“I can handle my own feelings Clar. Luke’s probably out getting his dick sucked so who’s to say I can’t kiss you?”

“So do it. Kiss me.”

You didn’t even let the words fully leave her mouth before your lips were on hers.

Clarrise knew it was wrong of her to enjoy these moments so much. She knew she shouldn’t be hoping and praying that your dick of a boyfriend would pull a dick move so you’d end up on her doorstep all needy and desperate but gods she craved it so much. She knew it wasn’t real that it could never be that girls like you could never be saved from going back to your shitty boyfriends time and time again but aslong as it meant that she could indulge in you everytime you and Luke broke up she prayed that he would never change.

Your lips were the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted, and she was fucking addicted.

[sailorspica]

the stars have all gone | ii

suggestive, with an allusion to assault and brief, clinical discussion of manslaughter. part two of a series. crocodile x f!reader, past basil hawkins x reader. selfshippy; reader is an astrologer, hawkins' former navigator, and a different race from both of them. post-timeskip canon au, 2.1k words.

"There's a man asking for you."

These days you did readings in the back of a the cafe near the bakery where you worked now. Your client base grew by word of mouth, and interested parties called your Den Den Mushi with their birth information, so the only people who showed up at the cafe asking for you by name were usually pissed at you—rarely a client themself, but more often than not someone in their life affected by whatever advice they heard in your commentary.

You checked your notebook of charts for the week. All women. Definitely not a client.

"What's he look like?" you asked the cafe owner.

His eyes shifted. "I like you, I do, I like that your business brings me business. I knew your past was something suspect. But—"

"I'm sorry, what?"

The owner stepped closer and stage whispered: "It's Sir Crocodile."

You didn't make a habit of hooking up with strange men, but you supposed infamous men were a trend in your single-digit body count considering you gave your virginity to a captain of the Worst Generation. That night, months ago, Crocodile easily tucked you into his side away from the from view of other diners as you left the restaurant, and you let yourself ebb along. You weren't even sure what you kept talking about, but his rich, low laughter sounded surprised at itself and thrummed in your veins the next morning when you woke alone in a suite at a fine hotel you'd only passed since settling here. On his side of the bed was a folded note, unsigned: "I'll see you."

You assumed they were empty words, or careful ones. Crocodile seemed to move around a lot, having no base of operations since he was stripped of his Warlord title, so you shrugged it off at the time. But now...

Surely they weren't sweet nothings. He was too sensible for that. So maybe you offended him and it was actually an oblique threat, in which case you'd better climb out the window.

"I'll talk to him. Is it okay for him to come in?"

The cafe owner blanched, then hardened. "If this means trouble, we're done."

He left to retrieve Crocodile like the notorious pirate was there for a chart reading (was he?), or like he was... calling on you, like a suitor (...was he?).

You shook yourself and tried to remember anything after the restaurant. What he tasted like under the wine, or what his pale skin looked like in low light. But you came up empty except for the smell of the cool spices of his aftershave in the sheets.

Damn.

His footsteps were heavy and leisurely before he stopped in the doorway, and you felt the breath leave your lungs. How was he so handsome? Other people would find his scars off putting, and there were several; you weren't researching him or anything, but you saw wanted posters from throughout the years, and they seemed to only accumulate along his face. His hair was dark as yours, but your skin was pinkish and cool while his was a warm, light olive.

"You keep odd hours," Crocodile more grunted than said.

"I do," you agreed. It was mid-afternoon, and only the start of your day. You had a little solitary time in your room at a women's boardinghouse before you did consultations, then spent the night studying for future clients until your pre-opening bakery shift well before nautical twilight, earlier than you'd wake up on the Grudge Dolph. Then you slept most of the time the sun was up, ironic for you and your diurnal chart, but you didn't believe in this stuff anymore.

"Long time no see," you said pointedly, and nodded at the chair across from you.

Crocodile looked too big for the cafe, like everything was doll furniture to his stature. You knew their were humans larger than him but wondered how the hell you two fit together that night since you woke up with minimal but tell-tale soreness. He angled his chair away from the table so he could cross his ankle over the opposite knee, and you swallowed, unable to pretend you weren't looking at the strong thighs crinkling his dress pants, before meting his gaze.

"I almost gave up," he said simply. "My associate would wonder why we bothered docking here with nothing to show for it."

Okay.

You were lost.

"Excuse me?"

He inhaled a good drag of his cigar. "'You're my captain,' you said. It was a thought exercise, to do with that instrument of yours, but I've warmed to the idea."

No.

"What do you say?"

He looked at you like he wouldn't be bothered either way you answered.

But.

"I'm sorry," you said against your better judgment. "I'm a little lost here. I don't... totally know what we discussed last time."

He wasn't expecting that.

"Hah." That bark-laugh-grunt he did that somehow also held a question, but not as undignified as a "huh?"

"It was a lot of wine for me," you said awkwardly. What were you, a kid? You're twenty eight. It's not that you were teetotal, but that was your first night of drinking in a good few months.

Crocodile seemed well and truly taken aback, and a bit of ash ungracefully plopped off the end of his cigar, which he caught with... a cloud of sand, and neatly floated off into an ash tray. Wow. Logia powers really were different.

His voice was tight. "What do you remember."

"Uhm..." You bit your lip, and his eyes flicked down there for millisecond. "We left the restaurant for your hotel. And then, uh. It was morning."

Slowly, with his cigar curled in his pinkie and ring fingers, Crocodile went to pinch the bridge of his nose. "That unremarkable, huh?"

Oh god.

This was that little bit of sensitivity to him you found so endearing. He'd never call it that, though; pride was a euphemism.

"If I was drunk enough not to remember shit for shit," you started, "Surely I must have... I don't know, puked on you, or something."

"No." His moment was over in the blink of an eye. "It's better this way. Just know we mostly talked."

Mostly. "About?"

"Your travels." You winced. Surely you didn't cry over your ex-captain to Sir Crocodile of all people. You had a pitiful lack of girl friends despite living with women for the first time in a decade, but even the widow who brought you to that restaurant in the first place would be a better choice. "What you want, and who's in the way of it."

That also sounded vulnerable, but the way he studied your face for your reaction made you think it struck him, somehow.

"What I want."

"You can map the stars along the Grand Line if you stick with a Warlord," Crocodile said simply. "Not one of your greenhorns."

Your breath caught.

That was the reason you joined Hawkins when he came back to your hometown after forming his crew of sycophants who'd never seen cartomancy before. You didn't want to be a navigator. You wanted to survey the Grand Line celestially because the sea crossed the equator. In reality, you wanted to move to the South Blue and study the southern hemisphere's sky, only after familiarizing yourself with the one you were born under. The Navy wouldn't let you move that freely, and the astronomers of Mary Geoise weren't practiced in geography, nor would they give you the time of day. The only course was to do it all yourself.

"It will be dangerous." Hawkins hadn't lied to you, yet. "You need to hold your own to be a pirate, but I'll protect you when I can."

You were the only woman on the ship and the only one who knew him before, the neighbor boy who complained he had to babysit you but cried when the two of you got lost in a fishing boat as night fell, and you used Polaris to get back to your home port.

"Former Warlord," you corrected. Crocodile's lip curled in annoyance. "You're from the Grand Line, aren't you?"

He humored you. "Paradise. But I've been in the New World for almost two years now."

So had you. Your ancestors were from this sea, too.

"I saw it," Hawkins said easily, and three of his cards arranged themselves midair: the High Priestess, the Eight of Cups, the Chariot. "You, leaving here."

You hated it most when you had the same interpretation, because it let him think he was right. He'd long since assigned the High Priestess to you and the Magician to himself since by pure chance you shared birth cards, and in one of your now-rare lighter moods, you'd sniffed, "The Chariot navigates. You be the Tower." But besides that, the Chariot was ruled by Cancer, a water sign, beside a pip from Cups, and here you were, underwater. Leaving him.

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

The Pacifistas were terrifying. You followed your instincts to run and hide, and no one resented you for it, but the crew barely acknowledged you as it was. You were either a know-it-all of a navigator or the captain's tagalong. Both of you knew they assumed you were fucking, still, but nor did you do anything to disabuse them of the idea, and this is where it led.

"No," you said out loud. "Thank you. But I'd hold you back. I'm not strong."

"You think I don't know?"

Ouch. "You could flatter me a little."

"Can you even use that thing?" Crocodile inclined his head downward. How did he...? You were better about keeping your dagger strapped to your thigh these days, but today you were wearing a longer skirt that should've hidden it well, and you briefly had the thought was he checking out your legs? You wore stockings today. Maybe he liked that sort of thing.

"It was a gift."

Hawkins called it an athame. You'd killed only one person in your life, dragging it down a man's femoral artery when Hawkins wasn't there, didn't see you get separated from the crew.

"I can teach you," Crocodile said. "But you should trust the person you follow. I've survived this long."

I'll protect you when I can.

You blinked.

"You also went to prison."

"And left."

You exhaled. "You know what I wanted when I was young and stupid. But what are you doing now?"

"There's nothing stupid about knowledge," he said sternly. "It's a weapon more strictly controlled by the World Government than any blade or bullet."

"How political."

"Everything is."

You grinned, more to yourself. Even when he was pressing you one way, he was so easy to talk to. But you schooled your face to neutrality. "What did you want with Alabasta?"

"That was a long time ago."

"I don't care about a monarchy going down," you said impatiently. "If I join you, what am I participating in? And do you even have a ship? A crew?"

"You know, I believe I told you all this last time. But apparently..."

"Oh, don't you hold that over my head." The look he gave you was unimpressed. "What?"

"You insist you're not a pirate, but you're vulgar as any sailor."

"Vulgar? I haven't said anything." Besides 'shit for shit,' but he seemed distracted in that moment.

"I don't mean your vocabulary."

"Oh!" you said sarcastically. "Okay, sir."

Crocodile's brow hardened. "Watch it."

"Or what, sir? Did I call you that in bed, sir?"

He stood up, suddenly, and closed the few feet of distance between you. His golden hook came through one of the wide stitches of your sweater harmlessly as he butted it up under your jaw, tilting your head up. "What are you playing at, hmm? I decided I'd forget it to be fair to you."

You breathed deeply and the cardamom and tobacco of him filled your head like a fog. "Or you could remind me."

His gaze didn't leave your face. "It's poor form to sleep with a subordinate."

"I'm not under you."

He closed his eyes and exhaled, like you were really testing him. "What will it take?"

Feeling brave, you gently coaxed your sweater from his hook—stretched the damn stockinette, you'd have to tug the fabric to get it smooth again—and held onto it, like it was his other hand, petting it with your thumb. "Your pitch needs work. You just showed back up in this town hoping I'd be amenable? Based on a one-night stand?"

"I thought it was more like a date."

He sounded a little sullen as he nudged his chair closer to you with his foot.

"One of us has to ask out the other, you know."

"You're exhausting."

"Yes. Are you still sure you want me?"

"Yes."

You didn't know if he meant for his crew or otherwise.

[city-of-ladies]

Although most of her writings did not survive, Pamphile (or Pamphila) of Epidaurus (fl. mid-1st century CE) deserves recognition. She is one of the earliest known female historians and the only ancient Greek woman historian about whom we have significant information. Additionally, she was a key figure in developing the genre of “miscellaneous history,” where authors retold anecdotes from earlier works.

A pioneer of historical writing

Pamphile stands among the earliest known female historians, alongside the Chinese scholar Ban Zhao (c. 40–45 – c. 117–120). This does not mean, however, that she was the first or only female historian of her time. For instance, there are references to a woman named Nicobule, who reportedly wrote a biography of Alexander the Great between the 1st and 3rd centuries CE.

According to Photios, Pamphile was a mature woman during the reign of Nero (54–68 CE). Conflicting accounts exist regarding her origins: Photios claimed she and her family were from Egypt, while the Suda, a Byzantine encyclopedia, stated that she and her father, Soterides, were from Epidaurus.

Pamphile was a polymath, likely with access to an extensive library. She attributed her knowledge to her own readings, her husband and the conversations she overheard from his visitors.

Pamphile’s Work and Influence

Pamphile’s main work, Historical Commentaries, survives only in fragments—eleven excerpts from the original 33 books, preserved in paraphrases by authors like Diogenes Laërtius, Aulus Gellius, and Photios. Her Historical Commentaries is considered the earliest known example of “miscellaneous history”. Later writers seem to have emulated her work and style.

In addition to this, Pamphile is credited with other works, including a collection of apophthegms, lectures, debates, and discussions on poetry. She also wrote an epitome of Ctesias in three books. According to the Suda, she authored a work titled On Controversies and a sexual manual called On Sexual Pleasure.

Deborah Levine Gera speculates that Pamphile might also be the author of Tractatus de Mulieribus Claris in Bello (Treatise on Women Distinguished in Wars), which recounts the deeds of powerful women from history, such as Tomyris and Artemisia I of Caria.

Pamphile described her work as poikilia, meaning a “tapestry” woven together from various sources and genres. She chose this approach to make her writing more engaging and enjoyable for her readers.

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Further reading 

Anonymous, Tractatus de Mulieribus Claris in Bello

MacDaniel Spencer, Pamphile of Epidauros: A Female Ancient Greek Historian

Plant Ian Michael (ed.), Women Writers of Ancient Greece and Rome : An Anthology

Photios, Bibliotheca