#the immoral dedication of it all

[lambkinstock]

confessions

the tale of one (fictional) woman's journey (through fiction). told to you by way of a (fictional) story, featuring (fictional) characters.

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If you’re reading this, you’re probably a pervert.

Yeah. You read that right. You’re a sad, lonely little pervert, and we’re all talking about you.

Really, we are. You keep us up at night. All you do is stare at your screen, scrolling and typing and clicking and posting. You’ve probably got a whole queue of posts dedicated to this shit, right? Weirdo. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any friends?

Of course you don’t. You’re here! And if you’re reading this, it’s probably because you went looking for it.

That’s where our problem begins.

Joel clicks his fingers in front of your face. “Hey. Are you even listening to me?”

“What?” you ask, looking up from your phone. You’ve been talking to your only friend again; a gray floating head with shades on. You’re not sure what it is about them, this faceless figure: they just get you.

“Unbelievable,” Joel says. He shakes his head and struts off.

“I was listening,” you call, chasing after him. “I heard you.”

“What’d I say?”

“You said something about immorality. And therapy. About me needing therapy. Right?”

His jaw clenches, releasing some sort of disapproving grunt. He gauges the distance between you, making sure it’s a respectable, appropriate five feet before he responds. “That’s about it, yeah.”

“Yeah…” You scratch your head. “And what do I need therapy for again?”

Well, that sets him off.

His eyes widen in shock. He gestures between your body and his, gaping. “How about you trying to dream up some world where you and I are in a sexual relationship? I mean, my God, Fellow Legal Adult, it’s like you’re attracted to me or something.”

Fellow Legal Adult. This is his new thing, the nickname he’s been using since baby girl is too inappropriate in today’s climate. He calls his fictional daughters baby girl, and you’re wrong and sick and twisted for enjoying the sound of it in his waxy Texan accent.

“I just thought it might be some fun to imagine it,” you admit. “I don’t actually want to do it, I just want to play pretend and maybe write a story about doing it.”

“No,” Joel says. “Writing a story about something is the exact same as doing it. Every work of fiction ever is actually the writer’s endorsement of that thing. Shakespeare has been cancelled for years over Macbeth, or did you miss that Twitter thread?”

You pull at the skirt of your sundress. Shit – my bad, you’re not wearing a sundress. That’s overdone. Also kinda slutty. You’re only wearing it for easy access, right? Come on, now. This isn’t one of those fics from 2023, with zero plot and just sex. We’re better than that. We’re literates.

That’s why we’re on Tumblr.

You pull at the skirt of your frock. It’s now ankle-length and much more self-respecting. “I’m confused,” you reply. “So you’re saying no?”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying yes?”

Joel sighs, taking another conservative step back. “No. We can’t. This would be wrong.”

“What’s so wrong with it?” you ask, impatient now. You’ve met all the required terms and conditions of pursuing a romantic relationship with a man who does not, never has, and never will exist outside of the confines of your imagination.

You’re not his best friend’s daughter, because – ew, right? Who the fuck wants to fantasize about a clandestine summer fling with a mature, intelligent man who only has eyes for you, against all odds and rules of society; a man who would put his closest friendship on the line because you are just that insatiable to him; a man who treats you with the respect, trust, and – my God, I’m about to say it – the love that no other boy ever has or ever could?

It’s not like you’re calling him daddy, either. What fucking twisted piece of shit would do that? Doesn’t Joel know about the decades of usage of that term, the sheer number of people who buy into such whimsy, the little fantasy one might like to indulge in while existing on this hellish lump of rock and partake in sex so immoral, so filthy, so – incestuous? And here you are, promising to refrain from such practice. Protecting him and yourself from the dreaded patriarchy, which solely oppresses fictional characters, as everybody knows.

Really, he should be grateful.

Jesus, what else? You dress in a frock and petticoat; your ankles are never on display. You don’t allow yourself the fun of pretty, girlish clothes which feed the patriarchy and may lure the untrained eye into thinking you are – oh, Christ, a child! In actual fact, you’re fifty-two – supremely middle-aged – just like Joel. Actually, you never were a teenager, nor a twenty-year-old, not a dreaded, unsightly, geriatric thirty-year-old at all. And if you ever were, you sure as shit wouldn’t write fiction about it, because it is uncouth, tasteless, and downright predatory to imagine yourself a day younger than you currently are.

No. You marched straight from your poor mother’s body, armed with a smartphone in one hand, X-formerly-Twitter pre-downloaded, with some hefty conservative views to punch into it as soon as you learned how to spell the four most important words: romanticize, fetishize, sexualize and normalize. You’ve spent your entire life hunched over the thing, foaming at the mouth and wiping thick globs of saliva with the back of your hand; screaming at people you don’t know, will never know, and reminding them what ugly, loathsome, untalented, worthless people they are.

What the fuck isn’t there to like about you?

Joel sighs. He shakes his head, then reaches around to his back pocket for his phone.

“I have to check what the people online would say about this,” he says. “You know, the ones with blogs dedicated to policing this kind of thing. They give their summers up for this, Fellow Legal Adult, they’re really brave and inspiring and I owe them a lot for keeping my reputation safe. With all the innocent survivors I’ve killed over the years – not to mention the entire hospital I shot up to save one little girl – I really don’t need a completely fictional relationship to turn me into some kind of bad guy.”

“But it’s just fantasy,” you say. “None of it is real. You’re not even real.”

His jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

You scrape together an explanation.

“I just meant: nothing we do actually means anything. We’re just words on this person’s screen. Look at them, reading about us right now. We’re figments of their imagination! I wonder if I have brown or blue or green eyes; I wonder if you have a full beard or you’re the other guy with the curly hair. It wouldn’t matter either way, because neither of us exist! Right?”

“Not the point.” Joel shakes his head, logging in to his account. “It romanticizes unhealthy sex practices.”

“Joel,” you whisper, with love and patience, holding his little brain like it’s a smooth lump of damp clay. “We’re not actually having sex. Same as you didn’t actually blitz a hospital. And anyway, if I consent and you consent, and nobody gets hurt, what’s unhealthy about sex?”

“It normalizes kink and taboo, that’s what.” He nods, dignified, proud of the argument. It took him a whole hour to come up with. His brain grew one wrinkle in the process. For a little extra punch, he adds, “It’s propaganda I’m not falling for.”

“Using normalize and taboo in the same sentence feels a little contradictory, Joel. You’re starting to sound like one of those freaks with a stan account dedicated to Ellie or Tommy.”

He rolls his eyes and shoves his phone back into his pocket. They’re debating the ethics of reblogging other writers’ work right now, and he hasn’t the time to get into it. “You wouldn’t understand,” he grunts. “You’re fetishizing me, you’re glorifying your own abuse and manipulation, and you’re forcing everybody else to be on board with it too. It’s disgusting, Fellow Legal Adult, I’m actually disgusted.”

“Nobody has to be on board with anything they don’t want to,” you say. “That’s a pretty basic rule of thumb in anything, but especially sex. Are you sure you’ve had enough sex to understand the basic concept of consent? Maybe if you spent less time yelling in your tags, someone might want to…”

He laughs. “You’re just a girl who doesn’t know the ideologies she’s playing into.”

“Which ideologies are those?”

He hesitates. “Patriarchy,” he spits out, the word wobbling across his tongue. It sounds like a big word and it victimizes women, so it must be right. It seemed to come up a lot when he asked ChatGPT for an argument which both liberates and subjugates women. He has no idea what it actually means or how it ties into this discussion.

“So, let me get this straight. You think you’re punching a hole in the patriarchy by talking down to women and comparing them to real-life criminals, all for writing some stories on a fandom website?”

He hesitates. Again. He’s not used to having human interaction without his keyboard to hide behind.

Also: he hesitates because he’s not real. I can’t stress that enough. I’m making this dude do whatever the fuck I say. Look, now he’s on a pogo stick. He’s bouncing all over the fucking joint. Joel would never pogo, I hear you say. Too bad! Now he’s going no hands. Damn, this guy’s good.

“Why would women want to fantasize about some of the shit you write?” Joel asks.

Fuck. That’s a great question. I better make him put the pogo stick down.

“Sexuality is a complicated thing,” you reply. “It always has been. We’ve never really understood human desire; that’s kind of why it’s such a heavily-covered topic in media. It’s not supposed to be interpreted literally. The crazy thing is literature is full of metaphors and symbolism, but people only have a hard time understanding that shit when it comes to erotica.”

He scoffs, twisting the pogo stick into the ground. “So you want me to believe you don’t actually want to fuck the people you’re writing about?”

You purse your lips. “I feel like it says more about your intelligence level that you can’t wrap your head around the concept of a metaphor, than it does mine. Maybe you wanna read more books and less anonymous messages?”

“No, thank you,” he says, waving his hand. “I don’t like to be made to feel uncomfortable. By anything. Ever. I live in my bubble of legality and morality. We’re all good people here. That’s why we have an obligation to bully the living shit out of anyone we disagree with, and threaten their personal safety in the process.”

“Right.” You back up, dragging the heels of your sneakers – sorry, your Victorian boots, no ankles. Suddenly, the thought of sleeping with someone so stupid and immature doesn’t feel as fun anymore.

“Where are you going?” he asks, pogoing after you. His voice shudders as the stick makes contact with the earth.

“I think I’m gonna close this doc,” you mumble, gathering your frock as you jog. “I’ll just open a new one and write a version of you who’s normal and doesn’t talk out of his ass as much.”

“Good luck with that,” he replies. “That’s totally out of character for me.”

In one click, he pauses, glitches, pogo stick springing – before he plummets into the recycle bin on your screen. The silence is bliss.

You look around the room. Outside, birds sing and cars soar by on the street. You remember that the real world exists; with real rules and real codes of conduct which help to protect real people. With real patriarchy: not fictional girls in sundresses who like summers of sex, but instead an insidious rot which runs so deep through society, it threatens to permeate the fantastical.

Here on your screen, a blank page and cursor blinking, just waiting for the stories and silliness you might spill into it – none of that shit has to matter. You are safe within the realm of fiction to be whoever you like, do whatever you want. Even shit that makes other people uncomfortable. Think of it like an intellectual jungle gym for adults.

You can paint yourself brave, beautiful, funny, smart, sexy. You can chase your wildest dreams, accomplish the impossible, fraternize with your favorite characters and exist in faraway universes. You can be desired by everybody you ever wanted, or nobody at all. You can explore things that make you feel good, things that make you feel scared, and no harm can ever come from it.

Hell, you might even learn a thing or two about yourself in the process.

That’s the fucking point of fantasy, you incel pieces of shit. Read a fucking book.

[prythiansprincess]

── .✦ DAY FIVE | [02/18] : TOM. ♡ ₊˚⊹

prythian's princess presents... day five of the valentine special ⋆.˚ .ᐟ this one is dedicated to my love, my darling, my angel @writingsbychlo who wholeheartedly understands my need to be stalked and chased through the woods by tommy.

[stalking] — unwanted and/or repeated surveillance or contact by an individual toward another person.

[voyeurism] — the practice of obtaining sexual gratification from observing others while they are naked or engaged in sexual activity.

home ✦ special ✦ more

tom riddle knew that what he was doing was wrong.

the problem was that he simply did not care.

he wasn't weighed down by silly notions of morals and virtues. while most people subscribed to the archaic notion of good and evil, tom was more realistic. in truth, the choices and actions one made were very rarely so black and white. often, they fell somewhere between right and wrong; a morally grey area in which tom chose to operate.

all his life, he toed the proverbial line, testing the boundaries of ethics. most of the time, the acts he committed were neither completely right or completely wrong, which allowed for plausible deniability. this time though, even tom couldn't deny his own immorality. stalking you was undeniably and irrevocably wrong, but he simply did not care.

the black lake lapped against the shore as he took cover behind a tree. from his hiding place, tom had a clear view of you walking down to the edge of the pier, looking behind you every now and then to ensure that you were alone. you weren’t. though you were completely unaware of his presence, tom accompanied you for every one of your nightly swims.

as always, you toed your shoes off and stripped off your shirt and skirt. most nights, you wore a skimpy bikini, but sometimes you skipped it altogether and swam in your bra and panties instead. tonight, tom peered out from the cover of darkness as you unhooked your bra and slipped your panties off. the moonlight glistened against your skin, tracing your curves and edges in a way that tom would kill to be able to do. he drank in your ethereal expression, head tilted up to the skies as the night cascaded down your long, elegant neck, between the valley of your breasts where your nipples stiffened against the cold air, trailing down to your supple ass and succulent thighs.

the goddess of beauty herself had nothing on you, tom thought. the very image of your naked body would be burned into his memory like a brand. this would be what he thought about when he got himself off later, imagining that it was your delicate hand wrapped around his cock. tom felt the front of his pants tighten at the thought, groaning at the stiffness of his erection.

the noise drew your attention and you looked over your shoulder, scanning the beach warily. for a second, tom could have sworn that your gaze snagged on his hiding spot, almost as if you sensed his presence. watching, waiting, wanting.

tom had always been careful, but something about the way you bit your lip in anticipation made him consider throwing caution to the wind. he lurked in waiting, the tension weighing heavy as you turned around to fully face the shore.

“I know you’re there, tom.” the soft breeze carried the cadence of your lovely voice, its call like a siren song in his hears.

all these months, tom thought that he had been careful. he purposely watched from a distance, following you only when there was no one else present, sneaking into your dorm and installing cameras while you were in class. outside of these clandestine meetings, tom never even acknowledged you. he was so certain that you were none the wiser to his obsession, but clearly he had been wrong in his assumptions.

“don’t be shy,” you rasped as your lips curved up into a devious smile. “i’m not mad. in fact, i've grown rather fond of our little rendezvous. though it does seem unfair that you get to see all of me while I never see you.”

tom stepped out of the darkness, his brow furrowed in confusion. “you knew?” he questioned, racking his brain for any indication of your knowledge. “how long have you been aware?”

“a while,” you said nonchalantly. “I felt…your presence. watching me. following me. stalking me.”

“why haven’t you said anything?”

“because,” you drawled, pretty doe eyes tracking his movements as he came closer and closer. “it’s thrilling. knowing that you’re out there, tracking my every move like you’re a predator and i’m your prey. it makes me feel special. it makes me feel wanted.”

“but most importantly,” tom paused in his tracks as you pressed your naked body against him, delicate hands traveling under his robe to slide down his chest. “it makes me fucking horny.”

his breath hitched at the fucked up confession, pupils blown out as you palmed his erection. “i’m willing to bet that the feeling is mutual.”

tom groaned, melting under your touch. he felt like he was in a dream that he never wanted to wake from. “you have no fucking idea, doll.”

you grinned as you slid off his robe, letting it pool by his feet while your deft fingers made quick work of the buttons on his shirt. “why don’t you show me, tommy?” he watched with a dazed expression as you waded into the water, the waves lapping around your legs while you smirked. “well? aren’t you coming in?”

tom shed his clothes in mere seconds and followed after you. he remained silent as you threaded water, leading him to a small alcove hidden from the rest of the beach. a small smile tugged at your lips from how eager he was, standing before you with lust filled eyes. you ran your hands down his body, nails raking against his solid chest, his bulging biceps, and his perfectly toned abs.

“we’re all alone now,” you whispered seductively. “the poor little dove finds herself in the jaws of a snake. tell me, tommy, do you plan on swallowing me whole?”

tom growled as he grabbed your chin, his fingers digging into your skin as his mouth crashed against yours. the heat of his kiss was punishing, taking you under as you lost yourself in the feel of him. you moaned when his tongue pushed past the seam of your lips, devouring and consuming you from the inside out.

your stiffened peaks pressed against his tanned chest, sending shivers down your spine as he backed you into the rocky wall of the alcove. tom’s lips never left yours as he lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as his hard cock pressed against your stomach. precum smeared against his abs as he throbbed in your hands, so thick and veiny as you pumped him between kisses.

tom pulled away, his cheeks flushed and his waves matted across his forehead as one errant curl defied the rest of his hair and swooped down over his eyes. he looked so delicious that you just couldn’t help yourself. without warning, you positioned him over your entrance and sank down onto his cock with a moan.

“fuck,” tom growled. “oh fuck, doll, you’re so fucking tight.”

“please, tommy,” you pleaded, nails raking across his back as you grinded against him. “I need you to fuck me.”

the air left your lungs when tom growled against your neck. the two of you watched his cock slide inside of you, pulling it out to the tip just to slam it all back inside again. the way he fucked was so feral, so animalistic, that you were sure you were ruined for any other man. tom didn’t hold back, he didn’t hesitate as he fucked you until your back arched and your thighs trembled.

“yes, god, split me apart with your cock,” you screamed as you dug your nails into his back. “you feel so fucking good.”

“yeah? you like when your stalker fucks you, doll?” tom said with a dark chuckle. “you’re so fucking wet for me, so turned on for all the fucked up things i’ve done. the fucked up things I will do. you’re just a whore for this cock, aren’t you?”

“fuck yes,” you screamed in pleasure. “i’m a whore for you, tommy.”

tom grunted as he came into his hands, his sticky cum covering his fingers as his body slumped against the tree. in the middle of the black lake, you continued swimming laps under the inky black sky, unaware of the filthy fantasy that tom had just gotten himself off to. he cleaned himself off, pulling up his trousers and tucking his shirt back into place while you were none the wiser.

for now, this secret of his would remain safe, but tom knew it wouldn’t last much longer. one day, the desire would grow too strong for him to fight. one day, he would succumb to all his dark urges and impulses.

one day, tom would come for you.

[konigsblog]

opinion on somnophilia with könig?

Being taken advantage of by your sweet boyfriend, only to come across all the videos he'd taken of you while drugged up and unconscious. :(

TW/CW: SOMNOPHILIA, NON-CON. MDNI 18+ 💤

König is the biggest somnophiliac known to mankind. He knows it's immoral and wrong, but as long as you're unaware, he doesn't mind. He has no plan to stop his sickening and disturbing behaviour, only waiting for the day you question the pain between your thighs.

König isn't afraid to use drugs to calm you down. He's done it many times in the past, and you don't suspect a thing. Why would you? He's your beloved boyfriend, you trust him with your entire life. König slips something special into your drink every time you're drinking together, so that you're compliant and relaxed, reduced to a weak, limp, and confused mess on his big lap, not understanding a thing through the effects of the alcohol. His calloused hand sneaks between your thighs to spread your slit open, so that he can angle his muscular hips and prod against your opening, to sink deep into your hole and bite at your neck while you lay there, babbling and incoherent.

He loves how easy and pathetic you become while under the influence of drugs and alcohol. You lay there, defenceless, and your panties completely soaked after König had slid his girthy cock into your underwear to grind his meaty dick against your pussy. You don't catch on, not until you're going through his camera roll, looking for a photo of you together from a couple months ago, and accidentally stumble across videos from the previous night.

König has the camera set up, with your legs pushed over his broad shoulders, and his meaty, big cock stuffing your slit full. You let out incoherent cries and muffled pleas for König to stop, to be gentle as he quickens his ruthless pace, slamming into your cervix with each deep, harsh thrust. Your stomach churns and nausea leaves you trembling and your bottom lip quivering, realising that your sick pervert of a boyfriend had taken advantage of you. You press a hand over your mouth and curl up into a ball, letting out disgusted sobs at the realisation.

Fuck, how long has this being gone on for? :( Just wait until you find an entire album dedicated to these videos, Liebling...

[writingjourney]

Closer to the Gods || Alicent

Years into her marriage Queen Alicent permits only you to share in the more intimate parts of her routine. Despite the deep bond that connects you to Her Grace you are not certain that your feelings are returned – until she shows you.

Pairing: Alicent Hightower x lady-in-waiting!reader

Content: 3.1k words, repressed feelings, yearning, religious guilt, somewhat post-partum alicent, no y/n, smut (wlw, thigh riding, body worship, oral, v fingering, gentle smut), 18+ MDNI

Masterlist – Ao3 link

Her hair smells like citrus. The fragrance, enhanced by the steam of the hot water rising from the surface of her bath, mingles with the one of the perfumed oils that slick your hands as you weave them through her tresses. The scent makes you light-headed, as does the sight of her bare skin above the water. Her Grace sighs deeply when you massage her scalp, leaning into your touch with all the weariness she carries. You breathe her in, subtly, applying some pressure to her temples where you know her headaches to linger.

Born into a lesser house you were sent to be raised at court at a young age, a token of loyalty after the coronation of King Viserys. However, life at court changed after the death of his first wife and as a lady-in-waiting you soon became the new queen’s favourite. Ever since the birth of her first son she keeps you closer than any of the other ladies, allows you to take on the more intimate chores such as dressing and undressing her, brushing and washing her hair, keeping her company during the late hours of the day, singing and more often than not reading to her. Two years into her marriage now the queen will allow only you to take care of her in such a way and send away her servants once the more menial tasks such as filling the tub have been completed.

By now you know her whims and preferences better than your own. You feel an intimate affection for her Her Grace and it translates into the gentleness with which you touch her. Most evenings it is only you and her – unless the king requests her presence. Those nights you spend thinking of her in her soft white nightdress with her auburn hair falling in waves over her pale breasts underneath. You try to distract yourself from the thoughts of him touching her smooth skin, lacking the gentleness you know she desires. No one else but you is allowed to see her in any state of undress, let alone touch her. But he simply takes what he wants, what he thinks he is owed by right of being her husband. By right of being the king. Would that you could give her what he does, but you can never sire a son, you could never be anything but what you are now.

In front of the fire with your hands covered in scented oils you feel a shameful heat rising to your face, the immoral thoughts of replacing her husband a constant source of guilt. Rinsing her hair, you finish your routine. The water has cooled down and you know Her Grace will want to retire soon. During these moments she prefers solitude, as she told you once, dedicating herself to prayer or silent contemplation.

“I will have the servants remove the tub.” You absent yourself from her side, drying your hands on a piece of cloth. “If that would be all, Your Grace, I shall retire for the night.”

You are already turned around, placing her nightdress on the nearby table. Your hand traces the delicate ornaments of Myrish lace when her voice reaches you again. “Wait.”

You hear Her Grace stepping out of the tub and keep your gaze lowered respectfully. Once her robe is fastened around her narrow waist you dare look up again. She approaches you on bare feet, drops of water glistening on her skin like morning dew on the petals of a soft pink rose.

A damp thumb comes to swipe along your cheekbone as she considers you, soft eyes roaming your face. “You look lovely with your cheeks flushed.”

Her lip trembles as she says it, as though the confidence she displays is nothing but an act. Your queen has complimented you many times before but never in a such a way that you feel her words caressing your very soul. For a moment you are quite out of breath.

Her fingers dance along your collarbones then, toying with the seams of your dress. “I do not know why you should be allowed to see me and yet I am deprived of the same pleasure.”

“My queen, I do not know–”

Her face falls as she misreads your words for rejection. You catch her hand before she manages to tear it away and press it to your heart instead. Looking down you see that she must have been biting her nails again, her skin red and scabbed where she pulled at it.

“What I mean is…” You feel tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, the sting of insecurity and hesitation. “I am not much to look at. Not compared to Your Grace.”

She shakes her head, dismissing your words. “Call me Alicent.”

“I would not–”

“Please, for once let us not hide behind curtesies. I have grown tired of it, I have grown tired of you leaving when I want you the most.”

Her words claw their way underneath your skin, your heart racing at the implicit confession. You always thought your feelings to be unreciprocated, that Her Grace merely considers you a companion, perhaps a friend. But her eyes are wet with unshed tears, her hand pressing against your aching chest as though she is trying to reach inside.

“You would truly want me?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

“Every night you leave,” she says and it sounds like an accusation, laced with pain and longing.

“But Your Grace, you wished it so– I did not–”

“I know,” she interrupts. “I know.”

Her other hand moves to cradle your cheek, wiping a stray tear from your skin. She looks away for but a moment, as if to collect her thoughts, and when your eyes meet again her gaze is fierce, determined.

“I have tried to repress my feelings,” she says, her lips trembling again. “But I cannot stop– I cannot stop thinking about you. When you are not here I have to restrain myself not to call for you. I have to fight off the urge to run to your chambers to be near you. I am… so tired of pretending.”

You lean into her touch, closing the gap between you to rest your forehead against hers. “So am I, Alicent. So, so tired.”

“It is sin,” she whispers, brushing her nose against yours, her fingers ghosting over your lips. “To covet another, to covet–” Her words trail off, the thought left unspoken. “And yet I never feel closer to the Gods than when you touch me.”

Your queen swallows the air between you when she presses her lips to yours. Tentative and searching her mouth moves against yours with a softness that almost pains you. She tastes like sweet wine, smells of lavender and citrus. Unsure where to touch her you mirror her movements, stroking along her warm cheekbone, tracing the line of her jaw down to her neck where a few droplets of water have gathered. Your other hand still holds hers against your chest but then she slides it upwards to grasp your throat and you gasp into her mouth, warmth pooling into your belly. Her tongue grazes yours and she winds her fingers around the curve of your neck until they press against your spine and she can pull you in closer, lips firm and bruising.

You can feel her body through the garments between you, soft and pliable. She deepens the kiss and you get dizzy, your head spinning at the taste of her. The sensation is new, thrilling and addictive. When you break away she glances down at your dress and you make to untie it, glad to have chosen one that is not quite so hard to take off.

In your shift, you feel well-nigh naked. The cool sea air has goosebumps spreading all over your body, a breeze streaming in through the wide windows that overlook Blackwater Bay. Alicent takes you in, her eyes following her hand that drags the neckline of the sheer fabric down your shoulder until her fingers dance across your bare skin. The loose undergarment falls once it slips from your arm and you are fully bared to her. Instinctively, you cross your arms in front of your chest but she soon takes your wrists to pull them down.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers. “Do not hide from me. I have longed to see you as I have felt seen by you for a long time. Let there be nothing between us from now on.”

You nod and she unties the robe around her waist and lets it fall from her shoulders, silky fabric pooling at her feet in iridescent waves. Even though you have seen her bare many times before this time feels different. You do not have to hide your admiration, do not have to worry that she might catch you staring. Instead you allow yourself to revel in the sight of her, a body that has never truly been her own, changed from the months she carried her child, from the way she lent it to the king so he might have his son at last. Even though she does not look much changed when she is wrapped in her beautiful gowns you are witness to the subtle changes she wears underneath, the lines that run across her abdomen where her skin used to be stretched, her hips fuller and her breasts hanging lower than they used to.

To you, she is even more beautiful than ever before.

“May I kiss you?” she asks. The answer is a desperate nod.

She is more bold this time, even if you still hesitate, still wonder how you can ever touch her freely when she is your queen, when she can never truly be yours. The apprehension soon dissipates when you get drunk on the taste of her, of the feel of her soft curves following the shape of your own when she pulls you close. Her nipples brush yours and you moan wantonly, craving her so much that the feeling is akin to physical pain. Your whole body is burning, melting, your blood hot and heavy as it gathers between your legs.

You tentatively begin to run your hands over her body, following the line of her hips over her lower back, then up the ridges of her spine. She shivers underneath your fingertips, the same goosebumps that cover your body spreading across her still damp skin. As her tongue flattens against yours, her own hands curling firmly around your backside, you cannot hold back the desperate whimper that falls from your lips.

“I want you,” she whispers into your mouth. “I want all of you.”

“I am yours, Alicent,” you say. “I will always be yours.”

She breaks away and takes your hand to lead you over to her bed. Your lips are already swollen, your mind clouded by your need of her. She gently pushes you onto the soft mattress, expensive, silken fabrics welcoming you in her space. It feels too intimate, to be here, to lay where she lays. When she comes to rest on top of you it is like a vision from the Heavens, her slowly drying curls falling like a veil over your face until it is only you and her, breathing in tandem as the world around you blurs into nothingness.

Her mouth is hot when she kisses you and you meet her eagerly, pull her down until your bodies touch and you feel her weight on top of you. She moves her leg between yours, her thigh pressed against your core, and you whimper as the warmth of her touch spreads within you. A throbbing pain settles there and you cannot help but cant your hips to rub against her, soon grinding more feverishly as her tongue delves into your mouth. Alicent's hands roam your body but you hardly take note of each individual touch, so focused on the pleasure that builds inside of you.

"Please," you whisper, inching ever closer to a tipping point, your lungs struggling to inhale enough air.

Alicent looks down at you through heavy-lidded eyes, as though she wants to fully take in your reactions, helping you along as she presses her thigh firmer against your cunt, fingers teasing at your nipples. You gasp, forgetting to breathe as the pleasure tears through your body in hot tingling shudders. Alicent swallows your moans with her mouth, reaching between your legs now to feel your release, two fingers pressed against your wet core until they enter you easily. She carries you through your crest with slow rolls of her hand but soon the pressure builds again and you clench around her intrusion, unable to hold back.

When the rolling waves of pleasure finally subside, kisses turn slow and aimless and you take a moment to calm your racing heart. Alicent presses her lips to your face and neck with an ardent intensity while you hold her in your arms, fingers curled around her thigh. You can feel her arousal dripping against your fingertips and begin to stroke her there, revelling in the gasps she releases against your skin. The gentleness with which she touches you sends tears to your eyes, for what you are not quite certain. Perhaps it is the realization that you have never been loved like this, the fact that it is your queen, the woman you have been dreaming about for years, who holds such affections for you.

"Alicent," you say and she lifts her head to meet your gaze. "Please, I want to taste you."

At first she seems hesitant, almost like the young girl she used to be, uncertain whether your intentions are true. But after a moment she seems to come back to herself and remember who you are, her gaze softening, gaining confidence and trust. She settles on her back beside you, propped up by silken pillows with her skin glowing like embers, draped in the faint light of the fire and a dozen candles.

She is beautiful with her lips swollen by your kisses, her pale breasts exposed and hardened, a faint line of hair leading from her belly button to a thicker tuft at the apex of her thighs. You admire her for a moment, kneeling in front of her with your limbs still trembling in the aftermath of your pleasure. What love you held for her before this night has grown insurmountably and you believe with all your heart that this cannot be sin, that it cannot be wrong when it is nothing short of worship.

You gently spread her thighs, revealing her to you fully. Reverent kisses to the insides of her knees, down her thighs that feel so soft against your lips. She moans when you caress a particularly sensitive spot and the sound is like music, urging you to leave more kisses all over skin, following the lines on her abdomen up to her breasts. You take one into your mouth, sucking gently at her hardened nipple until it is pink and swollen. Alicent weaves her fingers through your hair, the other hand caressing your shoulder. Her hips buck, wanting for attention, and you finally succumb and settle at her core.

With your eyes locked on hers you leave a kiss on her mound. Alicent links her fingers with yours and presses your intertwined hands to her abdomen as if to ground herself. Her other hand brushes a stray curl from your forehead. You slowly press your mouth to her cunt, tongue dipping between her folds to taste her. She moans again, louder this time, and you continue to attend to her, dipping your tongue into her and kissing every part you can reach. You forget yourself after a moment, lost in the whimpers and gasps that fill your ears, her soft skin and sweet taste.

As her pleasure builds, Alicent's hand fully tangles in your hair and she pushes your face deeper against her, her other hand gripping yours so tight that you begin to feel a distant pain. You cannot help your own wanton moan, wanting to make her feel like she made you feel. As you focus on her pearl, applying gentle pressure to her most sensitive areas, you use your second hand to spread her folds and dip your finger into her entrance. When you meet no resistance you add a second one and begin to rub them back and forth inside of her. It does not take long until her hips stutter as she rolls them against your face, the music falling from her lips now muffled by her hand.

You can feel her release as though it is your own, her muscles clenching around your digits, her release wet on your tongue as her whole body shudders. You continue until she pushes your face away, looking up at you see chest rising and falling rapidly, her brow damp and lips parted. A sense of deep bliss settles inside of you at the realization that you made her feel such pleasure, that she allows you to see this intimate side of her that you are not sure anyone else has ever seen.

She releases your hand to brush her hair back and you sit back on your heels to clean your face, taking in the sight of her without shame this time. You are not sure you could leave her now, not sure if you could ever have enough of her, already feeling the need again to touch her, kiss her, worship her.

After a moment Alicent reaches out, her hand wrapping around your wrist before she pulls you toward her. Curling against her side you sigh at the softness of her body, hiding your face at her neck. She welcomes you, arms slung around you tightly as you notice her calming down more and more. You are exhausted, in a way, and yet you are not sure that the night will come to an end so soon. Her hand in your hair and the fingers trailing the curve of your breast remind you that she has not had enough of you either.

For the moment you are both content holding the other close. You breathe in the scents of her bath, listen to the slowing rhythm of her breath. Alicent trails gentle kisses along your brow, then her arms tighten around you and her mouth comes to rest by your ear.

"Promise you won't leave again."

You pull back, shifting to bring your mouth back to hers. “Promise you won’t make me.”

Thank you so much for reading! Kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated but most of all I hope you enjoyed the story ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3

[violetasteracademic]

Generative AI Can Fuck Itself

I am one of the AO3 authors (along with all of my friends) who had their work stolen and fed into a dataset to be sold to the highest bidder for training generative AI models.

I feel angry. I feel violated. I feel devastated. I cannot express enough that if you still do not understand the damage that generative AI art and writing has on our planet, our society, and our artists, I don't know what else there is to say. How do you convince a human being to care more about another humankinds ability to create than their personal need to consume?

Generative AI, when it comes to art, has one goal and one goal only. To steal from artists and reduce the dollar value of their work to zero. To create databases of stolen work that can produce work faster and cheaper than the centuries of human creation those databases are built on. If that isn't enough for you to put away Chatgpt, Midgard, ect ect (which, dear god, please let that be enough), please consider taking time to review MIT's research on the environmental impacts of AI here. The UNEP is also gathering data and has predicted that AI infrastructure may soon outpace the water consumption of entire countries like Denmark.

This is all in the name of degrading, devaluing, and erasing artists in a society that perpetually tries to convince us that our work is worth nothing, and that making a living off of our contributions to the world is some unattainable privilege over an inalienable right.

The theft of the work of fic writers is exceptionally insidious because we have no rights. We enter into a contract while writing fic- We do not own the rights to the work. Making money, asking for money, or exchanging any kind of commercial trade with our written fanfiction is highly illegal, completely immoral, and puts the ability to even write and share fanfiction at risk. And still, we write for the community. We pour our hearts out, give up thousands of hours, and passionately dedicate time that we know we will never and can never be paid for, all for the community, the pursuit of storytelling, and human connection.

We now live in a world where the artist creating their work are aware it is illegal for it to be sold, and contribute anyway, only for bots to come in and scrape it so it can be sold to teach AI databases how to reproduce our work.

At this time, I have locked my fics to allow them only to be read by registered users. It's not a perfect solution, but it appears to be the only thing I can do to make even a feeble attempt at protecting my work. I am devastated to do this, as I know many of my readers are guests. But right now it is between that or removing my work and not continuing to post at all. If you don't have an account, you can easily request one here. Please support the writers making these difficult decisions at this time. Many of us are coping with an extreme violation, while wanting to do everything we can to prevent the theft of our work in the future and make life harder for the robots, even if only a little.

Please support human work. Please don't give up on the fight for an artists right to exist and make a living. Please try to fight against the matrix of consumerism and bring humanity, empathy, and the time required to create back into the arts.

To anyone else who had their work stolen, I am so sorry and sending you lots of love. Please show your favorite AO3 authors a little extra support today.

[reality-detective]

Dear Friends,

For four years now, I have dedicated more time to you than what is healthy for me. The amount of energy and goodwill I have dedicated to this channel has been nothing short of incredible, whether you care to see it or not.

So many times I have been truly exhausted and worn out, but I kept going, moved by the sense that this was part of my calling, driven by my constant wish to help others, energised by the emails of appreciation that some of you were kind enough to share.

Those of you that have been with me for some time, I’m sure can tell that I am as strong, as I am sensitive, which makes it very hard at times to cope with it all.

I have zero tolerance for people with immoral, narcissistic, selfish behaviour, as well as for those with limited understanding, empathy or appreciation for the things that truly matter.

I knew that sticking my head above the parapet would inevitably expose me to the nastiness of some people, for which I only feel pity; it must be miserable to live with such hatred inside your being. But I’m grateful for them, for they remind me, that I owe nothing to anyone and that I only do this to follow what I feel is God’s plan for me.

I’m not looking for praise, nor money, nor fame, on the contrary, I’m a hermit who finds herself drawn to speak out, moved to do something where others won’t, happy to be of service at a time of need and glad my voice and words resonate with some people.

But life is ticking away and every minute is precious, for it will never come back and there are so many things I still want to do…

From now on, I will post whenever I want about whatever I want, no structure, no timing, no warning. I have realised that my original intention was not to become a news service, but rather a place of insipiration, reflection and knowledge. I want to go back to the reason I started doing what I do.

I also want to clarify a few things…

I respect all religions, but I am a Christian and Jesus means everything to me, so if that bothers you, please feel free to leave my channel.

I respect and love all races, but I am white and I’m not ashamed of it.

I respect and love all nations, but I am Spanish and European and just like Americans want their beautiful land to be great again, I want the same for the wonderful nations of Europe and its people. I love our different cultures, our weird traditions and our peculiarities.

I am an open minded person, but I have traditional values; respect, morality, manners, discipline, ethics, hardwork, spirituality and family are my foundations.

I have a profound need for fairness and justice, which makes living in this world extremely difficult, but I have hope.

I’m an idealist and a realist, which is kind of an oxymoron, but it is who I am. I see things for what they are, but God gave me an incredible imagination that allows me to see how things could be. And so I cling to the vision of a reality that I feel is beginning to grow in the minds and the hearts of many of us that know, that a better world is not only possible, but that it’s coming.

If you resonate with me, please stay here for the rest of the ride, but if you are of a negative nature, if there’s resentment in you, if you cannot tolerate other people’s beliefs, if you are disrespectful, narcissistic, selfish or plainly psychopathic, this is not the place for you and I kindly invite you to leave. It only takes one second.

To those of you that will stay, thank you. I love you. 💫

Let’s start working on being a better us. The world will follow. 🤔

- Laura Aboli

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Sympathetic Villain

Sympathetic villain - an antagonist in a story who has redeemable qualities.

Tips for Writing a Sympathetic Villain

Despite their immoral actions, sympathetic villains must have relatable motivations. Here are five tips for writing a great sympathetic villain for your story.

Make them believe they’re the hero. A sympathetic villain is willing to do bad things because their evil actions will bring about a positive change, from their point of view. Consider how your villain could see themselves as the true hero. Flesh out their perspective by imagining how they see your story’s protagonist as their personal villain.

Craft a tragic backstory. A tragic backstory gives your villain a sympathetic reason to justify their evil deeds. Slowly reveal your villain’s tragic backstory as the narrative unfurls. A slow reveal will add an aura of mystery to their motivations while also avoiding a colossal exposition dump early in your story.

Give them an internal conflict. Before you begin writing, sit down and flesh out the character. What event is the source of the internal struggle that informs their behavior in the story?

Employ supporting characters. Creating a supporting character who illuminates your villain’s sympathetic qualities is a simple way to help readers understand your villain’s point of view. In the X-Men saga, Professor X—the leader of the heroes—believes he can redeem Magneto, the villain, expressing that he is a virtuous person underneath his darkness.

Show them doing a good deed. Like good people can do bad things, bad people can do good things. Imagine a plausible good deed that your villain would perform in the context of their backstory. For example, if your villain’s sibling was a civilian casualty during a wartime attack, they may refrain from attacking your protagonist when an innocent civilian enters the line of fire.

Even when performing terrible acts or standing in the way of a beloved main character’s mission, the reader sympathizes with their motivations, often due to their redeemable qualities or tragic backstory. This type of complex character may be a tragic villain or an anti-villain.

A tragic villain is a character who becomes evil in the face of uncontrollable traumatic circumstances; this type of villain often despises their wicked nature.

On the other hand, anti-villains believe themselves to be a story’s hero, seeing their evil actions as noble.

These villainous characters are the opposite of anti-heroes, who perform good deeds despite having questionable motives or a cloudy moral compass.

Examples of Sympathetic Villains

Killmonger: Killmonger, the villain in Marvel’s Black Panther, dedicates his life to dethroning his cousin T’Challa, the king of Wakanda. In the process, Killmonger wants to stop the oppression of people of African descent by arming them with Wakandan weapons. However, he is willing to do terrible things to innocent people in the process.

The Joker: The Joker in Batman is fairly straightforward in his villainy, but his tragic backstory of being mentally pushed to the brink makes him compelling to watch. The audience suspects that if someone tested their sanity, they might act in the same way—and that’s all it takes to create a villain worthy of the caped crusader.

Thanos: Thanos—the main foe of The Avengers and the big bad guy in The Infinity Saga of the MCU (Marvel Cinematic Universe)—has a goal of erasing half the universe’s population. His motivation stems from his own species’ extinction in the face of overpopulation, which exhausted his planet’s natural resources. Despite his nefarious mission, the audience feels sympathy for Thanos’ trauma and loneliness.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[thoughtsandmusingsandideas]

I had a thought for a creator but they didn't believe they were the creator and could influence others into believing it too.

The two characters are Sara kujou and yae miko

@mastadon64 here you go!

Gaslight, Gatekeep, Godboss - Kujou Sara and Yae Miko

Kujou Sara

Cw: Sexual innuendos

-Honestly, waking up in Teyvat, you had a hard time convincing yourself you weren’t dreaming

-(It took you tumbling down a hill and slamming into a particularly sharp rock to realize it was not a dream. Also, ow)

-(You ignored the way your blood was golden. You were pretty sure you’d never seen the Genshin characters bleed anyways. It was probably just censoring. Totally.)

-Some way or another, you ended up in Inazuma

-Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as you were expecting

-Most of the creatures were pretty chill, and as long as you avoided the people, you didn’t get in much trouble

-And then you kicked a Tenryou commission officer in the face and got arrested

-You know, jail wasn’t as bad as you expected either!

-Your cellmates weren’t too bad either- one of them asked you if you were god, which was weird, because you didn’t look anything like the Shogun, but you gave him a stick of dango and he shut up

-(You might not have been a god, but the fact that you managed to keep your inventory from the game was the closest thing to a divine blessing that you could imagine. Who needs a gnosis when you have your own pocket dimension?)

-It’s about half an hour before you’re taken from your cell for questioning

-You walk into a small interrogation room, shock igniting in your chest as you spot Kujou Sara

-Wasn’t she important?

-Was kicking that guy in the face really such a grave offense?

-“Are you the Creator God?” She asks, deathly serious

-Why did people keep asking you this???

-You’re pretty sure you don’t look too godly, garbed in stolen clothes that you’re ninety percent sure you put on wrong, a fading bite mark on your arm from when you tried to pet a rifthound, leaves in your hair. Honestly, you looked pretty disheveled, and…

-“Is that your way of saying you think I’m hot? Like… godly or whatever?”

-Considering the way the Tengu’s face turns a vibrant red, you’re either very right, or very wrong

-It’d be funnier if you were right though, so you press on

-“I mean, not that I’m not into it, but I’m feeling kinda iffy about the power dynamic here- prisoner and cop is a cute trope and all, but not all that smart in real life, I mean I get it if it’s a kink or whatever, I know handcuffs are attractive, but as of right now it’s immoral-”

-“Shut up. Please.” Sara mumbled, covering her red face with her hand. Her hair has more volume than usual, tiny sparks of static dancing between the strands

-“… I mean after I get out of prison I’d totally be down to go on a date, and if you feed me well enough I might even let you handcuff me.” You add.

-The silence in the room is heavy

-“Get out.”

-“Yes ma’am. Hm. No. Yes Mommy? Yes Master-“

-You’re cut off by an electrically charged arrow striking the wall beside your head.

-“Out.”

-“Okay!”

-You’re released from prison three days later, now with a whole gaggle of new friends from criminals

-(You ignored the fact that some of them made really important sounding speeches swearing their fealty to you. Also the small shrine they were building in your honor. If you didn’t acknowledge it, it didn’t exist)

-You were surprised that as soon as you left, you were met with a glaring Kujou Sara, who takes your hand in her own

-“Am I being arrested again?”

-“… I’m going to take you on a date. And then I’m going to handcuff you.”

-“Yes Mommy!”

-“I Will Shoot You Again.”

Yae Miko

-You had to admit, stumbling upon a small shrine that seemed to be dedicated to your doppelgänger was creepy

-But you had also just been Isekaied to video game land, so you were pretty adaptable at the moment.

-Or high on adrenaline.

-You pick up one of the Sunsiettas from the shrine, biting down and relaxing, until-

-“Your excellency?!” A voice squeaks, and looking up you see a very frazzled shrine maiden staring at you.

-“Uh. No?” You say, swallowing the Sunsietta.

-The shrine maiden starts sobbing. “Your excellency!”

-“Oh- no- I’m- uh- I’m like you? You know? I’m uh… a messiah? Priest? Prophet? Whatever gets you to stop crying?” You awkwardly pat her head.

-“You- you’re the Creators chosen one?” She blubbers.

-“Uh. Yeah. Totally. Stop crying.”

-“CHOSEN ONE!” And she’s crying again

-After a lot of crying, you’re led to the Grand Narukami shrine, where you’re introduced to the head shrine maiden as the chosen one

-“… Are you sure she’s not just the creator?”

-“You flatter me. I’m just gods favoritist and most specialist little princess.”

-The Kitsune likes this. Perhaps too much, but we’ll let her have her fun

-And thus, the war to get you to admit that you’re the Creator begins, hidden under the guise of her introducing you to chosen one duties

-She takes you on a pilgrimage all across Inazuma first, going to the most dangerous places possible just to put you in danger and save you at the last second, disappointed that you never use godly powers to save (read: reveal) yourself

-She meditates with you, and paints obscure markings on your face when you fall asleep, which you have to pass off as messages from the creator

-She takes you to meet the Shogun, but after leaving you alone for five minutes, returns to you teaching her poker and robbing her blind. You cited divine luck and she pretended she didn’t notice the cards stuffed inside your sleeve

-It ends pretty anticlimactically, actually

-She’s introducing you to the local foxes, when you trip over a rock and face plant into the floor

-And get a nose bleed

-Miko can’t help but doubling over in laughter at the sight of your pout as golden blood drips down your face

-“And how are you explaining this one, Oh revered Chosen One?”

-“Genetic condition.”

-The laughter doubles

[twizzie-lairs]

My Darling, My Honey

Alastor X Fem!Reader (Part 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Quick Notes:

This is when both reader/you and Alastor are both alive. (... we'll probably end up in hell later on btw so stay tuned...)

Reader is an artist/painter.

Part 5:

It was almost pure bliss.

Except many months later, you found out a secret of his one day.

He was an exceptional chef, you were always in awe of how he cooked such magnificent dishes every day.

But one day, you peeked out into the forest through the window in the living room and saw Alastor standing alone, covered in blood. Your first instinct was to run outside, so you did just that.

You rush to his side and ask if he's okay, and what had happened to make him covered in such copious amounts of blood.

He blinks a few times before oddly turning his head to you, breaking out of his stupor, "Oh my dearest (y/n), do not fret so. For I am only acquiring our dinner for tonight!"

You look down at what he is holding in his hands. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth. A leg. A human leg. Your eyes then trail to the ground where you see a bloody human body, mangled beyond recognition. "This is.. dinner?"

A large grin appears on Alastor's face, "Quite right! This one should be enough to last us through the week!"

He looks at your face with an almost vicious look to his eyes, awaiting your response anxiously, not that he would let that show, anyways.

All you can manage is "Oh. Okay." Before you walk back inside the house without another word.

It's no exaggeration to say that your brain chemistry was permanently altered from that moment onward.

The situation felt so strange and bizarre, you didn't know what to think. Part of you knew that was he's been doing is extremely horrible and corrupt. It almost made you empty the contents of your stomach, it didn't feel real.

It didn't feel real, but suddenly some of Alastor's behaviors started to make sense. His picky taste for food...He never let you help with cooking, you had chalked it up to him being more of a perfectionist, but now... you know its more than that. He was hiding the fact that he was butchering and preparing human flesh, right in your very home, all this time.

But.. for some reason... all you could think about was how dedicated he was to providing a comfortable life for you, because he truly loved you. Everything he did every day showed you that you mattered and that you deserved only the best.

"But I still love him with all my heart... maybe I'm just as messed up..." Was a sentence your mind kept repeating to itself for quite some time.

Your appetite shrinks after the initial shock for a few days, but you were never one to skip meals or have your appetite be gone completely, even if you were sick. In this instance, you weren't sure if it was a blessing or a curse in this case.

The meals he made for you had never made you sick in the past, so your body was already used to eating his cooking, and he made such amazing food, carefully crafted with such love and attention to detail, you couldn't help but keep eating his delicious cooking, no matter how bizarre and immoral it was.

"I think I really am just as messed up..." The thought crossed your mind again, but thoughts were interrupted by a rare occurrence, a kiss on the cheek from Alastor as he set your plate down in front of you.

The fact that you never stopped eating his cooking and always thanked him for his food and hard work, even after knowing where the main ingredient comes from, solidified the fact that you were the one. You loved him even after seeing him all bloody, holding a dismembered corpse, and telling you it was dinner. It was this pivotal moment that he knew, that you were the one to be his beloved forever.

In the coming weeks, things went back to "normal". You were settling into the new normal, as Alastor didn't hide the meal prep like he used to, and seeing him bloody and bringing in mysterious cuts of meat into the house became a normal sight to you.

One night when you were going to see Mimzy, Alastor informed you that he was unable to escort you that night. You were a little disappointed, but he assured you it was okay for you to go, it was just that he had plans that he wouldn't divulge any information on, no matter how much you pressed him.

Little did you know, but that night, Alastor was out on the town shopping for the perfect ring to propose to you with.

-> Part 6

[proshippers-against-censorship]

I’ve spent a few years in online fandoms now (pre Voltron era) and have found that the following applies to (not all) antis:

They’re largely between 13-19 or early 20 at most

adults older than that make up the smallest amount

Antis’ friend groups are almost entirely online

people with social connections offline are or people with fullfilling jobs are usually not antis (there are of course exceptions)

Almost all antis have intergenerational friendships. This isn’t unusual irl when it affects people who go to school (like HS and college) or neighbors or irl friends, but antis’ friend groups consist of total strangers. Very few only want followers of the same age range

Because of this, minors are easily more radicalized on the internet. Currently I would say Twitter and Threads contribute the most to it because these platforms are rife with hate, disinformation and have a general lack of online safety features

Therefore they may also develop moral scrupulosity ocd, a form of OCD where people are afraid of being “immoral”, therefore they seek for moral purity and find their beliefs echoed in purity culture

which is also why they tend to flock to people who portray themselves as “safe” or who call out “morally corrupt” people (proshippers). Those who call out moral corruption can possibly be no “bad” people

anti rhetoric is strongly based on anti kink/anti sex and “kink critical” radical feminist and conservative rhetoric

the anti phenomena is also largely American. Despite antis being people of many different ethnicities, most anti rhetoric reflects America’s political views on sex/gender, feminism, sex ed, sex in general and the increasing amount of anti science beliefs and anti intellectualism

therefore, antis can only be countered by:

Stopping the spread of disinformation

Instead internet safety should be taught again

social media should employ better moderation (which I get is not possible unless we switch to dedicated fandom forums or something )

make people aware of red flags to look out for (for example online grooming, cults, radicalization)

share facts about queer history and explain why radical feminism is bad for everyone (including cis women)

parents should definitely monitor their kids more often. I don’t mean 24/7 surveillance, I mean teach them where and how to find information safely and age appropriately

bring back places where kids can be kids offline and online (not asking this of common people but as a suggestion for politicians we vote for)

report, block, mute and make people aware of fandom etiquette

Ate and left no crumbs. I may link this at the top of my page.

[angeliteeyes]

Danganronpa Girlies x Reader - What if you were their favorite gacha game character? Feat. Sayaka, Kyoko, Chiaki, Mikan, and Tsumugi

A modern au in which the dr girlies are just as chronically online and cringe as we are

cw: ...... gestures at tsumugi. be warned, she's acting like herself (immoral, inconsiderate of human life, and should be in jail)

Dedicated to @wandiethewanderer and @cmiru for both being angels and sweethearts on my last post with this au T~T

-Sayaka-

Sayaka's situation with you is unique, to say the least. If you don't know about the Love Live franchise and how each of the fictional idols has their seiyuu (voice actor) actually perform as them and be super involved and all that, well now you do. This au is essentially exactly like that with Sayaka as a seiyuu, but with two possibilities depending on your gender.

If you're the same gender as her, she knew from the moment your seiyuu auditions were posted that she HAD to voice you. You were just... perfect for her, y'know? It's strange to say, but when she saw you, it suddenly clicked in her mind what having a soulmate feels like.

The problem is, she wasn't given the role. Those bastards for some stupid reason decided to cast her as some other chick??? Instantly, she becomes her own character's number one hater. They're nowhere near as cute as you are! And if there's ever any drama between her character and you in the story, oh boy. Prepare to find her on an anonymous post ranting about how you deserved better, how that bitch was so, so mean to you. Just trashing her to no end.

But no matter how much she hates her character, it's nothing compared to the burning rage and loathing she feels towards your seiyuu. How dare they steal you away from her? God, she'd totally get rid of her by trashing her social image if she could. When you're an idol, all it takes is one unflattering image to get leaked, one photo of you on a date with a mystery man... It would be so stupidly easy. But then you would get haters too, and she'd never hurt you. And so, poor Sayaka has to just grit her teeth and silently seethe while acting like nothing's wrong.

If you're not the same gender, on the other hand, she actually ends up quite happy in whatever role they give her. To be honest, she doesn't exactly care for it all that much, but the boost it gives to her career? Priceless.

But then the producers come up with this idea to release a new idol group that's... not girls? In this economy? Needless to say, she's adamantly against it. After all, the fanbase likes them for being female idols. If they diverge from that, the franchise's popularity will tank (and hers, of course, but she doesn't say that out loud). Still, they carry on with the idea, which is where you come in.

She wants to hate you so so bad. It's your fault that her followers went down 10% overnight and her dms are flooded with pissed-off fans lashing out. It's only fair, right? So why is her hand hovering over the 10 pull button? Why is your adorable face lighting up her screen after she spent a disgusting amount of money on you?

Sayaka still resents the other characters in your group, but you... Well, she can handle being a little less popular if it's for your sake.

-Kyoko-

When people at her school think of Kyoko, they imagine her cool, collected exterior. They think of her high grades and the way she calmly handles any situation thrown at her.

What they don't imagine is her staying up till midnight, staring at her computer screen and meticulously spinning around a 3d model of you—and definitely not the various, uh, angles she stops at. The thing is, it's not even sexual or anything on her part. She just genuinely is so interested in knowing every little detail about you that she fails to recognize how easily misinterpreted her actions could be.

There isn't a single piece of dialogue of yours that she doesn't have both written down and analyzed thoroughly. In this au, she actually gives up entirely on the whole detective shtick in pursuit of programming, all so she can get that juicy insider info. Not that anybody but her is privy to this information. To outsiders, she just looks like the same old genius Kirigiri.

Another thing about her is her insane dedication to rituals surrounding you. She will NEVER miss her dailies, new cards/skins for you, your birthday, etc. Girlie could be in a hospital and still manages to log in. The very definition of loyalty.

-Chiaki-

Ah, Chiaki. Even in a modern au, she's still a total nerd.

When news came out about a new game release, naturally, she pre-registered immediately. No matter what genre your game is, it captured her interest all the same. She's just a pro gamer like that.

To be honest, the game you're in isn't exactly... the best. It's awful, to be frank. Every screen takes way too long to load, it crashes at least once per gaming session, and the actual gameplay mechanics just suck. Yet, somehow, she keeps playing, all because of your voice cheering her on over and over. She kinda Stockholms herself into loving the game. Sure, it's lagging... but that just means she has more time to stare at you and admire your art. So what if resources are too scarce and you have to grind for eternity? That's more time with you, gosh dang it!!!

Chiaki, being her sleepy self, is part of the body-pillow squad—or at least, she would be if your game was good enough to warrant such merchandise being sold. There are people that take commissions for those sorts of things, but for some reason ordering one of you never works out for her? Whether it's shipping issues or some other random thing, it's like fate is working against her. Poor girl has to just tape a photo of you onto a pillow and call it a day.

-Mikan-

You know how a lot of people turn to fiction as a way of coping with real-life trauma? Yeah, that description fits Mikan perfectly. The public school system and its inhabitants aren't exactly kind to her, and neither is her home life. For so long, she simply accepted being treated like garbage because, well, nobody taught her not to. Until you came along.

You are something so terribly precious to her, being the only person who speaks to her kindly, as well as the only part of her life she actually has control over. She needs you. Mikan likes to think you need her too. After all, your game has quite a lot of parasocial mechanics. You tell her good morning every day, confide in her about your troubles, and even have an affection meter (which is always maxed out on her account). Don't you get sad and lonely if she doesn't log in? Don't you look forward to talking to her, just like she does for you? Please say you rely on her. Give her a reason to keep going.

Mikan's one of the heavy daydreamer types. She kind of has to, with how horrific her real life is. It's the only way she can survive. Out of all of her fantasies, though—of which there are several—her absolute favorites are ones where you're sick. Admittedly, they can get a little... much, with how poor your health is in them. The more ill you are, the more you'll depend on her. The more valuable she is. Don't worry, though. In all of her fantasies, one thing remains the same; you're fully taken care of and cherished so incredibly deeply.

-Tsumugi-

I'm gonna be real. If you know Tsumugi, then whatever you're imagining this version of her is like, you're probably exactly right. Yes, she's absolutely insane about her obsession with you. Yes, she's handmade countless cosplays of you, one for every single outfit you've worn. And yes, she makes incredibly obscure references to you/your game every two seconds. But that's the surface-level stuff. So let's dig a little deeper into this one and explore the less-obvious.

It's easy to imagine her treating you the way she canonically does her standard favorite fictional characters throughout V3, but... if she's this in love with you, her passion is far from even her definition of normal. This is a passion that matches how her canon counterpart feels towards Danganronpa. And just like the canon, it's going to take her to a dark, dark place.

She latches onto you like a damn leech, making her entire personality revolve around being your number one fan. It's like her entire life before you got wiped out of existence. Nothing in the world matters more than you do. And yet it keeps turning. Her parents' expectations keep weighing Tsumugi down, demanding time and energy she isn't willing to give to anyone else but you. They're always nagging her about doing the chores, doing her homework, going to school every day. Always something she's supposed to do and something she's doing wrong.

So, she fixes the problem. One night, she packs up her belongings with the prepared excuse of a mandatory school trip. When the police call her phone on the way there and mention a house fire, Tsumugi does a damn good job at playing the sweet, innocent girl who's learning for the first time that her family suffered an unfortunate "accident". She has to, cause if they ever found out the truth, how could she keep up with your game's updates?

I wish I could say she feels even the tiniest bit of remorse for her actions, but she doesn't. She just doesn't. If anything, she feels relieved that her parents are finally out of the picture. Everyone treats her so gently now, so carefully, no longer daring to judge her or tell her what to do. Even her teachers back off and don't point out when she's on her phone mid-class, doing her dailies for you.

Eventually, this dream life she's living will inevitably shatter and fall apart. Maybe the police investigation reveals the truth behind that cursed fire, or maybe her facade simply breaks on its own. But for now, here you two are, now very truly alone in each other's company.

[realitythroughthelensoffiction]

Saraqael is a mystery to me

This post is dedicated to Saraqael. I find her pretty interesting as a character, because I honestly don't know what to do with her.

The fandom in general seems to view her as one of the good guys. She does not participate in the power games of Michael and Uriel, but focuses on doing her job instead. Even lesser angels like Muriel are treated friendly and with respect by her, something we have rarely seen in heaven before.

Moreover, Saraqael is witty and intelligent, and does not hesitate to let other people know it. She is the only angel who is not fooled by Crowley's disguise in heaven and seems suspicious about Aziraphale's explanation for the 25 Lazarii miracle, telling him "We will keep a very close eye on you" (for more about the ways in which Saraqael shows competence, see this post by @ao3cassandraic).

But then again, Saraqael does not seem to question the atrocities of heaven very much, either. In her eagerness to carry out her duties, she seems quick to perform even the most cruel of acts, like erasing Gabriel's memory or turning Nina and Maggie into salt. At first, I thought that she is simply amoral. Not immoral, but amoral, literally having no sense of morality. Like Muriel, who is cute and nice, but does not see what the problem with killing Job's children is.

But when I watched the series again and read some of the opinions about Saraqael (for example this post by @vroomvroomwee), I started to rethink my notions about her. If we take her amorality and her utter obedience to heaven for granted, then it becomes obvious that her behaviour in at least two scenes in the series is pretty much out of character.

The first scene is the one in which she catches Crowley in heaven. Based on what we've seen so far from her, one would imagine her to immediately sound an alert, throw him out etc. But she does nothing of this. Instead she encourages Muriel, whom she has just accused of "collaborating with the enemy", to "go on" and "show him the trial". She intentionally shares confidential information with a demon.

That's not what you would expect a loyal and obedient angel like Saraqael to do, and it's risky for her, too. Crowley would have watched the trial anyway, so even if she wanted him to see it, she could have stayed in the background and pretended that she never noticed him. But it looks almost as if she wants him to be aware of the fact that she is permitting him to know about the trial. Her reminding him of their common past points in the same direction.

And in the scene where the angels are in the elevator with Crowley, Muriel looks nervous, wedged in between their superiors and probably afraid of being punished for helping Crowley. Michael seems annoyed and Uriel has a very stern face. All of them are looking straight, avoiding eye contact with Crowley. But Saraqael's expression is very hard to decipher. Unlike the others, she is openly watching Crowley, and she does not seem upset or worried about the fact that he has just managed to get past heaven's security mechanisms. To me, she looks curious or even amused, as if she were fighting back a smile.

For some reason, Saraqael does not seem to perceive Crowley as a threat. And she is making efforts to show him that there is no need for him to perceive her as a threat, either. Her behaviour towards him gives the impression that she is trying to build trust between them.

The second scene in which Saraqael acts out of character takes place shortly after, when the Metatron enters the bookshop and chastises Michael for talking nonsense. @most-normal-eccles-cake-ignorer analysed it very neatly in this post. Saraqael is the only one besides Crowley who seems to recognize the Metatron immediately, but her reaction is very odd. She looks up and fold her hands, probably silently calling to God. And yet her expression is not one of pure devoutness, but one of fear, and she gives the Metatron an anxious side-eyed look. It appears almost as if she is asking God for succour against the Metatron. And that although whenever she talks to him she shows nothing but reverence.

Taking these two scenes together and seeing how they do not quite align with the initial assumption of Saraqael being a completely submissive angel, I conclude that Saraqael has much more of an own agenda than one would assume at first glance. That would also be more fitting for someone of her intelligence. Her opinion of Crowley is most likely different from heaven's official standpoint, and so is her opinion of the Metatron.

That's why I'm wondering whether Saraqael's obedience is in fact just a strategy to survive in a corrupt system. An user in this Reddit thread on her brought up the idea that she isn't on board with heaven's plans, but is "more politically saavy [sic!] than Crowley" and "knows when to keep her mouth shut". Maybe her tactic is to gain and maintain a position in the celestial hierarchy that allows her to have some important influence. Because since she is so conscientious, she gets assigned many tasks. And we do not know whether she actually carries them out in the way heaven wants. We don't know whether she would have truly wiped out Gabriel's memory and turned Nina and Maggie into salt, or whether she would have just pretended to do it like Crowley pretended to kill Job's goats. But that's just a theory. I'm very curious what Saraqael's actual character arc in the finale will look like.

What are your opinions on this peculiar angel? Let me know in the comments!

[stellar-constellations]

Heart on the Market (ONGOING SERIES) Chapter 5

WARNING: This series will include; NSFW, dead dove, reader is a serial killer, black market possible inaccurate historical slang and fashion, gore, alcohol, toxic relationships that should NOT be replicated in real life, murder, yanderes, cursing, guns, mafia family, implications of misandry (male misogyny), perversive thoughts, nonconsensual drugging, gaslighting, harm to children possibly more to add.

I do not condone ANY illegal acts, immoral acts, or toxic relationships portrayed in my fictional writing.

Inaccurate canon-timeline and setting (Ashley doesn't exist). Modern AU.

Incest is not Wincest.

Andrew Graves x Old school! Serial killer! Fem! Reader

Wordcount: 6,000+ words

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Current Chapter, Chapter 6 (in the works)

        Being framed wasn’t on your agenda. You expected a quick bullet into your sister’s head before moving onto your next target. You didn’t expect much, really; it was easy killing your older brother too, and that was unplanned. 

        But you never expected the bullet lodged into your sister’s head wouldn’t be from your own gun. Somebody else had done the job before you.

        You’d be thankful if you knew them, but you didn’t. Why would they go after your sister, an unimportant figure of the Gallos family? They couldn’t of known she was a spy, not unless they had connections with the (L/N) family. Even then, why would they attack a member of the (L/N) family? One of the few mafias that had a branch dedicated to combat and assassination hits. 

        Even you knew making an enemy of your family was a bad idea; so were they stupid? Or just crazy—like you? 

        Nevertheless, the thought can be placed on the back burner now. The fire in Ivy’s eyes refused to be extinguished, revenge for her mistress on her mind. No matter how innocent you were, you were a target in her eyes. 

        She stalked towards you, but you didn’t wish to greet her halfway, and neither did Andrew. Andrew grabbed your hand, yanking you with him. You avoided the elevators, knowing everyone would be there, all piling on to try and escape the madman who shot Bell (or, her real name, Amara).

        Andrew and you rushed out of the auditorium, moving past the dessert tables and the chairs in the ballroom, pushing open an unknown door.

        Opening the door revealed a kitchen, some chefs working on appetizers and pastries. As much as you’d love to sit and eat a strawberry shortcake, you had other matters on your hands.

        You rushed past confused bakers and angry chefs at having some random couple enter their workplace, cursing once more as Ivy followed you into the kitchen.

        You walked into a door, cursing to find it was a pantry. With no end in sight, you looked around for something to protect yourself.

        Andrew stood near the door, holding the handle as he looked back at you. 

        “I could shoot her when she opens the door?” Andrew questioned.

        “She has her own gun out. She’s much more trained than you, I can only assume.” You spoke. “Unless you’d like to bite a bullet. In which case, sure.”

        You grabbed a bag of flour, ripping it open and handing it to Andrew. You grabbed a bag and ripped it open for yourself.

        “Blind her and tackle her. We need to kill her. If we keep her alive, she could look for revenge. Xane is probably out looking for us too. Better to have one dead hunter than two alive.” You spoke, crouching on one side of the door. 

        Andrew crouched down on the other side, awaiting for the door to swing open. You waited, before the silence and door were pierced by flying bullets; luckily, they didn’t hit you as you hugged the walls.

        The sound of a gun being reloaded echoed, before the door was kicked open. You threw the flour, a hiss of pain and confusion escaping Ivy’s mouth before she was tackled by Andrew, pinned onto the ground.

        You snatched the gun away, holding the gun’s end at Ivy before pulling the trigger. Her head exploded open like a red chrysanthemum in bloom. 

        Andrew grimaced, standing up and wiping the blood off his face with the bottom of his shirt.

        “Gross!” he exclaimed, cleaning blood out of his eyes.

        “There’s no point in hiding the body. Xane is probably looking for us.” You spoke, wiping blood off Andrew’s neck. “We need to find stairs or another seclusive elevator so we can make our escape.”

        You placed Ivy’s gun on the flour shelf, having no real use for it since you still had guns hidden in Andrew’s waistband. 

        You and Andrew walked out of the pantry, moving down the kitchen to the back, entering another hallway. You opened a few doors, finding a cleaning closet, a bathroom—nothing of use to you. 

        “Daisies.” You groaned. “Does this family not have a plan B exit?” 

        “This is a pain in the ass.” Andrew sighed. “I mean, I was expecting to run, but I didn’t expect for someone else to kill her.”

        “You seem desensitized.” You hummed. “Are you by chance growing immune to the sight of gore?”

        “No. I just know it’s not my fault.” Andrew spoke plainly.

        “Not your fault?” you frowned, looking at him. “What do you mean?” 

        “I didn’t shoot her.” Andrew shrugged. “I didn’t shoot anyone; that was all you. I am merely a hostage forced to be an accomplice.”

        “Oh, I see.” You smiled. “So you’re under the impression that you did nothing wrong?”

        “Yeah,” Andrew nodded, “That’s right.”

        “And when we find a cop or something, you’ll trade me in? Tell them that I made you kill for your own survival?” you laughed.

        “Hey, people have gotten away Scot-free from it. I’ll take my chances.” Andrew hummed. 

        You frowned, resisting the urge to hit him. Whether he was joking or not, you didn’t care—you didn’t appreciate that joke. 

        “After all I do for you.” You rolled your eyes, annoyed. “I feed you. I give you a bed to sleep on. I make sure you stay alive—“

        “You stab me and give me blowjobs.” Andrew intervened.

        “You’re lucky you even got the latter. It was a one time thing!” you hissed, pointing your finger at him.

        “I can think of things even better than a blowjob.” Andrew hummed, smiling.

        “I should’ve let Ivy kill you.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

        “Who would eat you out then?” Andrew questioned, earning a slap to his chest. “Hey! Careful! You could’ve hit my wound!”

        “I should! I need to give you positive punishment!” you frowned, crossing your arms. 

        You walked down the hallway, finding another door. Instead of another janitor closet or bathroom being behind it, it was a set of stairs.

        “Finally. This house sucks.” You groaned, climbing up the stairs, Andrew behind you admiring the scenery (your ass).

        You got to the top of the stairs, seeing nothing but a dead end.

        “Oh wow… a hidden compartment must be somewhere that opens a secret wall.” Andrew deadpanned. 

        “Like Ray Chapman Andrews?” you smiled.

        “Uh… more like Indiana Jones—but whatever you said.” Andrew frowned, confused, before his hand reached out and kicked the wall.

        Immediately, dust fell from the ceiling as the secret wall popped open. You and Andrew looked at each other, frowning.

        “Wow. What lazy plot writing…” Andrew hummed.

        “No. More like architecture.” You spoke, pulling the rest of the wall open, stepping through.

        You were in the kitchen, a man sitting on a bar stool as he looked at you two.

        “(Y/N)?” he questioned.

        There were three wine glasses in front of him, along with a bottle of red wine, and a package of Oreos.

        “Please, sit.” He spoke.

        The man was Mr. Gallo, the husband of your now-dead sister. Whether it was a good or bad sign that he was inviting you to sit, you listened—because why not? Curiosity! And if you walked outside, Xane would probably be waiting there with a gun, or perhaps an angry crowd, per chance a crying daughter belonging to Amara.

        “I heard you had a plus one. Your husband?” he presumed, watching as you took a seat. 

        “Yeah. You can say that.” You nodded. 

        “A real one, or a fake one like Amara?” he questioned.

        “So you knew?” you inquired. “How long?” 

        “Since Viven’s been 10,” he spoke. “It’s not too hard to figure out. Xane and Ivy were always with her, they were hired as bodyguards not too long after Amara married into the family.”

        “So you were the one who killed her?” Andrew questioned, his head resting on his palm, almost bored.

        “One of my men did, yeah.” He nodded. 

        “And why’s that?” you questioned.

        “Oh, because she didn’t deserve it after lying to me and handing over all of my company secrets?” Mr. Gallo frowned. 

        “Just making sure.” You shrugged, placing your hands on the table to seem open. “So? What’s this gotta do with us?”

        “Well? You’re her sister, are you not?” Mr. Gallo smiled.

        “As if.” You scoffed. “My family practically disowned me. I’m currently being hunted.” 

        “I’ll make a deal with you.” He spoke, grabbing an Oreo from the package, eating half of it like an anorexic woman fearing calories would. “I’ll help you with transportation, overnight stays and food; so long as you kill the rest.”

        Well, that was a no brainer. You were already planning on killing the rest, now you just get free food and housing without spending a penny in your bribe money from your decreased elder brother. 

        “Why?” you questioned. “Why rid them?”

        “It makes it easier for me. Less competition in the underground, and the fact that you’re already disposing them for me!” he spoke. 

        “Yeah. That works for me.” You smiled. 

        “Where are the others?” Mr. Gallo inquired.

        “Arkansas and New York.” You answered. 

        “I can send a private jet to pick you up tomorrow morning. For now, you can stay in our guest room, it’d be best for now.” Mr. Gallo spoke.

        “If we’re staying here, you need to kill Xane.” You frowned. “In front of us—“

        “Or better yet, let us do it.” Andrew spoke up, eyeing Mr. Gallo, not entrusting him. 

        “Yeah, that works too.” You nodded. “I don’t want him after us after Amara died. He still works for the (L/N)’s after all. He’s under the impression that we’re the ones who killed Amara, you know? Because we killed Vincent, and then we were after Amara; my family is after me, so the soldiers and spies are too.” 

        “Right… how troublesome.” Mr. Gallo hummed, rubbing his chin. “We’ll send you his head as a thank you gift.” He smiled. “In the meantime, how about dinner?”

        .         .         .         “(Y/N), please. Drop the damn thing.” Andrew spoke, disturbed as he looked at you. 

        The head of Xane laid on your lap, his eye hanging out from his socket after you stabbed a knife into it to make sure it was a real head, a napkin on top of his head as you bit into some brown sugar steak. “Mmm… no.” You spoke, munching down on some steak.

        You haven’t had steak in so long. Red meat wasn’t good for your heart after all, but it doesn’t hurt to eat it every once in a while, so you’re eating like a vulture would pecking a carcass. Your delicious baked potato and salad right next to you that you’ll dig into shortly after, a bottle of wine next to you. 

        Andrew grimaced, annoyed, “It’s weird, and quite frankly disturbing.” He glared at the head, envious it was in his favorite spot. 

        “It’s like a cat in my lap.” You smiled, flashing your canines. 

        Andrew grimaced, kicking your leg under the table, causing the head to roll off your lap and onto the ground. 

        “Aw, Xane…” You frowned, before shooting a glare at Andrew.

        “You gonna eat that potato?” Andrew questioned.

        “Yes!” you hissed, holding your arms on the table around your plate protectively. “Get lost!”

        Andrew rolled his eyes, annoyed. Mr. Gallo wasn’t at dinner, but you’d both rather have that. It was awkward with someone like him. Perhaps you both have grown too used to be with each other alone that just having a third wheel felt weird. 

        You continued eating, watching as Andrew grabbed the package of Oreos, putting it on his lap to take to your rooms later. When you finished eating, you looked around awkwardly.

        “So like… do we just go or something? Do we gotta be excused?” you questioned, confused as it was just the two of you in the room.

        “Oh yeah, ask the Italian daddy to excuse us.” Andrew chuckled.

        “Don’t call him that.” You cringed, making a face.

        You stood up from the table, confused as you looked around. You glanced at the old portraits; classic wealthy flexing. 

        Andrew snatched the Oreos, taking it with him as he followed you down the hallway, until you made it to a sign that said “Reserved for Ms. (L/N).”

        “Damn. I must really not be important.” Andrew frowned, blankly. 

        “Idiots. Someone could break in and see this.” You groaned, grabbing the sign and ripping it off the door. 

        “I don’t trust him.” Andrew spoke, popping an Oreo in his mouth as you opened the door, walking in.

        “You don’t trust anyone.” You responded, closing the door behind you, looking around the room.

        The room was nice. It had red bedding (finally, not white) and it was decently thick. There was some carpeting, and it lead to a bathroom and balcony. You made sure to check that nobody was on the balcony, locking the door. 

        You checked under the bed, in the closet, looking for people. You checked for any cameras or hearing devices. You checked the bed for bedbugs, and you made sure there wasn’t a secret wall.

        “I’m taking a shower. You coming?” Andrew questioned, already peeling off his shirt. 

        This time, you didn’t reject. He’s already seen you naked before, and the last time you showered together he didn’t try anything funny (granted, it was after you satisfied him with a blowjob, but still). 

        You locked the bedroom door, walking into the bathroom with him. 

        Unfortunately, you had nothing sexy happen, though it’s not like you were quite expecting it. You didn’t want to do anything frisky under another man’s roof, especially a rival of yours (who could possibly still be a rival). 

        Andrew was already in the shower, rinsing his hair. You undressed and nudged him from the descending water, warm droplets hitting your skin. Andrew chuckled, grabbing your waist and pulling your back into his chest, resting his head on your shoulder.

        You hummed, closing your eyes, before opening them to ask an important question.

        “Where’d you put those Oreos?”

        “Bedside table.” Andrew hummed. “Who's next?”

        “My younger brother, Wallace.” You explained. “He controls the manpower and soldiers.” 

        “So we got some buff soldier we have to fight?” Andrew frowned, annoyed. 

        “Pfft, no.” You chuckled. “He only leads and orders the soldiers. He’s not in charge of training them or anything. He’s more of… a strategic leader.” 

        “Even still, he’s going to be heavily guarded.” Andrew sighed, his breath blowing onto the back of your neck, cold compared to the shower water as you shivered. 

        “Well… he’s next on our agenda. I can only assume my parents and younger sister is being guarded by the soldiers, so we can’t get to them unless we kill him first.” You explained.

        “Ugh…” Andrew groaned. “What’s the plan for that? I doubt there’s going to be another party that lets us easily infiltrate again.”

        “I don’t know.” You shrugged, smiling. “We’ll figure out something.”

        “I don’t know how impulsive you are.” Andrew frowned, worried. He was always the worrywart of the two of you. 

        “Don’t you worry.” You cooed, guiding your hand to his cheek as he rested his head on your bare shoulder. “For now, you should be worrying about washing your hair and getting to bed.”

        Andrew grumbled, half-assed washing his hair, looking as you washed your own body. He washed out the expensive soap from his hair. 

        You stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and drying off your hair and your body. Andrew followed, grabbing a towel and (also half-assed) drying off his body. While you were drying your hair off, Andrew walked in front of you, leaning down and grabbing the back of your knees, throwing you over his shoulder.

        “Woah, hey!” you gasped, dropping your towel. “Andrew Graves!” you scolded, hitting his back with your fists. 

        He remained indifferent, carrying you to the bedroom. He dropped you down on the bed, your body bouncing as you looked up at him, annoyed. 

        “You know, I’m getting really sick of your impulsive behavior lately.” You huffed out, glaring at him. “It feels like you’ve forgotten all about our dynamic we share.”

        “It’s hard to take you serious when you haven’t killed me yet.” Andrew shrugged. “The only times you’ve hurt me were pretty early into our relationship. Admit it, you’ve grown a soft spot for me.” He sleazily smirked.

        “The only thing soft about me is my…” You paused, trying to come up with a smart remark that didn’t insult you. “Uh… no. I supposed… Yeah! The only thing soft about you is your brain, and your dick, and your muscles, and—“

        “You sure know how to make a guy get soft.” Andrew groaned, his smirk dropping, rolling his eyes. 

        He dropped down onto the mattress, lying on his back as he closed his eyes.

        “Hey, I’m not done insulting you.” You frowned, propping yourself on your elbows.

        “Well I’m done with you.” Andrew retorted, crossing his arms behind his head to use as a pillow.

        You frowned, getting up, moving over to straddle his waist. He looked up at you, a bored expression on his face.

        “Well I thought you liked my attitude?” you spoke, frowning.

        “I like you better when you know how to listen and take it.” Andrew smiled.

        “Ugh. You are literally the worst.” You rolled your eyes.  

        "Yet you like having me around." Andrew hummed, closing his eyes and smiling. 

        You lowered your eyes, looking down at him and his bare body. You both were still naked thanks to Andrew's antics, but it doesn't feel as revealing or vulnerable as it would with anyone else. It's natural, as if the two of you had grown your own atmosphere together for you both to prosper.

        You admired his slim figure, looking at the happy trail that started from his abdomen down to where you couldn't see underneath you, as you were straddling his lap. 

        "You still like me too, right?" you questioned, moving your eyes back up to meet his.

        "Like isn't the word I'd put it." Andrew hummed, his eyes still closed as he thought. "Tolerate, more like. I tolerate you." He smiled, ruffling your wet hair.

        "Well that's not what I asked you." You frowned. 

        "It's the answer you're gonna get for now." Andrew spoke. "Ask me later." 

        ".... It's been later. Now do you like me?" you smiled, now just being a smartass to annoy him.

        Andrew frowned, looking at you, "Ask me again and it'll be a no. Ask tomorrow." 

        You huffed, frowning as you rolled your eyes, before smiling. "What if I convince you to?"

        "Oh yeah?" Andrew smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Well? Give me a good reason." Andrew tilted his head to the side, smiling.

        You smirked, your hips starting to grind down on him. His eyes widened, caught off guard with your antics, resulting to you giggling at his expression, moving your lips down to kiss his neck.

        Andrew's hands grabbed your hips, not to stop you, but encourage you. He looked up at you, watching as you grinded down on his dick, bringing it to life. You had never taken initiative, always whining and complaining about it as if it was a sin, but to have you actually start something like this was refreshing, and even a bit of ego-boosting for him. It proved that you didn't find him repulsive. That you desired him too. 

        And to have your pussy just right above his cock after you were so adamant on there being no penetration? Yeah, that was definitely a bonus. 

        "You're not doing this to make me like you, right?" Andrew groaned, looking down at how his cock disappeared and reappeared between your hips. 

        "Why? Is it working?" you questioned, earning a chuckle out of him. 

        "Nope. Try harder." He smirked, before his smirk was wiped off his face with a moan, watching as you grinded harder on him, your breasts bouncing with your movements. 

        Even if it was painful for his abdomen to clench, hurting the wound on his abdomen from when you carved out "MINE" on him, it was still fairly attractive. He could deal with the pain, even if his wound started to bleed.

        You noticed the crimson leaking from his wound, much alike the pre-cum leaking from his tip, halting your movements as you looked down at him.

        "Are you okay?" you frowned, concerned even in your moment of seducing him. 

        "I've never been more better." Andrew groaned, albeit it sounded strangled.

        "Should I stop?" you questioned. 

        "If you stop right now I'm going to shatter your nose instead of just breaking it." Andrew grimaced, threatening you.

        "Jeez... A please would've sufficed." You muttered, pouting.

        "Please ride my cock." Andrew groaned, panting as he felt your hips get brought back to life again, grinding on his dick. 

        "No." You hummed. "I'm grinding down on you for now." 

        "Nghh..." Andrew groaned, panting as he looked up at you. "What about a pussy job?" he tried to negotiate.

        "Thigh job?" you offered.

        "Close enough." Andrew nodded, his grip tightening on your hips as he flipped you over on your back. “Get up and lay your stomach down on the bed.”

        You listened, and rolling over onto your stomach, grabbing a pillow to rest your head on. Andrew grabbed some lotion resting on the bedside, squirting it on your thighs. He rubbed the lotion in to lubricate, before grabbing his throbbing cock, placing it between your thighs.

        “Don’t even think about ‘accidentally’ slipping it in.” You snapped, tilting her head back at him to glare at him.

        “…I wasn’t.” He lied. 

        “Squeeze your thighs together.” Andrew spoke, groaning once he felt the tight hug of your skin on his dick. 

        You couldn’t feel much pleasure, not when your pussy or clit wasn’t being touched. All you felt was your arousal dripping from your thighs, used to help Andrew slide his dick between your plush thighs. It kind of hurt, the unstimulated throbbing your pussy felt and the harsh slaps of Andrew’s hips on your ass. You didn’t speak until you felt your skin blazing red and stinging.

        “Pussy job.” You spoke.

        “W-what?” Andrew stammered, stopping his movements. 

        “We can do a pussy job.” You spoke, your thighs shaking slightly from having to keep them squeezed together for Andrew’s enjoyment. 

        “Is that rule still in place from earlier…?” Andrew smiled, teasing as he patted his cock on the entrance of your pussy.

        “Still there.” You huffed, reaching a hand back to swat at his arm.

        “Okay…” Andrew chuckled, angling his cock down slightly, moving it in between your folds, but not daring to stick his dick inside you. “You feel so warm…” Andrew muttered, dropping his head to your neck. 

        He kissed your neck, dragging his cock in and out your folds. The slapping of his pelvis stimulated your clit, causing you to whimper.

        “You’ve become so vocal over the days.” Andrew muttered, mouthing your neck, biting down lightly.

        “Ah…” you whined at the sting of his teeth. “Can’t you just shut up and keep going?”

        “But I like hearing your voice.” Andrew smiled, his hooded eyes looking up at you. 

        “We gotta keep quiet under Mr Gallo’s roof…” you whispered. “Let me on top.”

        Andrew chuckled, parting away from your neck with a long lick, before kissing your bite, “If you insist, pretty.”

        Andrew took his dick out from your thighs. He patted your thigh with his cock, telling you to spread your thighs, to which you complied. He pressed his tip right between your folds, resting his chin on your shoulder.

        His hips moved again, thrusting his cock between your thighs, nibbling on your shoulder. 

        You pressed your cheek up against the pillow, moaning. Sometimes you’d feel his cockhead grind against your clit just right, and sometimes you’d feel his dick throb. 

        As much as you hate to admit it, you wanted to be full. All it would take is a small maneuver for his cock to be inside you, his cockhead hitting your special spot inside of just grazing your clit. 

        But you couldn’t do that. You needed to be wedded for something like that. You can’t just recklessly have sex and get surprised when you get pregnant. Besides, you can’t take that risk, especially now at war with your family. 

        You whined, your hips pushing back to meet his, helping him slide in and out of your folds. 

        You could feel his hot breath against your neck, rotating between small kisses and small bites. You could feel his cock grow between your thighs, twitching, signaling he was close.

        One of his hands left your hip to draw circles on your clit. You cried out, bucking your hips to start grinding against his cock for more. Andrew’s fingers drew sloppy circles against your clit, making you moan and arch your back, a knot in your stomach untying.

        “Andrew! Andrew!” you moaned, squirming underneath him. 

        “Careful or I could slip in.” Andrew groaned.

        Andrew wrapped his arm around your neck, pushing his weight down on your back to subdue you, panting as he bucked his hips rougher, hitting your ass as he circled your clit.

        Andrew didn’t stop until you started sobbing at the overstimulation, before pulling his cock out from your thighs, jerking his cock before his hips bucked, squirting ropes of cum onto your back. 

        He panted, catching his breath. He closed his eyes, dropping onto your back.

        “Ngh…” you groaned at the heavy weight on top of you. “Hey… you’re suffocating me.” 

        “Kay.” Andrew hummed. 

        “Stop it. You’re spreading it on me. You got me dirty again.” You groaned, huffing.

        “Let me clean ya up.” Andrew sighed, getting up off you. 

        He fell to his knees, grabbing your lips. You felt a warm sensation on your back, causing you to yelp, surprised.

        Andrew’s face quickly grimaced, before spitting on the ground, “Okay… I can see why you don’t like head.” He spoke. “I taste gross.”

        “You didn’t even set off your gag reflex.” You scoffed, sitting up on your elbows.

        “I taste so bad it practically set it off itself.” Andrew frowned, wiping his mouth with his wrist. “I don't get it…” He muttered, pressing his tongue right against your pussy for a taste. “You taste sweet. Like berries… strawberry?” 

        “That’s cause I eat lots of berries.” You huffed, swatting his head away. “I need to keep a healthy diet so I look good. Or… I used to.” You frowned, holding your broken nose.

        “I think your broken nose is cute.” Andrew hummed, smiling. “People like crooked noses. Makes it look like you get into fights like a bad boy.”

        “I’m not a boy though! I am a girl!” you yipped, huffing. “Men don’t like tough girls, they like dainty women they can protect. It’s natural instinct.” You huffed. “Like male lizards hanging upside down so their female mates can sleep on them.”

        “Yeah, but female lions hunt.” Andrew spoke. 

        “And male lions protect the pride.” You retorted.

        “Okay? And male seahorses give birth.” Andrew counterclaimed.

        “And female octopi eat males.” You snapped.

        “Oh? Are you gonna eat me?” Andrew retorted, smiling.

        You frowned, taking the pillow from under your head and throwing it at him—but he caught it. 

        “Still got an attitude. Want me to adjust it?” Andrew smirked.

        You frowned, glaring at him.

        “Just go get me my clothes in the bathroom.” You sighed. “And a rag.” 

        Andrew let out a hum of acknowledgment, walking to the bathroom. You could hear the sound of the sink running, before it turned off.

        You heard hurried steps, then a wet rag itself your face.

        “Shit!” you hissed, clutching your nose as it started stinging. “Andrew, what the fuck?!”

        “The hell is this?” Andrew questioned, holding your necklace with the jar of your dead ex-fiancés eyes. 

        “…A jar?” you frowned, annoyed.

        “Why are their eyes in it?!” Andrew snapped.

        “Oh please, you know about my hobbies.” You rolled your eyes.

        “No! What is so special about these eyes that you had to carry them around your neck, where your boobs and heart are?!” Andrew questioned.

        “Ex-fiancé. So what?” You scoffed, plopping your head down on your pillow, wincing as your broken nose formed a headache.

        “What do you mean ‘so what?’” Andrew scoffed, looking at the floating blue eyes, before you. “What the fuck do you have these for?!”

        “I wanted to preserve his fear.” You hummed, smiling. 

        “If you’ll do this to your husband, you’ll do this to me too, right?” Andrew questioned, angry and panicked. “What the fuck is your problem?”

        “What’s your problem?” you threw back, annoyed. “Why’d you go through my stuff?”

        “You wore it earlier; you’ve been wearing it! It was with your clothes in the bathroom.” Andrew pointed out.

        You closed your eyes, groaning. “What? Are you jealous or something?”

        “I want to know why there’s apart of a dead man hanging around your neck!” Andrew snapped. “What if a police officer saw this?”

        “They won’t see. It’s under my shirt all the time.” You spoke.

        “But what if they do?!” he hissed.

        “Then it’s a cool prop from some emo place like Hot Topic.” You sighed.

        “Still. You had jars and jars of eyes in your closet, why is it your dead ex-husband can be with you?” Andrew frowned.

        “Because I like knowing he’s dead.” You smiled. “He cheated on me; I killed him on our wedding day—blah, blah, blah. I’ve always been a romantic though.” You fawned.

        “He’s dead. He’s going to stay dead. You don’t have to care about some cheating prick when we exist!” Andrew spoke.

        “What’s with you?” you questioned, standing up from the bed. “You’re acting like we’re married! I’m not betrothed to you!” you spoke, grabbing a robe from the closet, wrapping it around yourself.

        “Are you kidding me? I’m committing crimes with you. Not simple gas station candy bar stealing, but fucking murdering people in mafias!” Andrew frowned, walking towards your, taking a robe for himself.

        “In case you forgot, you’re still a hostage! The only reason you’re still alive is because I felt pity on the poor virgin boy next door. This is giving you a better reason to live than scanning $1.49 sodas at 3 AM!” you frowned, pointing your finger at him. “You wouldn’t even be apart of this if you just decided to mind your own business and stay in your apartment!” 

        “Maybe you should learn to kill and hide bodies better!” Andrew spoke, tightening his fists as he looked down at you. “God, I should’ve never done this to begin with! If a normal person like me could stubble upon a ‘experienced’ killer like you, then obviously it showed you were flawed in your work.” Andrew groaned, pressing his hands to his face.

        “I don’t need you, you know?” you hissed, jabbing your finger into his chest. “You’re just a sad, depressed little boy who has no family, no friends, no lover, no existence in this world. When I kill you, nobody is gonna miss you except the spider on your wall!” you spoke, jabbing his chest more as he backed up to the closed curtains.

        “You really wanna do this?” Andrew smiled, his eyes widening, a crazed look in his eyes, like a man pushed too many times. “Do you understand how small you are compared to me? I could shatter your nose and break your fucking legs. Just like I could—“

        Andrew clutched your necklace in his hand, before smashing the jar on the ground. You gasped, watching as your ex-fiancé’s blue eyeballs rolled around in the ground, before Andrew stomped on one with his foot.

        “Fucking gross…” Andrew grimaced, feeling the squishiness of the eyeball on his foot, looking down to see clear liquids leaking from the eye.

        “Are you fucking insane?” you snapped, pushing him away with with a rough shove to his chest. “I needed that for my new collection! I was going to put his eyes in a jar eventually!”

        “Back off, (Y/N).” Andrew warned. “Let’s go to bed.”

        “You started this!” you snapped, shoving him again.

        Andrew grunted, grinding his teeth together. “You want me to finish it too?” he questioned, balling up his fists.

        “You’re just a selfish, pussy-seeking, Tom Cat who can only get a handy by pointing a gun and harassing a woman because you’re a sick fuck!” you snapped.

        Your heart felt like it was on fire, like you had ran a marathon and need to redo it all over again. Your hands shook, biting back the urge to lunge at Andrew and remind him just why he was kept alive; nothing but brute strength that’ll turn into dead weight once you dump his body in a lake. 

        “You’re the one who marked me as yours, which means we’re a pair now. You can’t have no fucking loose ends getting in the way with that!” Andrew snapped. “Tomorrow we’re going to reject Gallo’s offer so he doesn’t fucking kill us or get to you, then get away from this place, and go relocate somewhere in Greenland because face it; you’re just a scared little girl looking for your parents approval and you throw a temper tantrum when you don’t get what you want, when you want, how you want. We’re doing this my way now!” 

        “I’m going to take your eyes and add them to my new collection!” you laughed, your heart being squeezed in your chest as you frantically panted. 

        Andrew could sense something was wrong, his shoulders dropping as he blinked, his sharp cut emerald eyes turning into fresh cut blades of grass, walking closer to you.

        “Hey, hey. Breathe.” He spoke, though his own hands shook, pushing down his own anger.

        You clenched your chest, a bead of cold sweat falling down your forehead. You glared at him, clenching your jaw before collapsing on the ground.

        Andrew immediately ran to your side, crouching down beside you. “Hey! (Y/N)? (Y/N)?” he spoke, worried as he gently slapped your cheek, trying to make sure you don’t lose consciousness.

        You tried to speak, to tell him to get away, but you could only try and inhale more air. 

        Andrew rubbed your back, panicked. He couldn’t call the police and get an ambulance here, not in a literal mafia house. He couldn’t get Mr. Gallo, because be damned he didn’t trust that bastard. 

        You held your hand up, pointing a finger as if to say “one minute.” 

        Andrew panicked, biting his fingernails, nervous as he looked at you. 

        There was a knock at the window, causing you and Andrew to freeze. Andrew got up from the ground, rushing to the bathroom and grabbing one of the guns. 

        Andrew came out, holding his gun at the window. He crept closer, grabbing the curtains and moving them aside.

        It turns out, the window was a balcony. Outside of the window was a familiar face.

        “The fucking mortuary guy?” Andrew frowned, confused as he looked back at you.

        You frowned, waving your hand, telling Andrew to open the balcony door. 

        Andrew hesitated, before opening the door, holding the gun to Leopard (so much for doing things his way). 

        “How…?” you panted, closing your eyes, collecting yourself before sitting up. “How did you find us?”

        “The tracker on you. It’s connected to the whole black web! Bringing you alive: $25,000. Bringing you dead: $75,000.” Leopard spoke.

        “The fucking what?!” you and Andrew snapped. 

I'm getting closer and closer to having the series ended. I'm ready for some new ideas for writing (looking at the Greek Goddess idea, looks very yummy).

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Current Chapter, Chapter 6 (in the works)

Want more Andrew Graves content? Check out the Andrew Graves masterlist!

Inbox is OPEN for questions about the story and new plotlines/ideas, not for requests!

[threestainedpulse]

RESISTANCE

Andromache x F!Reader

gif creds: @theoldguardsource

Summary: With the discovery of an ability, you have to learn to live with the consequences.

Word Count: 3.1K +

TW: Descriptive death, torture, religious persecution

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It was 17th-century Salem. You lost track of how long you’ve learned the depths of immorality, but it’s been millennia. Many deaths were collected along the agonizing way. However, you weren’t the only one condemned to this fate.

In the early years, you came across a long-living Scythian warrior—Andromache—in the Bronze Age. You were a maiden who got caught in the midst of one of her many battles. As you begin fleeing from the scene, an unusual tingling warmth radiated from your chest, then your eyes stare down at the wooden object impaling you. A major artery was severed by a spear and blood began clotting at the gash. The pain injected through your veins like a poison that would eventually bring about an intolerable death.

A heavy breath leaves your constricting lungs, feet tripping over one another before you land on your back. The dirt may have alleviated your sudden collapse, but the impact tore apart more tissue. Your chest heaved for oxygen while men were fulfilling their bloodthirsty desires. Being too fear-stricken, your tear ducts refused to produce any tears—any emotion you felt was impossible to acknowledge over the pain. What you failed to recognize was that in the far distance, Andromache was aware of your presence—her gaze landed on you longer than it should’ve.

After the battle subsided, Andromache was right by your side. The relentless fighter, who’s the reason for all the carnage, had shown a unfathomable level of care. Tension had left her scrunched brows as she was quick to examine your wound. With a torn piece of fabric, the Scythian applied a gentle pressure. In your drifting wake, your eyes stayed and blurred out her features. It was like she understood everything you wished to say through your quivering, blood-stained lips.

She parted her own with uncertainty, and her eyes glanced you over as if she recognized you as a close friend. “Forgive me,” her voice low as she spoke through the chilling silence.

She remained by your side for your final seconds, the light drained from your eyes, and the gargling of blood fell silent as your lifeless body slumped further into the grass. Her eyes softened with a vulnerability, her chin tilted toward her chest, and her hand remained on the wound for several minutes. The dainty wood began to subtly twitch before spitting out. Flesh and skin contracting and then fusing underneath the tips of her fingers—and with a sudden bolt—you jolted up gasping for air and sputtering a pool of blood.

Fear loomed over as you ingested this indescribable phenomenon. Your chest aching from the preexisting gash. And the only person who acknowledged you, even in the midst of battle, was staring back at you. Andy seemed shaken by the fact you shared her ability. Tens of centuries after she discovered immortality, she never expected to find another.

Throughout the centuries, an explanation could never be given. Nothing made sense of any of it. Countless tombstones were dedicated to you, but your body refused to lay six feet under. Maggots would’ve considered you an endless delicacy compared to the already deceased. As everyone you loved passed on to the afterlife that you were so exiled from, your soul began withering. It was a sting unlike any other. And Andy understood that.

There was this one particular moment after you discovered your mother’s grave. Regret overtook your every rational thought. He scorched your heart and forced a rage upon you: “I didn’t ask for any of this! I was never supposed to be here.”

“Y/N, there’s a reason why you’re still here, whether you want to accept that or not.” Her voice was direct and calm; she had a very clear impression that you might grow restless and impulsive as she once was. In her early years of immortality, she lost her purpose and drowned out reality with harmful tendencies.

Andy spoke of a time when her mother and sisters walked the earth, but after they slipped away and time went on, she could no longer remember their faces. “I can’t remember any of them. My mother or sisters. Yet, I can’t pinpoint when I completely forgot.”

It’s as if their shadows were following in her steps. It was her choice to remove any reminiscence of them, but that guilt still followed like a parasitic disease.

“We take many things for granted when we’re on a timer…” her eyes searching for your own, “We can only do so much with those we care for. And unfortunately we have no say on when it’s their time nor ours.”

Her head turned outward to the horizon. “I took decades of my life for granted,” she said before falling into a silent state. Deep down, you knew she desperately wanted—no, needed—a way to cover her guilt.

Sympathy glossed over your eyes at the girl beside you. Witnessing such a vulnerable side of Andromache was foreign. And when you met her gaze, you saw a younger woman who expected much less from life. Who craved familiarity and affection like every other existing being.

From that moment, you realize your growing feelings for her. She was your everlasting flame when rain pelted the earth. She was your blanket of warmth in a winter's storm. You wished to touch her in the most innocent ways, caress her face with such gentleness. You hesitated, afraid of breaking her. And truth be told, her heart ached for everything you wanted and more. But that thin barrier remained—testing your resistance.

She was the only eternal you ever knew, up until crossing paths with a deserted wanderer that went by the name of Quynh. Somehow, the three of you are bound together. Understanding the burden of eternity, it was easy to connect on a more emotional level.

Even if it was a curse promoted as a blessing, you grew accustomed to the new style of life you’ve been granted. When you came across Salem, you strongly wished to stay and settle. You craved the life of a mortal. Missing normality was one thing; ignoring the consequences was another. To say the least, it was an overly complicated topic within the team.

As a homemaker, every gown you owned became scuffed from labor, your hair was frizzy and doused in grease by midday, and your body staggering by night. You tried to live similar to the mortals, but eventually, they’d become sour and your attempts futile. As for someone like yourself, unity was nearly unattainable. Whispered rumors had ghosted the shells of the townsman's ears. Kids cling to their mothers whenever they catch sight of you. The folk initially kept their words low—dodging your presence at all times. They were playing a game of telephone, and you weren’t invited.

Andy was the first to catch on to the wildfire. She darts into your house with a perplexed Quynh hooked around her arm, the door shut with a force that startled the dishes on the oak table.

“We don’t have a lot of time. We need to move. Pack what you can; leave what you don’t need.” She announces with a commanding urgency. You never questioned her, especially not when she’s tossing your clothes and food into a scrip. Trust was imperative to survival, even if a thousand men couldn’t kill you. It was a system of sisterhood that you’d never turn your back on.

Unfortunately, the instant need to vacate only drew up suspicion. You weren’t able to make your movements unheard. According to the reports, you three had been accused of witchcraft, and a warrant was issued to the public. It took a matter of a few hours for your body to be hauled in the opposite direction of the forest.

For days on end, you are all confined to a shared cell, chained by the ankles and wrists. The place reeks of mildew, is infested with vermin, and is dim besides the occasional relit torch. A death sentence was placed over your heads—it was just a matter of time before the townsmen initiated their abuse.

During the first week, you went through various forms of punishment—hanging, waterboarding, and burnings—all of which were proof that your existence went beyond humanity. It was an excruciating continuation. One minute you were living hell on earth; the next you had blacked out until the pain seeped through once more. Their inflictions were considered ‘plausible’ and ‘necessary’ in the name of their religion. It was the chaotic and selfless nature of humans in action. They chanted prayers, shoving crucifixes down your throats, but nothing changed the fact that you were given abilities that defied all scriptures—even the one they praised.

In the midst of dissociating, you were convinced that if there was a god above, he was a sadistic puppet master. He wasn’t anywhere close to the chamber they kept you in. He made you into a pariah—held captive for amusement—rather than a prophet or a scion.

“You think they’ll give up eventually?” Your voice echoed in the dampened, dusky hollow cell. Your clothes are drenched in plasma and sweat.

“No. Given how long they’ve gone, I don’t think they’ll let up anytime soon,” Andy’s gaze locked on your face, “but I respect their dedication.”

You huffed a small laugh, Quynh sharing her own smile at the comment. Her head rested against the concrete wall as a sigh escaped.

“We should create a diversion.” You said.

Andy and Quynh shared a quick glance before their eyes set on you with a piqued interest.

“What do you have in mind?” Andy asked with her brows knitted together.

Their unmarked yet sore bodies lean into one another as you lay out a list of ideas. Most were flawed, but that’s bound to be expected. All of them required the whole group to be released from their shackles.

Creaking came from the door, and all thoughts were sliced through as a few men entered with torches in hand—one of them being a friar who held a wooden crucifix. The room grew colder, and the sense of unease was tangible. Their gazes follow two of the men wearily as they stride over to you. You thrashed against the chains, huffing and hollering at the townsmen as their hands gripped a fistful of hair. “I’m not a witch, let me be!”

Their hands forced your jaw to unclench—fingers clawing at your gums and forcing the end of a witch's bridle past your teeth. Sharp peaks prick and lacerate the pink muscle that allows your words to formulate. Behind your head, you hear the clink of metal locking into place. Fear surged through your spine. It didn’t take long for your eyes to prickle with tears and the crevices of your lips to seep droplets of crimson blood.

Andy and Quynh watched with pale faces, their own cuffs clicking as they jerked. The brutish figures now loomed over Quynh as they opened the gate. Her arms were held in a bruising grip as chains fell from her limbs. A metal coffin stood before them, opening to reveal the hollow inside lined with pins.

As pointless as it was, Quynh couldn’t help but scream, “No! No, not this! Please!” Her head turned to look over her shoulder, her feet kicking at the floor as she looked mortified.

“Where are you taking her?!” Andy stumbled up with such quickness. Her question was ignored as the men dragged Quynh roughly towards the iron maiden. Their steps gain momentum as the corners of their lips curl up morbidly. How could man be so merciless?

The sharp gag slicing through every fiber of your tongue as pleas leave your lips. Her fate was inevitable.

“Quynh!” a frantic, guttural scream had erupted from the Scythian, but her eyes were drawn away as more men rushed past to haul your weakened body out of the cell. Involuntarily, she jolted for the men, but her efforts to strike back were useless. Andy couldn’t reach nor save either of you. Her cuffs clawed at her skin deep enough to draw blood.

“You’re too powerful together; such creatures are incapable of earning salvation.” the friar spat. He threw verses at the eternal being; her sobs having overtaken her body, she convulsed in rage. It was a pain like no other. Once before, the Scythian was revered as a god, a protector of humanity who wanted nothing to do with her—they deemed her a witch, an evil spirit, inhumane.

You, on the other hand, believed Andromache was selfless. She desperately fights for the people she cares for. There were several remarkable moments when she saved the lives of thousands, including children. Time and time again, she viciously took the lives of rogues. She defended those who would shame your kindred. But that didn’t matter when it came down to acceptance.

The grip of the heavy, callus-handed men had dragged you to a pier. Gravel scratching at your soles as you desperately tried to grip the earth. You weren’t submitting; you struggled to put up a fight and bound your place in this world.

Unfortunately, your weakened state gave them the upper hand, walking you across the boards toward the ledge. As you pass by, you spot a rope tied to one end of the pier. Your eyes look out to the horizon, water sloshing between the boards and its body. It was almost soothing; however, you were too alert to ignore the men’s movements. One held the blades of your shoulders: he had a snaggletooth, an unkempt beard, and stunk of musk, and the other held your ankles: he was quite bulky and chewed on a wad of tobacco. He was struggling to chain them together as you jerked about.

The snaggletooth held your shoulders aggressively, shaking them. A sinister grin on his repulsive face, “Filthy creature. Shouldn’t have come here. Now, you’re going to hell.”

At their last moment, a noose was placed over your head, and with great vigor you threw back, your head clashing against the chin of the snaggletooth, which threw him off balance. Your teeth clattered with the metal and with a pained hiss, your teeth surged from your gums just as quickly as they were to shatter into your skull.

On the other hand, the man cursed through his bleeding gums and grunted as his feet stumbled out from underneath him. His first mistake was leaving the bridle attached around your skull; the second was not properly securing your hands. A swift move made you grab the noose before the other man had a chance to tighten it.

The chain-linker grew irritable and shoved you off the pier, a gasp passing your lips as your body meets water. The rope follows after until it abruptly stiffens, the loop tightening around your fingers and throat. Hands clutching for a while as you struggled with water filling your lungs. The salt coating their interior makes them constrict until your vision grows dark like a film catching on fire. You refused to succumb to a relentless cycle. After a bit of tussling, the loop slipped off and your head broke through the barrier of ocean and oxygen. The chains attaching your ankles made it difficult to swim efficiently, but that didn’t stop your escape.

After long, relentless hours, you ventured to the far side of the ocean, coming across a land that you prayed didn’t have many—if not any—inhabitants. Moonlight cast over the horizon, and the water sparkled with the swishing movement of your arms. You hadn’t felt this clean in days. A part of you was grateful for a quick cleanse. Once you reached the mass of land, your pruned hands gripped and pulled yourself onto the sandy shore. Arms and legs shakily crawled up before you laid back, the grains soaking up the moisture. Your gown was skin-tight and cold, chest heaving as you relaxed for a minute under the moonlit sky.

The reality of Quynh’s—more importantly, Andy’s—involuntary absence had settled. An uncontrollable sob left your lips and worsened with the pain from the bridle. With immortality, you were truly lonesome even if you knew the existence of others. Even if you were sharing the same sunset and rise—it never seemed to satisfy unless you were in the presence of one another. It would remain that way forever, as no one other than an immortal could have the capability to understand the burdens you carry. It was beyond unbearable, even for you.

By dawn, you decidedly broke the bones in your feet with a large stone and slipped out of the shackles. Rising up, you brushed the hair out of your face, careful to not move the bridle. For a few hours, your feet staggered around an abandoned town. With heavy eyes, you searched through homes and small business buildings for anything useful. Eventually, you find a small pistol. Never in a million years would you have deliberately pointed a pistol near your skull, but you needed to blast the damn lock off. Clicking the bullet into place, you blindly felt for the lock and then held it tight.

“Christ…” you thought, wincing as your finger dared to pull the trigger. After the burst, you heard an iron thump, the lock clinking against the dirt. With a newly found freedom, it was just a matter of time before you could get to Andy and Quynh. For days on end, you traveled in stealth. No fellow townspeople in further towns knew your name or existence. But it became clear that the journey to your lost soul would be long-lasting.

Your knowledge of humanity, war, and civilization grew as decades passed into centuries. Glimpses of what used to be wooden structures turned into skyscrapers, corporate headquarters, offices, restaurants, and expensive medical residences—it was a quick evolution from what you once knew. Roads were lined with pavement. Travel became more efficient than ever before. Things were changing as you, an immortal being, remained prosperous in your looks. But as things changed, you had dreams of people you’ve never met. A marine woman who had just recently died. A man who has plagued your dreams for the past two hundred years. Every time you almost had a name, a voice you recognized would awaken you. It was like she knew them and, most importantly, you.

Time cast an inescapable spell on you; it made you bitter, exhausted—even hopeless as you searched the seas and continents. But for some inexplicable reason, fate was working against you. He was convincing you that Andy went incognito. Or maybe her time finally came, like Lykon’s? Immortals had an expiration date far longer, so maybe after a millennium, she finally got what she wanted. And she was haunting you for it.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

a/n: First time writing a fic in the past few years. I hope you enjoyed this much as I did. Requests are open in bio. Feel free to leave constructive feedback :)

[haze-cat-man]

This post I saw is obviously insane. No, MCU Stucky fans are not shipping pedophilic sudo-incest; these two Bucky Barnes’s are just different characters. All of this is obvious, and there is not much of a point in dunking on it. But I do think it really exemplifies something I’ve noticed in the Marvel fan spaces that has been bothering me.

Both comic purists and movie purists seem so miserable, and I can not believe how many of them there are. The whole fanbase is just crawling with people who seem to be willfully choosing to misunderstand the idea of adaptation in a genre entirely built off adaptation. Even within comics themselves, every character has been reimagined and retconned and stretched to fill a thousand different shapes; the ‘definitive’ version of a character for you truly just comes down to personal taste and exposure. So people’s whole hearted dedication to acting like there favorite version is the only version anyone could possibly except and changing that vision is a immoral betrayal of the character is insane.

I haven’t been here that long, but Ive already learned that the only option is to go with the flow. I don’t know how you purists manage, because living like this sounds stressful.

[justafewberries]

I'm obsessed with your philosophical analysis! Can you do Plutarch? I knew he wrote Parallel Lives before SOTR, but now that we're seeing all the parallels on full display I want to know more!

Yes! Hi! There’s so much here. This took me forever, so stick with me. I made it as concise as I could, but Plutarch spent his life writing.

This post won’t be a deep dive into the character Plutarch Heavensbee, as I feel he embodies so many different schools of philosophy. I can’t possibly fit it all in one answer, so this will be more of a comparison between Plutarch (Historical figure) and Plutarch Heavensbee (book character, from now on referred to as “Heavensbee” for clarity). I’ll cover Parallel Lives then Moralia. It’s bound to be a long post.

In order to understand Plutarch, you must dive into his philosophy. While I won’t include extensive detailing into his ideas on the soul and rationality, I did comb through most of his works to find values that I think align with how Heavensbee acts. I’ll start with a brief synopsis of Parallel Lives, and then I'll talk about his much lesser known philosophical works. 

Keep reading for my essay on Plutarch and Plutarch Heavensbee

Parallel Lives

Plutarch’s most famous work is indeed Parallel Lives, commonly known in short form as just Lives. In this collection of 48 works, he juxtaposes biographies of two comparable figures, one of whom is Roman and the other Greek. He compares the lives of prominent figures both in times during the decline of their nations, Greece having already fallen and Rome in the contemporary process of decline.

The most notable aspect of Lives is how the juxtaposition presents the impact of choices. In the comparison of Coriolanus and Alchabedies, both men are extremely successful generals, but both were, in a sense, exiled due to their choice to commit immoral actions. In the comparison of Theseus and Romulus, both men are very powerful socially and successful in battle, but they let their compulsion rule.

Every person in the history of the world must at some point in their lives make a choice. In the case of Lives, Plutarch emphasizes how choices in conduct lead to different outcomes. 

To give you important context, Plutarch was a big fan of Plato. In his argument on the soul, he even alludes to Plato’s allegory of the chariot. He values virtue in a similar way to Plato and Aristotle. In very brief terms, Plutarch believes virtue is found between two extremes. It’s a middle ground between reason and emotion. 

I can’t cover all recovered twenty-two pairs and four individual biographies in this post. If you want to read all of them, there are wonderful, accessible transcriptions here. Keep in mind there are different translations and transcriptions, this is just a source where most of the biographies are accessible.

Please also note that Parallel Lives is more so a historical work than a structured philosophical essay. Plutarch himself is not considered fully credible by many historians. He would notably embellish his works, and at some points, likely make things up. He’s often the only source we have for some events, so his works have become crucial to the histories of Rome and Greece. Still, be conscious that a lot of the information he provides is disputed. Funnily enough, in this way, he’s similar to Heavensbee. 

In this section, I’ll examine a few pairings: 

Coriolanus and Alchabedies 

Theseus and Romulus

Lycurgus and Numa

Coriolanus and Alchabedies 

Just like President Snow, Coriolanus lost his father at a young age. He was known to abstain from pleasures of life and dedicated himself to his studies, and the Romans had “admiration upon his insensibility to pleasures, toils, and mercenary gains, to which they gave the names of self-control, fortitude, and justice; but in their intercourse with him as a fellow-citizen they were offended by it as ungracious, burdensome, and arrogant." 

After receiving notoriety for his valor in battle, he became a consul to the senate as a general. Marcius (the name Coriolanus preferred, thus I will henceforth refer to him) did not want the senate to listen to the mob of people who claimed the rich were withholding grain from the poor. He thought that conceding to the demands of the mob would show weakness of the senate, and he was beloved by the rich senators for this sentiment.

During his rise, Rome was experiencing a grain shortage. When it began to purchase grain, the commoners, or plebeians, began to demand a fair price, as the rich were withholding it. During a heated meeting in the senate, Marcius “rose in his place and vehemently attacked those who favoured the multitude, calling them demagogues and betrayers of the aristocracy, and declaring that they were nourishing, to their own harm, the evil seeds of boldness and insolence which had been sown among the rabble; these they should have choked when they first sprang up, and not have strengthened the people by such a power­ful magistracy as the tribunate.” He advocated for getting rid of the tribunate, as it empowers the commoners. This proclamation turned many statesmen against him, but gained the approval from the rich.

Skipping forward, he was eventually tried under multiple charges and sentenced to banishment. He fled to Volsci where he became a general. He laid siege to neighboring cities, and upon camping outside of Rome, his mother, Volumina (like Dr. Gaul) talked him out of his intended siege and he called off his troops peacefully. He valued no one more than his mother.

Upon returning to Volsci, he was assassinated in a plot by his friend Tullus, who resented him.

On the other side, Alcibiades indulged in vices. He was said to be beautiful and had many lovers. Alcibiades was a great orator, but, like how Marcius hated plebeians, he was corrupted by his hatred for Nicias. Nicias was a general that was credited for obtaining peace and freeing some men. Alcibiades believed it was his doing that freed the men, not Nicias, and thus conspired with the enemy to have them invade, all to make Nicias look bad. It worked, and after a rousing speech, Alcibiades was appointed general. 

He had a long and very successful career in war, but he wasn't loyal. He fell to his vices, often living lavishly, partaking in excessive drinking and partying, and he was easily corruptible. He would switch sides to whichever offered him protection, valor, or more wealth, often to take refuge from those he had wronged. He'd return to previous allies in a cyclical manner, going anywhere that would take him. According to Plutarch, his death came when Lysander, a spartan general, sent soldiers to surround his residence. They set it on fire, and when Alcibiades fled, they shot him down with arrows.

Both of these men made choices out of spite and resentment. Their choices were often self-serving. As Plutarch summarizes the morality of the parallels, he writes: “Neither course, then, is to be approved; although the man who seeks to win the people by his favours is less blameworthy than those who heap insults on the multitude, in order to avoid the appearance of trying to win them. For it is a disgrace to flatter the people for the sake of power; but to get power by acts of terror, violence, and oppression, is not only a disgrace, it is also an injustice.” 

Theseus and Romulus 

Plutarch summarizes these biographies best: “Both Theseus and Romulus were by nature meant for governors; yet neither lived up to the true character of a king, but fell off, and ran, the one into popularity, the other into tyranny, falling both into the same fault out of different passions. For a ruler's first aim is to maintain his office, which is done no less by avoiding what is unfit than by observing what is suitable. Whoever is either too remiss or too strict is no more a king or a governor, but either a demagogue or a despot, and so becomes either odious or contemptible to his subjects. Though certainly the one seems to be the fault of easiness and good-nature, the other of pride and severity.” 

Lycurgus vs. Numa 

Lycurgus, a Spartan King, banned money, trades, and craft to shift the focus of the population to training for war. In Plutarch's words: "allowing the true citizens no implements but the spear and shield, the trade of war only, and the service of Mars, and no other knowledge or study, but that of obedience to their commanding officers, and victory over their enemies."

Whereas Numa, second king of Rome, sought to make his territory more peaceful. He did not outright ban the military, but he began to encourage the arts and trades of his people. According to Plutarch, it lead to great and unrestricted hoarding of wealth: "allowing free scope to every other means of obtaining wealth; nor did he endeavour to do away with inequality in this respect, but permitted riches to be amassed to any extent, and paid no attention to the gradual and continual augmentation and influx of poverty".

To interject, this parallel set reminds me most of Peeta and Gale. Neither king had a great outcome. In the end, Sparta fell, just as Rome does. It lacked the virtuous middle ground. 

Upon their deaths, the enforcement of their legacies differed greatly. Lycurgus's legacy continued for hundreds of years/ Interestingly, Plutarch cites indoctrination via education: "The obligation of oaths to preserve them would have availed but little, if he had not, by discipline and education, infused them into the children's characters, and imbued their whole early life with a love of his government." 

Numa's lasting effect was short-lived. His ideas about peace crumpled upon his death. Plutarch specifically cites the fact he lacked the enforcement of education, thus dooming his attempted culture to fail: "and thus that best and justest fabric of things was of no long continuance, because it wanted that cement which should have kept all together, education."

Plutarch poses an important question which I believe lends itself well to Heavensbee: "What, then, some may say, has not Rome been advanced and bettered by her wars? A question that will need a long answer, if it is to be one to satisfy men who take the better to consist in riches, luxury, and dominion, rather than in security, gentleness, and that independence which is accompanied by justice." He follows it later with: "[Numa] by mere force of wisdom and justice, established union and harmony amongst all."

Moralia

Moralia is a collection of Plutarch’s essays. The best source I found to read them is the Perseus Digital Library. I’ve taken screenshots of different passages I think encompass the conduct of Heavensbee. I apologize for the difference in the screenshot sizes, as some essays are best found from other sources. 

On Moral Virtue:

In De virtute morali, Plutarch argues the value of emotion in making virtuous decisions. He argues exactly what Heavensbee argues in SOTR: people use reason after their emotion. 

He goes further to compare reason’s desired effect on emotion being like a gardener pruning a plant. Heavensbee, although he doesn’t necessarily do this in the intrinsic sense, most definitely uses emotion to grow the rebellion through propos.

He also claims that passion can rally, which is Heavensbee’s ideas behind the propos in the first place:

How a Man May Become Aware of His Progress in Virtue:

In Quomodo quis suos in virtute sentiat profectus, Plutarch argues emotion and “manner of diction” that allows people to become “intimately connected with the character” encourages people to be more receptive to higher order thinking.

In this same essay, he argues it is most virtuous to act, not just speak.

Plutarch was a firm believer that philosophers should get involved in politics.

Whether Vice Is Sufficient To Cause Unhappiness:

In An Vitiositas Ad Felicitatem Sufficiat, Plutarch argues vice is stronger than a tyrant. You can endure the hardships of tyranny and oppression, but you cannot control your vices, which Plutarch sees as negative.

On The Fortune Or Virtue Of Alexander:

In De Alexandri magni fortuna aut virtute, Plutarch admires the unionization of cultures under Alexander the Great. Just like Heavensbee, he subscribes to the idea “we should consider all men to be of one community and one polity and that we should have a common life”.

Plutarch also believes that fortune does not outweigh virtue. He writes man should seek to be virtuous. While in this case he likely means fortune as in luck, I think it applies well to the actual wealth of the Heavensbees. 

He also writes about how virtue is what made Alexander great outside of his luck. His self-control and avoidance of pleasures is what kept him so great.

On Stoic Self-Contradiction:

While De Stoicorum repugnantiis is more so a response to popular stoic writers, there is an interesting argument about God that lends itself well to how Heavensbee and Panem are supposed to see Snow. 

Plutarch argues how God gets a pass for evil and bad things happening when a king in his position would not. He continues to chip away at the stoic’s argument by saying if there’s a necessity for evil and bad things, then God does not have power over them, and is therefore not omnipotent. 

Seeder makes this same argument in Catching Fire when in her interview, she mentions how the people of district 11 consider snow to be all powerful. If it’s true, he should be able to stop the games.

Interestingly, Plutarch has formidable thoughts about free will. He sees the importance of free will on the morality of man. While there may be other factors that affect us, we can control our reactions, interpretations, or way of coping. In his argument again against the Stoics (he had beef genuinely), he says:

Fate is deficient if we have free will. However, if free will is indeed all encompassing, we cannot be held responsible for our actions. Nothing is our fault, only fate’s.

In summary

Plutarch believed education and upbringing (such as seen in Lives) can lead to being a more virtuous person, which is something we see in Heavensbee’s extensive library. He argued fortune is “petty” without virtue, which is similar to how, despite the luck of being rich and capitol, Heavensbee’s desire to free the districts lends itself to his developed virtue. He also believed in emotion being a genuine asset to reason, to the point where one without the other is less valuable than having them together, such as his quote in SOTR. He wrote about harnessing emotion, making changes based on your beliefs, and that we have the ability to use our free will to make choices-- no matter if you’re under Snow’s thumb or not.