#this is repulsive. this is unforgivable

[artyphex]

If anyone gets this ask

This is fake

This is a false story using a separate real fundraiser you can find here's, words and an amalgamation of images on a new blog to scam people into donating money.

The "donate to help my cat/dog" scams have upgraded to exploiting an ongoing genocide to try and scam good people out of their money. This is disgusting. This is one of the most heartless scams I have ever seen

[ciderjacks]

being native rn feels insane. Like at some point shit just becomes really funny. White americans are so insanely INSANELY deluded all you can do is laugh at them, because if you dont laugh your head will explode into flames and you’ll go out into the streets indiscriminately stabbing white people like your life depends on it.

[kirain]

Part thirteen of my appreciation project.

@yelenhol A fic based on their wonderful art piece here and here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

The clinking of chains was the first thing Emmrich heard. Then, the murmurs of broken voices. His grip tightened around his staff as he and Rook crested the hill, the scent of churned earth and sweat heavy in the air. Below them, a ragged line of elves trudged forward, bound at the wrists and ankles, heads bowed in submission.

Tevinter slavers, six of them, prodded their captives along, laughing amongst themselves. The mere sight of them made Emmrich's blood boil.

"Stop!" he ordered, his voice carrying across the field like distant thunder. "Release those people at once!"

The slavers turned, their expressions shifting from confusion to amusement.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" one of them sneered. His gaze flicked over Emmrich's lined face, the silver in his hair. "A little past your prime to be playing hero, aren't you, old man?"

"And a knife-ear," another chuckled, eyeing Rook. "You'll fetch a fine price back in the city."

Emmrich lifted his staff, anger coursing through his veins like fire. "You won't lay a hand on her!"

But beside him, Rook stood still.

She wasn't looking at the slavers, she was staring at the chains, at the hunched figures of the captives, at the dirt smeared across their faces. Then, her eyes snapped to the men approaching them.

They weren't Tevinterians anymore—they were drunken Ferelden nobles.

The air around her warped, shimmering with heat.

She heard the laughter—not of the slavers, but of the men who had raided her alienage. The acrid fumes of burning wood filled her nose, mingling with the shrieks of her people as their homes collapsed around them. She saw her mother bleeding out. And then—pain. White-hot pain seared across her cheek as she was held down, disfigured for daring to fight back.

The men before her melded with the ghosts of her past, their smirks twisting into the grins of the monsters who had scarred her—who had taken everything from her.

Lightning crackled in the air.

Emmrich barely had time to blink before electricity surged from Rook's staff, striking the slavers with blinding force. They screamed, their bodies convulsing violently as the lightning barrelled through them.

And then—silence.

The bodies crumpled to the ground, smoke curling from their charred forms, the stench of burnt flesh pervading the air.

As he lowered his staff, Emmrich gulped. He wasn't repulsed by what she'd done—they deserved it. But Rook stood there, breathing evenly, her expression blank. Too blank. Neither anger, nor satisfaction. Just cold, empty silence.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, fragile. "Free them."

Emmrich hesitated, but when she didn't move, he stepped forward. With a few well-placed bursts of magic, the chains shattered, freeing the elves in an instant. Shaken by the ordeal—and perhaps by the brutal way their captors had been killed in front of them—they stared at him for a moment before nodding and scattering into the trees.

"Unforgivable," Emmrich groaned, watching them flee. "To chain people like that, to steal them from their homes and regard them not as living, breathing beings, but commodities." He winced, his hand moving to his stomach. "Ugh, it makes me ill. Thank goodness a certain Grey Warden was here to save—"

When he turned, he found that Rook was already walking away, heading back to the eluvian.

"Rook?" he asked, rushing after her. "Are you all right?"

"Let's go home," she said flatly.

Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled almost imperceptibly.

-----

At the Lighthouse, Rook slumped into the bath, hoping the heat of the water might ease the knot in her chest. Steam coiled around her raven hair, dampening the strands that framed her face. Her tired muscles relaxed, but her mind refused. No matter how many times she sank beneath the surface, holding her breath until her lungs ached, she couldn't banish the memory of those slavers or the horrified expressions of their victims.

Moreover, she was plagued by guilt. Emmrich had planned that trip to charm her, to delve into their feelings. Instead, they had stumbled across that dreadful scene. The fire in his eyes, the righteous anger that rose in him, had been driven by his need to protect her and those poor captives—but the carnage that followed had cast a dark veil over what was supposed to be a romantic getaway. She couldn't bear to think of how he had seen her: calm, cold, and utterly merciless.

"Damn it."

Nearly an hour passed, her skin beginning to wrinkle. She couldn't stay in all night—no matter how much she wanted to. Someone would notice eventually.

With a defeated sigh, she stood, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around herself. As she caught her reflection in the mirror, she frowned at the scar across her cheek, the mark left by the sneering noble who had carved it there so many years ago. It didn't matter how many times Emmrich told her she was beautiful—she knew she was—but she still heard the jeering voices, still felt the sting of humiliation.

A gentle knock on the door startled her from her thoughts.

"Rook?" Emmrich's voice was muffled but warm. "May I come in?"

For a heartbeat, she considered refusing. But she couldn't avoid him forever.

"Yes," she muttered weakly.

Slowly, Emmrich opened the door and stepped inside, stopping just over the threshold. As his gaze swept over her half-naked form, a primal mix of desire and admiration stirred within him—until his brows furrowed.

Rook knew how she must have looked—composed, detached, as if she hadn't just electrocuted six men without a flicker of hesitation. She wasn't even sure why she was trying to seem indifferent. Emmrich wasn't a fool.

"I made tea," he said, lifting a steaming cup in offering. "Gooseberries. My own blend. Would you like to give it a try?"

Rook flinched. She wanted to accept, to show she appreciated his kindness, but her stomach churned at the thought of eating anything in her current state.

She shook her head.

"No pressure," Emmrich said, setting the cup by the sink. "But darling... are you all right?"

"Yes," she said quickly, turning away.

Part of her knew that's why he had come—his insufferably benevolent need to console her, to shield her from burdens she swore she could carry alone. He always put her wellbeing first, even when she told him not to, even when she insisted she was fine. And Maker help her, she didn't hate it—not really. It was just so unfamiliar.

"Are you sure?" he nudged. "I don't mean to pry, but back in Arlathan—"

He placed his hand on her shoulder, but the moment she felt his palm against her skin, she jerked away, her tone sharp and reflexive.

"Don't touch me!"

Emmrich stumbled back, his hands raised in harmless surrender. His eyes—normally so bright and cheerful—widened, hurt flashing in them before he could hide it.

"I... I'm sorry," she choked out, her cheeks flushing with shame. "I didn't mean to yell."

Mortified, she sank onto the stone edge of the tub, head hanging, knuckles white as she gripped the towel. Water dripped from the ends of her hair, pooling into small puddles at her feet.

"Rook?"

Emmrich held his breath, waiting in silence. When she didn't send him away, he inched closer, lowering himself to his knees before her. He kept a careful distance—respectful, yet near enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence.

"Rook," he said again, quietly, "why can't I touch you?"

The question wasn't demanding, but patient—tinged with worry. He looked as though he blamed himself, as if he had done something to upset her. She couldn't let him think that. Though it took her a while to answer, her teeth clenched as she struggled to find the words.

"Because I'm dirty."

The sound Emmrich made—pained, as if she had struck him in the gut. "What? Why would you say that?"

"Because it's true." She gave a short, humourless laugh. "I'm a dirty elf from an alienage. Wrong place at the wrong time, and I could've been one of those slaves."

"Rook, what are you—?"

"And you, Emmrich... you're practically nobility." Her voice trembled. "A professor, writer, Fade expert. Senior member of the Mourn Watch. You're renowned for your work. You—" She broke off, clutching the towel tighter. "You could have anyone. Someone less impulsive. Someone whose face isn't... spoiled."

"Darling, please—"

"I... feel something for you, Emmrich. But how do I know you won't cast me aside when you get bored? How do I know this is real?"

Emmrich's expression twisted, something raw and woeful in his eyes. "Is that how you see me?"

"No, but..." She swallowed hard. "It's all I've ever known. People use elves. We're beneath them, worthless—nothing but entertainment or labour. I can't... pretend that's not the world I grew up in."

Emmrich didn't reply, but she could sense his pity, his compassion. It came so naturally to him—an unexpected perfection that terrified her. No man could be this good, yet Emmrich was. Her breath hitched, unshed tears blurring her vision.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I shouldn't have indulged this for so long. You deserve better."

Emmrich's heart broke, but only for a single, agonising moment. Then, he lifted his hand, hesitating to see if she'd recoil or push him away. Though her breath quivered, she remained still, allowing his palm to settle gently on her leg.

At first, it was soft, barely more than a touch. Then his fingers moved higher, along the top of her thigh, making space for his other hand to cradle her knee. As the texture of his glove glided over her skin, his bracelets jingling, three of his fingers slipped between the towel, inadvertently wandering too far.

Rook tensed, and Emmrich stopped at once, squeezing her leg with a firm but soothing gesture. He only wanted to hold her, to make her feel safe. His hands should have felt cold against her bathed skin, but they were warm from the teacup. Reverent.

"I'm not nobility," he said, his voice adamant. "I'm just Emmrich." He slid his hand back down, away from the towel. "And you're not a 'dirty' elf. You're an elf, just as meaningful as me being human. Which is to say, it means nothing at all. You're my equal. And I... I love you."

Rook's eyes widened. He'd never said it aloud, and the heartfelt confession caused her throat to swell. She tried to speak, her mouth open, but he had overwhelmed her with three powerful words—and he knew it. With a smile, he reached up and cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing along her scar.

"Ravishing," he breathed, his eyes sincere as they met hers. "May I... kiss you?"

Rook's head spun, a deep blush spreading across her face, and she suddenly became aware of the towel slipping from her shoulders. In truth, she wanted this—wanted him—in spite of her past and the relentless cynicism that haunted her.

"...Yes."

There it was—the one thing Emmrich had hoped for, the one thing he cherished: her permission. As he leaned in, he pressed his lips to hers, both of them starved for affection. The kiss was slow and searching, filled with unspoken apologies and promises. Rook could taste a hint of mint, his warmth suffusing her senses, and in that intimate moment, the stress of the day finally began to wane.

When he pulled back, she drew in a shaky breath. The way he looked at her—with such tenderness, such conviction—made her wonder why she had ever doubted him. He had always been different, from the very day they met.

"Emmrich..." she whimpered, wiping her tears. "I'm sorry for what I said. I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you were—"

Suddenly, he scooped her into his arms, lifting her from the edge of the tub as though she were weightless.

"Emmrich!" she gasped, clinging to his shirt. "What are you—?"

He embraced her, pressing her against his chest. "I've got you."

With careful steps, he carried her to the bed in the adjoining room, where freshly laundered sheets smelled of lemon, violet, and pansy. When she didn't resist, he laid her down, the towel slipping from her shoulders, baring her secrets.

"Darling..." he purred, utterly transfixed.

As she sank into the pillows, he took a moment to savour her beauty before climbing onto the mattress, his knees braced by her hips, his face hovering a breath above hers.

"Do you want this?" he asked, his cheeks glowing as red as hers.

"Yes," she hushed, her eyes fluttering closed.

Emmrich dipped his head, pressing featherlight kisses along her neck, each one a silent act of devotion. As her skin tingled beneath his lips, Rook couldn't help but moan, her fingers tangling in his hair, urging him closer. He obliged, eagerly, his tongue teasing over her pulse, exploring where she was most sensitive.

"Ah! Emmrich, that's—"

Her toes curled, responding to the heat of his touch, the brush of his clothes against her bare skin.

"That's it. Let the world disappear for tonight," he begged, desperate to prise any lingering thoughts that she was inferior or disposable from her mind. "Right now, there's only us."

His hands roamed with purpose, massaging her sides, her waist, her shoulders—as though he was committing every curve of her to memory. The weight of his body against hers was thrilling, his ministrations dedicated solely to her pleasure. And for one blissful moment, Rook melted into it, meeting his lips with her own.

But when his hand trailed lower, drifting between her thighs, a sudden stab of anxiety ravaged her peace.

"Wait!" she cried, her fingers tightening in his hair.

Emmrich froze immediately, then lifted his head. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," she wheezed, her throat bobbing. "I... I'm not ready. I'm so sorry."

Emmrich paused, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "Don't apologise," he said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "It's all right, dearest. We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

Rook shivered. She expected rage or disappointment—some sign that he felt entitled to her body after she'd allowed him this far. But there was only understanding in his gaze, a quiet patience that eased the last bit of tension in her soul.

"You're not... angry?"

"Angry?" His brows arched, as if it wasn't even an option. "Quite the opposite. If I'd continued and you weren't enjoying it—" He shuddered at the thought. "Darling, I'll wait as long as you need."

As he shifted off the bed, Rook felt her heart pound—not with fear, but gratitude. He didn't force anything, held no malice or frustration; he simply pulled the blankets up to her chin. Then, he blew out the candles, plunging the room into a comforting darkness, broken only by the moonlight streaming through the windows. When he returned to her side, he pressed a small but fervent kiss to her forehead.

"Goodnight, Rook," he whispered.

"Goodnight."

He smiled, then lay down beside her, leaving enough space so she wouldn't feel trapped, yet close enough that she could curl into him if she wished. She did—and slowly, she nestled into his arms. As he held her, the steady rise and fall of his chest was a lullaby, and for the first time in ages, she allowed herself to believe someone truly cared for her.

"Emmrich?" she mumbled, her hand reaching up to caress his cheek.

He was nearly asleep, but managed a tender, "Yes, darling?"

"Thank you."

She wasn't used to saying that word, and finally having a reason to meant everything.

[aphoticarachne]

SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK — luke castellan

tags: gut wretching angst, established relationship, betrayal, demigod!reader, um just luke in general

Pain and fury simmered beneath your skin, scorching like molten lava seeping through every vein, threatening to consume you whole.

You stood frozen, suffocated by the weight of betrayal as Luke bared his soul—his plans, his allegiance, the truth he had concealed from you all this time. A sickening wave of nausea clawed up your throat, lodging itself there, just as you were trapped here. With him.

"Baby, I know it's—"

"Don’t." Your voice, though barely above a whisper, carried the force of a blade. Sharp. Unforgiving. Tears brimmed at your lashes, threatening to spill, but you refused to let them fall. Instead, you stepped back, slow and deliberate, as if distance alone could sever the invisible thread still tethering you to him.

Luke's breath hitched, and in the moon’s pallid glow, you watched his expression contort. Shock, pain, then something colder. His crystalline eyes—ones that once held warmth—hardened into ice. Were you truly trying to flee from him? The very thought was an affront. A wound deeper than any blade.

"You can't do this to me," he murmured, his voice laced with desperation. "You—You promised. You said we'd be together. Forever."

He surged forward, hands reaching for yours, as if holding onto you would keep you from slipping away. Backbiter tumbled from his grip, landing on the damp forest floor with a soft thud, forgotten in his urgency to hold onto you.

But you recoiled as if burned. Fury, searing and absolute, surged through your veins. "You did this to us!" you spat, wrenching yourself from his grasp as though his very touch had become repulsive.

The moon’s silver light cascaded over him, accentuating the sharp angles of his face, the scar that traced his features—a mark you once traced with reverence, with devotion, you used to kiss it with the tenderness of a lover. But now, that face twisted into something grotesque, something unfamiliar, monstrous. No, you hadn’t misjudged him. You hadn’t failed to see him clearly before. He was never your Luke to begin with.

Luke's hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. He saw it now—the way your gaze shifted, as if he were a stranger, an enemy where a lover once stood. It cut deeper than any blade.

And now, everything was crumbling.

He had thought—no, he had believed—that your love for him would transcend all else. That it would overpower your devotion to Olympus, your blind fealty to the Gods who had forsaken you time and time again. He had stood by you, fought for you, chosen you when no one else had. And yet, when the moment of truth arrived, you chose them.

How foolish he was to have thought of that in the first place.

Your nails dug into your palms, crescent-shaped indentations forming in your flesh as you struggled to steady your voice. When you finally spoke, it was quiet—too quiet. But beneath it lay a warning, a threat woven into every syllable.

"Leave." Your stare burned into him, unwavering. "Leave before I do something we’ll both regret."

His entire world collapsed in a single breath.

You turned then, jaw clenched, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your resolve from shattering. You would not look back. Not this time.

Luke regarded you with an unreadable expression, though you knew him well enough to recognize the battle waging behind his eyes. He had always understood your defiance, your unwavering resolve. It was something he had admired, something he had loved. And now, it was the very thing that forced him to walk away.

Resignation settled over him like a heavy cloak, sorrow threading itself into the fine lines of his face. A single tear traced the jagged path of his scar, glistening under the silver glow of the moon. He inhaled deeply, his gaze roaming over you with quiet desperation, as if he could commit every detail of your existence to memory—the sharp curve of your jaw, the fire in your gaze, the tremble in your breath.

Then, as though time itself had fractured, Luke grasped your face and pulled you into a searing kiss, one that brimmed with longing, regret, and something far too raw to name. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that bordered on despair, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the space between you. This was an ending, a goodbye that neither of you could fully accept.

Your breaths intertwined, heat colliding, as if the universe itself had conspired to make you stay entangled just a moment longer. When he finally withdrew, you felt the ache of absence immediately, the ghost of him still lingering against your lips.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice a hushed vow, weighted with finality. His head shook slightly, resolve hardening his features. "This isn’t over, baby."

You stood paralyzed, a tempest of emotions surging through your chest as he stooped to retrieve Backbiter from the damp earth. With one fluid motion, he slashed the space before him, rending the air itself. A shimmering void opened in his wake, pulsing with dark energy.

He cast you one last, burning glance. And then—he was gone.

Just like that, your lover had abandoned you. Left you standing alone in the stillness of the forest. Left you to wrestle with the unbearable truth.

He was going to raise an army. He was going to lead a war.

And he was doing it for a Titan clawing his way out of Tartarus.

Wonderful.

Deena speaks .ᐟ

Surprise ! I'm a Luke Castellan fangirl

too. Been one since 2020.

What do you expect? I like my men fucked up.

Anyway, the next chapter of "What is this Feeling?" Is gonna be published tomorrow !

[redvexillum]

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, human!alastor, sub/d♡m dynamic, sub!reader, d♡m!alastor, reader has a shame kink, reader has a degradation kink, c☆ckwarming, p in v, ruined ♡rgasm, rough ♡ral s♡x, assistant!reader, non-s♡x repulsed alastor, teasing, begging, reader really wants alastor's c☆ck lol, alastor being a jerk but reader loves it, you literally become his b!tch, reader is down bad for alastor but aren't we all?

WORD COUNT: 4.3K~

The cold, unforgiving floor bit into your knees, the pressure of your weight sending sharp pangs of discomfort up through your legs. Each subtle shift of your position bruised your kneecaps further, but you didn’t dare adjust. Your trembling fingers rested cautiously on Alastor’s warm thighs, the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his��suit pants.   

The warmth was almost comforting – almost. A bead of saliva slipped from your parted lips, trailing down your chin in a slick, humiliating line before it fell to the seat between Alastor’s legs with a soft, wet sound.   

Alastor’s fingers tangled in your hair, firm but not yet painful, the soft tugging an unmistakable sign of his displeasure. You knew the mess you were making only added to his irritation, but there was little you could do to stop it. A whimper built up in your throat, desperate to escape, but you swallowed it down, forcing your mouth to remain open in its strained, aching position. Your jaw throbbed from the effort, muscles protesting as time crawled by in agonizing slowness.   

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you dared to glance up at him. Kneeling between his legs, you were at his mercy, completely vulnerable as Alastor sat in his chair, unbothered by your struggle.   

His oval glasses caught the flicker of the lamplight, reflecting tiny pinpricks of firelight back at you, while the rhythmic scratch of his pen against paper filled the room. The sound was steady, deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to continue his work while you remained trapped in this torment.   

He didn’t look at you.  

Not once.   

A surge of desperation crawled up your spine as you fought the urge to reach up and rub your aching jaw. Instead, you shifted your tongue, sliding it cautiously against the soft, limp member resting inside your mouth.   

The faint taste of salt lingered on your tongue; you were all too familiar to the taste of him. You stilled as you felt the barest twitch, a flicker of life from his cock. Panic surged through you, eyes widening in fear as you froze, barely daring to breathe.   

The cool evening air of Alastor’s office seemed to sink into your skin, prickling your exposed flesh with a chill that made you shiver. It was well past working hours, and the radio station was deserted. Not a single colleague remained to witness the intimate punishment you were enduring – punishment for the simple mistake of spilling coffee on Alastor’s papers during one of his broadcasts.   

You could still recall the way his smile never faltered, that sharp gleam in his whisky-brown eyes flashing behind the kindness of his voice as he’d patted your head and reassured you with a saccharine, “Accidents happen.”  

But now, here you were – naked, trembling, and at his mercy.   

The office was shrouded in a still, oppressive quiet, the faint tick of a clock on the wall the only sign that time hadn’t stopped altogether. After hours, the world beyond the room seemed distant, forgotten, leaving only you and Alastor in this intimate, humiliating scene.   

His command had been simple – strip and kneel – but the weight of it had sent a shiver down your spine, a rush of heat pooling low in your belly as you obeyed. Now, here you were, bare and exposed before him, your knees pressing into the cold, hard floor, while his cock rested inside your mouth, warm and soft, like a sleeping beast you dared not wake.   

Alastor sat above you, pen scratching across paper as he methodically rewrote the script you had so carelessly ruined earlier. The humiliation of that mistake clung to you, a reminder of why you were in this position at all.   

His one hand rested on your head, deceptively gentle, his fingers idly stroking your hair whenever you managed to stay still. But you knew better than to mistake his touch for kindness. The moment your tongue so much as twitched, his grip tightened, pulling sharply at your scalp, reminding you of your place.   

Your only job was to keep his cock warm and snug inside your mouth, a silent, obedient placeholder as he worked.  

But the longer you knelt there, the harder it became to maintain control. Your thighs rubbed together of their own accord, desperate for any friction, any relief from the growing ache between your legs. Your cunt was slick, shamefully wet, as arousal pulsed through you in time with your racing heartbeat.   

The sensation of his cock resting heavy on your tongue, the heat of his body so close to yours – it was maddeningly erotic, an undeniable thrill despite how perverse and scandalous the situation was.   

You felt the weight of your submission, the way you had given up control, and it sent a dark shiver of excitement through you. To be used like this, treated like nothing more than a needy, desperate thing – it was absolutely...  

Intoxicating.   

Your lips trembled as more saliva pooled in your mouth, the warmth of it gathering until it spilled over, dripping down your chin in thick, wet trails. You could feel it seeping down your neck, mingling with the sweat that had begun to prick at your skin, making you feel even more debased.   

Your jaw ached, your muscles burning from holding the same position for what felt like an eternity. The hard floor beneath you made your knees throb, but you didn’t dare shift or move. You didn’t know how much longer Alastor would take to finish his work, but you knew better than to rush him.   

You were not to taste him.   

You were not to move.   

And most importantly, you were not to distract him by giving him an erection.   

The rules were clear, and the consequences of breaking them had been made painfully obvious the last time you had failed. The memory of that punishment sent a shiver of dread down your spine, the fear mingling with the twisted arousal coursing through you.   

But as you knelt there, your body trembling with effort, small whimpering noises began to escape your throat, betraying your discomfort. You tried to swallow them down, but they bubbled up despite your best efforts.   

The sound, the vibration of your voice against his cock, was your undoing. You felt it – Alastor's cock stirred in response, twitching as the movement of your tongue inadvertently roused him.   

Your heart leapt into your throat, panic flooding your system as his cock began to grow inside your mouth. One twitch, then another, until you felt the weight of him shifting, expanding, thickening. Your jaw was forced to stretch wider, your lips straining to accommodate him as his cock swelled and lengthened, pressing deeper into your mouth. Soon, it reached the back of your throat, pushing against your gag reflex with terrifying precision. Your nose was flush against the front of his hip, the scent of him filling your senses, overwhelming and masculine.  

You gurgled around him, the sound wet and desperate as you tried to adjust, your body writhing with the effort of holding still. Alastor’s hand remained firm on your head, keeping you in place, making sure you took every inch of him without moving, without complaint.   

Tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision as your throat convulsed around his cock, your stomach roiling with the effort to keep from gagging. You hadn’t been trained well enough for this – not yet – but you knew you had to endure.   

Looking up at him, eyes wide and pleading, you silently begged for a reprieve as more saliva spilled from your mouth, dripping in thick, humiliating strings, pooling on the seat of his chair and spilling onto the floor.   

Your fingers tentatively brushed against his thighs, a small, desperate gesture, seeking some sign of mercy. But Alastor remained focused on his work, his hand a steady, unyielding weight on your head as you struggled to maintain your composure.   

Alastor’s sigh was heavy with disappointment, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the stillness of the room. Your stomach churned with both shame and something darker – arousal. His gaze, piercing and critical, bore into you from above the rim of his glasses, which sat perched low on the bridge of his nose.   

That look alone was enough to make heat flush your skin, a reminder of your place, and the last time you had failed him. You could still feel the phantom sting of his palm against your thighs, the way he pulled you over his lap, spanking your dripping pussy until you came undone, making a humiliating mess of his pants and the floor beneath you. The memory sent a shiver down your spine, shame mingling with forbidden desire.  

“Seems like you can’t even do this job right, my dear assistant,” Alastor chastised, his voice low and cold, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. His disappointment weighed heavily on your chest, making it difficult to breathe. His hand tightened in your hair with a sudden, sharp tug, yanking your head back. Your scalp stung as he twisted your head up, his cock still in your mouth, forcing you to meet his gaze.   

“Suck,” he commanded, his voice smooth, authoritative. Your heart leapt in your throat as you obeyed, sealing your lips tighter around the burning heat of his cock.   

It was searing, velvet-soft and impossibly thick, filing your mouth entirely. A wet, obscene noise filled the air as Alastor began to pull you back, inch by inch, his cock sliding slowly from between your lips.   

Just when the tip was the only thing left inside, he shoved you back down with an almost cruel force, burying himself deep in your throat. You gagged, choking around his thick length as your throat convulsed, but he didn’t stop.   

Again and again, he repeated the motion, thrusting deep into your mouth, your body jerking with each movement. The sound of your voice was nothing more than a muffled whimper beneath the wet, slurping noises as his cock slid in and out of your mouth, the slick wetness of your saliva thoroughly coating his shaft. All the while, Alastor watched you, his expression impassive, almost bored, as if this was nothing more than a tedious task for him.   

Your breasts swayed with each thrust, the hardened tips of your nipples grazing his pants, sending jolts of sensation through you. Your back arched, your body straining to keep up with the relentless pace as your head bobbed up and down, forcing to follow the rhythm he set.   

Oxygen was becoming scarce, your lungs burning as you struggled to breathe between thrusts. And yet, the musky, intoxicating taste of him consumed you, drowning out everything else.   

You could feel the heat building between your legs, a maddening ache, as slickness dripped from your cunt, drenching your inner thighs. Your hand, trembling and desperate, began to drift downward, fingers aching to find relief. You needed to touch yourself, needed to grind against your palm while your boss used your mouth as he pleased.   

“Ah-ah-ah,” Alastor’s voice cut through your thoughts, humour laced with a dark warning. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling you back with such force that strands of your hair were yanked free from your scalp. The sharp sting of pain made you moan, a pathetic sound that mixed with a whimper as your hand froze mid-motion. “Now who told you to touch your pretty little cunt, hmm?” he asked, his voice a soft, mocking purr.   

Your mouth was finally free from his cock with a loud pop, and you gasped, working your jaw in an attempt to relieve the strain in your aching muscles. Your throat throbbed, raw from the persistent onslaught, and your breath came in ragged pants.   

Alastor’s cock gleamed in the low light, slick with your saliva, and the sight of it sent a wave of heat surging through your body. You wanted him to bend you over and punish you with his thick cock, fucking you until you couldn’t string two words together.   

You felt your cheeks and chest flush as your gaze flickered to the darkened patch on the front of his pants, where your drool had soaked through. Alastor’s smile twisted into something cruel, his eyes narrowing as he took in the mess you had made. “Naughty, messy girl,” he murmured, his voice a gentle, dangerous whisper. “Always making a mess of my things, no matter where you go.”  

He released his hold on your hair then, his fingers sliding away from your scalp as he patted his lap. The gesture was a command you knew all too well. Your heart raced as you hesitated, remembering the last he’d made you sit on his cock without moving, forcing you to endure the torture of feeling him inside you without allowing any stimulation.   

His thick, veiny shaft had twitched with every beat of your heart, but he hadn’t let you move, hadn’t let you seek the pleasure you so desperately craved. It had been a slow, agonizing torment, and now he was ready to do it again.   

You couldn’t do this again.   

Your body betrayed you, thighs rubbing together in a desperate attempt to find relief, nipples hardening under his gaze as you trembled before him. Your voice, hoarse and barely more than a whisper, came out in broken gasps. “Please, sir, I...I...” The words died in your throat.   

Alastor’s voice cut through the air like ice, his tone cool and devoid of warmth. “Don’t make me repeat myself, dear.” there was no affection in his words, just a chilling command that seized your muscles. 

There was no excuse, no reason you could give where you deserve to reach your peak. Not after everything you had ruined, after all the mess you had made. Your head hung low, shoulders slumped in defeat as tears threatened to spill. There was the overwhelming need clawing at your gut, twisting tighter with each passing second. Desire coursed through you, unbearable and famished.  

Forcing your back to straighten, you dared to meet his impassive gaze. He waited, unimpressed, as you hesitated, shame and arousal warring inside you. Slowly, you climbed onto his lap, legs trembling as you straddled him. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, there was something almost predatory in his gaze.   

His thumb brushed across your moist, parted lower lips, your walls immediately clenching, desperate to be filled by him. Lazily, he traced the curve between your slick folds before slipping his thumb inside your mouth. The taste of your own slick filled your senses. He leaned forward, capturing your erect nipple in his mouth and suckling them, his tongue flicking against them.   

Ah, you wanted more, needed more. Your tongue wrapped around his thumb, mimicking the pressure he was applying to your nipple.  

You wanted more, more, more.   

When he pulled his lips away along with his thumb out of your mouth, he looked up at you. “Go on,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Sit.”  

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you lined yourself up with the head of his cock. The thick tip pressed against your entrance, and you gasped, a shuddering moan spilling from your lips as he slowly began to stretch you open.   

Inch by inch, you sank onto him, the sensation overwhelming as his cock filled you completely. It felt as though he was carving a path inside you, his length pulsing with heat, claiming every part of you.   

Alastor’s smirk deepened as he watched you struggling to take him, your moans echoing in the room. “You’re a loud little minx, I should put a muzzle over your pretty, red lips.” His voice was a mix of amusement and disdain as you finally settled into his lap, his cock buried deep inside you to the hilt.   

Your breath came in shallow pants, your body trembling, every nerve alight with sensation. Your walls fluttered around him, welcoming the invasion, clinging to every inch of his length.   

“Looking more like a dog in heat by the day,” he remarked, his voice strained, though his hips remained frustratingly still. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you down even further, the stretch bordering on too much, yet the pleasure bloomed brighter with each second. Your hips instinctively ground against him, desperate, always desperate, for friction, for more of him.   

“Shall I give you a new name, dear? Something to suit your new role?” His one hand tightened on your hip, the other tracing the curve of your spine before his fingers curled into the flesh of your ass. His words send a rush of heat through you, making you tremble even harder.   

He was in complete control, and you’d be whatever he wanted you to be.   

“Let’s see...you’re a dog in heat, so I suppose ‘bitch’ would fit you perfectly, wouldn’t it?” Alastor’s lips curled into a cruel smile, and all you could do was nod, biting back a sob as his cock twitched inside you.   

The word made your heart thump loudly in your ears, shame coiling around your desire like a vice, but you loved it. You loved the way he spoke down to you, the way he commanded every part of you. You would be his bitch, his toy, anything he wanted, just to feel him deep inside you.   

“Do you like that name, bitch?” His voice was like velvet, a mocking lilt to his tone as his hands gripped your ass tighter. Without warning, he dragged you up, his cock slipping out of you in the same deliberate manner as before, inch by agonizing inch. And just when you thought you couldn’t take the loss of him any longer, he slammed you back down, his cock filling you to the base with a force that left you breathless.   

“Well?” he hissed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he held you there, his cock twitching insistently against your walls. “Answer me.”  

“Yes, yes, sir,” you gasped, your voice cracking as your hips began to gyrate on their own accord, desperate to ground your needy, throbbing clit against him, desperate for release. Your breasts swayed with every frantic movement, brushing against the fabric of his clothes, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. “Please, fuck me, sir. Please, I need it, I–” Your fingers tried to reach for the front of his shirt, a futile attempt to ground yourself, but a sharp hiss from Alastor made you freeze in place.   

Whimpering, you let your hands drop back down, your body still trembling as you waited for his next command.   

He smiled at you – a soft, almost tender expression that could have been mistaken for kindness – until his eyes darkened, sharpening with intent. In a swift, brutal motion, he thrust upward, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your body jolted, and before you could even catch your breath, Alastor dropped you unceremoniously onto his desk, the papers and documents crumpling beneath you. The cool, wet smear of fresh ink pressed against your bare back, sticky and uncomfortable.   

“Once again, ruining my work, I see,” he sighed, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. But before you could stammer out an apology, his cock slammed back into you, stealing whatever words had been forming on your lips.   

A strangled gasp tore from your throat as the impact reverberated through your entire body, your hips widening in response, silently begging him for more.   

Your legs parted wider, opening yourself completely to him, inviting him to take whatever he wanted. Your head lolled back, exposing your throat as your chest arched forward, your entire posture one of submission. You were at his mercy, laid out before him like a prey before a predator. The raw, primal need coursing through your veins made you tremble, the tension unbearable.   

A low, dark chuckle escaped Alastor’s lips as he took in the sight of you, so utterly open and vulnerable. Without hesitation, he resumed his pace, ramming into you with a force that sent the papers beneath you sliding across the desk. The sharp creak of the wood echoed through the room with each powerful thrust, mixing with the wet sounds of your bodies colliding and the unbidden, loud moans spilling from your lips.   

You couldn’t stop yourself – every slam of his hips into yours tore another desperate cry from your throat, begging for more, for release, for anything to make the intensity bearable.   

“More,” you gasped between moans, “yes, please...” the words tumbled out, barely coherent. You were so close, your body trembling on the edge, every nerve within you alight with the promise of release. Just when you thought you would shatter, Alastor pulled out abruptly, leaving you empty and aching.   

Your eyes flew open in shock, just in time to see him gripping his cock with fervour, the slick sound of his hand moving over his length filling the room. His breath hitched, and with a low, guttural moan, he plunged back inside you, spilling a hot stream of his seed inside you. His body trembled as his cock twitched with the aftershock of his orgasm. You whimpered, your body quivering with need, every muscle tight as you fought against the overwhelming urge to come.   

His cock pulsed inside you, slick with both his cum and your arousal, and you could feel it, every twitch, every pulse of him.   

“S-sir,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as you pleaded. Your clit throbbed, painfully hard and swollen, so close to the edge that even the smallest touch would send you over. “Please...”  

Alastor’s breath was ragged as he looked down at you, his hand brushing your sweat-soaked hair away from your tear-streaked face. His touch was gentle, almost tender, but his words were anything but. “Do you think,” he began, his voice barely a whisper, “that you deserve a reward?”  

Your heart sank. You knew the answer, but saying it aloud felt like a cruel joke. “N-no, sir,” you whispered, your voice small, defeated.   

“Splendid,” he chuckled, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he slowly picked you up from the desk. His softening cock was still buried deep inside you as he sat back in his chair, lifting you by the hips.   

Your body trembled, your cunt sopping with both his seed and your unsatisfied arousal. He watched; his gaze locked on the sight of his now limp cock as your walls clenched involuntarily, trying to squeeze out every last drop of his release.   

“That’s right,” he coaxed softly, his voice like velvet. “Squeeze it all out.” And you did. You obeyed, your body quivering as you worked to expel every bit of him from your aching, needy core, all while the pleasure you craved remained just out of reach.   

“Now, let’s try this again,” Alastor’s voice rang with unsettling cheer, the edge of his joviality making your stomach tighten in a familiar mix of dread and arousal. His eyes gleamed as he gave the command, “Kneel.”  

The word hit you like a weight. Defeat settled into your bones as you slowly untangled yourself from his lap, sliding down until all your knees pressed into the hard floor. The ache already began to throb there, but you knew it was just the beginning.   

His hand gripped the base of his cock, guiding it toward you, still slick with the mess of your arousal and his. The scent was sharp, musky, and unmistakably his. As he slid it into your mouth, you could taste the sour and salty tang of his cum instantly coating your tongue.  

“That’s right,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, more intimate. “Swallow it.”  

You obeyed, your tongue sweeping along the length of his shaft, gathering every trace of him. Your lips tightened around him, cheeks hollowing as you sucked, determined to show him you could be his perfect, obedient pet.   

A soft hum of approval escaped his lips, and for a fleeting moment, hope fluttered in your chest. Maybe this time, if you did everything right, he’d let you come.   

But just as quickly, his tone shifted. “Stop.”  

The single word was a sharp command, and you immediately froze. Your heart pounded, lips still parted around the head of his cock, waiting for his next move.   

“I have work to do,” he sighed, dismissing you as he picked up his pen and began to scribble on the paper in front of him, as though your presence was nothing more than a slight distraction. His cock still rested in your mouth, heavy and warm, with an order to be still.  

To wait.   

You forced yourself to remain motionless, your body tense as you became the perfect, obedient cockwarmer. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, salty and bitter, while the scent of ink and paper mixed with the heady smell of sex. Your knees throbbed from the hard floor beneath you, your mouth already starting to ache from the strain of staying in place.   

But despite the discomfort, the heat between your legs grew unbearable, the slickness of your arousal sliding down your thighs. You clenched them together, trying to suppress the ache, but every slight movement only reminded you of how desperately you needed release.   

Alastor’s attention, however, was fully on his work, the scratch of his pen filling the room. You were nothing more than an object to him now, a vessel to keep him comfortable as he continued with his task. Your heart raced, frustration and desire swirling in your gut, but you knew better than to move, to make a sound, to do anything that might earn his displeasure.  

All you could do was wait, hoping against hope that he would take pity on you. That, maybe, if you were his good little cockwarmer, he would reward you.   

But for now, you remained on your knees, his cock filling your mouth, the taste of him lingering as you tried to fight the urge to tremble beneath the weight of your desire.   

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[t-a-a-1]

The Misfortunes of Honor

Summary: While being under Megatron’s mind control, Optimus was obliged to interface with you. An act he wished he had done in more complimentary circumstances. Although Optimus loves you, the aftermath of the act made the two of you become distant, making you wonder if it's time to leave Prime’s side.

A/N: 2k words. Angst, suggestive content, fluff, after glow, sexy stuff, etc.

It was too late when he came to his senses.

Although he was able to break free from Megatron’s mind control, his honor had already been tainted. Not like it was ever pure. There was too much energon on his servos to say otherwise and hypocrisy did not become him. 

But you? 

He had made many mistakes. Many of them are unforgivable. This is one of them. 

Optimus can’t look at you. Too much shame and embarrassment, yet he has to hold you in his servos. You had told him that you were hurt and unable to walk. He can tell by  the bruises in your body that you were telling the truth. Not like he didn’t believe you in the first place but they served as a reminder of the horrible acts he had committed. 

It’s not like he didn’t want to do it. In fact, he had dreamt of becoming one with you many, many times before. He craved and yearned for the day he would confess his undying love for you. 

Megatron had taken that from him. Now, he can no longer fantasize about that day. Nor longer think what your first time with him could’ve been. He is unworthy of it. Of you. Although the act had already happened … he refuses to remember such an act. Primal. Without an ounce of love in it. 

“Did it hurt?”

Optimus asks you as he enters his private quarters. No one in the hangar dared to interrupt the two of you. After tonight’s event, it was obvious that the two of you needed time alone. 

“At first but I got used to it after a while,” you say as he places you on the elevated floor where you are able to see him face to faceplate. 

You weren’t a stranger to Optimus' room. He had even put a coach for you to be comfortable. In exchange you put some flowers around and made the place look more lively. 

“(Y/N), I – I don’t know how I could ever ask you to forgive me.”

“You don’t have to. You were under Megatron’s mind control,” you have difficulty looking at his optics. Everytime you look at them, you are reminded of how much craving they had a few hours ago.  “It was the only choice.”

“Did you … Find it pleasurable?” He is usually good with words. But all sense of reason is lost whenever he talks to you. His speech becomes sparkling-like.   “Since it was your first time interfacing and well, I am unable to remember much. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t too painful for you.”

“I am not sure I can describe it. It was rough and fierce but also passionate and I think a part of you was trying to be gentle. As much as you could.”

In a conversation you two had before, you had confessed that you had never interfaced with a human before. Although you were a healthy and attractive adult individual, you found it difficult to connect with others in such a way. It wasn’t that you didn’t have opportunities before but you were uninterested or scared of the act. 

Optimus began to wonder … If you didn’t want to do it with a human, would you even want to have intimacy with a Cybertronian? He feels like an idiot. You must find him repulsive. Unattractive. A monster. Even more now that he had taken something so precious to you.

“I have tainted your honor and I would like to take responsibility if you wish me to,”

“You tainted nothing,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest. “Optimus, not having sex or having sex doesn’t make you a better or worse person.” 

Your heart was beating too fast, almost coming out of your chest. Hoping that Optimus won’t notice it, you grab on to your arms tightly, it will probably leave marks.

“I am glad that it was with you,” you say as Optimus distances from you, walking around the elevated floor but not too far. “Even if it was in strange circumstances. I am fine, really.”

“But I am not fine with it,” he raises his voice. Although he is trying his best to show sanity, the more he remembers the act, the more his vexation. “All of this time. Ever since I met you, all I wanted was to have a bond with you. A genuine, pure connection and Megatron took that from me. He took my home, my friends, my life and he took you.”

There wasn’t a lot of light in his private quarters. Just the light emitting from his large data-screen. His optics were also a beautiful source of illumination. Most of the time they would be comforting but his evident anger made you question yourself.

“Optimus, is ok, really,” you remember his face plate during the act. He looked almost animalistic, unable to get enough but he looked to be enjoying himself. But now you questioned it. Maybe it was your imagination playing tricks.  “Unless … Did you find our interfacing … repulsive?”

“By Primus, no,” Optimus walks back towards you, for a moment he regrets speaking without any concerns about your feelings. “It’s just that I wished we had done so in more favorable terms.”

“Favorable terms?”

“In circumstances more worthy of you,” as he spoke, his processor began to put pictures in his mind. Of all the times he fantasized about you and him. Finally together with a peaceful life. Enjoying the beauty of a tranquil Earth and a rebuilt Cybertron. He thought of the many sparklings he would have and how they would look. Their names, both human and Cybertronian. And you of course,you next to him for as long as the universe allows you to.

 “In perfect conditions, we would have interfaced after concluding the Conjunx Ritus. Then we could had spark-bonded and I would have made you mine each night after that.”

Optimus took a moment to look at you, clear confusion on your face.

“Hypothetically speaking of course,” he quickly corrected himself.  “Only if there were mutual feelings.”

“And how do you feel?” you ask him. “About me?”

His spark was beating at a frequency unknown to him. But his spark and processor were not connected by the same circuit. What his spark wanted to say could not be pronounced and his processor spoke what little sanity he had while talking to you. 

“I think … You are … adequate?”

“I see,” His words offended you and you abruptly turned around, showing your back to him.  “I am sorry I can’t be better for you. Kinda stupid on my side to believe I could ever be.”

“No,no, that’s not what I mean. I–”

His words had come to a stop as he noticed a blue liquid. Such liquid ran down from your skirt, making its way down your right leg. 

Optimus had filled you with his transmission fluid, you felt the warm liquid run down your thigh. You touch it with your fingers only to confirm your suspicions. 

“Is it possible for a human and a Cybertronian to have a child?”

“I pray to Primus that’s the case.”

“What?”

Wanting to make sure you heard right, you turn to look at him. 

“I mean, I am not certain but if that would be the case then I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll take you as my Conjunx Endura and raise our sparkling together,” he hoped his voice didn’t sound too provoking,, he didn’t scare you with his excitement. 

“If that’s what you wish, of course.”

A few seconds of silence passed in which all Optimus’s processor could think of  were begging words.

“Say yes, say yes, say yes. Please. Please.”

On the other hand, you weren’t entirely sure what he meant as he used vocabulary unknown to you. You were also more concentrated on looking for something to clean yourself with. 

“I don’t know, I-”

“What is a Conjunx Endura? What if it means pet?”

“Only in the case you are with a sparkling! I wouldn’t dare to think of spending an eternity with you otherwise.”

He lies, that’s actually the only thing he thinks about. 

“Alright, Prime, you already said you find me disgusting. You don’t have to put any more salt on the wound.”

“Salt? What wound?”

It was frustrating to you, thinking he is cute when he blinks like that.As much as you would like to be angry with him for the continuous insulting. 

“Whatever. Look, everything is fine. I’ll be fine. I am tired. My body is pretty beat up so I think I’ll go rest now,” you look down at your bare legs. Still, the fluids slowly make their way down.  Feeling swollen and full, you knew you had to take a bath and clean yourself up. “Thank you for the experience, Prime. It was very significant.” 

Walking slowly, you made your way to the stairs. He didn’t want to let the conversation end like this. He panics at the bare thought of you being displeased and him being the cause of it. 

“I am sorry,” he stops you and gets your full attention. “It’s just that whenever I am in your presence, my processor seems to stop working.”

“... Am I that bad?”

Moving his helm from side to side, he can’t find words. He is usually eloquent and well spoken but all his being short-circuits. He can’t do it. As much as his spark begs him to confess, he rationally tells him to do otherwise. 

“No, it’s just—”

“Optimus, we have an issue.”

It was Ratchet’s voice, calling him through his Comm-Link. He ex-vents, he presses the button close to his helm and speaks loudly.

“I’ll be there soon.”

He doesn’t know how to make you stay. The more he looks at you, the more he is silent. His pedes are almost giving up. 

Optimus takes a closer look at you. Your breathing had changed, it has become slower. A few sweat drops run down from your face, your clothes were wrinkled. He is surprised he didn’t tear them off your body before. And your hair was a bit of a mess.

Your lips were red and swollen, probably too tired of kissing his dermas. To say you were intoxicating was an understatement as your smell combined with his had become his favorite aroma. 

He curses the gods … He can’t remember much but just flashbacks. Optimus wonders if he was able to make you moan his name, our of pleasure, out of pure ecstasy and bliss–

“Don’t you have to go?”

You break his trance. 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

“I’ll try.”

He walks away. Unknown to you, he began to fantasize again. Praying to Primus of the impossible. With the small hope that when he comes back, he will find you on his berth. Ready to be taken by him once again.

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A/N: Sorry for any grammar and spelling mistakes. And for being unable to tag you :( I tried to write this to the best of my possibilities since I didn’t understand much of the prompt. Still, I am very thankful to anon for giving me my first story request! Inbox are always open for any ideas <3

Sorry if this isn’t exactly what you expected but I am new to the Transformer fandom so I am still not comfortable enough writing smut since I don’t think I know much of the lore and terminology for it. 

Also!

I want to state that I don’t write p0rn. But I do write erotica which is a more artistic way to write s3x. So don’t expect me to write hard core stuff, it’s just not really on my brand. Not saying one is better than the other, btw. It’s just a writing preference. BUT I can definitely write hotter stuff if needed lol. 

Anyways, thank you so much for the rest and the support! I am very thankful for every comment, like and reblog. 

See you y'all in the next story!

-taa1

[plutoswritingplanet]

Strip Me Down And Paint Me Black (Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: ah shit, here we go again... A continuation of "It's A Special Death You Saved", but it can be read as a separate story. Title from "Cinnamon" by Marika Hackman

Warnings: Harkonnen-typical Violence, some Sexual Tension, some Kissing, Enemies to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers to Enemies to Lo...

Summary: As you struggle with your new role as the Na-Baron's wife, plans are set in place, which will shake the very foundations of your life. Good thing, your husband is there to support you, right?

He watches you. Constantly. 

You can feel his eyes moving over your body, soaking it in like a man parched. Every movement, every twitch of your muscles is noted, stored for later. It's like he's keeping a detailed record of your every reaction, as if he wants to keep it catalogued, create a mold of you in his mind. The furrowing of your brows and the squinting of your eyes, when the Black Sun of Giedi Prime first hits your vision. How your skin turns completely gray, devoid of any color, as you take your first step off the travelling ship. 

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, refusing to meet it, as your eyes adjust to the sheer force of the swallowing black light. 

Touch is scarce and almost revered, when he lifts his hand to inspect a curl of your hair, the strand sliding between his fingers. He raises it towards the sun, admires it with silent appreciation, and somehow, instead of touching the softer parts of your being, this small gesture makes you want to scream. Because you know.

You understand, that this is what he wants to see. Black and white, and empty. No trace of the color before, only the bleakness and brutality of the Harkonnen. And you refuse, plain and simple. You refuse to be stuffed into this unforgiving planet, expected to bed yourself over to fit it. You value your Atreides lineage more than anything in life, and you'll sooner die, than discard it. 

No matter, how delicate he has been since your first night together, how much the heat of his alabaster skin has brought you comfort, you can feel in the pit of your stomach. That this is all some elaborate rouse to keep you docile. To keep you a perfect image of a wife, the future Na-Baroness. It can't be anything else, surely. 

So even now, as you admire the strangeness of this new planet, the blooming light that envelopes your skin, you force yourself to be on guard. Even as you look up at him, his sharp features and soft eyes, you bite down on any affection that might've reared its ugly head to the surface. This is not your home, and despite the ceremonies and the titles, this was not your husband. He was an impostor, a Devil sent from the Emperor himself to destroy your life. 

His lips flash in a mirthless smile, when his eyes lock with yours. The blackened teeth, the stained gums, you hated that mouth with all your being. You hated that it fit against yours, and that it didn't repulse you quite as much as you would've anticipated. And you hated his hands. The same ones capable of such ruthless brutality, and also more than capable of soothing your sore muscles, of toying with a lock of your hair, as if your entire being was made of the finest, most delicate glass.

A small, barely coherent voice whispers in your mind, reminding you of the rustling of the leaves when wind picked up, back home. You can't live like this, it supplies, you can't survive on hate alone. 

But you've always been stubborn, like a bull. And as his hand slides down to the dip of your waist, as he leads you from the spaceship to the shuttle, and then to the Palace, hate is all you can focus on. The swallowing pit of your stomach, much like the swallowing heat of the sun above you. It expands and pulsates within your veins, as your husband parades you like a prized trophy. Bald, white heads turn, salute the both of you, dissapear in a crowd of similar faces, similar blackened stares. 

It's like you're surrounded by an army of ghosts.

- Welcome home, wife - he whispers into your ear, and you don't know how you manage to stop tears from springing in your eyes. 

Not home. Never home. Your home had trees and oceans, and your Mother, your Father and your perfect Brother. Your home had Duncan, with his warm embrace and little scars littered all across his honey-colored skin. Your home had a sun that is warm and welcoming, that brings vibrancy to your life, and doesn't wash everything out, doesn't swallow all beauty. 

The clothes you wear, the clothes he wants you to wear, are nothing like what you're used to. They make your body feel foreign, like an accessory more than your own flesh. You hate the feeling of the sheer fabric clinging to your skin, like some suffocating membrane. The heavy jewelry, which reminds you more and more of a slave's collar. He put it on you with his own hands. Delicately fitting it around your neck, caressing it with the calloused pads of his fingers, a proud expression decorating his sharp featured like a war medal. 

You wonder what he sees, when he looks at you. Are your sentiments shared? Does he see you, as you see yourself, a doll dressed for his entertainment? A wife, should the politics require it? You're sure he does, there is no other way to describe the pitiful reflection in the mirror. Perhaps, in time, you might be able to fight back some semblance of dignity, to find a way of embracing these strange fabrics. Make this cold metal feel more like a necklace for a Baroness, rather than collar for cattle. Perhaps. 

Right now, however, as his Harpies dress you, you feel less like yourself and more like a toy, for your husband to enjoy. They can't really pin your hair properly, and you don't blame them, you really can't. When's the last time they were forced to care for someone in such a manner, if they ever were? Today, they're extra zealous, rubbing your skin raw with the chemically smelling oils. It makes your head swim, the scent of some unfamiliar paste. Your eyes water, and before you can blink the tears away, one of the Harpies soaks it up right from the corner of your eye with some flimsy tissue. 

She places the wet part against her tongue, and surprisingly, it doesn't bother you, as she tastes your tears, watching your reaction with completely black eyes. You meet her stare with a blank expression. At this moment, as she begins to slide another piece of sheer fabric over your body, you can't think of a way to be afraid of her, or her companion, which is fitting a pair of leather slippers over your feet. What lies ahead is so much more terrifying.

The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has invited you for dinner. 

The news is delivered by a horrified servant, bald head bowed, seconds after you arrive in your marital room. Your husband doesn't even blink, immediately shedding his travel clothing, and disappearing somewhere out of your sight. The Harpies swarm into the room soon after, carrying various vials and bowls, and you already know the routine. 

The prospect of dining with your family's greatest enemy seems so outlandish, your body doesn't fully register the danger. Instead, you can feel yourself shut down, sink into yourself, between the constant expanding and contracting of your lungs, and the sound of your blood rushing through your skull. 

Only, when one of the Harpies turns you towards a polished piece of black obsidian, only when you can finally see yourself, do you react. A barely-there gasp escapes your mouth, because for the second time today, you're surprised with the brutal beauty of this place, and how easily you blend into it. The Harpy leans over your shoulders, stands on her toes to reach you, and before you can react, her teeth scrape over the shell of your ear. 

It doesn't hurt, and you turn your head towards her, faces inches from each other. Her head turns to the side, like some curious bird, and yet again, you can't fully decide whether you're looking at a human being, or some animalistic experiment. Your hand lifts itself on its own accord, fingers finding the Harpy's chin. Gently, but with enough force, you turn her face away from yourself. She doesn't recoil from your touch, doesn't react in any violent manner. If anything, her expression in the obsydian mirror looks almost bordering on proud. You try not to shiver at the thought. 

Then, your husband appears from the shadows, truly demon-like, and the women, or creatures, scurry out of the room, vials clanking against each other, as they gather them in their muscled arms. For just a second you're struck with the realization, that you miss their company, unsettling as it is.

- Don't be afraid of them - those are the first words coming from Feyd-Rautha you've heard since you've arrived. 

- I'm not - and truly, you mean it. 

He regards you with a long, dragging look, taking in the layers of fabric encapsulating the shape of your body. It's truly a hassle, to stop yourself from flinching, when the length of his body presses against your back. His chin finds purchase in the juncture between your shoulder and the column of your neck, and his head dips down to inhale the scent of your skin. You can't believe he's able to smell anything other than the strong chemicals his Harpies rubbed into you, but you don't argue. Instead, you sway in his hold, closing your eyes, and letting your imagination take you somewhere warmer, somewhere home. 

- I need you to be very careful tonight - he whispers into your skin, and you almost whine at being forced out of your daydream - My Uncle doesn't take kindly to insubordination, and although you are my wife, I won't be able to protect you from everything. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his skin, white and spotless, pressing into yours, marred with freckles and beauty spots. What a contrast you make against him. His mouth moves over your artery, nose dragging upwards, until he reaches the space behind your ear. He plants a kiss there, which immediately turns into a small bite, and your hands grip onto his forearms. 

- Careful, you sound almost concerned about my well-being - there's a limited amount of sarcasm one could convey with such a breathless tone, but you manage, eyes locked onto the silhouette of the both of you in the mirror. 

To that, he lifts his head, eyes locking with yours in the reflection. 

- I don't like when others break my toys - he answers with a shrug, and laughs quietly at your outraged expression. - I prefer to do it myself. 

Your muscles tense beneath his grip, and you turn to face him fully. Still, he doesn't let go, holding you close, smirking at you with that same self-satisfied expression. 

- Oh don't worry - your cheeks start to warm up at the teasing tone of his voice - I haven't even had the time to properly play with you.

- I ha-

- Hate me, I know. - he interrupts, one of his hands coming up to grab at your chin, tilting your head towards him - Tonight, try to hate me in the privacy of our bedroom. For your own sake.

His head dips down, lips slotting against yours easily, and although you fight hard against the pull, soon, your mouth moves against his in a kiss that is entirely too gentle for the nature of your relationship. He whispers something in that godawful Harkonnen language, tilting his chin to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw. Then, satisfied, he lets you go, and you encircle yourself with your own arms, refusing to admit, that you're cold without him. 

Making a mental note to ask for tutorship on the language, you allow him to lead you out of the safety of your shared bedroom, down the winding, black corridors, towards your first, and biggest challenge. 

- With courage and grandiose... - you whisper, as the door to the dining hall slides open, and ignore with all your might, the way your husband's hand twitches around your waist. 

The first member of the court you meet, is not the Baron. 

Instead, a man of slender stature comes out to greet the both of you, a polite smile plastered on his tattooed lips. His eyes flicker between you and your husband, and absentmindedly, they remind you of little black beetles. 

- Piter de Vries - he introduces himself, grabbing your hand with graceful movement - Mentat of the court. 

He places a kiss over your knuckles, and something scarily close to disgust rises in your gut. 

- The holotapes don't reflect your beauty, my lady - his voice is unsettlingly quiet, and it worms itself into your ears like an unwelcome guest. 

Still, your husband's thumb moves against your back, rubbing up and down your spine, and you swallow thickly before replying.

- I'm honored to meet you.

He can see through the lie like you're made of glass, but you can't find it in you to care. This is not the man you're supposed to convince, and even if this Mentat is a constant whisper in the Baron's ear, let him know there's character to you still. 

- I assure you, the honor is mine - his eyes glide over your features greedily, and you wonder if this hunger is a characteristic of all inhabitants of this planet - It's not everyday you meet Lady Jessica's Daughter. 

Blood freezes in your veins at the comment, and not even the ever-present touch of your husband can stop your expression from changing. Ice and steel overtake, as you fix the Mentat in front of you with a hard stare. There is something in his gaze, something slimy and dangerous, that makes a pit form in your stomach. Still, tied to court's intricate pleasantries, you twist your face into a forced smile. 

- You know my Mother? - the question slips out from between your teeth.

The man nods, a perverted version of a curtsy that makes you want to turn on your heel, and haul yourself back into your room. Damn your husband and all the uncomfortable ways he makes you squirm, you'll take it all if it meant never talking to this Mentat ever again. 

- In a way - the answer does nothing to calm your nerves - Her talents are known throughout the whole galaxy. 

- Yes, I'm sure they are - the barely noticable note of sarcasm some how registers in your husband's brain, and with a guiding hand, he pushes you forward, towards the dining hall.

Before you can get away from the Mentat, his unnaturally cold hand wraps itself around your wrist, keeping you in place with light pressure. 

- I'm desperately interested in what you may offer the court - he says, voice low and bordering on ominous, and the pit in your stomach trurns into a boulder.

Lips curling in disgust, you wrench your hand away, but as you wind your palm back to deliver a slap across the smirking man's face, something white enters your vision. From behind your back, Feyd Rautha delivers a resounding hit to the Mentat's cheek, with enough force to send him stumbling to the floor. Your mouth hangs agape, as that same hand curls around your waist, and pushes forward, until you're forced to take a step, and then another. 

Whipping your head around to look at him, all you can see, is that same passively bored expression he has worn, since your arrival to the planet. Not even a muscle twitches, not until the door closes behind you in the dining hall. Eyes trained forward, the hand guiding you slides up your spine right to the base of your head, where he grabs a loose fistful of your hair, and pries you away from him, setting your face forward. 

Like a doll, your mind supplies, but all further thoughts get swallowed by a thundering wave of anxiety, as your eyes fall onto the only other man present in the dining hall. 

You can't fully comprehend where the floor ends and the walls begin, the whole room looking more like an endless void of black, polished stone. The table is obscenely long, but narrow, and filled with various foods, none of which you recognize. Your breath catches, as you notice a macabre center piece right in the middle of the table. A beautiful female deer stands surrounded by black flowers, it's limbs kept immobile by some invisible force. It's eyes move though, skittering around the place, revealing that this poor creature used as some messed up decoration, is in fact alive. 

- Welcome, my dear nephew - a low, slightly slurred voice rings out throughout the empty space, and finally, you can feel real dread. 

- Uncle. - Feyd Rautha inclines his head, before all but pushing you forward into the belly of the beast.

And what a terrifying belly it is. 

The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen towers over the end of the table, his frame as difficult to comprehend as the rest of the dining hall. He smiles at your husband, a show of black teeth against greying skin, and then his eyes move towards you. He doesn't hide the cruel, twisted expression, that flashes across his face, contorted in the low, floating lights. Then, as if a mask slipped onto him while you were blinking, he looks decievingly kind, like an image of a caretaker, distorted in a nightmare. 

- Lady Atreides - his voice bellows, and despite every muscle in your body screaming at you to run, you take a step forward, before taking a shallow bow - A spitting image of your Father. I'm delighted to have you here, on my planet. 

Swallowing hard, you risk a glance at your husband. He has abandoned you in favor of taking a seat in the only one of two available chairs. Blue eyes flash towards you, a hidden warning, and dare you say, a hint of concern. The deer on the table is breathing rapidly, you've just noticed. 

- My Baron - your voice doesn't shake, a small blessing - I'm honored to meet you. 

The rehearsed line seems hallow in the booming echo of the dining room, and you pray that it's enough. 

The Baron gives you no answer, as he wordlessly gestures towards the table, and after a second your body jerks in the direction of the chair. With stiff movements, you sit down, your dress digging uncomfortably under your ribs. The deer looks at you, it's eyes wide, nose contracting rapidly as it inhales. You want to grab it into your hands, tear it away from the force keeping it trapped, and set it free, so it can run into the fields of Caladan. Your husband takes a long sip from his chalice, and you mirror his movements. 

The liquid is sickly sweet, with a strong, chemical taste that coats your entire mouth. Fighting with the urge to spit it out, your neck strains as you swallow, feeling it travel down your throat, and into the pit of your stomach. 

Are you supposed to be the deer in this place? 

Feyd Rautha reaches for a vase of something vaguely resembling meat, and doesn't bother with his plate, taking the leg into his hand, and biting into it with reckless abandon. Some dark liquid spills over his mouth, down to his chin, and you have to look away, as he captures your gaze in an entirely too heated stare. This is not the time, you want to scream at him, but take another sip from the chalice instead. 

- A monumental moment in history is happening right in front of my eyes - the Baron starts, and your hand freezes half-way towards your lips. - The union of House Harkonnen and House Atreides. The Emperor truly is a wise man. 

- Of course - you agree, tying sarcasm to the back of your throat like an angry dog - I'm ever so grateful.

- I'm sure you are. 

The Emperror wants you dead, there is no other explanation. You can't move, can't look anywhere but the eyes of the deer, seeing yourself in the reflection of it's glossy iris. Save yourself, it seems to scream at you, and your throat constricts around your airwave. Save yourself, because I couldn't.

- Your cousin will be joining us shortly - the Baron directs his gaze towards Feyd-Rautha, and your husband immediately straightens his back against the chair. 

- Rabban? Shouldn't he be on Arrakis? - you don't remember when you've become so in-tune with your husband, but you sense his interest peaking immediately.

Something's wrong, something's terribly wrong, you can feel it. This slow dread climbs up your back like a snake, before sinking it's teeth into your nape. Eyes searching your husband's your fingers tighten around the chalice, around cold, black metal. You try to remember what your Mother would've done in a situation such as this. How she would comfort herself. Fear is the mind-killer, is the only thing that arrives, and the thought is as comforting, as a cold shower.

- By the Emperor's decree, our House has been ordained to leave Arrakis in favor of it's new stewardship.

You know what words are going to fall next, before they fall, and you close your eyes to brace for impact. 

- The stewardship of your Father. Of House Atreides. 

Someone save you, please. Your eyelids flutter open, gaze falling over your husband, as he watches you with a myriad of emotions running through his expression. You pray it doesn't settle on anger, and your prayers are heard. There is a cruel, twisting smirk in the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to look at his Uncle, with a silent question. The Baron inclines his head ever so slightly, you can see movement in the corner of your eye, but the deer is still breathing, and for some reason you have to keep an eye on it, you have to know it's still alive. 

You are not stupid. You've been trained to not be stupid, in life and in politics. It doesn't take too keen of a mind to understand the gravity of the situation. The steady flow of immense wealth the Harkonnens were known for, is suddenly cut short. Given to a rival House. This was not some beautiful gift of appreciation, this was a stoker shoved right into the burning flames. 

- I'm honored - you repeat, like a bell in a church tower, and somewhere to your left, the Baron laughs. 

- There will be celebrations, later this week - he continues, as if he hasn't just delivered life shattering news - We will honor your marriage in the traditions of our ancestors. 

- Which is? - you don't really care anymore if the shift in your tone is registered as offensive. 

Feyd Rautha actually, without a doubt kicks you under the table. You shoot him a look bordering on pure shock and outrage, and all you get in response is an arched eyebrow. 

Something rattles below you, a tell-tale sound of machinery whirling to life. It gives you only one second to register, but as soon as it does, your heart jumps up into your throat. Paper thin panes of glass shoot out from under the table. The deer gives a pathetic squeak, as it's body is cut into equal pieces. No blood is shed, the whole operation barely moves the air in the dining room, and you watch the life drain from the deer's eyes, as the panes begin to move. 

They separate each piece, creating a cross-section of it's insides. The chemical wine threatens to rush back out of you, and your dig your nails into your palms. Your husbands shoe settles in constant, grounding pressure against your ankle, and although you would never admit it, it's the only thing keeping you from shattering. Whether it's a threat or a promise, you can't be sure, but there is frost in your veins, and fire in your eyes, as you slowly turn your head towards the Baron. 

He's wrong. All of them are wrong. You're not some deer, some lost shivering thing, made for a display of cruelty. You will not be brough down to some decoration, and so, you raise your chin higher, and hold the Baron's gaze. His eyes, gleaming with violent delight, jump around your face, this strange battle coming to a sudden end, as the corner of his mouth quirks up.

He moves his hand in the air dismisively, and your husband stands up, a laziness to his movements. You stand up too, your chair shuffling against the polished floor, stiff limbs fighting for an illusion of graceful movements. Wishing you could drive your point further, you bow again, this time, your eyes remain glued to the black beads of irises, shining in the amassing of flesh that is the Baron's face. 

And then you're off, heels clicking on the floor, as you bypass your husband and all but storm out of the dining hall. He follows you, you can feel his pressence on your back, but there's too many emotions running through your head to find it unsettling. The silence of it all, the calmness. Perhaps you would've preferred if he had been angry with you, if you could pinpoint his reaction, bottle it up to hate it later. 

Right now, you can't do much, other than run to your shared rooms, pretend like they are a solice, a safe space for you to exist, when in reality, they're anything but. The unsettling realization, that you navigate these corridors like a natural born Harkonnen will hit you later today, but as such, you are blinded by your own anger.

 - Did you know? - the question sounds more like a demand, as soon as the door closes behind you.

Back turned, you stand in the middle of the bedroom, finally granting yourself the luxury of outrage. Shoulders rise and fall in tandem with your labored breaths, and your nails have bitten crescent moons into your palms. 

- Yes. - you've anticipated his answer, and still, it shocks you to the very core of your being.

Hair whips around your face, as you turn to face him., strands all but slipping from the inexperienced updo. He holds  your gaze with steady eyes, crosses his arms on his chest, but has the decency of looking on edge. 

- How long?

- The news came right after the engagement began.

That, admittedly, knocks the wind out of your lungs, and you take a step back, until your behind collides with the obsidian desk. Hiding your face in your hands, you rub your palms against your temples, tug at the roots of your hair in the process. 

- So, what now? - you ask, sounding so drained, so tired, you almost don't recognize your voice.

His shoes invade your vision, as he steps closer. Your husband, your Bull. You don't want to look up at his face, scared of what you'll find there. He doesn't share the same sentiment, apparently, as he lifts your chin with his fingers, until you meet him with a withering expression. 

Feyd Rautha leans down, capturing your lips with his. Not really in the mood for kissing, as your head races with a myriad of terrible thought, you push against him. Should've known better, he loves a fight. Tongue slipping through the barrier of your teeth, you can taste the strangely chemical wine on his breath. His hands grab what they can of your body, until they settle on the sides of your face, where he tugs you up onto your tippy toes, taking a drink of you, like he did from the chalice. 

Breathless and confusingly aroused, your fingers twist into the material of his dress shirt, but before you can truly let go, he pulls away. Hands still on your face, you are suddenly pulled forwards, as he drags you in front of the mirror. Thrown off guard by this change of pace, you try to writhe yourself away, only to be gripped even tighter, so hard, you can feel something shift under the skin of your jaw. 

There are dark stains all around your lips, stains that taste just like the wine. Feyd Rautha stands behind you, much like he did before the dinner, but all comfort from that moment is trampled under his foot, as he slides his arms around you. 

- Now, I must make you into a Harkonnen - he rasps into the base of your neck.

Then, reaching towards your lips, he wedges his fingers inside, pulls until you can see your teeth in the reflection. Black, thick liquid covers them completely, staining your mouth in the process. The wine, you realize, but before you can rationalise any more, tears spring in the corners of your mouth. Disgust bubbles in your stomach like an awoken volcano. Disgust and anger, so much anger. 

Your husband humms softly behind you, cranes your head back. 

Your body feels foreign again, as he kisses your tears off of your skin.

[apple-onigiri]

hi can you talk more about your reading of siffrin and loop's relationship please. I'm so curious 👀

(omg hii i love your analyses)

well i guess now i gotta huh!! the demons (the people on my computer) are telling me to do it, do it, do it, so here it is!! most of it below a cut! because this ended up being really really long!

so! self-love and self-hatred play a big role in isat in general. the whole story is kind of about accepting that you are capable of being loved, and not, in fact, inherently repulsive so maybe you should open up, siffrin. imagine that. and i'd argue these themes crystallize into their final form with sif and loop and how they interact :) my ants. my mentally ill ants

(this sidesteps the curious meta element of how both the narration of siffrin to himself and loop addressing siffrin as they talk uses second person. it's very interesting but this is already gonna be long enough)

looking at all their interactions, especially through the lens of knowing who loop actually is, gives a pretty good idea of loop's attitude towards another version of themselves, and, by extension, their own self (this is a bit confusing because there are Too Many Siffrins Here)

the long and short is the resentment they feel towards themselves - because loop never went through the realization they're not unlovable - is externalized and often taken out on siffrin.

they are very condescending with how they interact with him. he's just a silly little stardust! so stupid, so naive! knows so little about literally everything. awww, let me help you out, stardust, before you hurt yourself.

on my first playthrough i actually initially distrusted loop a lot because of this. i saw it as the last thing siffrin would need when they already put themselves down so heavily; how they call themselves "stupid" multiple times for any and all mistakes they make and how unforgiving they are to themselves (especially the key hidden in the classroom exemplifies this). but with the knowledge of siffrin and loop starting out as the same person, it makes a stark amount of sense. when you have a mindset similar to siffrin's and loop's, no one will ever be more critical of you than you yourself.

it sometimes feels like loop's forgetting they're not talking to themselves internally and that this is a whole separate being they're talking to that they can't just externalize their own self-hatred onto, enough that they have to backtrack and apologize because hurting yourself in a way that resembles hurting someone else makes you think twice about what you're doing to yourself. there's a healthy dose of regret there, and guilt that they said something you can't easily erase from the mind of the person you said it to.

there is still care in loop's behavior. conversely to the previous statement, nothing will make you more sympathetic to your own plight than literally seeing it from an outsider's perspective and being able to acknowledge that you need help (sidenote, but kinda twisted of the universe to grant loop's wish in the most roundabout way possible. you want someone to help you? okay! help yourself! your other self, but hey, it counts, right?)

(cut here because this is getting out of control and i can't let it appear in unabridged form on anyone's dash, especially on mobile)

as acts go on and quests progress, loop gets these moments of honesty and empathy for siffrin more often. they obviously have been helping before but you know what i mean, don't you. those moments where loop's facade drops and we get a feeling that this isn't them acting, this is their true... shades, lol. examples!!

aftermath of touch therapy! of course they'd know what the root problem here is and how to best help. this is something acutely familiar to them and they're able to tell what siffrin needs to stop spiraling. and!! siffrin reciprocates this! haven't talked ab him and his attitude towards loop specifically a lot but this too is important. i'm rapidly becoming ill btw

forgetting the party's names upon waking up on the meadow and calling loop! it happened to loop before so seeing it happen to another version of you must make one feel... complicated. they patiently remind siffrin each name and make sure they're fine.

honestly, throughout the entirety of the story, but especially by the end of act 4, they find it very crucial to make sure they reassure siffrin they're there for him, that he's not alone in this. they know where feeling completely alone leads.

okay i can't take it anymore i gotta talk about this.

loop so doesn't want siffrin to use the dagger on themselves. it's genuinely heartbreaking to see their distress about the idea

they even try to dissuade siffrin from it later on, when you first attempt to use it, and are very very upset still afterwards

they care about siffrin!! they don't want to see him hurt! they don't want siffrin to befall the same awful fate they met where self-destruction melts into the natural state of being and you just spiral spiral spiral! they don't hate him, and seeing them fall so far from okay that they're fine with stabbing themselves to save time in a time loop where literally no time is wasted because it loops back anyway is awful for them.

this is where loop transforms from the voice in your head pointing out your deepest flaws to one that can tell what you're doing is self-destructive and bad for you and you really, really should stop. the, pardon my wording, tug on your stomach, like the one you get when you're standing over the ledge and looking down. and when you get the stupid thought how easy it would be to fall, your brain reacts by jolting you away. loop is the jolt.

loop is the inner instincts of siffrin personified at many points of the story. sometimes they're hurtful towards him as instincts of a self-destructive person are wont to do, which is justified with them just wanting that other version of themselves to Be Better, Get Better. and sometimes, it's self-preservation they depict; feeling at home with your self and expressing empathy towards yourself and your own awful situation.

when act 5 comes, loop is clearly crushed about not being able to help siffrin out, about not being able to get them out of their despair.

then, just like he's done with everyone else, siffrin rejects loop too. when siffrin shuns loop here, it's out of anger for being kept in the dark, yes, but it's also a rejection of any positive thoughts they might have about themselves.

siffrin's rejection of loop isn't only rejecting one last person they're close to like they did with their family members. it's a rejection of any and all instincts to care for himself and his well-being. it's the same thing that allows him to use crafts with no cooldowns. it's the same thing as memory of emptiness that lets him loop to the point where he died and just keep going. it's what lets mal du pays take form.

this refusal of loop's help is, in my opinion, the ultimate act of self-hatred in isat.

okay depression time over act6 twohats happy times yayy!!!

after a little bit because loop is - kinda justifiably - upset at how their suffering amounted to nothing and now this siffrin gets their happy ending. and they don't!! how is that fair? we have to keep in mind a lot of what we've learned was news to loop too. they spent so long in the loops, not knowing why, to the point where they begged the universe to get them out and help them.

their roles from act 5 essentially swap here. here loop is the one self-destructing and rejecting any help at all, and projecting the hell out of themselves onto siffrin, just like siffrin did in the "friendquests" in act 5.

so i haven't talked a lot about siffrin's outlook on loop before now (when his psyche is not literally split into tiny pieces, that is) but my little pet theory is that, just like they really hate repeating their lines, being all fake, and only do so because they feel they have to, they're often annoyed by loop because they can kind of sense the front they put out. if you hate the way you pretend, these feelings are most likely gonna transpose to another version of you doing the same thing.

but in this fight, the siffrin in it is not the one still trapped in the time loops. this is a siffrin tentatively learning that maybe it's okay to not hate yourself. so, just like act 5 is the greatest act of self-hatred, the ending of this fight is the ultimate act of self-love and self-acceptance, regardless of how it ends but with some caveats to both outcomes.

if siffrin wins, he refuses to hurt loop, stating outright that they don't hate themselves enough to do so. he won't do it even if loop is literally begging for it.

if loop wins, they cannot bring themselves to hurt siffrin. they feel too much empathy towards them. it's impossible to hate him - and themselves - the same after seeing the struggle from outwards.

regardless, they both exhibit the kind of care only you yourself can give yourself after fighting tooth and nail to prove to your own self-esteem that you're worth it. siffrin wouldn't be satisfied with killing loop because it would mean a rejection of some fragment of themselves.

siffrin went through a capital-C Change due to the loops (the theme of change in isat is another thing i could write on and on about), and part of that Change was having a version of you, your past self, still stuck in how they used to be and the situation that made them so. a healthy type of growth means changing for the better, yes, but also learning to love and respect who you used to be. if you met your younger self, would you resent them? or would you want them to know that all their struggles weren't for nothing? Change means leaving something behind but not forsaking it, letting it rot and fester unacknowledged

(insert rant about how isa's Change was actually kind of partial because he decided to completely sever ties with who he used to be instead of being appreciative of the aspects of himself he seems to still like, like being smart, and him resorting to hiding it instead WE DON'T HAVE THE TIME RIGHT NOW ASK ME LATER IF U WANNA but tl;dr actshually isa Change doesn't need to be full-on destruction because the eggshell is still there the Change God told me okay enough of this)

this. this is love. self-love given form. to me.

"you matter. your suffering mattered. it helped me become who i am right now. nothing was in vain. it hurt, and might still hurt for a long time - but it was never for nothing." that's what i got from this scene.

anywayyyyy i warned you!!! that this would be long!! if you let me yap! it's yap central over here. if you got all the way down here, thank you for enduring. have a cupcake :)🧁

[10thmusemoon]

Title for the ask game!

"Good Graces"

lmao prim why does this feel like I'm seeing beyonce at the grocery store??? i love your fics!

okay hm content warning for angst, major character death, bad end

Shenbros that grow up alongside YQY and that somehow makes everything worse.

YQY still makes the unforgivable mistake of saving Shi Wu, Shen Jiu still steps in, but now he has Shen Yuan attached to him too. The two get taken into the Qiu household, QJL still develops an obsession with torturing Shen Jiu but now uses Shen Yuan as collateral.. If he doesn't behave, if he isn't perfect, well then, QJL will just see how his little brother does instead. Throughout this all, the two grow even closer, SJ doesn't let the resentment fester because SY is the only thing he still has, the only thing that keeps his sane. SY bandages his wounds in the night, holds him close, brings him into QHT's circle of safety with clever words whenever possible. He is the only good thing in the world now that Qi-ge is gone. They just need to wait for him to come back, and things will be fine.

And surprisingly, he does! This universe smiles down on SJ for once and shows him mercy. YQY looks like a prince standing behind his shizun, regal in his fine robes, and handsome in the way that well fed nobles can be. SJ tries to focus on the negotiations, but his eyes keep drawing back him yqy's face, awe and hunger at war. It's because of this that he misses the way SY goes stiff, head swiveling between the cultivators in silently growing horror.

The negotiations are easier than SJ ever thought they would be, his and SY's lives are traded from one hand to another like any dirty coin. The only difference being now they are indentured servants, their contracts having an actual time limit, the conditions of which only require them to be CQMS disciples until YQY becomes the new peak lord.

Which is...fine. More than fine, even! SJ is convinced that if he really wanted to, he could convince YQY to runaway with them afterwards. When he tells this to SY he's shocked by his insistent refusal.

"No, we have to stay at CQMS. No matter what."

Whatever.

For 15 solid years, SJ's life is good. He stakes his claim on YQY as soon as he realizes there are people interested in him, shamelessly making himself at home by his side. SJ excels at QJP, determined to be the one YQY can rely on. If SY insists on staying at CQMS, then SY will just have to make it theirs.

(years down the line is experiences gleeful joy at seeing people's face twist when it's revealed he's yqy's spouse.)

SY in all of this, is living in crisis mode! His brother is the scum villain and is going to get qi-ge killed! Why the FUCK did Airplane never mention any of this!!??? No matter how badly he wants to fuck off to the beast peak, he doesn't! He stays firmly on QJP, taking on all the duties that deal with the new disciples to keep them as far as fuck as he can from Shen Jiu's clutches!! When YQY and SJ finally ascend as peak lords, naturally he continues handling any responsibilities of SJ's that deal with one-on-one contact with kids. And honestly? That's the ideal! SY's cultivation has never been as strong as SJ's, he's not the one meant to be the protagonists' narrative foil after all! He can coast by on teaching the fundamentals!

In SJ's eyes, SY continues to be his filial younger brother, taking on the burden of the tasks SJ hates. He spoils him, when possible, in the way only SY and YQY ever seem to understand. They are the only two good things that have been and always will be his. He doesn't need anyone else.

And then NYY arrives, and no one is more surprised than he is that he looks forward to teaching her the guqin, delights in how quickly she picks up the erhu. He doesn't understand why SY looms nervously whenever she's near, is irritated when he starts to suspect why. It's their first huge blow up.

And then the boy arrives.

He can't explain why this particular disciple is so repulsive. Why the dirt seems to stick to him, no matter how clean he is. Filthy fingerprints on grasping hands. Wretched thing has a certain look in his eye, a hunger SJ knows will be ruinous, insatiable. Just the way he trails after SY is enough to make him spit! And SY has always been a soft-hearted idiot, falling for the urchin's sob story! Just as obsessed! If they don't nip it in the bud now, they'll be rumors about them. The kind of things that pull righteous cultivators down from the heavens!

YQY listens to all of this indulgently, combing oil through SJ's hair and kissing his temple. As always, no matter how hard SJ tries to hold on, yqy always manages to pull him from his mood.

"What's wrong with having a favorite?" "It's not the same and you know it!" "He's just a child, if you let Liu-shidi back on QJP, it won't even be an issue."

Lots of grumbling about toads wanting swan's flesh. They both know the root of the issue is just that SJ can't let anything that's his slip out of his grasps. His love is all consuming, kept close to his chest in the fear that it will be stolen away.

LQG is not allowed on QJP, instead, SJ starts to teach more. Tries to test LBH relentlessly, waiting for him to fail so he can prove a point. This makes things worse between the brothers, more and more arguments come up until they resort to childhood tactics of wrestling across the floor of the Bamboo house and ripping out hair. SY breaks a hair pin he knows YQY gave him, SJ tears one of SY's manuscripts on abyssal fauna in half. The fallout is ugly enough that Binghe and NYY run all the way to QDP, breaking past the sect leader's chief of staff about the impending death of YQY's husband and/or brother in law.

Kneeling in front of an amused yqy, bruised and with bald spots, both brothers Shen explain their case, each threatening YQY not to show favoritism to the other. The proposed solution is to have LBH spend some time on Qiong Ding Peak, at least until he's qualified to go on night hunts on his own. SJ is fully convinced he's won, is ready to smugly denounce any comments about Qi-ge's blatant favoritism.

Neither expect SY's eyes go wide, for him to lean forward until he's crawling to yqy's side in excitement. Luo Binghe's praises fall from his mouth like honey. SY's running to his room for a brush and paper, outlining lesson plans and tasks LBH can take on to learn about all the good CQMS does for the realm. To SJ's revulsion, SY badgers YQY until he promises to include one on one lessons. QDP already has a head disciple, there's no harm in it, right?

In Shen Yuan's eyes, a light from the heaven's has shined down on him. Invisible to all, the system flashes an exclamation point above yqy's head, offering an alternative option to saving the sect.

[MISSION OBJECTIVE: SHIBOS GOOD GRACES]

[DO YOU WISH TO ACCEPT? Y/N ?]

It's perfect! No matter how much SQQ hates LBH, the combined forces of SY and YQY will stand united against him! The sect will be saved and SY will never see his white lotus darken! Maybe, and he's nearly salivating at this point, LBH might even consider staying at the sect and becoming the next QJP lord! It will take, of course, years to soften up SJ to that point. But really, when has he ever said no to SY when it truly mattered? He just needs to suck up and live in Shen Jiu's pocket for a little, it's fine! This will be easier than the time he accidentaly came back with several short haired monsters after a mission with LQG and needed a place to keep them! And now they farm them for brushes!

SY sleeps soundly for the first night in years, comforted in the knowledge that LBH's work ethic and stubborn tendencies will surely endear himself to YQY eventually. And then, one day, he knows with certainty, that if he's not there to protect LBH, YQY surely will.

The Immortal Alliance Conference is as disastrous as it was always going to be. There is a countdown floating ahead of Shen Yuan that only he can see. Sweat is pouring down his face as he fights his way after demons he once dreamed about. SY lost track of his brother ages ago, the two separating to different crisis points to save as many disciples as possible. At the three minute mark, bright blue laughing kaomoji offer their congratulations, informing him that the inmun requirements for SHIBOS GOOD GRACES have been met.

SY nearly collapses with relief, his steps slowing down a fraction, just enough to catch his breath. Fuck teaching the fundamentals to scholars nerds did not help him retain cardio! The times is in it's final seconds when he makes it into a clearing, eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief when he passes Xiu Ya embedded into the forehead of a Black Moon Rhinoceros Python's skull. Then, just further ahead, Shen Yuan's heart falls nearly out of his chest.

There are tears streaming down Luo Binghe's face as he tips backward off the cliff. The huadian beneath his messy hair shines a bright red, the soft glow reflecting off Yue Qingyuan's black pauldron. The sect leader, his da-ge, is slumped against Luo Binghe, arms in a tight embrace, an unfamiliar sword piercing him in the back as the two tumble towards an abyssal rift.

The wail of a dying beast pierces through SY's stupor, SJ stands with a blackened hand outstretched, only steps away from following the only man he's ever loved. Shen Yuan moves faster than he ever has before, half blinded by notifications he's never seen before. Something about heartbreak points, swords, and narrative foils. He doesn't care! He doesn't care! SJ is writhing in his hold screaming like a madman, over his shoulder Luo Binghe is getting smaller and smaller, Yue Qingyuan's robes fluttering around them like broken wings. Screams echo through the clearing long after the rifts have closed.

"I'M SORRY I'M SO--"

"QI-GE YOU BASTARD! YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN'T LEAV-"

-

Five years later, Luo Binghe returns to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, notably missing the great Xin Mo sword. The protagonist kowtows in the bamboo house, forehead touching the floor and arms extended out to present a mahogany box of bones and a long sword with a plain scabbard before an alter. Shen Yuan kneels next to him, chest shaking with labored breaths, he follows suit with is forehead pressed to the floor. From his peripheral, he can see the way Binghe's shoulders have started to shake, a puddle of tears collecting just beneath his face. A tally of points starts to flash above the boy, Shen Yuan closes his eyes, another useless apology passes through his mind.

"Gege was right, Qi-ge came home."

[raccoonhusband]

i hate ppl who are like "oh bill cipher is two dimensional" man literally dissociates to the point he blacks out and forgets what hes done and has outrite stated he thinks hes a repulsive monster. the amount of guilt and self loathing stored in that triangle that hes constantly denying has to be immense. i am chewing him like a dog toy

for real though you get it. i think the problem is that 10 years ago a lot of people latched onto the "bill is evil for the sake of evil" angle due to the backlash against twist villains and overly sad backstory villains. there was a lot of "waaah his mommy never hugged him that's why he killed the population of a small to medium sized country" nonsense going on in tv and movies at the time. watching gravity falls, it was refreshing reveling in a villain that was unapologetically evil and fun to watch. and bill IS unapologetically evil and fun to watch, but that doesn't mean he can't have a backstory or human emotions (as much as he wants to claim otherwise).

hell, he mocks the idea of sad backstory villains IN THE BOOK, but that's because it's humiliating to him to admit weakness. that's not the bill he wants to sell. he doesn't want you to know he's not all powerful, that he's not a god. the fact he was a sad nerd in euclydia that couldn't tie his shoes and got bullied on the playground is embarrassing to him. so he covers it with bravado. he liberated his dimension. call him out on that? then he destroyed it utterly because he was so powerful and dangerous.

and the thing is, as much as he mocks the idea of a sad backstory sympathetic villain, the truth is it's because he knows his backstory is not sympathetic. he ended millions of lives to prove a point. nothing will ever ever excuse what he did. he knows that deep in his soul what he's done is unforgivable, that's why he digs himself into such a deep pit of denial and disassociation. it's the only way he knows how to live. all they asked is to be remembered, and he refused.

he's a 3 dimensional villain hiding behind the veneer of a 2 dimensional one, which is you know... actually good writing!

[morelikeravenbore]

✨Sebastian Sallow Spicy Oneshots.

In the interest of ✨aesthetics✨, I'm compiling all my spicy oneshots together to link back to my masterlist. I'm a turtle writer but I'll update this list as I write more. All stories crossposted to wattpad & AO3.

Sebastian Sallow x unnamed female character. Mostly Sebastian's POV. Triggers and content warnings on each post. All characters are 18+. Minors dni, please and thank you. 🔞

Friendly disclaimer: if you're uncomfortable with Hogwarts Legacy smut, please keep scrolling and do not engage ✨🦋💙 I am of the opinion that it is possible to use ones ✨imagination✨ to age-up characters and explore adult themes in a healthy and appropriate way.

✨ Feigning Indifference | Explicit | Quidditch Smut, Beater!Sebastian, Feral!Sebastian, Shoulders!Sebastian 1.8k words.

Thanks to his seventh-year growth spurt, Sebastian is hardly any smaller without his bulky gear on — a fact he uses to his full advantage to shoulder through the crowd. It takes him several minutes to wind his way through; supporters and haters in equal measure jostle for his attention, girls squeal and find excuses to touch him, Imelda criticises his technique as he passes (even though he just won her the bloody match), and somebody lets off a series of explosions overhead that shower the crowd with green and silver sparks. — And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference. 

✨ Pandora's Book | Explicit | Unhinged Sebastian | Objectophilia | ongoing.

Seeking distraction from his interminable apathy, or a temporary relief from his guilt that didn't resort to obliterating his own memory, the girls he took made him feel good, said pretty things that made him believe, for a while, that he wasn't broken and irredeemable. But then, issues of that nature were likely a job for St Mungos rather than some girl's mouth in the back of a disused classroom, and over time, the thrill of mindlessly fucking his pain away began to dull, and he recoiled from their sweet nothings and gentle affections; like everything else in Sebastian's life, even the flames of desire eventually turned cold, and his escapades became less about feeling better and more about feeling anything.

Still, he couldn't say with any measure of truth that he'd felt anything like this from a book before.

✨ Good Boy | Explicit | Needy Sebastian 1.5k words.

On bad days like these, Sebastian simply couldn't believe in love until it held him close and kissed him and told him he wasn't the deplorable monster he believed himself to be. Love had always evaded him, but by some stroke of luck he wasn't deserving of, he'd found it living in the body of the girl currently squashed between him and the wall.

✨The Final Goblin | Explicit | Post-battle Sebastian 1.5k words.

Ordinarily such a demure little thing, whenever Sebastian's brilliant, powerful girlfriend unleashed her gift of destruction upon their enemies, it broke something inside his brain - as if all that raw power she tore from the ether went straight to his cock, turning him feral.

✨Tethered | Explicit | Imperio-kink Sebastian [dub-con] 1.3k words

Sebastian wasn't entirely sure why he'd used the unforgivable curse on her. He had no doubt he could've convinced her to do whatever he wanted quite easily; after all, getting what he desired came naturally to him, what with his Slytherin charm and all - but there was always the risk she'd shudder away from him, repulsed by his touch as if she could physically feel his tainted soul marring her perfect skin. For all his bravado and over-confidence, Sebastian wasn't sure he could bear it if she recognised him for what he really was: a monster.

✨Lessons in Upholstery | Mature | Sebastian is needy | Sebastian x Aurélie 1.6k words

There was a unique ache that existed when she was out of reach — one that started as a small hole in his chest before spreading rapidly until his entire being felt hollow, an ache that demanded they share a too-small bed so they had to sleep tangled together, or eat at a too-small kitchen table so she had to take most of her meals sitting in his lap.

✨ You can also read my long-fic How to Make a Villain which isn't spicy but is full of mutual pining, yearning, slow-burning idiots in love: 📔 [tumblr |wattpad | ao3]

[bittergirlsworld]

I finally gave up and saw TVD to understand some stuff in TO, and I just have to say: what an awfully written show. My goodness, how the hell is the most annoying girl in Mystic Falls the anchor who holds them together? Caroline, the fandom darling has no personality whatsoever. She's a camaleon, she's what they need her to be in the episode. Sometimes, she's the greatest soul alive, sometimes she's only there to slutshame another girl for doing exactly what she does. Sometimes she's pinning after her boyfriend, sometimes she backstabs him. Sometimes she's so repulsed by the 1000 year murder who bribes her with fancy things and sometimes she's okay to use the hell out of him to have what she needs. Elena, who's supposed to be the protagonist, becomes more and more the love interest to Damon. His love for her, that both recognize as toxic, comes from a sire bond and everyone insists to pretend that she loves him just the same without it as if she wasn't heavily projecting Stefan on him to the point he calls her out. The Originals, who were supposed to be invicible, the most insane of them just dies for a teenage hunter. Finn, the most sane one, portrait as a bore because he resented the bother who kept him in a coffin for thousands of years. Katherine, who I swear is one of the only two female characters really interesting in this show, is called a bitch all the time for the unforgivable crime of running from a psycho hybrid who wanted to slaughter her and then slaughtered her fucking family. Elijah and Rebekah does not exist outside of Klaus. Rebekah was just extremely annoying till they gave her a real personality and in the spin-off. Out of nowhere, she was obsessed with being human. Bonnie, poor Bonnie. The racism was blatantly showing. She was only there to be the magic negro trope. They didn't even allowed her to have romantic storyline! Her boyfriend who she resurrected cheats on her with a freaking ghost and she still back with him in season 5? She deserved so much better. Damon turns her mother in a vampire and then she's his best friend? She loses her entire family as well and is never treated with the same courtesy Elena has been treated. Not even the fancy balls she could attend, apparently. (Her wigs were also terrible. Poor Kat, they made her appear so old sometimes with those hairs).

And the romantic pairings? Awful. Damon and Elena were downright disgusting. He raped Caroline. Why everyone pretends he wasn't compelling her while having sex with her? Why all these centuries old man are so obsessed with fuck teenagers? How's that's romantic, date a girl on high school when you had two shares of a lifetime? Even if we take in consideration the lore that vampires stop aging when they're turned, the only couple who would make sense in this logic were Stefan and Elena, since Stefan was a teenager when turned. Klaus and Caroline had no romantic connection. She used him dry, he bite her to die to make a point to her boyfriend. He would be her last love but fucked her and left. She hated him but would happily accept his gifts while treating him like a dog. Damon and Elena loudly assume to each other that they are terrible together but then forget because they're fucking again. I swear to god, that relationship was pure based on their sex drive. She wanted that old dick so bad she blamed dead Katherine for the fact he killed her friend and threatened her brother.

The timeline made no sense. Plotholes all around. Why Bonnie couldn't make magic while being the anchor? Must be because she would be too powerful, and with Elena being so useless, they couldn't allow that. Caroline is another one completely useless for the plot. She could disappear from the show and wouldn't change a single thing.

It's really awful. After finally seeing this I can say with conviction that The Originals was the best they could have.

[shiveringsoldier]

Still thinking about Lawrence of Arabia and thinking specifically about Lawrence and Ali being one another’s foils.

We have a rather violent introduction to Ali, but his actions become increasingly nonviolent as the film progresses. Lawrence progresses in the opposite way.

Before we hear his voice or see his face, Ali kills Lawrence's guide, Tafas. He does so quickly and cleanly, firing only one shot, and he shows no remorse afterwards. When Lawrence says Tafas was his friend, Ali simply replies, "That?" Lawrence is appalled by the act and asserts that “none of [his] friends is a murderer.” He also throws in a good heaping of racism, calling the Arabs "a little people, a silly people, greedy, barbarous, and cruel."

Later in Part I, Ali objects to Lawrence's desire to rescue Gasim, but his objections are utilitarian more than anything else. The Nefud Desert is a cruel, unforgiving place, seemingly impossible to cross. If Gasim isn't dead now, he will soon be, and it would be suicide to go back for him. Lawrence's successful, albeit defiant, rescue mission earns him Ali's respect. But Lawrence is later forced to kill Gasim to protect a newfound alliance. In contrast to Ali's quick murder of Tafas, Lawrence's execution of Gasim is shoddy. He fires several bullets before finally managing to kill him, and he immediately discards his pistol in disgust. Near the end of Part I, Lawrence confesses that he enjoyed the killing. None of his friends is a murderer, but he is now a murderer who enjoyed committing the murder.

In the latter half of Part II, Lawrence leads an Arab army on a mission to take Damascus. During the journey, they come upon the ruins of a village as well as the Turkish soldiers who presumably ransacked the village. Ali, seeing Lawrence’s desire to kill the soldiers, all but begs him not to do it. Lawrence instead leads and gleefully participates in a massacre, gunning down surrendering soldiers without a second thought. Ali participates as well, but reluctantly and only briefly. Ali cries out in horror even when the carnage has only just begun. After his very brief participation in the slaughter, he looks for Lawrence in the chaos and pleads with him to make it stop. In the aftermath, Ali spits Lawrence’s racist words from Part I back in his face: “Does it surprise you, Mr. Bentley? Surely you know the Arabs are a barbarous people, barbarous and cruel. Who but they? Who but they?” Lawrence has become the cold-blooded murderer, and Ali has become repulsed by the violence.

They are also foils in the way they dress, with Lawrence’s white garb and Ali’s black garb. The state of their clothing reflects their arcs as well. Ali’s clothing rarely becomes dirty. There’s some dust on the lower end of his robe, but that’s generally it. Ali gifts Lawrence with his Bedouin attire following his rescue of Gasim. Lawrence dirties his attire when he fails to save Daud. (He blames himself for Daud’s death to the point of viewing himself as his killer.) His clothing becomes positively filthy during the massacre. The last time we see Lawrence in his Bedouin garb, it is still stained with the dried blood of murdered Turks.

I love their arcs individually and even more in tandem. It adds to the tragedy.

[softsan]

˚ 🥀⊹ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋, 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄. (𝐩𝐭.𝟐)

✉️ ・ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.

✉️ ・ ── 𝐩��𝐫𝐭𝐬: | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

✉️ ・ ── 𝐦𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 | 𝐲/𝐧'𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

✉️ ・ ── 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Mafia AU, Angst, Kingpin!Taeyong, Queenpin!Y/N, Fem!Reader, Childhood friends, Betrayal, Enemies to lovers, Eventual Smut.

✉️ ・ ── 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧:  You were the only surviving heir of the old-time Mafia kingpin that had ruled the four territories. You were long thought to be dead, living the normal life you had always wanted...Until you run into a Taeyong, a formidable ghost from your past. You are then thrown back into the Mafia underbelly, reuniting with enemies you had hoped had forgotten you. Will you run away? Will you stand beside Taeyong, kingpin of the North, and be his queen? Or will you take your rightful revenge.

✉️ ・ ── 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Possessive Themes, Future Explicit Sexual Content, Murder, Kidnapping, Strangulation, Torture, Weapons, Graphic Violence, Heavy Angst, Explicit Language, Alcohol Consumption, Mentions of Drugs, Betrayal, Morally Grey Characters.

✉️ ・ ── 𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.

Past.

Your melodic laughter filled your family’s gardens, “Hurry up Taeyong!” You gently pulled him along, your fingers intertwined with his.

You twirled past the trees, your hair blowing behind you in the wind. He followed you wordlessly, besotted by your sweet voice. It was filled with such innocent excitement.

You dug your heels in the grass, coming to an abrupt stop by the stone water fountain that was at the garden’s center. Taeyong was still bewildered by your touch, your kindness, and most importantly how you didn’t withdraw with repulsion. You didn’t see him as the monster he was, but as a boy. A friend to play with inside this lonely cage of yours.

“Father brought them back for me from his trip,” You delightedly pointed at the fish in the pool, enamored at their beautiful colors.

Taeyong’s faint smile slowly faded, lines creasing across his forehead. His heart ached, heavy with conflict. He was stuck between what he ought to do, and what he wanted.

“You must be close to your father...”

“Not really.” You dipped your fingers into the water, letting the fish nibble at your fingertips, “He’s always been closer to my brother— ” You paused for a second, “They never allow me to go on trips with them.”

Taeyong had vision as such. He knew you’d never really seen anything past the grand walls they’d built around your family’s mansion. It was the reason why you were such an easy target—a sheltered, naïve, and longing desperately for a friend to play with.

You were the defenseless little girl who unknowingly spilled all your family’s deepest secrets, and he was the unforgivable monster that had gained your trust, and friendship. Who would soon be responsible for the cold-blooded slaughter of one of the greatest mafia families to have ever existed.

“But that’s okay," You beamed, "I’ve got you now.”

Present

Taeyong’s head pounded, his skull screaming as he rolled over onto his back. He stared absently at the ceiling, running his hands through his hair.

He couldn’t get you out of his mind. The curvature of your neck. The scar cut across your delicate skin.

It’s not possible.

You could never have survived what had been inflicted upon you... A full-grown adult couldn’t have bared it, let alone a twelve-year-old girl.

“You’re dead.” He whispered to himself. 

This was just his guilt coming back to haunt him.

“Hey, boss!” Taeil knocked on the door of Taeyong's master bedroom.

“Come in.”

“I’ve had to cover your meetings all morning. What the hell have you been doing in here?” Taeil raised a brow, glancing about Taeyong’s room, “Is there someone else here—”

“There’s no one here.” Taeyong cut Taeil off.

He knew what Taeil was implying.

"My mistake," Taeil shrugged, "All you’ve been doing lately is working, I just thought maybe you’d finally decided to balance it out with some fun.”

“What do you need?” Taeyong’s voice was curt, clearly not in the mood for this conversation.

"Yuta and Winwin are on sight for today’s job." Taeil brushed off Taeyong's attitude, "But they've just called in for some backup," He readjusted his black glove as he talked, “It appears a handful of Eastern forces have eyes on our target too.”

Taeyong gritted his teeth, his pride taking offense. The East was overstepping itself by entering his territory without his permission. Moreso, they dared to come after his targets too? Taeyong had thought they’d know better, especially after the last time.

“What are you doing?” Taeil frowned.

Taeyong rose from his bed, opening his closet to reveal a number of suits and ties, “I’m going to greet our little friends” He said mockingly.

“Boss—" Taeil wavered his hands, "You can’t be serious.” Taeil's eyes widened in alarm, “These are just some low-level thugs. Yuta and Winwin are more than capable of handling it themselves.”

“And yet, they request backup?”

“As —aa precaution!” Taeil tried not to stumble over his words.

Taeyong began to button up his white-collared shirt, “It’s been a while since I’ve been in the field. I'm itching to spill some blood,” His tongue instinctively darted at his lips.

That’s what I like to call fun.

Taeil shook his head disapprovingly. If Taeyong were to go, then there was no way tonight wouldn’t end up in an utter blood bath.

“I’ll make sure all the paperwork is in order,” Taeil grumbled, dreading the outcome of tonight.

You spent most of your free time curled under your blankets mindlessly binge-watching reality TV shows. You had two assignments due by the end of the week, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to work on any of them. 

Your thoughts would dwell on the devilish ghost from you dreams. The ghost you’d wished had remained as but a nightmare. 

Too many years have passed. He doesn’t recognize me. You tried to comfort yourself to no avail.

You’d never be safe again if he came to know of your existence. Neither, would the ones you held dear, such as foster sister Yebin and your roommate Jen. Their lives would all be in jeopardy if Taeyong were to ever uncover the truth.

“I cannot believe it!” Jen barged into your bedroom, her nostrils flared with frustration.

“What’s wrong?” You tore your eyes away from the television. 

“He’s with another girl!”

You blinked a couple of times, waiting for Jen to elaborate.

“He told me that he was just going to play pool with the guys.”

You slowly nodded, catching on. Jen was talking about her latest fling, whom she’d met in her economics class. 

“Maybe he is,” You said, instantly regretting it as Jen came charging at you, sticking her phone in your face.

“Do you see this?!”

You did. Jen was holding down her fling’s friend’s Instagram story, replaying it over and over. You sighed. He clearly had another girl on his lap and was at a house party of sorts.

“We need to go now!”

“Go?” Your lips tilted downward “I’m in my PJs, already!” Your eyebrows knitted together.

“You’ve been in your PJs for the last three days.” Jen dismissed, throwing back your covers and yanking you away from your comfortable warmth.

“Jennnnn,” You whined. “Just break up with him over text. You guys haven’t even been together for that long.”

“Not a chance! I need to see his face when he realizes he’s lost the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

You groaned as Jen flung one of her low-cut miniskirts at you.

“Wear this,” She demanded, “Oh, and this.” She threw one of her neon tube tops at you.

“I’m going to freeze to death.”

“We are going to look so hot. He’s going to regret ever fucking us over,” Jen vowed, ignoring your protests.

“He blends quite well as a college student,” Winwin apathetically commented on their target who was mingling on the opposite side of the room.

“He’s at a house party drinking his fucking ass off,” Yuta replied less than impressed.

Taeyong remained silent. He and his boys were at the edge of a room, pretending to down cups of stale beer as the obnoxiously loud music thundered throughout the house.

Over by the bean bags was their target. He was the scumbag that had taken loans from a few high-profile clients of Taeyong’s before heading underground without paying his dues. Unsurprisingly, it appeared he owed money to the Eastern gangs as well. Not that Taeyong would give them the chance of getting their hands on him. 

Taeyong’s clients had requested a particularly brutal kind of hit. One Taeyong had every intention of carrying out. 

The beat of the music thumped the ground at your feet. You wobbled after Jen, carefully trying not to trip in your seven-inch heels. You cursed her under your breath. Did she really need to drag you along?

“I see him.” She shouted over the music. You nodded, without hearing a word.

You weren’t accustomed to being around so many people. Bodies dancing and bumping into each other. You were completely out of your element. You couldn’t hear a thing, you could barely walk, and your skirt was continually threatening to rise up on you.  

Jen’s cage-like grip pulled you deeper into the vast living room.

Taeyong's mask of indifference fell instantaneously, and so did his of beer. It spilled at Yuta’s feet before rolling away.

Taeyong ignored Yuta's vexation, his sight focused solely on you. He hadn’t imagined he’d see you so soon. Your twinkling eyes, your pouting lips.

Taeyong’s eyes drifted to what you were wearing. You were sporting, a skirt that shouldn’t have really been called a skirt and a top that barely covered your breasts. He tried not to observe the smooth skin of your legs and how your shoulders glistened under the colorful lights. 

The heat in his chest bubbled, awakening something he thought long to be dead. 

Why are you here? 

You took a left following your friend who was dragging you deeper into the room.

"I need to get her out of here.” He directed to his boys, shouting over the music. 

“What are you talking about?” Winwin raised his voice, “Johnny’s in position." His eyes furrowed, "He's about to take his shot.”

Taeyong couldn’t allow you to see what was about to unfold here. 

“Yuta," He ordered, "Get her friend.”

Yuta’s eyes followed Taeyong’s line of sight. He was thrown by the sudden change of plans, it wasn’t like his leader to hesitate and risk endangering the mission. 

You could see Jen’s sort of boyfriend in the distance. Jen kept her pace, swerving past those who danced. You weren’t as elegant accidentally bumping into a woman a few feet taller than yourself. The woman was pissed, her face red from drink. She shoved you, Jen’s tight grip loosening. You yelped, anticipating you’d fall to the ground. However, your back collided with another. Thankfully, they’d broken your fall. 

“It’s all right, I’ve got you.” His voice whispered in your ear, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine.

You tried to push away from the stranger, but he had an iron-like grip around your waist.

“Let me go!” You tried to cry over the music.

“I can’t do that.” The stranger said, carefully spinning you around to face him.

It can't be? It isn't?

What was left of your cool completely evaporated.

—Taeyong.

His beautiful eyes stared into yours, searching for an explanation. 

“Y/N?” He softly mouthed.

You read his lips. Your face flooded with fear.

He does remember me.

His heart hammered in his chest. It was you. Your expression when he’d said your name had told him everything.

Taeyong’s hold never wavered as he led you silently out of the house. Once the back door opened, you were belted by a cold gust of wind. You shut your eyes, not brave enough to face your fate.

Taeyong could feel the skin under his fingers turn to gooseflesh. You were undoubtedly cold. Whether from your lack of attire or from being reunited with him, Taeyong wasn’t entirely sure. 

The night was the darkest of purples, starless and void of any stars. Taeyong positioned you against the wall, satisfied you weren’t close enough to any of the windows to see the horrors his boys would impose. 

You felt Taeyong reluctantly let go of your waist. You could hear him unzip his leather jacket, then you felt something heavy drape over your shoulders.

Why is he offering me his jacket?

He gently placed both of his hands over your ears. He prayed you wouldn’t hear a thing. To his surprise as soon as the skin from his hands made contact with your face, you opened your eyes. 

Taeyong felt weak under your gaze, his face hot. He didn’t understand the sway you held over him. It was almost preposterous, as for years nobody had managed to crack the hardened shell that had encased his heart. 

At least not until he crossed paths with you again. 

The driver followed the long bend of the road, Taeyong’s vehicle roaring in the dead of night.

Taeyong had the most profound urge to play with your hair as your unconscious self lay peacefully on his lap. Winwin, their resident chemist had given you a sedative, putting you into a slumber.

Admittedly, Taeyong wasn’t keen on the idea, but he couldn’t foresee any other way you’d come with him willingly.

“Are we dropping the girl off?” Taeyong’s driver asked from the front seat.

He should have said yes. He should have let you go and allowed you to continue living the ordinary life you’d since built for yourself. However, Taeyong was not beyond being selfish. You had been the one thing in this world he had wanted. The one thing he’d thought he’d long lost. He knew in this very moment, he’d never allow you to leave him again.

“No, take us home. She’s staying with me.”

NETWORKS: -​

MONI’S NOTE: Part 2 is here 🥳. What do you think about then changes I've made? I would much appreciate your thoughts, comments, reblogs and likes are extremely valued.

TAGLIST: Let me know if you'd like to be added to this taglist!

© softsan - all rights reserved. please do not repost on any social media sites, translate, or modify any of my works.

[hyperfixation-fix]

(Reminded of this thought by this post - thank you for the dopamine @sunshinepov , I absolutely loved your drawing)

I can barely begin to imagine how painful it must have been for Nico in that moment, clinging to Percy's arm, feeling him slip, watching him fall. Rick did kind of touch on it, but... it must have been agony.

Nico knew what they were falling into. He knew exactly what they would have to endure to get to the gates, if they even survived at all. He watched the man he had loved and hated and yearned for for years falling into the most unimaginable suffering, suffering he not only could imagine but had gone through. And Nico was helpless.

And you know what's worse?

He was watching Percy fall with Annabeth. For Annabeth.

Nico had gone through Tartarus completely and utterly alone. No one had tried to stop him. No one had followed him. No one had been there to hold his hand, fight by his side, weep with him, hold him, lend him the strength and love to keep going. And now he watched as Percy, the person his life had revolved around for so long, gave everything without a second thought to protect someone else from the torture that Nico had suffered alone.

Can you imagine the anger and jealousy?

And can you imagine the guilt and shame that must have immediately followed? To see an act of pure love, to watch someone risk their everything for another... and to feel... jealous. To make it about you. To hold their suffering up alongside your own, compare them, and think, "Lucky them." Nico must have been repulsed by himself, right to his core. To be so different, alone, unloved, unlovable, self-centred, selfish, monstrous, and so very, unforgivably weak.

Gods, Nico deserves so much love.

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: Mickey 17

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Mickey 17 is the most compellingly horrifying dystopian sci-fi satire that I’ve encountered in quite some time. In director Bong Joon-ho’s nightmarish vision of a doomed future, Earth has become so inhospitable that humanity flees to the stars en masse, “volunteering” to colonize distant planets in the hopes of escaping poverty, pollution, and oppression. Life, however, is equally harsh and unforgiving in outer space: synthetic food is strictly rationed in order to maximize the “productive” expenditure of calories; narcissistic, megalomaniacal dictators (like Mark Ruffalo’s cartoonishly repulsive Kenneth Marshall) rule the voyagers under their command with an iron fist, treating their crew as little more than a captive audience for their egocentric political propaganda; and labor is ruthlessly exploited, with workers reduced to disposable cogs in a vast industrial machine that, more often than not, serves no discernible purpose—indeed, the titular protagonist (played across multiple iterations by a deliciously hammy Robert Pattinson) is officially designated as an “Expendable”: whenever he dies on the job, his employers simply print an artificial clone of him (constructed from “recycled organic materials”) and immediately shove him straight back into the meat grinder to repeat the process ad infinitum.

The setting is so pervasively cruel, indifferent, and corrupt, in fact, that its moral decay taints even the film’s most sympathetic characters. Naomi Ackie’s Nasha Barridge, for example, is delightfully complex. She frequently abuses her authority as a security officer (in one early scene, she draws her service pistol on a fellow passenger for the crime of… bullying her boyfriend—dickish behavior, to be sure, but certainly not an offense worthy of summary execution), occasionally indulges in recreational drug use as a means of self-medication (which probably explains her emotional instability—an irresponsible habit for a woman who carries a firearm, as the plot eventually bears out), and enthusiastically embraces the kinky potential of the simultaneous existence of two copies of her lover (dubbed Mickeys 17 and 18 for the sake convenience) without any regard for his feelings on the matter. But she is also a fundamentally decent person: she sincerely adores Mickey, comforting him through his innumerable demises/resurrections and looking out for his wellbeing at her own expense. Ultimately, she’s a hero, despite her superficial flaws; it’s just that nobody can remain completely untarnished in such an inherently toxic environment.

Mickey 17 has a lot to say—about the perversion of institutions of power, about the inherent injustice of corporate greed, about the absurdity of religious zealotry, and about the nature of human consciousness (is each successive reincarnation of Mickey an exact duplicate of his predecessors, or are they all unique individuals, with distinct personalities, ambitions, and “souls?”)—and articulates its central themes with an appropriate degree of clarity (i.e., the total absence of subtlety). What a fascinating (albeit utterly grotesque) universe to briefly visit!

And how discouraging that it already so closely resembles the reality that we currently inhabit…