#anyway thinking about how he corrects himself saying he had sinned bc

[kamaluhkhan]

I BET ON LOSING DOGS

ENVY — part ii of we'll write sins not tragedies

pairing: luke castellan x nemesis!reader (she/her pronouns) word count: 1.6k summary: luke is getting tired of keeping your relationship a secret, you get a new sparring partner, and silena beauregard wins a bet. warnings/disclaimers: jealous!luke, suggestive but no smut, biting + some blood bc of course author's note: i had to include some friend group shenanigans and silena x clarisse moments ♡ i'm imagining that this takes place during tlt/season 1 of pjo when the kids are on their quest, and the characters are slightly aged up to 20/21 years old....anyways, enjoy and feel free to reblog + comment :)

♪ "i bet on losing dogs" by mitski

"rumor has it that lee wants to ask her out." 

silena tilts her head towards the other end of the ping pong table, where you sit next to lee fletcher, a pair of wired earbuds and an mp3 player shared between you as everyone waits for the senior counselor meeting to start. 

luke clears his throat. “why would he want to do that?”

in theory, it shouldn’t bother luke: how you and lee nod along to music only the two of you can hear, how your shoulder presses against his ever so slightly, how he seems to lean into you even further. 

you and lee had always been friendly, but since when did you become such close friends?

“hm. let’s see. she’s strong, gorgeous, the right amount of dangerous, and perfectly single.” 

again, luke pretends that he doesn’t feel something ignite in the pit of his stomach. 

as far as everyone is concerned, you and luke are friends, too. 

the rush you both got from the whole secret relationship thing was fun, but, gods, sometimes luke wanted nothing more than to show everyone you were his and he was yours. 

“sounds like you’re the one who wants to ask her out.”

silena rolls her eyes. “please. i’m a happily taken woman.” clarisse turns to them as if she knew she’s been referenced. silena blows her a kiss before adding: “can’t really say the same for y/n, can we? i think her and lee would make a cute couple.”

chiron finally enters the room before luke has a chance to respond. he sits through the whole meeting, jaw clenched, hands curled into fists. 

throughout the day, luke reminds himself that he’s the one you’re with. and silena’s theory that you and lee would make a good couple?

ridiculous. laughable. unimaginable. 

later, during swordfighting, you and lee practice together. any time luke is leading a session, you usually pair up with silena, but she seems to have twisted her ankle. not enough to warrant a trip to the infirmary, just a seat on the sidelines. 

luke has no doubt that she’s trying to work her daughter of aphrodite, matchmaker magic. 

between teaching the younger campers, luke glances at the two of you, yours swords colliding and limbs occasionally intersecting. luke demonstrates a new technique, eyes sliding over to you, positioning yourself behind lee and correcting his form by gently adjusting his hips. something bubbles in the pit of his stomach.

gods, if he could switch places with lee fletcher.

you square up for another round, but the fight is over relatively quickly. even with the advice you seemed to have given lee, you manage to get him on the ground, straddling his waist while you point your sword at his chin. you smile down at lee, canines sparkling in the afternoon sun. 

luke remembers what silena had said earlier, about you — the right amount of dangerous.

out the corner of his eye, luke can see silena gazing dreamily at the pair of you, no doubt overjoyed that a new romance seems to be blossoming. 

overjoyed is certainly not a word luke would use for himself now, as you lift your shirt to wipe the sweat from your brow. for a split second, your entire torso is visible to everyone. including lee, whose eyes seem to linger on the tattoo on your ribs for a little too long.  

luke tells the kids to pair up and practice before walking over to your side of the arena. 

“hey,” you exhale, dropping your shirt and smiling at him.

luke doesn’t waste any more time, though, and crashes his lips onto yours. 

he thinks you start to melt into the kiss, but then you bite down on his bottom lip — hard. 

“ow!” he turns away to spit out some blood. “why did you —”

“you just landed me two weeks of extra laundry!” 

“i…what?”

 if silena looked overjoyed before, she’s ecstatic now, practically skipping over to where you stood, her ankle miraculously healed. 

“aha! i win — again! that’ll teach you to question a daughter of aphrodite, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

luke, slightly lightheaded, has no clue what is happening. things don’t get any clearer as chris, clarisse, and beckdorf join you. 

chris shoves luke’s shoulder. “bro, you just cost me 30 drachmas!”

“seriously, dude,” beckendorf shakes his head. “you couldn’t have kept it in your pants for, like, a few more days?” 

“okay, but lena totally cheated,” clarisse huffs, stabbing her spear into the ground. 

“what! how?”

“you used lee to make him jealous!” the boy in question waves at you awkwardly before walking off to the archery range. 

“i did not cheat. i had a strategy, and just needed to add some drama to move things in my favor,” silena reasons. “besides, all’s fair in love and war. i’m sorry you had to find out this way, baby. ” 

she plants a kiss on clarisse’s cheek, which does make clarisse’s lips turn up ever so slightly, despite the accompanying eye roll.  

“okay, is someone going to tell me what’s going?”

you sigh and swipe your thumb over luke’s bottom lip, wiping away more crimson liquid that had emerged thanks to your bite. 

“i found out a few days ago that our lovely friends placed bets on when we were going to tell them about our relationship.”

“wait….” luke looks around at everyone. “you all knew? since when?”

“the whole time.” you grin sheepishly. “apparently, we weren’t as subtle as we thought we were.”

“you weren’t subtle at all,” beckendorf corrects, hands fiddling with some spare bolts he kept in his pocket. 

“love is difficult to hide,” silena defends, like you’re her favorite couple on a reality dating show. “the amount of times you’d both show up late to the dining pavilion together, with your clothes and hair messed up was enough to give you away. not to mention, the way you look at each other.” 

“yeah, like two idiots in love,” clarisse mockingly agrees with silena, who jabs her in the ribs playfully. clarisse gestures to her orange camp shirt. “by the way, these aren’t designed to hide hickeys. there are children here to think of.”

“be thankful you don’t have to hear them on the roof of the hermes cabin every night. it’s a wonder any of us get to sleep.”

"oh, and then there’s the showering at weird times and then smelling like the same body wash —” 

“moving on,” you interrupt, much to luke’s appreciation. “when i figured out what they had going on, i wanted a piece of the action.”

luke looks at you, teetering the line between frustration and awe. “so, instead of telling me about this bet and finally having everything out in the open, you got in on it and kept me in the dark, just to get someone else to do your laundry?”

“you know how much i hate laundry,” you shrug. “besides, like you wouldn’t do the same if you had been in my position.”

“well….” you raise an eyebrow. “yeah. i would,” luke admits. 

despite everything, luke is a son of hermes. he’s pretty sure that’s part of why you love him: for his mischievous grins and vices that were woven into his dna, imposed by the fates themselves. the urge to gamble, steal, sneak around, all the lying — everything you couldn’t help but indulge in, as well. clearly. 

you smile, and pull the front of his shirt towards you, kissing him like you’re proving a point. if luke wasn’t so preoccupied, he could have heard silena squealing in delight. 

“ow!” you groan as luke bites your lip.

luke smirks. “karma,” he teases, relishing in how you pout for him.

“get a room,” clarisse grumbles. 

“preferably not in the hermes cabin, please,” chris cringes, and this time luke is the one to shove his shoulder. 

it’s a little too silent in the arena, and luke realizes it’s because you’d all just given them quite a show. a few campers were watching eagerly, while others didn’t seem to be phased in the slightest, only taking advantage of the lack of supervision to goof off. luke tells the campers to keep practicing; you tell your friends to give you and luke some privacy. 

“40 drachmas that they’ll break up at the end of summer,” chris offers, and luke really wishes that he’d shut up. 

“nah, i think it’ll be sooner,” clarisse adds. “maybe right after the solstice.”

“i don’t know, guys. i have a good feeling about this one,” beckendorf says. “i think they’re gonna last.”

“thank you, charlie. i think they’re soulmates,” silena muses.

luke watches as the corners of your mouth turn up slightly, listening to your friends as they walk away. 

“so.” he hooks a finger through one of your belt loops to get your attention again. “everyone knows.”

“everyone knows.” you smile at him. “so, what do you think, tiger? are beck and lena right — that we’re gonna last?”

he can sense that there’s something more behind your teasing inflection. you’re gnawing on the inside of your lip, discreetly picking at your nail polish. 

even with the front you put up, sarcastic and cutthroat and sharp as your celestial bronze knife, you still had a heart. and here you were, looking at luke like he had already stolen it, and you didn’t care. 

you were just waiting to know if he would break it. 

but, luke doesn’t have the heart to tell you how this is going to end. 

how could he? he’d given up his to you, years ago.

he can keep pretending, for now, so he will. 

“i’d bet my life on it.”

#yeah....this is def angstier than i thought it would be #also i feel like you can really tell ive been rewatching twilight with all the biting + blood.... #but i guess that's the vibe?? #luke castellan #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan smut #luke castellan fic #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x nemesis!reader #luke castellan x fem!reader #luke castellan angst #luke castellan pjo #pjo show #pjo series #pjo fanfic #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #saf writes

[sanguineterrain]

it shall pass | miguel o'hara

Summary: Miguel isn’t alone, not anymore. Sometimes, he needs to be reminded of that.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x gn!reader (some Spanish endearments are female-gendered, but other than that, no gendered descriptions.)

Word count: 1k

Content desc: bathing together, Miguel has a tough day, insecurity, established relationship. Lots of fluff bc he deserves to be taken care of!!!!

A/N: hi guys! I’m back with more Miguel <3 as usual, it’s not anyone’s responsibility to correct my Spanish, but I always appreciate corrections, if offered. Also, I try to use Mexican slang only, since Miguel is Mexican, so if something is off with that, please feel free to let me know. 

Translations: 

Hola, cielito - hi, sweetheart

Mi amor - my love

Estoy sucio - I’m dirty.

Solo para que pueda sentirte - Just so I can feel you.

¿Puedes hacerlo frente a mí, por favor? - In front of me, please?

No es nada - It’s nothing.

Tonto - fool/idiot 

Yo no sería nada sin ti - I’m nothing without you.

Es verdad - it’s true.

If you enjoy, please let me know through comments/reblogs ♡

the divider

Even after eight months together, Miguel enters your apartment like a cat burglar. Like he should not be here. 

You'd told him, at first, to stop that and used the truth as your reason: because he didn't need to. This is your home, but it's his too, and it puts pins in your heart every time he comes in like he's doing something wrong. Like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Then you'd tried humor. You scare the soul out of me when you do that, Miguelito. Maybe we should put a bell around your neck.

It hadn't done anything. He still acts like he's not allowed to jingle his keys in the lock and leave his shoes by the door and help himself to your shampoo and orange juice. 

So when you hear his footsteps at the door and you can track him as he heads for the kitchen, you’re worried. You rarely hear him coming. Miguel always finds you immediately, even if you're a block from the house. You'd asked him once how he knows it's you; he told you it’s because you have a distinct step. 

You might find that a little unnerving if you weren't so damn enamored with him. 

"Miggy? That you, sweetheart?"

He appears like you've summoned him, hunching in the doorway of the kitchen. You turn from the chopping board with a smile. It dims as you take in his appearance. 

"Hey," you say, putting down the knife and walking to him. 

"Hola, cielito," he says quietly, gaze downcast. 

You reach your hands up and Miguel bows his head slightly so you can cup his face. Your thumbs brush over his smooth jaw, caressing up and down in a pattern. 

"What happened, mi amor?"

He shakes his head. Miguel isn’t small, but you learned early on that he holds the most weight in his eyes. Every shard of guilt, every worry, every fear, they all sit in those crimson eyes. 

“Just—” He clears his throat, swallows. “Just a hard day.”

He brushes your hips with the pads of his fingers. You make a small noise, encouraging him.

“Touch me,” you say. 

He opens his mouth and maybe it’s because you’ve known him for so long, but you hear the words before he dares to say them. I don’t deserve to.

“I want you to,” you say before he can speak. 

“The dinner…”

You shake your head. “Don’t worry about it, Mig. We can eat later.”

He’s still in his suit. You try to scan him for scratches or bruises, but the technology repairs itself, which makes it impossible for you to detect anything. 

“Estoy sucio,” he mumbles, still not touching you.

You think for a moment. Then you lace your hand with Miguel’s and tug him towards the bathroom. He follows, brow crooked in confusion but he trusts you. You know he does.

The bathtub had been a special installation. A treat, for you and Miguel. He doesn’t use it on his own; only at your prompting. But you’re glad for it anyway. 

You kneel and turn on the faucet, plugging the drain. You look up at Miguel, tilting your head at the tub. 

“What soap do you want?” you ask.

“The one you use,” he says.

You smile and take the honey and cloves bubble bath: one of the few things you allow yourself to indulge in. Miguel tightens his hands into fists. 

“Will you join me? Not—solo para que pueda sentirte,” he clarifies. 

You soften immeasurably, reaching to remove your shirt. 

“Yeah, baby,” you say quietly. “Of course I’ll join you.”

His hands relax. 

You stand to slip off your shorts. The tub fills quickly, and it’s only another minute before you have to turn it off. The water is foamy. Steam rises, and all the mirrors fog up. Miguel silently removes his suit. You watch his back muscles shift as he gracefully steps into the water. His shoulders are strung with tension. There’s a quickly fading bruise on his right shoulder and another on the side of his ribcage. You can’t do anything except let them heal.

“Want me to wash your hair?” you ask as he settles in the water, barely sloshing any.

“Okay,” he murmurs. 

You start to climb in behind him, equally bare, but Miguel stops you with a hand on your thigh. 

“¿Puedes hacerlo frente a mí, por favor?”

He looks up at you. A dark curl has fallen out of place, sitting over his eyebrow. It makes him look so young. He is young. You forget that sometimes. 

“Sure, honey,” you say, changing your position. “Sorry.” 

He shakes his head. “No es nada.”

You take the little cup you keep on the edge of the tub and scoop water. You shield Miguel’s eyes as you wet his hair, pushing the water back over his scalp. Then you take the shampoo, lathering some between your palms. Miguel bows his head forward so you can reach. His hands creep to your waist again, more solid in their hold this time. You can feel the blunt divots where his talons rest in his fingers. They trace tiny circles on your skin. He’s trying to ground himself.

“Do you remember when we first met?” you ask.

Miguel snorts. “How could I forget? I was such a tonto that day.”

“You were not!” you insist, smiling. 

“I was. I can’t believe you agreed to a date with me.”

“Well, I don’t know why that’s so hard to believe. I was very charmed by you, O’Hara. Still am.”

You fill the cup with water and cover Miguel’s eyes again as you rinse the shampoo out. You gently scrunch definition back into his waves. His hand slides up your back and Miguel pulls you into him, so your chest is against his. He rests his chin lightly on your shoulder. You wrap your arms around his neck in response. 

“I missed you,” he says into your skin.

“You saw me this morning, mi amor.”

“I know.”

Miguel is warm and all-encompassing. You lightly massage the base of his scalp, nose pressed to his hair. He smells like the both of you. 

“Yo no sería nada sin ti,” he says.

“That’s not true,” you say, squeezing his shoulder. “Not true, Miggy.”

“Es verdad. You make me better.”

“We make each other better,” you correct. “And I have a year and a half of proof.”

Miguel sighs and it sounds a little wet. You hug him tighter.

“I got you.”

The water turns cold. Neither of you feel it, wrapped in each other.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel spiderverse #spiderman fanfiction #across the spiderverse x you #across the spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman x reader #spiderman 2099 x you

[sleepymccoy]

A memory came back to Aziraphale, one that perhaps should have been miserable but could no longer be. They'd talked and fought again and made up and time had passed and now Crowley leant against his side quietly and the memory couldn't be anything but good because this was the ending. 

Alpha Centauri wouldn't have worked. They'd've maybe bought themselves a few years while the war raged, but then the victorious angels would have found them and they wouldn't've had the prophets words to guide them and that would have been that. So Aziraphale generously, and silently, congratulated himself on being right yet again. 

Crowley shifted, he was never still, not even in his sleep. Not that he was asleep now, no, he was still breathing. The first time Aziraphale had found him asleep, back in BC 178 it had scared the wits out of him, not that he had admitted to it. But now he found an amusement in the dead-adjacent form. Somehow still rolling in discomfort while his lungs didn't breathe and his heart didn't beat. 

Silly, these human forms.

Anyway, Crowley was awake now. They sat on the couch together, Azirpahale staring at a book as he wandered down memory lane, and Crowley shifting his feet into various different shoes. 

A moment occurred to Aziraphale and he huffed a laugh.

"Wha'?" Crowley mumbled.

"You think I'm clever," Aziraphale teased, still doing himself the service of pretending to read. 

"Do not."

"You do, you said so."

Crowley's foot shifted in a heeled boot, a style that reminded Aziraphale of a pair he'd once owned. 

"Never said that," Crowley muttered.

"But you did, dear, you said, 'You're so clever! How can someone as clever as you be so handsome.'"

"Stupid," Crowley corrected.

"Aha!" Aziraphale put the book down with a light bang, a punctuation point to his success. "So you admit you think I'm clever!"

Crowley tilted his head back and met his eyes. "No, I admit I said you're clever, doesn't mean it's true. 'M'a demon. Demons lie."

Aziraphale shifted away from Crowley slightly so his head could land more comfortably in his lap. Crowley shimmied into place, his hair catching on Aziraphale's woven pants and flaring out. 

"I distinctly remember you insisting that you wouldn't lie to me," Aziraphale said.

"I don't know where you're getting this balderdash from."

"Besides," Aziraphale continued, ignoring him, "you think I'm clever, you said as much."

Crowley grumbled wordlessly for a moment, scowling up at him. Then, "Called you stupid in the same breath."

"No, I think you took a breath at that point."

"Didn't."

"Aziraphale, you're so clever," Aziraphale misquoted. "How can someone as handsome as you be so clever." He took an exaggerated breath, which Crowley used as an opportunity to speak.

"Don't remember calling you handsome, doesn't sound like-"

"You may be stupid in some areas," Aziraphale continued to mock, "but your fine arse more than makes up for it."

"And it does!" Crowley agreed. "But I definitely didn't say that. I seem to remember wanting to cry in that moment, I don't think I was flirting."

Aziraphale had begun to pet Crowley's hair, and now he let his fingers fall deep, pressing against Crowley's scalp warmly. "You were asking me to run away with you, go romantically off into the sunset together and live on a planet that rains glass and grows arsenic trees or something ridiculous."

"Wasn't romantic, it was desperate!" Crowley said. There was a moment of quiet as Aziraphale let himself grow distracted by Crowley's hair. 

"And I've never wanted anything romantic with you," Crowley continued. "You disgust me."

Aziraphale laughed and met Crowley's eyes disapprovingly. 

"Fine," Crowley complained. "Maybe, maybe! I'm maybe open to some romance."

"Admit you think I'm clever," Aziraphale suggested magnanimously.

"I will dig this hill and die on it if I have to."

Aziraphale leaned, curling in so his face hovered just above Crowley's. "One digs ditches, not hills. One being the royal one, being you."

Crowley frowned. "Not sure it's royal. Besides, this time I'm digging a big ol' metaphorical hill."

Aziraphale let his lips hover over Crowley's. "Admit you think I'm clever."

"Bastard," Crowley breathed. He could close the distance, they were barely a millimeter apart, but he knew he wouldn't get a kiss. Aziraphale smiled. It was nice to see his intention so quickly understood. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighed, "my love, I want to kiss you."

"I'm not stopping you," Crowley breathed. 

There was a whimper in Azirpahale's throat, a small, needy sound that was forming far before its time. But Aziraphale wanted it now so he hurried it, he felt the want, his desire for Crowley. It filled him and overflowed and he whimpered with it, his lips brushing Crowley's delicately.

Crowley's tight, desperate breath hit his lips. How very intimate. 

"You're clever," Crowley said. "Of course you're clever, you know you're clever."

Aziraphale smiled. "Now," he said gently, not yet kissing his demon. "Say that you think I'm clever."

The second of Crowley's breaths that Aziraphale felt on his lips was less wanton, and more exasperated.

"You're not stupud in the slightest," Crowley said, the edge of want gone from his voice. They stayed close but it was more in love than lust as Crowley's tone strayed into lecturing. "Never have been. And you have a fantastic arse."

"As do you," Aziraphale whispered. 

"I don't lie to you," Crowley insisted. "You're right. And you were right about Alpha Centauri, although I'm not sure about the glass rain. And you're so unbelievably handsome, I've always thought so."

Aziraphale's smile was enormous and full of that lovely sin, pride. "And you think I'm clever," he encouraged.

"I don't just think you're clever, angel," Crowley said quickly. "I know you're clever. You amaze me with your cleverness, it's sexy just how clever you are! You're brain is bigger than any whale I've ever-"

At this point Crowley stopped speaking because Aziraphale decided to show some kindness and not let him paint himself into a new corner with whatever that whale comment was turning into, and so interrupted him with a kiss. A well deserved kiss with lots of clever tongue action.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens ficlet #clever #crowley #aziraphale #i like to think they end up pretty ok w just about everything #lol wrote this in 45 min flat without a break so we'll see if its any good in the morning i guess

[tintinwrites]

the fallen soul | Poe Dameron x Reader | Part One

A/N: Is this incredibly sinful? I hope y’all like it anyway YA SINNNERS. I did research for this fic and I hope the confession is legit? I suppose it doesn’t matter too much simply bc Poe is half-BSing his way through it bc he don’t care!!

Rating: T but this WILL turn to M.

Warning: Religion. Confession. Men are trash except for Father Poe Dameron himself. Sexual themes.

Word count: 2,171, apparently!!

Summary: You’re a young, aristocratic woman in the early 19th century, destined for a life of empty marriage to an adulterous, uncaring man and multiple children that you won’t even get to raise. Your inappropriate thoughts of wanting more than is expected of you from imperfect people leads you to confession where you unknowingly meet the young, new priest, Father Dameron.

GIF credit: I thought I had this in my likes but I didn’t but it’s not mine and if anyone knows whose it is let me know!!

Tags: Open if anyone’s interested!

                                   ------------------------------

You looked around the ballroom with disinterest, watching primped up men kissing the hands of primped up ladies as if they actually paid them any respect, and you wondered which one was going to glide over to you with sugar in his mouth and greed in his eyes.

All you were to them was a dowry and a body to birth multiple children until you bore him a son.

Not even a bed warmer to them, since they would take mistresses in the day on a mattress you would sleep on in the night.

It was a pity; some of them were quite handsome and perhaps there was this foolish spark inside of you that wished to be the mistress of a man who showered you with jewels, but your parents would never allow it.

No, you were destined to be a wife and a mother, bored out of your mind as your husband had other women and your children were raised by other women.

Sometimes you would get into your own head a bit, falling into a silly fantasy of being in the arms of a man who was passionate about you, whose handsome face would gaze down at you, then disappear between your—

Then you would swiftly reprimand yourself for not only going against the purpose that was correct for you, but for thinking of things you had no business even having an inkling of an idea about.

Perhaps no suitor had intrigued you because your thoughts were too sinful, because you were too busy thinking about wrong things to appreciate what was meant for you.

Your parents would pester you with his father is the owner of the local dressmaker’s shop or he’s acquired a large plot of land with the intention of a large family and you would hum as if you were listening, but you never were.

Was it a sin to want passion? Adventure? Something that stirred the barest hint of desire in your otherwise bored disposition?

You supposed it was, otherwise no one would hide it.

Suitors would not act demure when they had taken many women before their wedding night, and those women would not act pure to new men when they had been bedded by the one to their right, and fathers would not lie about how they made their money, and mothers would not put arsenic in their vicious husbands’ tea.

You knew the fabrication that was needed to make the upper class seem better than the lower, yet you still felt guilty for your own thoughts of wanting more.

They all took what they wanted and hid it beneath expensive clothing and charming words.

Why couldn’t you do the same? Why did you merely do as you were told and continually berate yourself for letting your thoughts stray to something you enjoyed more?

Perhaps you were smarter than them and knew it was wrong to do these things even if you kept them hidden away.

When a fair-skinned man with light hair and beautiful yet untrustworthy eyes bowed to you and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and all you could think of was how he had been with a woman you knew dearly, you felt dirty.

Like you knew, and felt, and thought, and wanted too much.

It seemed like there were too many people in the large room now, like they could hear your thoughts screaming in your head louder than their own.

You stuttered a few words about retiring for the night or you hoped you did as you turned and ran from the room.

The darkened hallway offered you solace, the music slightly muffled and no people watching you like they wanted to devour your very soul until there was nothing left of yourself.

Shouldn’t you want to be married? You would be with a man who would provide for you, to keep a roof over your head instead of your father, and your thoughts kept bouncing back and forth between disgust at your desires and comfort in them.

Perhaps you needed to tell someone about it.

Certainly not any of those men or women or your family, but someone who would tell you what to do without judgement; it was likely you only needed to get these thoughts out of your head to realize how ridiculous you were being and then you would be in your right mind.

You would not lie to society like you were pure when you were not. You would be the very model of a modern wife in honesty, not only in appearance.

And you would smile as your...husband fucked anyone but you when it wasn’t time to conceive a child.

You needed to say all of this out loud and you prayed to God it would fix your damaged mind.

God.

That was it.

Dashing to the grand entrance of your father’s manor with your dark blue skirt gripped in your fingertips though the hem did not entirely reach the floor, you grabbed your cloak and fastened it around your neck securely.

Some servants might have questioned you, worried of your parents’ reactions if it was discovered you had left home in the middle of a ball where you were supposed to meet a suitable husband, but you ignored them and stumbled determinedly out into the night.

You weren’t supposed to walk alone at night — no women actually were. You were scarcely allowed to walk in the day unless you had a reputable chaperone.

But you did not fear getting in too much trouble or meeting a stranger that was less than acceptable, since it was late and most everyone was inside your home.

Maybe you were a touch fearful as you walked from your father’s land and down the road, and you realized the farther you walked how close the church was to the poorer part of town.

They were people too, you reminded yourself quickly. They had children like your people, dreams like your people.

Drugs and alcohol like your people, prostitutes like your people.

No different from you and yet scarier simply because their houses were smaller, their clothes not made of fine silk?

You clutched your cloak tighter more from the chill of a spring evening’s wind than your baseless fear, seeing the church slightly up ahead and hoping they had lit some sort of fire despite the warm day it had been.

The door was made of oak that was almost too heavy for arms that did little more than embroider, but you managed to pull one open and slip inside.

It was warmer inside; you stopped for a moment to let the warmth smooth the goosebumps that had risen on your skin, then you carefully lowered your cloak and looked around the room.

You were not used to coming here alone or seeing this place empty, but the bare pews seemed to put you a bit at ease as you walked further inside.

But the confessional to your right made you nervous again, wondering if you really should be confessing these things, imagining that if there even was a priest inside at this time, he might tell your parents who expected you to be pure despite their own sins.

These thoughts had been plaguing you, however, and you wanted them to stop.

You wanted to be satisfied with the life that you were meant to live, and you were sure that pouring your thoughts into the air would lift them from your mind.

Perhaps if you had known the priest a bit better, it might have been easier as you stepped into the booth, but you only came here on holidays and heard gossip that the aging man had begun training someone to take his position.

You did the sign of the Cross over yourself with some uncertainty, having to admit that you were a bit rusty since religion was something that was more talked about than practiced. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was...I...I suppose my first confession tonight is that I don’t quite remember my last.”

Was that a soft chuckle you heard from the opposite booth?

No, you reasoned, priests did not laugh.

“I have come today because I...my thoughts are simply…you see, I cannot get out of my head and...and it’s such a…” You dropped your head in your hands, unsure of how to properly get your thoughts out with how used you had grown to keeping them in.

“Relax, child. Tell me what is on your heart.” The voice was young and smooth, and sounded like he was reading from a book with how flat it was, but you were too intrigued by its other qualities as you lifted your head.

“Yes. Of course. I am descended from noble blood and my destiny is to marry a man of similar status and bear his children. Yet...I...don’t necessarily wish to. I keep finding my thoughts wandering to...to more. Sometimes I do not even know what more entails, simply that it’s something I desire. Often I do think...of having sexual intercourse. Of...of running barefoot through a field and swimming in a lake without a stitch on.” You loved it all so much that you giggled beyond your shame, falling silent as you weren’t sure what else there was to confess.

“And?” He cleared his throat.

“I believe that’s everything.” You furrowed your brow, not sure you could say much more other than your forbidden desires.

“You’ve forgotten something, child.” Now you were sure he was laughing.

You thought for a moment then your eyes widened in a display that could have almost seemed comical. “This is all I can remember! I am sorry for these and all my sins!”

It was said so quickly that your words were hardly intelligible, but the priest hummed in acknowledgement and amusement.

“What do you think my penance for this should be, Father?”

“Have you acted on any of these thoughts?”

You quickly shook your head even though he couldn’t see you. “Of course not!”

“Then you haven’t, really, committed any sin.”

“Father, please, I truly feel that I should be punished for having these thoughts.”

“Very well. Uh...let me see...when you kneel by your bed to pray tonight, I want you to do five Hail Marys.”

“Yes, Father.”

It wasn’t the harshest punishment you’d heard of, but it was going to encourage you to actually pray before bed that night and perhaps that would help with your thoughts.

You were curious about this priest, with his charming voice and the monotone way he went about conducting this confession.

Not that you had met many priests who were all that lively, this man seemed like he was hardly even paying attention to his duties.

However, you were correct in your belief that talking about your thoughts would make them go away, and you closed your eyes in preparation for your prayer asking the Lord for forgiveness.

Your prayer discussing your regret for your sinful thoughts and a promise to do your best not to sin anymore was followed by the priest praying to absolve you of these sins — still sounding like he was reading it in a book right then and there — and you smiled softly, doing the sign of the Cross again. “Amen.”

The priest stuttered a few times and then seemed to formulate what he wanted to say, “You have a good soul to beg for penance over something so trivial. Now thank God for this good confession, and, hm...peace be with you.”

“Thank you, my Lord. And thank you, Father.” Perhaps he listened to many confessions that day and had grown tired of saying the same thing, and you were happy for the help from him either way.

“Go now and...sin no more?” He seemed to chuckle at himself.

You stood and stepped out of the booth, finding yourself charmed by the empty church now as you walked to the door.

Father Dameron waited a moment to keep your privacy hidden before he stepped out of his booth, seeing a glimpse of a dark blue skirt slipping out the heavy, wooden doors and into the night.

Were you all by yourself this late at night or had someone been waiting for you to finish and walk you home?

He hated that he had to worry about you simply because you were a woman, but he knew the sins men confessed in the little time he’d been the head of this church.

Men would confess to taking prostitutes despite having wives at home, then come back the next week to beat their breasts all over again as if they actually cared.

Such a pretty voice with barely a sin to confess was a breath of fresh air for once, and he hoped you didn’t punish yourself too much for thoughts that any normal, interesting human being — including himself — had.

#poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x reader #star wars imagine #poe dameron fic

[thisiswhymomworries]

If I may contribute to your statement about how much Agamemnon deserved death, it wasn’t just his daughters wedding day. He arranged for her to be married to Achilles so that she would be within convenient murder range. If I remember correctly, at least in Euripides’ telling of the events, even Achilles thought the whole thing was awful when he realized what was going on. So yeah, there is no telling of the story in which I feel bad for him.

oh yeah, you’re absolutely correct that Agamemnon totally set that up and arranged for her to be married solely to get her out of the house to be killed

and Achilles WAS like “hey what the fuck this is my wedding too--well. not anymore I guess >:/”

ALSO Agamemnon is the bitch who started the Biggest Dick Slap Fight with Achilles about the distribution of loot, which led to Achilles having his Big Sulk and refusing to fight, so Patroculus put on his armor and fought in his place--shout to him by the way!! he has the highest kill count in The Iliad, NOT Big Baby Achilles--and was therefore eventually killed by Hector

so the order of fuck ups is:

Agamemnon makes a stupid ass promise (to Artemis I believe) at the beginning of the war to sacrifice whatever he sees first when he arrives home

immediately sees his daughter, who ran out to welcome him first bc she loves him

realizes now he has to kill her otherwise the gods will be mad and he won’t be able to join / or will doom The War expedition

doesn’t just stay home!! like yeah, he made a regular human promise ala WWI alliances where if something happens to this other guy over here, then fucking everybody in their dog has to go to war over it, including him, but this is YOUR DAUGHTER my dude, just stay home

Decides to go ahead and kill his daughter, I guess!!

lies to his wife (Clytemnestra) and to Achilles (ally) that he’ll marry Daughter to Achilles before they go off to war

when Clytemnestra brings Daughter down to get married, he instead ties her to the alter / pyre and kills her while Achilles is like “whoaaa what the fuck”

all so he can go to this stupid war that again, Does Not Involve Him. he only promised that if Other Guy’s shit got fucked up (ie, his wife Helen getting abducted), then he’d help out but like,, Helen maybe wanted to go to Troy anyway and also still ultimately not his problem

yes breaking promises his a huge No-No but also so is literally all of these other fuck ups he does, so why not just do One (1) fuck up and also NOT kill your daughter\

Goes to war and tries his hardest to fuck THAT up too!!

so the whole point of killing his daughter is that he HAS to go help fight in this war and then when he gets there, he’s useless

coulda just stayed home, moron

he starts a Biggest Dick Slap Fight with Achilles--ACHILLES--over who gets the best loot by pulling that he technically has rank as a king or something but he didn’t do shit

Achilles Big Mad

so basically this guy made direct eye contact with the Greeks’ BESTEST most special warrior, lied to him, killed his would-be wife, snidely pulled rank, took away another woman he wanted (that’s the “loot”), and pretty much fucked her while loudly reminding The Best Warrior he ain’t shit

like,,, ?? the Greeks DID NOT need him there!!

Achilles--their best warrior--refuses to fight, Patroculus fights instead, gets killed, Achilles mourns for three days, they basically come This Fucking Close to losing the war--which has already stalled for ten years btw bc they can’t actually get inside Troy, so the “war” thus far is basically just glorified yelling “meet me in the fucking parking lot you bitch” and sometimes someone from Troy would in fact come out to fist fight someone in the parking lot, aka Hector vs Patroculus (RIP)

if Achilles hadn’t been sulking, maybe he would’ve won the fist fight vs Hector, and Troy would’ve surrendered after losing their leader

but that doesn’t happen so Odysseus does the horse thing to get the soldiers inside Troy and they sack it, but the point is that Agamemnon DIDN’T DO SHIT except make things worse

Comes back home and immediately insults the gods

Clytemnestra does kind of set him up for this by asking leading questions, but they’re so Babey Basic. like,, if a woman asks “hey do you think you’re better than the gods” just say no!!

there’s a red carpet, which is a huge honor for the gods alone, and it’s Super Super Obvious Clytemnestra is goading him into hubris but Agamemnon “Can’t Think Critically” the Daughter Killer is like “oh fuck yeah I’ll accept honors only reserved for the gods because I’m just as good as them DO YOU HEAR THAT GODS I, A MORTAL, AM LOUDLY PROCLAIMING HUBRIS WHILE SYMBOLICALLY STEPPING ON YOU GEE HOW COULD THIS GO WRONG”

didn’t seem to put any thought into how Clytemnestra, a woman, was supposed to hold onto the throne for him FOR TEN FUCKING YEARS but then when he comes back, he rolls up like “hey, honey what’s up with you? me?? oh yeah, I had fun killing our daughter, going to war, fucking other women. LOTS of other women, I even fucked Achilles’s woman. yeah, yeah, that’s just the kind of leader I am Babey!! but anyway, you’re going to give the throne back to me and let me start making decisions as king for the whole country after I killed your daughter, nearly cost us the war, and loudly insulted the gods, right? Right??”

Guess who just got MURDERED

yeah it’s the asshole who deserved it. like, the Agamemnon specifically makes sure to recount how he killed his daughter as she begged for her life and then flashes forward back to the present where he insults the gods, just to make sure we know he Really Really deserves it

not even by modern standards! the audience was at least supposed to understand the promise he made to Artemis was dumb and shitty, that regardless of whether he was “”forced to do it”” he did still kill his own child, AND he committed hubris

Clytemnestra even has a monologue about what the fuck else she’s supposed to do: there are no laws she can turn to, and as a woman, she’s not allowed to get revenge, so her only other option is to just hand the kingdom back over to this Moron and keep sucking his cock or whatever while pretending he didn’t murder her child

basically, if someone kills one of your family members, you are morally obligated to kill them

Agamemnon MUST get his shit wrecked due to hubris

Orestes (their son) has been off dicking around and sulking, and he doesn’t want to kill Agamemnon, and anyway, all he did was kill his sister! does that really count?? seriously though, does it? spoiler: the ultimate answer is No, killing women does not count as killing a person bc women are not people

this message brought to you by Athena (ironically)

also some shit about how women aren’t actually involved in motherhood or creating a child, so a mother isn’t really a parent, and that’s why Orestes gets to kill Clytemnestra via The Greek Obligation For Revenge

Clytemnestra decides Fuck That

she holds Agamemnon accountable and kills him as he must be killed in order to avenge the killing of their daughter

she tosses a net on him while he’s in the bathtub and stabs him a million times with a spear, while laughing maniacally and bathing in the rain of blood that spurts out

as is her parental RIGHT for avenging her daughter

except the problem is that she’s Not A Man, so she ““isn’t allowed”“ to kill a man

and also that the reason Agamemnon deserved to die is ultimately decided to be his hubris, because Women Are Not People so it was OK or whatever for him to kill his daughter bc that didn’t count

therefore Clytemnestra double wasn’t allowed to kill him / avenge her and should have sat around waiting for the gods to kill Agamemnon I guess, but there’s no indication any of them actually planned to do that

they just used her to do their dirty work, so if anyone in this story was fucked into a corner by the gods, it’s Clytemnestra, not Agamemnon

Orestes then has a big long story about killing Clytemnestra

like fuck his sister I guess?? he wasn’t doing shit about revenge and his moral duty to kill the killer of his family when she was sacrificed but now that his shit idiot dad got himself killed, nooow he’s all about His Moral Duty

so he kills his mom

and he’s kind of sad about it and worried that now he deserves to die too because he killed his mom, and it’s a super fucked up sin in Greek World to kill your parent

hence the deus ex machina--literally, how this trope got invented

they lowered an actor playing Athena from the rafters and had her proclaim that Women Aren’t People, so it was probably OK or whatever for Agamemnon to kill his daughter and since women have nothing to do with the creation of a child, and just hold that little sperm-baby inside them like a cup until it magically comes out with zero effort or risk to them, then Women Aren’t Parents so Orestes didn’t reeeally kill his parent

#greek mythology #ancient greek #ancient greek mythology #the agamemnon #clytemnestra #ask #anon #answered #mine