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pearwaldorf · 5 months

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I hate that you can't see a tweet thread anymore if you're not logged into Twitter (as a gesture of disrespect I refuse to call it by its rebranded name). Here is a copypasta of a thread from Dan Olson, a Canadian documentary filmmaker, expanding upon camera quality, the guilt trips Somerton used to goose his Patreon subscriptions, and how the best tools will never make up for lack of dedication or patience. I have added clarifications in [[double brackets]] where I feel it is necessary.

START OF THREAD

Okay, so, back in April I snapped at James in reply to a tweet that was linking to this video (which James has since delisted but not deleted) and I want to talk about the full context of that but I don't want to make a video, put your beatdown memes away. [[The video has since been deleted. I can see the title of the video is "Maybe the end (not an April Fool's Day thing".]]

The first bit of context is that I initially got keyed into James to fact-check his claims about indie filmmaking in Canada. As a filmmaker the entire Telos venture was immediately obvious as a juvenile fantasy dreamed up by someone with no idea how to make a movie.

Just wild claims about their plans that weren't worth debunking because they bordered Not Even Wrong. But in watching one of these pitch videos I noticed that he had a $4000 current-gen camera in the background as a prop, and that seemed both pretentious and weird.

You don't use your best camera as a prop, you use your second best camera as a prop. So being an obsessive weirdo I needed to know, and I watched his BTS stuff until I spotted his main rig, a $6000 camera with about $1000 in accessories.

Now, these in isolation are unremarkable because his Patreon at the time was bringing in ~$8000 per month, his channel was a full on Business business, and so investing in some professional equipment of that level is maybe a bit indulgent but justifiable.

What was weird is that he doesn't shoot multi-cam, doesn't shoot outdoors, doesn't shoot on location, and in a studio the two cameras kinda really step on each others' toes. Basically if you already have one and don't need a B cam there's no reason to get the other.

Again, on its own, this says nothing, it's just indicative of poor financial decisions, maybe impulsive purchasing, Gear Acquisition Syndrome. Biblical sins, but not crimes.

Paired with the constantly inflating fantasy scope of the Telos films it was clearly an expression of a very, very common bad filmmaker habit of "if I just get the right gear then my movie will basically make itself" Buying stuff because it feels like progress.

At the end of February he tweets "I want to start shooting anamorphic" and then three weeks later in March he posts the worst, out of focus, under-exposed "I just got a new lens!" video I've ever seen, showing off his trash-covered bedroom.

Based on what's available for his cameras and the lead time, that's enough time to get a Laowa Nanomorph or Sirui Saturn from B&H but not enough time to get a Great Joy from the UK or a Vazen from China. And with the flaring blah blah blah, $1300 lens.

Again, [gear acquisition syndrome] is not a crime and these lenses are budget options. Bit of a pointless impulse purchase since he only used it for the Showgirls video. But this is what he was doing just a few weeks before that above video came out: effortlessly impulse purchasing lenses.

James has (had?) a habit of regularly, aggressively driving viewers to Patreon by claiming that videos were getting demonetized. While tacky, it is something a lot of queer YouTubers have dealt with, so there's precedent there. But people were noticing he did it a lot.

Mid-March he humble brags about needing to work so hard to make 6 videos in April because he has over-booked sponsorships.

Then March 29th James posts this whole incel screed on Twitter about how sex work should be "subsidized as a mental health service."

[two image descriptions.

1. "For the majority of people sex (and human contact) can be imperative to a healthy state of mind. A kind and talented sex worker can make someone feel wanted for the first time in their life. I know sex workers who have pulled people back from suicide just by being there for them." 2. "Not only should (sex work) be legal, but it should be subsidized as a mental health service."]

He spends several days getting absolutely *roasted* for this, just dragged across the pavement and read for filth, and doubles down in the replies the whole way.

So this is the context immediately surrounding James waking up on Friday, and posts the above video and the below tweet.

[image description: "We just got the lowest Patreon payout we've gotten in well over a year. Like, a "maybe we need to rethink things" kind of amount... NOT an April Fools Day thing btw. But I don't know if we'll be making videos much longer."]

Now, this unfolds in kinda two directions. The first is that I'm convinced he was just lying about this income shock in the first place.

There's a million theoretical edge cases about what maybe happened and if maybe he just misunderstood the data or saw a glitch and panicked, maybe one of those happened, I don't believe it, I think he just lied because he was salty about getting dragged and felt owed a win.

A big tell to me is that he doesn't blame Patreon. He says he doesn't know what happened, but let's be real, Patreon screws up all the time, they're the first people anyone blames if anything confusing happens, just as a reflex action, even if it's completely not their fault.

The only reason to not blame Patreon is if you already know that it's not their fault and that any investigation on their part might reveal embarrassing details.

Instead he indirectly blames his viewers for not watching enough, not sharing enough, and not turning on auto-renew.

So regardless of the unknowable truth, this segues into the second, far more offensive direction of the messaging itself. "I don't know if we'll be making videos much longer." "Maybe the end" He explicitly framed this as an immediate existential threat to his channel.

In the video he is vague about everything, leaves a ton of hazy room for plausible deniability on how long the channel can keep going, but the messaging is "I need more patrons right this minute or my YouTube channel is over."

He repeatedly evokes all the "fun stuff" they had planned that would never see the light of day if this didn't turn around right away.

And his audience received this message loud and clear. Tons of people making far, far, far less than him left very heartfelt messages about digging a little deeper to subscribe or up their pledge or unsubscribe from other channels to move their pledge to his.

1200 new patrons in one day.

Since I simply don't believe the income shock was real in the first place that would put his post-"Maybe the end" Patreon income at around $10,000 per month. US. Add YouTube income, he's spent the last seven months making around $18,000 per month.

I have seen creators scale back their capabilities to the bone purely to keep making videos for the love of just, like, making stuff even as their funding evaporated and they needed to go back to a desk job to cover their bills.

You'd have to be so outstandingly reckless with your finances as a channel that a one month spook leads immediately to "channel over, sorry about all the fun stuff we won't get to do with you, our patrons, specifically because you, our patrons, aren't giving us enough money"

And not a spook where you then spend a couple weeks crunching numbers. Oh no. A shock so violent where less than two hours later you're weeping on camera about the channel being over.

Three weeks later he brought a brand new Sony FX6v for $8000 CAD to add to his pile of cinema cameras despite the fact that he was, but scant moments earlier, in such a precarious position that a single bad month would kill his channel.

He stole your money, and for that I'm profoundly sad and angry. That's why I snapped at him in April. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the full context then, and I'm sorry if that anger upset you.

END OF THREAD

#james somerton #dan olson #hbomberguy #jesus christ tumblr #it won't let me format things the way i want #because this website is sometimes a piece of shit

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pinkberrytea · 10 days

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Killing you was the sinful culmination of his undying love, and breathing new life into you, a dowry bestowed upon you out of unconditional devotion.

Memento mori—Remember you must die. Enveloped in memories of her death, the Vampire Ascendant watches his darling consort as she slumbers, lost in dreams of blood and mist. Life is short, and shortly it will end; death comes quickly and respects no one. To death we are hastening, let us refrain from sinning.

An exploration of Astarion's character and his relationship with his Dark Consort following the ascension, from a softer perspective.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 6.2k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! this is my first time dabbling in creative writing, and of course my first attempt at smut fiction, but still, I hope it is at least somewhat enjoyable. I would like to dedicate this work to the lovely @locallegume, who was a huge source of inspiration, and also to hismostbelovedspawn over on reddit, for being always so incredibly kind and supportive. I love you guys!

tags: blood drinking; cunnilingus; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; mildly dubious consent; creampie; fluff & angst; emotional sex; dry humping; possessive behavior

The beginning of the morning twilight is Astarion’s favorite time of the day, for it feels at once ephemeral and infinite. The wistful silence, broken only by the still timid chirping of the waking birds; the royal blue-colored sky, tinged with specks of the purples and violets of the dawn; the chilly morning breeze, gently rustling the flowers in the garden, pushing the still forming dewdrops off their petals and onto the ground; you, slumbering beside him, pale skin reflecting the dim light of the fading moon, rosy lips slightly parted. Sleeping peacefully like this, you look like a life-sized porcelain doll, he thinks—your unmoving chest betrays your otherwise healthy likeness, as does the unnaturally blanched color of your skin. Your nightgown hangs lazily off your shoulder, exposing one of your breasts, and your undergarments lay discarded on the floor, on the exact same spot where he had tossed them earlier that night. He adores this version of you—so vulnerable, so defenseless, laid open for him, and him only.

Astarion finds it curious, how you seem to completely lose yourself in your dreams, yet he is also greatly perturbed by the notion that there is a part of you that he is still unable to access, to dominate. It feels unnatural, not to be able to control this elusive slice of your essence, but having ever only tranced, it also mystifies him that you’d voluntarily give up your consciousness each night. You were after all ever the trusting fool—from the moment you met, he had lied to you, manipulated you countless times, and each time you fell for it, standing by his side even when the world screamed at you not to. And even now, you give yourself to him, unquestioningly, unconditionally. In all the long years of his existence, there had been none like you, and there never will be again. None as trusting, none as kind, and he both hates and loves you for it. The very notion of you extending your kindness to anyone other than him is infuriating, and makes him want to take it for himself, put it in a glass dome and hide it away in a place where only he can bask in its warmth. He thinks he is owed that, at least; yours was the only hand that ever reached out to him, so he is justified in not wanting to share.

You shift slightly in your sleep, and a lock of your hair that had been trapped underneath one of your arms falls onto your chest. After eyeing it for a moment, Astarion reaches out for the tresses and grasps them between his fingers. Bringing them close to his nose, he takes in your scent, that is now also his. It smells comforting, familiar—it smells like home. The corner of his lips curl into an almost imperceptible smile, and he closes his eyes, letting out a contented sigh. The hushed shroud of the early hours acts as a cloak, under which he is granted a brief respite, a rare chance to let himself be gentle, be kind. Just as you become entirely vulnerable before him in your slumber, he too exposes the soft underbelly of his feelings for you; that chaotic, intoxicating brew, a messy blend of passion, guilt, hurt, longing, and love, endless and unrelenting love.

He brings his elegant fingers close to your face, and ever so gently glides their soft pads across the cold, velvety smooth skin of your cheek. Your long lashes flutter slightly, tickling the sensitive area under your eyes as he lowers the digits to brush the plump of your lips. He admires you for a short moment, taking in your image—his pretty consort, so beautiful, so frail, so foolishly devoted to him. Oh how lucky he is, to have you who would do anything for him by his side; his most precious treasure, the reason why his long dead heart beats inside his chest once more. He grasps your chin, delicately tilting your head upward to face him, and tenderly presses his lips to yours. His other hand moves to your chest, fingers softly caressing the pebbled peak of your exposed breast, his touch so faint that his skin barely comes into contact with yours. As much as Astarion enjoys asserting his dominance over you, making you kneel before him, seeing the dejected yet submissive expression on your pretty face whenever he decides to make a show of his power, it is these moments he values the most. In your intimacy, he may treat you gently, tenderly, and in your state of unconsciousness, by morning his loving touches will be but a hazy memory, securing your place below, but close beside him, from where you shall never leave for as long as he draws breath—which he can now only do thanks to you.

His fingers on your nipple leave it alone for a moment to close around your breast, giving it a soft, gentle squeeze. Moving quietly so as not to wake you, he slides his right leg under yours and presses it against the back of your knee, creating a space between your thighs as he pushes them apart, where he then nests himself, climbing on top of you.

“Astarion…” when you softly whisper his name, his half-smile widens into a grin; how reassuring it is, to know you belong to him even in your dreams. He lowers his head to plant a kiss on the delicate skin of the curve of your neck, and his lips brush against the two small indentations disrupting the otherwise pristine smoothness of your flesh. Instinctively, he brings his hand to the back of your right shoulder, his long fingers blindly searching for the matching set of bite marks. The last of the three pairs adorns your left wrist, for which reason he will ever so often take your hand in his, only to lovingly kiss it and turn it around so he can admire the evidence of his proudest feat—having sired you.

“Oh my love, I’m here. I’ve got you,” Astarion coos, holding your head gently against his bare chest, fingers tangled in your hair as you writhe and squirm in his arms, empty and glassy eyes lost in a hollow stare, seeing nothing but darkness, endless darkness. The expression on your face is at once delirious and vacant—mouth agape and fists clenched, pupils blown wide, eyelashes wet with tears and a thin string of drool coming out from the corner of your lip and trickling down your chin. At least for tonight, you are lost to him, and as he winces at the still foreign sensation of the loud, vigorous throbbing in his head, your own fading heartbeat softens, dying down into nothingness. And right as it is about to fall perpetually silent, he lets his fangs pierce his own tongue, drawing droplets of now living blood; bringing your face close to his, he presses his thumb to your lower lip, and covers your mouth with his.

He loses himself in the memory for a moment, as he so often does. Your peaceful, serene expression stands in stark contrast to the one that had been etched on your face on that fateful night. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet still he remembers the pain, the agony, the relentless fear building up in his stomach as your body contorted and tears glistened in your vacant eyes. Never had Astarion been more afraid of anything than he’d been of losing you, and by his hand no less. Killing you was the sinful culmination of his undying love, and breathing new life into you, a dowry bestowed upon you out of unconditional devotion. You only ever questioned him about what had happened on the evening of your turning once, but it mattered not how many times you asked, for he would never fully disclose the raw truth—how he had cradled you in his arms and whispered sweet nothings in your ears, kissing away your tears; how he had picked you up as you lost consciousness and carried you to your bed, where he would then tuck you in so very tenderly, so very gently, softly patting your hair and holding your hand, sharing his warmth with you as you lost your own; how he would patiently wait by your side, watching as the color slowly drained from your face, his stomach sinking at the thought of you never waking again—only for you to then slowly open your eyes, their hue now a rich crimson, much like his own. No, he would never again allow himself to be so weak, for he was supposed to be your warden, your liege. This pathetic side of him was to be ever hidden from you, only rearing its ugly head during the brief, sleepy moments preceding the crack of dawn.

With his lips still pressed against your skin, Astarion starts peppering kisses down your neck, on the hollows of your collarbone and across your sternum, his hand on your breast fondling it gently, the other still tracing the bite marks on your shoulder. His still clothed hips start lazily, almost imperceptibly rocking back and forth, lightly grinding against your naked thighs; thinking back to the night when he made you his almost inevitably causes blood to rush to his groin, and his body starts unconsciously seeking the sweet relief of the friction between his hardening erection and your supple skin. He moves his hand on your breast to grasp your nipple between his fingers, lightly squeezing it. You involuntarily buck your hips in response, which amuses him greatly as he continues playing with the tender nub. A soft moan escapes your lips, encouraging and emboldening his attentions as they drift away from your clavicle towards your chest. He plants gentle kisses on the plump of your bosom, using his teeth to pull at your nightgown and drag it down, exposing your clothed breast to the chilly morning air. You shiver, and he smiles against your skin, pressing his lips to the valleys of your ribs, the softness of your lower belly, and finally to your bare crotch. With his face so close to your swollen sex, the sweet scent of your essence now intoxicates his senses. He stands back for a moment to admire how it glistens in the faint glow of the moonlight, so deliciously inviting, as your juices start building up and collecting in-between your folds.

Feeling his breath caressing the sensitive skin of your core, you finally start to slowly regain consciousness. Once his arousals were returned to him, Astarion would make a habit of waking up during the night at various times to bury his cock in you, so it takes you but a moment to gather your bearings. Either out of mischievousness or curiosity, you play coy at first, pretending to be asleep still. His soft lips briefly come into contact with your engorged bud, sending shock waves through your body, and you are barely able to keep yourself from letting out a yelp, although you can’t prevent your skin from becoming covered with goosebumps. When his tongue pokes out of his mouth to give it a tentative lick, you know you won’t be able to keep up the charade for much longer. He feels your body tense up, and slightly raises his head to look at you from his position between your legs with half-lidded, lascivious eyes, dilated pupils partially covering the ruby hue of his irises. You’re unsure if he has already caught on to your little ruse, so you try staying as still as possible, which proves difficult with his face so close to your cunt.

After what seems like an eternity he decides to continue, lapping at your clit again and then sliding his tongue downwards, burying it between your folds. He presses it against the outer edge of your entrance, squeezing slick out of you, and as he savors your essence, he can’t help but think that while its sweet tanginess does not compare to the coppery, velvety richness of the crimson in your veins—nothing ever will, for his is the blood that courses through them—it may well be the second best thing he has ever tasted. Gliding his tongue upwards once more, he uses it to gently massage the raw bundle of nerves atop your slit, leaving a trail of saliva mixed with your fluids between it and your twitching cunt, which then dribbles down onto your thighs. Placing a hand on each side of your hips, he pulls you closer to him, and the shift causes his fangs to graze the sensitive skin of your folds, in response to which your eyes water and you clutch the silk sheets under you both. Taking no notice of your desperate reaction, he continues swirling his tongue up and down your wetness, gently suckling on the tender skin, eagerly eating you up as if you were a full-course meal served especially for him, just begging to be ravished.

You feel heat pooling in your lower abdomen, and at this rate it won’t be long before you are brought to the edge. Momentarily forgetting the fact that you are supposed to be pretending to be asleep as you lose yourself in the crescendo of your release, you arch your back, leaning on your elbows to support your weight, and as soon as you do, he mercilessly pulls away from you, leaving your dripping core empty and aching. Eyes closed still, you let out a soft mewl in protest, which you regret as soon it leaves your lips, for once Astarion notices your desperation, you are done for.

Still unsure if he has already perceived your awakened state or if he believes your body to be involuntarily reacting to his touch, you dare not produce any further sounds. Having cruelly left your throbbing mound unattended, his tongue now glides its way up your stomach, leaving a glistening wet mess in its wake. Upon reaching your chest, his lips latch onto your left breast, your perked nub fitting perfectly inside his mouth. He sucks on it ever so tenderly, teasing it with a pointed tongue and lightly scraping the squishy surrounding flesh with his fangs. One of his hands leaves its place on your hip and finds its way between your legs, and you let out a sigh of relief when you feel a long, elegant finger ghosting over your clit. The other hand slides further down to the curve of your ass, and his blunt nails dig into your soft skin, giving it a firm squeeze.

The pad of the wandering digit finally presses down onto the engorged flesh of your reddened knot, massaging it leisurely in circular patterns, and another finger suddenly slides between your folds, parting them gently. Unable to contain yourself, you roll your hips into his hand, which you soon learn is a grave mistake as he tightens his grip on your ass, applying such pressure that come morning, bruises are certain to form on the pale skin, which he will then tenderly kiss better while looking apologetically at you from under thick lashes; and you will forgive him, as you always do. Lifting his head up from your now rouged, swollen nipple, he readjusts his position above you, using his body weight to pin you down and hold you in place. He lets go of your ass, firmly grasping at your jaw with his newly freed hand, and even from behind closed eyes you can feel the intensity of his gaze. This does not bode well, and try as you might you cannot ignore the sickening pinch in the pit of your stomach as his eyes scrutinize every inch of your face—has he noticed? Is a punishment in order? Will he deny you your release?

“Open up, darling. Your mouth.” The commanding tone with which Astarion vocalizes the otherwise unassuming words is all it takes to placate your erratic thoughts, and obeying is for you as natural as breathing—or it would be, if you were still alive. Once you do as he says, you feel his thumb pressing on your lower lip, forcing it further down. He slides the digit inside your mouth, gagging you slightly, and your lips instinctively close around it. “Good girl,” he purrs, and encouraged by the tenderness of his praise, you start lightly sucking on it, coating it with saliva. For a short moment, he becomes entranced by the feeling of your wet tongue massaging his skin, and his mind wanders to the thought of your plump lips wrapped tightly around his cock. This prompts him to once again start bucking his hips, rubbing the now obvious bulge underneath his pants against your stomach, but this time his rhythm is much more frantic, more desperate.

Relief washes over you as you feel the fingers still in your slit resume their fondling, the one on your clit now applying greater pressure, handling it much less gently, yet just as skillfully, his knowledge of all the ins and outs of your body having always been something he prided himself on. The other makes its way down from its place between your folds, plunging into you as soon as it reaches your entrance. Your body jerks in response, and your moan is muffled by his thumb in your mouth—when he then plunges another, stretching you open without giving you time to adjust, you involuntarily bite down on the digit gagging you, sinking your fangs into his flesh. He grimaces, and you can tell you have hit an artery, because the flow of the thick, hot blood running down your throat is alarmingly heavy. However, rather than pulling away, he lets you drink, curling his fingers inside you and massaging the tight walls of your cunt with his knuckles. The rich taste of his crimson lingering in your tongue and spreading inside your body, mixing with yours within your veins and making them pulsate with life—pure, raw, vibrating life—works as a powerful aphrodisiac, heightening all your senses, and the feeling of him fucking you with his fingers is all it takes for you to come undone on his hand, muscles spasming and clenching around the digits, coating them in the sweet nectar of your release.

Just as you reach your climax, Astarion’s own teeth sink into the indentations marking the otherwise smooth skin of your neck. You instinctively cock your head to the side to grant him more access, letting him feed on you as you bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, sucking on his thumb still. His blood flows from him to you and then back to him, and the sheer intimacy of it brings you so close together that it’s as if you have merged into one single being. You can no longer tell where you end and he begins, as your minds touch and mesh and then untangle again, in a sensual, chaotic dance, where you both sway to the rhythm of his heartbeat. And while the connection lasts, his emotions rush through you and yours through him, rendering words meaningless as the everlasting adoration, the inebriating, all-consuming love you share, no matter how tainted, is laid bare before you, in all its wickedness and allure.

“Fear not: you are mine.”

You finally open your eyes, letting go of his thumb, and as the fog from the afterglow subsides you notice his fingers remain inside you still, gliding effortlessly up and down your twitching walls, which are now lubricated with slick and come; your skin tingles from the overstimulation, but the sensation is not unwelcome. With the hand you have just freed, he holds your head in place while he continues to feed, and you both stay like this for a while, his fingers buried inside your cunt and his fangs in your neck, where they rightfully belong. His little grunts as he drinks from you and the feeling of his hardened cock pressed flush against your stomach rekindle the ache between your legs, causing the living blood now coursing through your veins to flow to your tender core.

Having drank to his heart’s content, Astarion pulls away from you, making you wince at the sudden emptiness as both his fangs and fingers leave your body. No longer plagued by the perpetual, agonizing hollowness of vampiric hunger, his only reason for feeding on you still is the invigorating thrill of your taste on his tongue and your blood pulsating in his arteries; you were his first, after all, having offered him the greatest gift of them all when you had no good reason to. Killing you on the evening he first revealed his true nature had never been out of the question, and it puzzles him still why you would willingly surrender this sanguine gift to a vampire stalking you in the night—a pitiful creature, hiding in the shadows, with murderous intent and offering you nothing but pain and misery. He is reminded of your foolishness and naïveté every time he sinks his fangs in your soft flesh, and the familiarity of it is oddly comforting to him.

Not bothering to wipe the red smear on his chin, he brings his hand up to your mouth once more, only this time his digits are covered in your juices. A single look into his crimson eyes, clouded with lust, tells you all you need to know, and you eagerly obey the silent order, wrapping your lips around his fingers.

“Ever so obedient, aren’t you, my sweet?” His honeyed words and impish smile send shivers down your spine, and unable to talk as your tongue flicks and swirls, lapping at your own sticky essence, you look up at him through your lashes with coquettish demureness; his pretty little spawn, always so good to him, so docile, so devoted. The very sight of you makes his cock twitch with desire. “I do find it charming when you play your darling little games. Mostly because you are awful at them. You did know I was aware the entire time, didn’t you?,” although his smile widens, there is a hint of danger in his voice, “That you were awake.”

As his blood within you rushes to your cheeks, spreading to the tips of your ears, Astarion’s expression darkens for a moment, and the lust in his eyes grows wilder, more desperate. There is something endlessly enticing about how bashful and girlish you look when your face is hot and flushed with his crimson, like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, and it makes him want to devour you whole. He abruptly slides his fingers out of your mouth, and the glistening string of your fluids that forms between your lips and his digits breaks off as he uses that same hand to grab your neck and bring your face close to his. Once you are mere inches apart, he stops for a moment, locking eyes with you, and the proximity between you is such that you can feel his long lashes brushing against your skin and see the flecks in different shades of red swimming in his irises. The stillness in the air makes you acutely aware of the sound of his heartbeat, and it paradoxically both comforts and torments you. Such is the nature of your relationship; yearning and sorrow, worship and regret, lust and greed. The duality of it is not lost to you, but you’re past the point of coming up with justifications, for it is far too late for redemption. You made your choice, he made his, and now his burden is yours to bear. It matters not if outsiders looking in cannot make sense of it, as the bond between you was never meant to be understood by anyone else—however ugly and twisted it may be perceived by those around you, it is undeniably a bond of love, one you are willing to protect even if it costs you everything.

“Until the world falls down.”

When he finally closes the distance between you and crashes his mouth into yours, your mind is wiped clean of any semblance of coherent thought and your senses are filled with nothing but him—his scent, his warmth, his taste. He hungrily parts your lips with his tongue as soon as your skin touches his, your teeth clicking in his desperation, and his grip on your neck tightens. You feel tears well up in your eyes, some spilling through your lashes and rolling down your cheeks, your repressed emotions overflowing as you lose yourself in the fierce intensity of his kiss. You want him, you need him, you hate him; you love him, oh how dearly you love him, more than life itself. He explores the inside of your mouth, wantonly, passionately, only stopping to suck on your bottom lip, nipping it with his fangs and lapping at the droplets of blood blooming from the punctured flesh. Once he pulls away, gasping for air, you are both a disheveled mess, lips swollen and bruised and red. Not yet letting go of you, his fingers wrapped around your throat still, he guides your head back down, laying it on the soft feather pillow, only to then straighten up his torso, hand on your neck holding you in place and darkened eyes looking down upon you. From your position below him, he looks ethereal, almost godly, as the moon casts a pale halo around his frame, shining its light on the naked skin of his upper body.

He holds this position for a while, silently studying your face, and as he does, his intense gaze seems to gradually soften, mellowing out into almost tenderness. You feel the pressure of his fingers on your skin lessen, and then cease completely as he frees you, raising his hand up to cup your cheek. His thumb traces the trail of dried tears, and you lean into his soothing touch, eyes wettening once more. Taking notice of this, he leans back down and brushes his lips against the teardrops threatening to escape from your lashes, drying them before they fall.

“Shh, my darling, hush.” The softness in Astarion’s voice and the gentleness of his caresses as he runs his fingers through your hair are all you ever yearned for, all you ever needed, and yet with every touch your chest tightens and you feel a pang of loneliness and guilt tugging at your unbeating heart, for this is what you want, but not what you deserve. You have failed him, just as he has failed others, and your regrets bind you together for eternity as the thread of your fate entangles with his in a constricting embrace—so is it too greedy, to let yourself be selfish and indulge in his warmth before the sun rises? Is even someone as broken and wicked as you allowed a moment of reprieve, however brief? You know not the answer to these questions, nor do you think you ever will. All you know is that there’s nowhere else you want to be but in his arms, no matter how much it hurts, for you’ll endure the pain as long as you are by his side.

“Kiss me,” you quietly plead, your supplication barely a whisper, prompting him to pull away slightly to look into your eyes. He takes a moment to try and read your expression, his gaze sharp, inquisitive, stripping you off all your defenses and laying you bare before him. A short time passes, and without saying a word, he lowers his head down again, lips brushing against yours, their pillowy softness and the taste of your blood still lingering on his skin shrouding your mind in a white fog. You raise both of your arms and wrap them around his neck, bringing him closer as your mouth matches his movements, the desperation of before now manifesting more tenderly, more lovingly, but just as intensely. One of his hands remains on your cheek as he kisses you, and with the other, he finally unlaces his pants, freeing his neglected erection, which by now is slick from the precome leaking from its engorged head. The color of the sky outside slowly begins to brighten, now a beautiful blend of periwinkle and cyan, and as the twilight peaks and starts to reach its end, Astarion decides he has waited long enough—he will take you here and now, before the merciless, harsh light of the sun engulfs you both.

Feeling his hardness against your thigh, you readily comply, spreading your legs apart. You need this just as much as he does; to be one with him, carnally, for your souls have long merged, and there is no you without him just as there is no him without you. As he lines up with your entrance, his lips leave yours and he presses your foreheads together, staring into your eyes with reassuring tenderness. You feel the tip of his cockhead flush against your dripping sex—the reddened, puffed up skin feels warm, and thinking of how it is swollen from his blood in your veins is all it takes for him to finally snap and give into his desires. He slides inside of you in a single thrust, the wetness from your juices facilitating his entry as he stretches your walls to accommodate his large size. You try to bite back a whimper, your eyes once again tingling and prickling with the promise of tears as one of your hands finds its way to the back of his head and your fingers become entangled in his silvery curls. Not moving immediately, he waits a while, giving you time to adjust. You revel in the familiar feeling of his cock stuffed inside your core, the pain and warmth of it, and you wonder if he too can find comfort nowhere else but in your flesh, as it is only when filled with him that you are able to hold together the broken pieces of your descended mind.

The hand that had been cupping your cheek now rests on your waist as he moves his head to nuzzle the curve of your neck, taking in your scent. Ever so slowly he starts rolling his hips back and forth, planting gentle kisses on the delicate skin where his fangs had been buried just moments ago, now stained with patches of dried blood. You close your eyes, still trying to hold back the tears, hugging him as tightly as you can, or as tightly as he’ll let you. His pace is at first languid, sensual, allowing you to feel the entirety of him as he massages your aching, tender walls, still sensitive and spasming from your orgasm. He grunts in your ear, prompting you to start undulating your own hips, doing your best to match his rhythm. Emboldened by this, he moves his hands down to grab your ass, tilting your pelvis up and pulling you closer to him. Just as desperate to feel him as deeply as physically possible, you wrap your legs around his midriff, allowing him to reach the innermost parts of your throbbing cunt. When the tip of his cock brushes against the spongy skin of your cervix, your gut tightens and you cry out for him, unable to contain yourself.

“Astarion…”

The sound of his name in your lips, so very eager, so very sweet, is all the encouragement he needs, and the once languid movements give way to more vigorous pounding, the lewd sound of smacking flesh echoing in the otherwise quiet room as he snaps his hips and buries himself deeper inside your aching core. Your body rocks in rhythm with his thrusts, the tears in your eyes finally escaping your lashes and running down your face, a chaotic culmination of all the pleasure, all the hurt, all the desire and all the devotion brewing deep inside your heart as your raging feelings come to a boil. No one can understand, no one will understand—and yet, as he fucks you senseless in the early hours, pumping his cock in and out of you with lascivious abandon, none of it matters. You hold him even closer, pressing your squishy breasts flush against the sweaty, glistening skin of his chest. He moans at the sensation, intensifying his pace and using his hands on your ass to tilt your pelvis higher, pushing your folded legs, which are still wrapped around him, as close to your upper body as your flexibility will allow it. You feel the muscles in your thighs stretching and burning, but this only excites you further, and the soft whimpers leaving your lips escalate in frequency and loudness alike.

As he continues pounding into you, Astarion’s kisses on your neck become more passionate, more heated, going from pecks, to licking, to sucking, until eventually he gives in and once again sinks his fangs in the bruised flesh. You mewl faintly and your grip on his hair tightens, in response to which he bites down on you harder, nails raking across the skin of your ass as his thrusts grow fiercer, more violent. The message immediately gets through to you—the cheeky little spawn must know her place—so you obediently let go of his curls, although your digits remain entangled in them still; yet he does not slow down his pace, ramming into you with such force that you are afraid you will have trouble walking once he is finished. Be that as it may, one of his hands leaves its place on your ass to hover above your swollen clit, which twitches desperately as his cock resurfaces and then disappears again inside your cunt. He grasps it between two deft fingers, massaging the engorged bundle of nerves as a reward for your obedience, and that is all it takes for tension to again start building up in your groin.

“You have given me everything.”

His digits on your tender bud; your blood running down his throat; his cock slamming into you, stretching open your tight walls—you are so very close to climaxing again, and yet you don’t want the moment to end; you don’t want morning to come, breaking the spell and robbing your lover from you, as it always so cruelly does. The tragic inevitability of it is however unaffected by the infinitude of your existence, a gift that was also bequeathed to you by him, and enveloped by the ice-cold embrace of the memories of your death, your body comes alive as you are pushed over the edge, your twitching cunt fluttering and contracting around him, creaming and squirting your sweet juices all over his length.

As you slump back and go limp is his arms, Astarion unlatches his mouth from your neck and props up his torso to marvel at your image as you bask in the glory of your release—so maddeningly beautiful, cheeks and plump lips flushed bright pink with what remains of his lifeblood within you; his consort, his spawn, his to use as he pleases, his and nobody else’s. While he continues fucking you through your orgasm, all you can hear are his low moans and grunts and the squelching sounds of your wetness as he ruts into you with ever increasing furor. You can tell he is also close by the way he holds your hips with both of his hands, pushing his own against them with almost vicious ferocity while you remain slumped on the headboard, tits bouncing cutely with every thrust. The daylight seeping through the curtains now brightens up the room, and as you look up at him with half-lidded eyes, you notice how handsome he looks illuminated by the gentle glow of the rising sun, sweat beading his temple and dripping down his chin and nose.

“Gods…” he groans, voice raspy with lust, and with one final push he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim with his seed, which feels thick and warm flooding your tender walls. Still panting and sucking in sharp breaths, he falls on top of you, not bothering to pull his cock out of your still spasming cunt, chest flush against yours and head burrowed in the crook of your neck. Spillover runs down your thighs and soaks into the wrinkled sheets, but neither of you bother cleaning it up, the resulting stain surely to give the maids good reason to blush later.

You bring a hand up to his silky curls once more, gently running your fingers through them as you feel the calming thumping of his slowing heartbeat vibrating against your cold skin. As the dawn finally breaks over the still sleeping city, signaling the beginning of a new day in your undead life—for better or for worse—you find comfort in the warmth of his flesh and the sound of his ragged breathing as it gradually steadies. All your suffering, all your pain; if even your death is required to bring him to life, then so be it. He will live for the both of you, and you will love him for it. Forever—for good.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

#personal #astarion x tav #bg3 #bg3 fic #ascended astarion #lord astarion #astarion #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #ascended astarion x reader #fic: death and his maiden #my fics

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matan4il · 4 months

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Have you noticed how almost everything that the anti-Israel crowd accuses people who simply recognize Israel's right to exist of, is (in additional to usually being false) stuff they're guilty of themselves?

"You support ethnic cleansing!"

What do you think it means, when you chant the English translation of "From water to water, Palestine will be Arab"?

"You support an ethno-state!"

Do you call for the destruction of every single nation state, such as Germany, Japan, France, and so on? No? Then so do you. Have you called for the establishment of a Palestinian state? Then, so do you. Between Hamas ruling Gaza and being genocidal when it comes to Jews, and Mahmoud Abbas (president of the Palestinian Authority) stating no Israelis will be allowed in the State of Palestine (and by "Israelis" we all know he doesn't mean the Arab citizens of Israel, he's talking about Jews) that's going to be an ethno-state, too. Oh, you meant a "pure" ethno-state. Those don't exist in today's reality, and Israel, with 27% of its citizens being non-Jews, is no exception.

"Oct 7 didn't happen in a vacuum, you're ignoring the context of the past 75 years!"

You are ignoring big chunks of anti-Jewish violence during these 75 years, you're ignoring the expulsion of almost 900,000 Jews from Arab and Muslim countries, you're ignoring the anti-Jewish violence and persecution that preceded the establishment of the Land of Israel, and you're ignoring all 3,500 years (at least) of Jewish existence in and connection to our ancestral homeland, Israel.

"You support collective punishment!"

The same way you do, when you chant, "When people are occupied, resistance is justified"? Because that's what it means, that for the sin of Israel supposedly being a colonial state (a false claim, since Jews are native to Israel), you're justifying raping 13 year old girls, shooting them in the head, murdering Holocaust survivors, burning babies alive... what's that if not supporting collective punishment? (that's before we get into the fact that Israel not surrendering in a war started by Hamas is NOT collective punishment, or else we would have to define the allies not surrendering to the Nazis in WWII as collective punishment of the Germans)

"You suppor apartheid!"

All Israeli citizens have the same civil rights. Apartheid in South Africa was a system where citizens of the country had their rights limited based on skin color/ancestry. The issue in South Africa wasn't that racism existed (IDK a single country where racism doesn't), it's that it was codified into law, and used against the rights of that country's own citizens. Israeli Jews and Israeli Arabs have the same rights. Non-Israeli Palestinians not having the same rights as Israelis, including as Israeli Arabs, is the same as French Canadians not having the same rights in the US as French Americans. It is NOT proof the US is applying a system of apartheid unto French people. And if it were, then I have news for you, every country applies different rights to citizens vs not citizens, so every country would be an apartheid state by this criterion. Which would make the word meaningless, and it would diminish the suffering of non-whites under South Africa's apartheid (as some young black South Africans who have actually been to Israel now point out). Meanwhile, I'll point back up to where Mahmoud Abbas said no Israelis (i.e Jews) will be allowed in Palestine, and that under the Palestinian Authority, a Palestinian can be jailed or executed for selling land to Jews, which means the PA demolishes the right to property (of Jews to own it, and of the PA's Palestinian citizens to sell it as they see fit) based solely on the ancestry of the buyer... And you support the PA, right?

"You deny the Nakba!"

I had never encountered any Israeli denying that roughly 850,000 Arabs fled Israel due to the War of Independence. Pointing out that the Arabs are the ones who started that war isn't the same as denying it happened. Meanwhile, the people who make this accusation, largely deny the expulsion of the Jews from Arab and Muslim countries, deny the suffering, discrimination, expulsions and massacres Jews had endured for centuries under Arab and Muslim regimes, and deny the atrocities of Oct 7.

"You support colonialism!"

Say the people who deny the native rights of the Jews, who act as if these rights are limited by time (as if such a limitation benefits anyone other than actual colonizers), who ignore the fact that Palestinians wouldn't exist here without Arab colonialism, or who wish to confer a native status unto them by virtue of... being settler colonialists for a "long time" (to be clear, the way the UN's definition of a Palestinian refugee works, it only requires a person to have been an Arab* settler colonialist in Israel during the 2 years prior to the founding of the Israeli state, to be recognized as a Palestinian. To become a US citizen, in addition to other requirements, you have to live in the US for at least 5 years, 3 if married to an American citizen. That means in June of 1946, it was easier to become a Palestinian "native" in the eyes of the UN, than an American citizen). Don't get me wrong, Palestinians have a right to live in the place where they were born. I can both recognize that they're here due to Arab colonialism, AND be okay with them living here. Just like I can recognize that no Americans today deserve to be displaced, even though the majority of them are there thanks to colonialism. And I don't have to pretend like Americans of European descent have suddenly become native (something that if I did, would probably hurt actual Native Americans), in order to recognize their right to live where they were born. It's just ironic that if we took the logic of the anti-Israel crowd when it comes to native Jews, and applied it to all native peoples, this would harm the natives, erase their rights, recognize their colonizers as natives, and generally help colonialism.

There's probably more, but I think this is demonstrative enough.

* Technically, the UN didn't specify ancestry. As an idea, you could be Arab, Jewish, a Polish Catholic priest living in a convent in the Land of Israel from Jun '46 to May '48, and you'd be recognized as a Palestinian by the UN, but in reality this definition ended up favoring all non-Jewish colonizers of the land. In 1952, Israel said, "It's okay, we'll take care of the Jewish refugees displaced by the War of Independence. No need for the UN to do so. This is what we set up a Jewish state for." This is in addition to Israel taking care of the Jewish refugees from Arab and Muslim countries, and Jewish Holocaust survivors. And for Israel's show of responsibility, the now-Israeli Jewish refugees have been punished. They don't get recognized as existing, as having been displaced by, and having suffered due to the war the Arabs started in the Land of Israel against its Jewish communities. "Palestinian" refers to non-Jews only from the second The British Mandate in Palestine's Jews became Israeli Jews, but that doesn't stop the anti-Israel crowd from falsely claiming there are Palestinian Jews today... even though since May of 1948, there aren't, and before that, those Palestinian Jews were British subjects, not the citizens of an Arab independent state called Palestine (something that has never historically existed). Thanks to the exclusion in practice of Jews from the definition of Palestinian refugee, the UN agency for taking care of Palestinian refugees, UNRWA became a tool of spreading anti-Jewish hate.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #israelunderattack #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #resources

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blackcoffeeofmelancholy · 6 months

Text

the brothers protect you from another demon

words: 4273

warnings: depictions of blood and violence, implied sexual assault, and dark themes

notes: I'm reuploading my previous work from my old blog, so I have everything in one place. I still have sequels to Mammon's and Leviathan's parts I have outlined and plan to write one day. And I'm slowly working on some new stuff when my brain allows me to lol.

As always, I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors that may have gone unnoticed. Thank you to those who take the time to read and comment on my work; it’s greatly appreciated ♥

LUCIFER

An unusual quiet fills the school, the halls empty. Lucifer appreciates the peace despite working after hours, the only sound that of his quill against parchment. Typically, he opts to retreat to his office after class; today he decides to stay behind while you attend your private study session. Unlike his brothers—save Satan—your grades are acceptable, aside from one class that is lowering your grade point average. He wishes to tutor you himself, unfortunately, his current workload is far greater than he’s accustomed to, completely monopolizing his free time. The least he can do is wait for you in the student council room and escort you home, allowing him to enjoy your company, although fleeting. He values every second he’s able to delight in your presence, your smile a light in the darkness of the Devildom, and the brush of your hand causing his heart to flutter, temporarily satisfying his temptations.

Collecting his belongings, he awaits your arrival, staring at the door in longing. However, you never appear, the minutes ticking by at an agonizing pace. He frowns, checking his D.D.D. in the event you messaged him—nothing. Perhaps the lecture is running over time . . . A cry cuts through the silence, true unadulterated fear chilling him to the bone and stealing the breath from his lungs. He recognizes your voice, the sound of your panic causing him to spiral, his usual composure lost to the demonic aura ominously swirling about him, wings drawn out and raised in all their glory. The frantic beating of his heart pounds in his ears as he rushes down the corridor, pulling the classroom door off its hinges and tossing it aside to reveal the sinful scene before him. You lay feebly on the desk, struggling to free yourself, your nails biting into the professor’s skin. Their hand covers your mouth, muffling your screams, and the demon is grinning, pleasure dancing in their eyes. Lucifer sees red.

The stern call of his name grounds him in reality. He turns to meet Diavolo’s solemn gaze, the prince commanding him to stand down. Lucifer is indignant, hesitating to follow orders, yet he relents with a bow of his head. Blood splatters the walls and floor, the demon’s body lying motionless at his feet, limbs dangling at awkward angles and an arm precariously thrown across the room. He’s certain his actions are justifiable, but a part of him is overcome with shame at his loss of control. Glancing in your direction, he feels a swell of pride knowing he protected you—the most important person in his life; what wouldn’t he do to ensure your happiness? He entrusts the aftermath to Diavolo, eager to return to the House of Lamentation where he keeps you in his sight. Thankfully, your injuries are minor, it’s the shock that leaves you trembling in his arms. To his satisfaction, you stay in his embrace the remainder of the night into the morning, leaning into his gentle touches and kisses against your brow. No demon will harm you again; that’s a promise he’s sure to keep.

MAMMON

Mammon takes pleasure in the high gambling provides him, unable to curb his addiction much to his brothers’ frustration. They berate him for his losses, though there are times he emerges victorious, amassing a decent amount of Grimm behind their backs. Today the Great Mammon feels generous, inviting you to hang out after class. It’s the start of the weekend, and he craves your company, wanting to steal you away from his brothers. Knowing he has you all to himself leaves him giddy, his excitement evident in the blush spreading across his cheeks, the heat traveling down his neck and straight to his heart. When you smile, he can hardly breathe, awkwardly avoiding your gaze in an attempt to collect his bearings. His act of indifference is steadily falling to pieces, the Avatar of Greed practically melting at the warmth of your hand in his, threading your fingers together. He can’t deny the happiness you bring him, his gaze softening as you eagerly thank him, looking at him in adoration. Sure, he’s greedy, but he enjoys treating you, preferring your love to the Grimm in his pockets.

The streets are quiet, stars shining overhead and lighting the path home. Disappointment wells inside him the closer you get to the House of Lamentation, desperately wishing the night could last forever. Perhaps it’s selfish of him, however, his desire grows the longer you’re together, fanning the fire that threatens to consume him. He stops, turning to glance at you. It’s easy to imagine himself holding you against him, his hand on your cheek, gently tilting your head up to catch your lips in a kiss. Instead, he rests his hands on your shoulders, mouth unbearably dry, his confidence shaken the moment you lock eyes. Slowly, he leans forward, closing the distance between you only to hear you scream his name. He’s on the ground before he can react, confusion and panic clouding his thoughts. A growl escapes him, wings snapping into place on impulse, and his demonic aura shifting around him threateningly. Anger, hot and intense, swelters below the surface at the sight of you at another demon’s mercy, struggling to free yourself of their grip, nails biting into and breaking your skin. Your panicked expression physically pains him, his mind racing, assessing the situation.

Initially, he’s overcome with the urge to kill, poised to attack and tear the pathetic demon limb by limb, their cries music to his ears. Yet he hesitates, cursing the bastard for using you to their advantage, your body their shield; he can’t put your life at risk. He feels helpless, repulsed by such a display of weakness. How can you call him your protector when he fails to keep you safe? If he’s so great, why is he the one backed into a corner, sensing the fear that clings to you and now overwhelms his senses? He regards the demon warily, exchanging his wallet for you, briefly mourning the loss. They grab your wallet as well as the shopping bags, disappearing into the shadows with their spoils. Mammon considers hunting them down and personally showing them how hellish the Devildom can be, vowing their crimes won’t go unpunished. Despite the rage still boiling within him, he wraps you in his arms, nearly in tears as he breathes in your scent. His apology dies in his throat at the gentle touch of your hands cupping his face, drawing him into a kiss, your lips trembling against his. You’re irreplaceable. His world. He can’t envision life without you.

LEVIATHAN

It’s not often Leviathan leaves the comfort of his bedroom, venturing out into the Devildom, though he makes an exception for you. Most of your time together is spent playing video games or watching anime. Your constant reassurance eases his mind at the moment, yet he can’t help worrying you’ll tire of what he has to offer. Compared to his brothers, he’s pathetic, a gross otaku who is undeserving of your love and attention. He doubts himself, finding it difficult to ignore the voice in his head telling him he’s worthless, wishing he could be as suave as Lucifer or as smooth as Mammon. Why do you give him the time of day? Asking you to accompany him took all the courage he could muster, and now he wonders if he made the right choice. He wants to return the favor, bringing you the same joy you bring him, a bright light in the darkness that envelopes him. Loneliness no longer plagues him, and he finally feels understood—accepted—but does he take more than he gives?

The aquarium is scenic, your eyes widening in wonder while he tells you about the Devildom’s sea creatures, smiling fondly at a colorful school of fish as they swim past. He planned your date with painstaking precision, initially proud of himself; now he’s uncertain. Of course, he’s enjoying the aquarium, reminded of the ocean. He pictures the gentle flow of the waves washing to shore, and the salty breeze tousling his hair, soothing his nerves. You seem happy—are you? Afterward, he takes you to a nearby café. Seated outside, the weather pleasant, he glances at you, trying to gauge your expression. He can’t help thinking how incredibly cute you are, swallowing thickly as he reaches over to grab your hand. His heart is pounding. Surely you can feel the sweat on his palm, but you don’t pull away, leaning forward. He could kiss you, instead, he blushes, wishing he could hide in shame the second you frown. Ready to apologize for being a spineless coward, he hesitates, the sound of laughter drawing his gaze to the table behind you.

A couple of demons leer in your direction, snickering loudly. Your hand trembles in his, and he can see the way their words wound you, each scornful comment a critical hit to your self-esteem. They call you pathetic, a disgusting human who’s tarnished the Devildom’s image—you don’t belong here, especially not at the Avatar of Envy’s side. He stands, confronting the demons. Leviathan is a stuttering mess, his anxiety rising, but he’s determined to defend your honor. You grab his arm, reassuring him it’s alright; the demons are amused. They mockingly apologize, making a point to bump into you as they leave, sending you and your drink to the ground. The look of dejection on your face crushes him. Before he knows it, he’s summoned Lotan, flooding the streets. Luckily, his tail is wound securely around your waist, anchoring you to him so you aren’t washed away in the chaos. He brings you closer, pulling you into an awkward hug. Your date is ruined; he can’t recover from this. He apologizes profusely, hoping you don’t hate him. Are you okay? Is there anything you need? Anything he can do? He’s stunned when you wrap him in your arms, pressing a light kiss to his lips. Head spinning, he sucks in a breath and kisses you back. He loves his Henry, and no one hurts you and gets away with it.

SATAN

Although he’s the embodiment of wrath, Satan is calm and complacent in your company, your soothing aura bringing him an inner peace that eluded him in the past. The day is perfect, the quiet of the bookstore with you by his side his ideal date. Your brows knit in concentration as you flip through a book, and he stifles a laugh, gazing at you affectionately. He’s drawn to you, the light of your soul mesmerizing him, leaving him breathless. A demon of knowledge, he resigns himself to the fact love is unexplainable, no longer questioning how a human managed to capture his heart; he welcomes the feeling, the fire you ignited burning relentlessly. You shelve the book, and he takes your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, lips curling against your skin into a satisfied smile at your blush. He pulls you into his embrace, thankful to have you in his life. The world was a dark place before you entered it, desolate and chaotic; now it is nothing but a distant memory.

Taking advantage of the bookstore’s café, he stands in line while you look for a table. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts about him, and he eyes the pastries on display, deciding to surprise you with a sweet treat that will compliment your drink. When he turns to find you, you’re gone. Your D.D.D. lays abandoned on a table in the corner, no sign of you, his gaze flitting back and forth, scouring his surroundings. He waits, hoping you’ll reappear. Doubt begins to weave its way into his mind, a surge of adrenaline driving him to wander into the labyrinth of shelves, his anger and impatience growing the longer you’re not next to him—safe and sound. He comes across a trail of blood, his heart dropping. How could he leave you alone, vulnerable to the evils that still plague the Devildom? The bookstore gave him a false sense of security, becoming a place he could rely on to escape. Yet not for a human such as yourself, demons prowling in plain sight, considering you prey to hunt.

In the backroom, he hears your cries. To say he’s furious is an understatement, he’s beyond livid, repulsed by the hand around your neck, and the tongue of the demon trailing down your neck to taste your blood. The remnants of the self-restraint he clung to relent to a blinding rage exploding within him, electrifying the atmosphere. Wrath consumes him, knowing no bounds. You’re protected in his arms, the building in flames once he regains control, the mangled body of the demon lost to the inferno. It’s a shame, he thinks, that the books must perish along with them—innocent victims of his bloodlust. Nevertheless, you’re alive, face buried in his chest. He’s sorry he foolishly let his guard down, putting you in harm’s way and forcing you to bear witness to the true powers of the Avatar of Wrath. Satan expects you to fear him. However, you allow him to tend to your injuries upon your return to the House of Lamentation. He’s gentle, wishing he could rid you of your pain, but he’s a truly demonic being, only capable of hurting you further. Your hand on his catches his attention, coaxing him into bed with you, giving him a sliver of hope. Holding you in the darkness, he tells you he loves you more than anyone or anything and promises to protect you—always.

ASMODEUS

Asmodeus takes pleasure in the praise of his adoring fans, their compliments and gifts are one of the best parts of his day. He craves their undivided love and attention, enjoying the feel of their eyes on him, enraptured by his ethereal beauty. There are demons who vigorously pursue him, going to great lengths to capture his heart, though it belongs to you, skipping a beat each time the thought of you enters his mind. He notices the jealous gazes that fall upon you as they wish they stood at his side instead, fantasizing they’re the object of his affection, not you. No one can replace you; his love for you is unrivaled. However, he finds their envy entertaining, relishing the fact he’s so passionately sought after, fanning the flames of desire. Demons stare heatedly at the two of you, the lights of The Fall accentuating his radiance; he’s a diamond, positively glowing.

Snaking an arm about your waist, he draws you close to whisper how adorable you look, his lips brushing against your ear. Your skin is warm and your mouth parts in a breathy sigh the moment he kisses you, hands sliding beneath your shirt to rest at the small of your back. He can feel your heart racing as you shyly touch him, your innocence captivating the Avatar of Lust. Temptation urges him to lead you away from prying eyes, appreciating all his human has to offer in privacy, until he tastes blood on his tongue, choking on the bitterness of it. Pulling away, he barely manages to catch you, dismayed by the gaping wound now marring your flesh. Through his tears, he glares at the demon that stands behind you, fingers wound tightly around the hilt of a blade tainted by your blood. They declare their undying love for him, expressing relief and happiness at getting rid of the competition—they hurt you to get to him. Asmodeus wants nothing more than to escape the Hell he’s forced to endure, for once resenting any love that’s not yours.

The club comes to a standstill. His anger is tangible, hanging thickly in the air, the crowd watching in awe at the dark beauty that is Asmodeus, wings arching gracefully and the sweet scent of roses encircling him, entrancing those in his presence. He begrudgingly leaves your side, promising to return, chest tightening at the sight of you, his poor fragile human. The demon is on their knees, proclaiming their love so all can hear. His stomach churns in disgust; he’s heard enough. Wrenching the knife out of their grip, he drives it straight into their heart, watching their body drop to the ground. He carefully gathers you in his arms, walking into the cool Devildom night. The breeze tousles your hair, moonlight shining on your eerily pale face. Holding you as if his life depends on it, he makes the excruciating trek back to the House of Lamentation, praying this nightmare comes to an end. He’s beyond grateful your injuries aren’t fatal, yet he continues to sob, crawling into bed next to you. In the darkness of your room, he tells you you’re loved, apologizing, hoping you’ll forgive him once you awake.

BEELZEBUB

Beelzebub smiles to himself, taking pleasure in the delectable aroma of the lavish meal spread before him. Hunger overwhelms the Avatar of Gluttony, the emptiness filling his stomach particularly strong following an exhausting but rewarding workout. Hell’s Kitchen never fails to satiate his appetite, and your company proves to be the cherry on top, his eyes catching yours from across the room while you tend to the customers, causing his grin to widen in unbridled joy. He considers himself lucky to have you as his server, giving him the chance to talk to you when you stop by his table. A blush warms his cheeks at your touch, your fingers brushing along his lips to wipe away the crumbs on his face. He laughs, and you smile in return; he wishes to taste the sweetness of it, the craving difficult to ignore.

Gathering his used plates, he watches you disappear behind the kitchen doors, absentmindedly shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. He hums happily, wondering what he’ll order for dessert, drool dribbling down his chin as his thoughts return to you, the sweetest treat in the restaurant—no—the entire Devildom. Angry shouts startle him, and he nearly chokes, glancing up to see you thrown into the wall, dishes and food strewn about the floor. A demon hovers above you menacingly, your apologies drowned out by their incessant shrieking; Beelzebub’s fork clatters to his feet at the commotion. His demonic instincts take possession of him, the table overturning the second he stands, wings propelling him forward until he wedges himself between you and the lowly demon he glowers down at, their bones shattering after they connect with the hardened muscles of his abs. Beelzebub growls.

The demon pleads for forgiveness, though Beelzebub is merciless, enjoying the satisfying pop of their arm dislodging from the socket as he pulls them back and throws them through the wall, leaving behind a gaping hole in the building; a heavy silence hangs in the air, the patrons and staff avoiding his gaze. Dust settles around them, the aftershocks making the ceiling lamps sway, and the door fall off its hinges. He pays no mind, gently picking you up to hold you protectively against his chest. Your body trembles, bloody cuts and scrapes covering your skin, yet you look at him in adoration, showering him with words of gratitude. He chuckles, merely thankful you’re safe in his arms; he’s not planning to let you go any time soon either. Stepping over the debris, he escorts you home, carefully tending to your injuries in the privacy of your room where the two of you whisper your love for one another. His hunger is long forgotten, replaced by an unusual fullness as he kisses you, his heart overflowing with emotion.

BELPHEGOR

Belphegor’s heart stops when he hears you scream out in pain, falling to the floor at his feet. On instinct, he kneels beside you, arms pulling you into his protective embrace. He barely registers his own voice echoing in his ears, choking on your name in his desperation and fear. Blood stains your skin and his hands, slipping through trembling fingers despite his best efforts to staunch the flow. Your body grows limp, losing its familiar warmth, and his hope begins to vanish with it, the crushing weight of emptiness snaking its way into his soul. His gaze trails over the dark bruises on your neck to the blood at the corner of your mouth, tears clouding his vision and dampening your cheeks the moment he feels your pulse fade out under his touch.

Despair consumes him, his cries turning into howls of rage that shake the walls and shatter windows, unadulterated demonic energy rolling off him in waves. Looking up into the arrogant face of the demon who murdered you without mercy, he stiffens upon finding his own eyes staring back at him, an impish smile contorting his features. Your blood is on his hands, beneath his nails, splattered across his clothes. His doppelganger laughs at his stunned expression, tail flicking in amusement. Belphegor wonders if this is what you saw the day you freed him, the thought leaving him nauseated. Growling, he lunges forward to wipe that disgusting smirk from his lips as he wraps his hands around the Avatar of Sloth’s neck, tightening his grip until the bones give way, body sagging in defeat. He deserves far worse for hurting you.

The sound of his name diverts his attention, the world melting away around him, and he blinks in the dim light of the attic. Your face comes into focus above him, brows furrowed in worry. It takes him a second to gather his bearings, realizing your gentle fingers are wiping away his tears and brushing back his hair, his chest constricting at the sight of you alive. Sitting up, he draws you against him, savoring the heat of your body. He’s relieved when you simply hold him in return, allowing him to sob into the crook of your neck. Belphegor wants to apologize, to thank you for giving him a second chance although he never earned it, yet the words die on his tongue. Instead, he kisses you, pouring every ounce of the love he holds for you into the gesture. No one will hurt you again; that’s a promise he intends to keep.

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honey-milk-depresso · 1 year

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“Slip of the tongue, Is no fault of the mind..?” TWST First Years accidentally confess to you

It’s all in the title-MY HANDS REALLY TYPED T*EY CLOVER THINKING THIS IS HEARTSLABYUL AND NOT FIRST YEARS 💀 short scenario write up. Trying a new format shjsjsjdj

**TW: One cuss word from Epel

Ace Trappola

“Argh, you’re so infuriating sometimes, you know that?!” You exclaimed, frustrated with the ginger haired boy in front of you who scowled. “Whatever…” he mumbled, turning away from you as he rolled his eyes.

You flared. “ ‘Whatever’?! Ace, you imbecile, you literally took a blast from that delinquent when we could’ve told a professor! Now you’re stuck in the infirmary! And daring to fight him? How reckless can you get?!” you chided Ace, who once again rolled his eyes and turned away. Yet, his eyes lingered to your form with a lace of guilt in his seemingly annoyed frown. Why do you even worry about him? You always troubled yourself for him when he definitely wasn’t the best guy around.

Why would you still look out for someone as troublesome as he is? And worry about him and stay with him and… care for him? Why?

“What were you thinking when you did that?” Your angry voice rang into his ear. Something in him made him snapped in frustration, his control broken into half. He swiftly turned to face you with an enraged look on his face, making you flinch slightly. But the next thing he said made you feel as if time had stop.

“Because I like you okay?! Do you think I want you to take the hit?” Your breath hitched. Ace softened his frown to become shock, realising he accidentally confessed to you.

“I-I-” Ace tried to come up with an excuse before you cut him off.

“You idiot… I-if you really liked me, then you wouldn’t get hurt for me! Obviously I care about you!” You shouted, a frown etched on your face with a blush burning as red as his own blush…

Deuce Spade

Deuce didn’t expect himself to end up with bandaged knuckles over his callous (and currently bruised) hands in the infirmary.

“Deuce, you punched that punk, obviously it ended with a fight!” You knocked sense into the boy who just looked down while sulking, biting his cheek.

“Why did you even punched him anyway? Just because he upset you doesn’t give you the right to retaliate with violence, I told you that before, right?! Not for his sake, but for your sake that you don’t get into trouble!” you reasoned with a frustrated look on your face.

Never did Deuce expected for you to be the first one rushing to him in the infirmary with a flurry of questions about his well-being and what happened. His heart warmed to the fact you cared for him again. Time and time again, you cared for a delinquent like himself. Even if the past is the past, he couldn’t let go of his sins in history.

When that Savanaclaw delinquent called you a useless student with no magic, he felt that the punch he sent across that punk’s way was to make up for what he was back then, but also because he loved you. He always had.

“Deuce! Listen to me! Why did you punch him?” You asked again, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked at you with a slight frown, mumbling about how they insulted you.

You sighed. “I could have dealt with them you know.” Deuce didn’t know why or what made him say his thoughts out loud. Maybe he wanted to justify himself? Or was it out of impulse? Whatever the case, he just did.

“Well I love you obviously, why would I let him get away with it when he’s right there for me to stop him? What he says isn’t true about you! You’re an amazing, beautiful and-” Deuce stopped to catch on what he was saying, blushing along with your speechless form. “I- I mean-!” You cut him off when you kissed him just as impulsively as he was…

Jack Howl

You were the only one who got to water his cacti. After teaching you the basics, the two of you just never seem to separate from one another. Jack was watering a cactus when you called for him.

“Hey Jack!” You called for him excitedly as he hummed in response.

“You’re looking pretty… sharp with your cacti~” He halted. Did you really just say that?

“Also, hope your Alchemy Assignment doesn’t succ!” You grinned mischievously at him when he turned around with a puckered face.

Sometimes, you just pester him with overly lame puns anyone would grimace at. But even when he does so, you never fail to cheer him up, brighten his day like the sunshine you are.

Maybe that’s why he fell for you.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if you revised. After all, cactus makes perfect!” You giggled. His pretend frown on his face slowly contorted into a burst of laughter, the fam that finally broke the unleashed his bright smile and laugh that made you laugh too.

“Sevens, that was so lame…” he chuckled as he calmed down a little. You smiled too, but immediately open your mouth agape when he said the following.

“I love you so much.”

He smiled to himself, facing a burning red you as he looked baffled. “Are you sick…” he trailed off, finally realising what he said before his cheeks grew red, unsure of what he should say.

“Well, I, um…” he stuttered. “Really?” You finally asked him, his voice stuck in his throat.

Looks like his “cact-I” is turning into a “cact-US”~

Epel Felmier

The petite and small-framed boy hurried over to your dorm, a look of excitement on his face. He felt overjoyed when he smelt the scent of boiling spicy noodles that came from the kitchen and he found you preparing two bowls of it.

“The instant noodles are ready!” You smiled at him. Epel blushed a faint pink, smiling back at you. You’ve always treated him with kindness, you even called him “a man”, something he always wanted to hear. You even said it with sincerity and genuineness that it makes him smile stupidly to himself all the time when he recalled that moment.

It was no mystery to everyone else that he liked you.

Everyone else but you that is.

“Epel, do you like it,” you asked the boy beside you who was slurping the warm, comfort noodles. He never could eat instant noodles in Pomefiore without Vil reprimanding him that it’s unhealthy for his skin. “Yah! Thanks’a Y/n!”

“I’m glad you like them.”

“You always cook them, y/n, of course they’d be fuckin’ great!” He grinned from ear to ear, making you laugh at his rowdy antics showing. He faltered back. “Oh, er, sorry I mean-”

“Don’t worry, I get what you mean. And no I won’t tell Vil,” you giggled.

“Man, I seriously am in love with you.”

You froze, the noodles you were chewing were cut clean into half by your teeth, the noodles that fell out from your mouth splashed back into the hot soup. Epel didn’t thought much when he said that, let alone so confidently without plan after all the times he’s planned a confession for you before never uttering a word out.

You blushed a crimson red, and so does he. He swallowed the lump in his throat, carefully thinking of what his next words should say. “I- I er-” He completely flunked it.

Epel sighed, looking to the ground in shame. “I’m sorry… I really do but if ya don’t-”

“I love you, too.”

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek wasn’t someone lovey-dovey, or flowery with his language. He told his peers who discuss about love if he were to be in love, he’d just say it to their face with no hesitation.

…He said that before he met you.

Sebek couldn’t comprehend why he couldn’t just say it the moment he caught feelings, and it frustrates him. He planned and planned, but never could carry it out when he faces you.

“Sebek!” His heart raced, swiftly turning to your voice with a scowl on his face. “What is it, human?” he grumbled, secretly joyful about your arrival.

“I er… actually came to you for some advice…” you whispered, leaning closer to his ear as he shivered when he felt your hot breath tickle his ear. Sebek sighed. “What now?”

Honestly, of all the people in your gang he felt a bit lucky you chose him first (although I’m intrigued you did but eh- I would ask him how to make a protein shake-).

“There’s this guy who gave me a letter and… I think it’s a confession letter! He said he wanted to see me outside the gate..! W-what should I do?” He immediately furrowed his pale green brows. Of all things, why this? “Human, do you think I’m an expert in the foolish?” You turned away as you tapped your fingers together. “Well erm, you’ve always been straightforward… I wanted to tell him I’m not really sure if I want to be with that guy but it also gets my point across.”

Without thought, Sebek snatched the letter from your hands and dumped it in the trash can right next to him. “H-hey! Wha-!” And with really no rational thoughts going through him he exclaimed and cut you off, “Tell him you love me because I love you!”

He was furious about it. Unreasonably, yes, but to him it was. How did he accurately feel… what’s that word…? Ah yes.

He was definitely jealous.

A pink hue slowly bloomed to your cheeks, and upon realising what he shouted a red blush soon crept up his cheeks, too.

“H-human, I didn’t-”

“Did you meant it?” You asked as you bit your lip. The way you looked at him… in his head he felt as if you wanted him to say “yes”.

And he hopes he isn’t wrong.

Reblogs help! ^^

#ace trappola x reader #deuce spade x reader #jack howl x reader #epel felmier x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola #deuce spade #epel felmier #jack howl #sebek zigvolt #twst first years x reader #twst first years #twst fluff #twst scenarios #twst x reader scenarios

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sophiethewitch1 · 3 months

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Before any asks come in, I figured I'd do some for my current crowning hyperfixation, which is the boys. Did one for each of their initials but Dick got two because I couldn't choose <3

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! , gen soft yandere behavior, murder, kidnapping, dacryphilia, sadism/masochism

D = Darling (Beyond Morality, is Any Act Justified in Their Pursuit of Their Darling? Is Consent Merely an Obstacle to Be Overcome?):

Dick: Dick is the most moral of the yandere batfam, and considers doing the right thing very important. Of course, you’re still much, much more important but… He’ll definitely start small. He’s manipulative. Always begging and pleading for a little more of your time, whining when you don’t give it. And he does it openly, too, not even trying to hide it. Maybe that will absolve him of some of his sins, he thinks a little pathetically. Things like murder and other crimes are harder for him to get into, as he’s quite loyal to Bruce’s code. And he probably wouldn’t kidnap you, just move into your house instead, then your bedroom, then under the covers and with your arms around you. Very slowly, so he doesn’t scare you away. And as someone who has experienced s/a before, he wouldn’t do that to you. No matter how desperate, no matter how many nights he spends taking a suspiciously long time in the shower, he’d never do that to you. In the end, he just wants you to be happy so… so the other stuff doesn’t need to matter as much.

Damian: Damian has a very black and white form of thinking. It took Bruce a hell of a lot of work to change that, and with the advent of you in his life, he swings right back to that black and white. Morality is thrown right out the window when it comes to getting you, to getting you to love him. Murder? He’s done it before. Kidnapping? He’ll keep you safe with him. He’s a romantic, though (like they all are) and he wants you to love him back. He’s irritated that he can’t force that, that if he broke you, you wouldn’t be you. So in the end he won’t ever do anything too far, nothing that would truly get in the way of his goal. Still, with the kidnapping thing, you guys are just going to get stuck together for a while, because he’s certainly not letting you go. The two of you are just gonna have to suffer together till you inevitable fall in love with him. Don’t worry, he’s got a plan!

J = Jealousy (Does Jealousy Course Through Their Veins, Leading to Possessive Outbursts and a Relentless Need to Eliminate Perceived Threats?):

Jason: Jason is so unbelievably jealous it sometimes physically hurts. Like he’s being burned alive by it, which, well, he knows what that’s like so he can say it with confidence. He finds your presence calming, usually, but that first time he sees you laughing at a close friend’s joke, he realises you bring out every emotion in him. This time, fiery rage from the literal pits’ of hell. He won’t ever hurt you (and if he ever thinks of it, even for just a moment, the pure horror is enough of a cool bucket of icy water over his head to snap him out of it) but others? Oh, oh no. He left that silly ‘no killing’ code behind a long time ago, and he’s very glad for that as he beats one of your admirers into the concrete. And if you have other yanderes under your thrall? You’ll find yourself constantly breaking up fights, and maybe one day, cleaning up a body. Even then, Jason doesn’t like seeing you touch them, so he does it for you instead. What a sweet guy, eh?

R = Regret (Would Guilt Ever Be a Foreign Emotion, Overridden by the Conviction That Their Actions Are Justified? Is the Idea of Letting Their Darling Go Inconceivable?):

Richard/Dick: Constantly. Dick is constantly suffering under the weight of his choices, the way he’s treated you, the things he thinks about you. And even as he does it again, does worse, he’ll still have that bit of guilt in the back of his mind. He wants to stay with you, to fucking climb inside your rib cage and live next to the comforting sound of your beating heart, but he knows that’s all unhealthy. He sometimes can’t banish the guilt from his head, sometimes it’s overwhelming, and those are the moments he’ll back off a bit.

T = Tears (Does the Sight of Their Darling's Suffering Evoke a Twisted Pleasure, a Morbid Satisfaction Reinforcing Their Control?):

Tim (Going to play around with this one a bit, if you’ll forgive me): Tim is purely fascinated by you. He’s one of the yanderes who gets obsessed with you first, and falls for you second. Your tears, just simply by being a byproduct of you are fascinating to him too. And yeah, they turn him on. Everything about you turns him on, but the sight of your weepy face, has his cock weepy too. As a sadomasochist switch, he likes it when you’re suffering just a little bit. It’s just too cute to resist. But on the other side… he likes when you make him cry too. He likes when you hurt him, as long as you’re paying him attention, looking at him. He’ll cry all you like, if you think it makes him cute, too.

#Event:1kCelebration #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

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saintsenara · 4 months

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What is your rationale for disagreeing with the fanon that the horcruxes affected Voldemort's sanity?

that it's literally canon that they don't!

i obviously don't have an actual problem with people using the idea that the horcruxes affect voldemort's sanity as a trope, if that's what works for their story, but what irks me is that this idea is often repeated by voldemort enjoyers as canon fact, when the impact of horcruxes on cognitive function is spelled out clearly in half-blood prince:

Harry sat in thought for a moment, then asked, “So if all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort could be killed?” “Yes, I think so,” said Dumbledore. “Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like Voldemort even without his Horcruxes.”

in half-blood prince - as in every book prior to deathly hallows - dumbledore functions as the "word of god" character, which is to say that the information he provides us - as long as it relates neither to harry nor himself - isn't up for interpretation, it's understood within the narrative as correct. we can also be sure that he's done his research on horcruxes, knows exactly how they work, and is speaking as an expert when it comes to their impact on the mind - and we can also note that slughorn [who also seems to know what he's talking about when it comes to horcruxes and their function] doesn't mention them causing any cognitive damage when discussing them with the teenage tom riddle.

but nobody has ever made as many horcruxes as voldemort! maybe one doesn't affect the mind, but seven certainly could.

except this doesn't align at all with how the series understands the relationship between the soul and the will.

one of the central themes of the harry potter series is the value of choice. all of its main characters have narrative arcs which hinge - in some way or other - on them making a choice, very often the choice between what is right and what is easy. ron chooses to leave and then chooses to come back; hermione chooses to stay. sirius chooses to take a stand against the life his family expect of him. snape chooses to repent of his sins and work forever to atone for them. harry chooses to walk into the forest and die. lily chooses to ignore voldemort's request for her to stand aside.

all of these choices are made of the character in question's own free will - and the same applies to everything voldemort does in the series. he chooses to kill and to keep killing of his own free will, with the full capacity to understand his actions, and he refuses, right until the very end, to show the slightest bit of remorse for what he's done - and it is this, in the narrative's view, which makes his behaviour so heinous and which causes his behaviour to have such an impact on the state of his soul.

if we assume that voldemort's grasp on rationality declines with the number of horcruxes he makes, we are also assuming that his capacity to understand the full wickedness of his actions also declines - but his motivation for killing myrtle to make a horcrux and his motivation for killing frank bryce to make a horcrux are exactly the same: he wants to, and he doesn't give a solitary fuck about the life he's just taken.

and this stands in contrast to something else we see in canon - the idea that killing does not automatically have an impact on the soul:

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?” “You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” said Dumbledore.

this - the set-up to snape's mercy-killing of dumbledore - suggests that your soul is not harmed if you know without question that the death you cause is justified.

snape kills dumbledore of his own free will, but this suggestion also implies that it would be perfectly possible for the soul to remain unharmed if a killer was understood to be non compos mentis. that is, if someone lacked the capacity to understand their actions were not justified, then their soul would see them as "not guilty by reason of insanity" and not splinter.

voldemort's ability to make so many horcruxes in the first place, then, must depend on his capacity to understand exactly what he's doing - to know he could choose not to kill and then still do it anyway.

and we do actually see in canon that - while he's shown to be someone who kills with the slightest provocation in the films - the voldemort of the books is clinical and methodical in his violence:

“Nice costume, mister!” He saw the small boy’s smile falter as he ran near enough to see beneath the hood of the cloak, saw the fear cloud his painted face: Then the child turned and ran away... Beneath the robe he fingered the handle of his wand... One simple movement and the child would never reach his mother... but unnecessary, quite unnecessary...

the canonical voldemort's known kill count is actually surprisingly low, and each of his victims is clearly selected with a rational [in the "does he have a disorder of thought?" sense, not in the "is this morally justifiable?" sense] motivation driving his decision to attack them - even if his actions are also affected by an emotional trigger [he does not, for example, kill his father or massacre the goblins who tell him that the cup was stolen for reasons which are irrational or delusional - incandescent fury or fear that your secret is out are not insanity].

voldemort kills and makes his horcruxes out of choice, and the series is clear that his capacity to understand that choice does not degrade across the course of his life.

ok, but you have to admit that he's definitely not... all there, personality wise...

sure. but i don't think this has anything to do with the horcruxes...

the idea that voldemort runs around shrieking and cackling to himself is an invention of the films. the canonical voldemort is shown to be lucid and thoughtful even in deathly hallows, he remains a formidable strategist right up until the end - and i think it's also worth noting that the films really gloss over just how successful his takeover of the government is - and his prodigious intellect and magical talent are acknowledged by the order throughout the series.

his more volatile personality traits - his fondness for monologuing, his rapid switching between being superficially charming and feral, his tendency to get lost in his own obsessions, his emotional brittleness - are all ones the eleven-year-old riddle is shown to possess, and i think it's much more interesting to explore the idea that they remain aspects of the person he once was which the adult voldemort cannot hide behind the mask he has constructed.

but - yes - its certainly true that the resurrected voldemort of order of the phoenix onwards is more paranoid, harder to soothe, crueller to his death eaters, more inflexible in his thinking and so on than he is implied to have been in the 1970s, and so i understand why many readers interpret this as evidence that his last two horcruxes [harry and nagini] - plus the arcane horror of his resurrection ritual - might have sent him round the bend.

but i think that the implication of canon is that this behaviour has much more mundane causes.

in october 1981, all the evidence we have is that voldemort is about to win. he is an unassailable terrorist kingpin with an army of highly-trained, highly loyal minions and - we can assume - widespread popular support.

and then only four of these supporters try to find him.

it's clear - as we can tell from the fact that barty crouch jr. is so shocked to discover that he didn't massacre the reassembled death eaters where they stood - that voldemort is livid that none of his "loyal" servants came to rescue him from the tree in albania his soul piece was hiding in, choosing instead to pretend they were under the imperius curse and that they'd never have been seen dead supporting him had they been in their right minds. it's also clear that he has no choice but to welcome these death eaters back to the fold once he's resurrected because he'd have no core supporters otherwise.

but it's also clear that he doesn't trust any of them one single bit once their commitment is proven to be so fragile - and that it is this, this evidence that he's just a human being with human feelings, rather than a creature of pure magic whose mind has been warped by that magic, which provides a much, much more interesting explanation for his increasing volatility as the war draws to its conclusion.

voldemort is at his most interesting - in my opinion - when his humanity [and his failure to outrun it] is foregrounded. this isn't incompatible with his creation of the horcruxes at all. but it is, i think, incompatible with the idea that they warp his mind.

#asks answered #asenora meta #tom riddle #lord voldemort

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 3 months

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Aziraphale's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins (S1)

I love Aziraphale.

VAINGLORY, OR PRIDE! Be very proud of tasks that you firmly believe you have successfully accomplished (even if you really, really have not)!

GREED! No matter how many books you have, it's never enough! Selling books? Spreading knowledge? Fuck no, keep them all.

LUST! What better way to indulge in lust than to make bedroom eyes at the Serpent of Eden, a demon, the original temptress?

ENVY! Come now, what's life if you don't indulge in a bit of salty bitchy sweet babygirl energy when your life is not as perfect as everyone else's? How dare the poor people live while you're being guillotined for having good fashion and wanting a crepe?

GLUTTONY! Speaking of crepes, hey, it's always good to eat food even when your body doesn't need it. The more alcohol you can drag into the matter, the better! (Combine with tempting the said demon for extra sin!)

WRATH! No Sins Bucket List is complete without some good old rage. It doesn't have to be justified! You don't have to direct it at the person it's meant for! No, if your lover is nearby, it's alright, you can both use wrath on each other to miscommunicate more effectively!

SLOTH! Hey, the best for last! If you don't indulge in sloth, how else can you piss off the Supreme Archangel when he asks you to jog with him? We can't have stamina (save that for the lust!) for exercise!

STAY TUNED FOR MORE TIPS FROM AZIRAPHALE, YOUR LOCAL GUIDE TO ALL THE MUST-DO SINS!

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heademptyonlydoomsday · 3 months

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I think that a lot of the time when people talk about Chip and his upbringing they don’t realize how influential Price was.

Here’s the thing, without Reuben I believe Chip fully would’ve been able to move on from the Black Rose. I mean when you look at Lizzie she moved on almost completely and has a new life but Chip is stuck. The difference between what happened between them was that Lizzie was able to stick to her morals, she was able to follow a path she wanted and she kept the lessons they taught her. But Chip went to Price. He was forced to do things he didn’t believe in to survive. And more than that, acting that way and appealing to Price meant that he recieved love. And when I listen back to the Fey Wild arc and Chip says, ”Well he isn’t here” to justify doing something bad I can only think of Price because those words are the words he said to Chip about Arlin. After a while that thought drove deep into him. But the thing is he knows that the things he does (that Reuben taught) are bad and he wants to be a better person but he can’t because Arlin isn’t here. Chip doesn’t think he can be a good person without Arlin. So he looks for him because that is the closest he can get to self improvement. He’s hoping that Arlin will be his savior. He’s hoping that when he saves Arlin he will be forgiven for his sins. Captain Reuben Price made it so Chip could never fully move on.

This is one of the reasons I love his character so much which is funny because initially I absolutely hated him. He took advantage of Gillions naïve view on the world and he did initially use Gillion and Jay to forward his goal of finding Arlin. Trying to become a good person while being a bad friend. But he does become better at it. Through their adventures he’s become a much better person but, like with what happened with the lie with Edyn, he keeps messing up and he’s exhausted. Now he thinks that finding Arlin will stop that. He thinks it will mean no more mistakes like becoming a good or perfect person is a switch he can flip. So far he’s becoming better naturally but what does happen when he finds Arlin and as I suspect Arlin is changed and doesn’t like Chip anymore or what if he’s dead. Then Chip has no savior. Despite all the progress he has made he’ll give up on the idea of becoming a good person. He’ll think he’s broken beyond repair and I fear for him.

All this to say I hate Reuben Price.

#jrwi #just roll with it #jrwi riptide #chip jrwi #jrwi chip #reuben price #jrwi reuben price #just roll with it: riptide #just roll with it chip

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 10 months

Text

Deathless Death

Pairing: Osferth x nameless female character (third person perspective) Warnings: Religious guilt. Smut. Fingering. Slight exhibitionism. Oral (f receiving). Gratuitous Hozier references. Word count: 3.5k

Summary: When a young woman's father is killed following Skade's attack on the priests of Alton, Osferth agrees to take responsibility for her, feeling a need to protect a fellow Christian. However, the longer they travel together the deeper they have each other questioning their faith. Based on this request. Series masterlist.

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

The Lord works in mysterious ways. This is a belief that Osferth has always clung firmly to, it is the only way he can justify his existence; the result of a union between a serving girl and a deeply religious king who, so embarrassed by his extramarital indiscretion, had ensured that Osferth was enrolled as a novice monk as soon as he was old enough, and refused to ever acknowledge him as his son.

Osferth is a bastard, yet he must have a purpose, for God does not give life without intent. He feels he has found his reason for being when he crosses paths with Uhtred, a man his uncle, Leofric, had always spoken kindly of. He offers to serve Uhtred as a warrior, though he has no fighting experience. This is the divine path chosen for him, he is certain of it. He clutches the hilt of his sword as tightly as he often grips the cross that sits around his neck in times of anguish, and does his best to be brave in spite of how afraid he feels.

Reluctantly he learns the ways of ale and women, surprised when the Lord does not smite him down for his sins. He surmises that he has misinterpreted the teachings of the Holy Book; a life of piety does not have to mean an existence endured in abstinence. Though his faith in God never once falters, he grows to enjoy, and even seek out, the pleasures he’d once mistaken for temptations. They are not a means for him to stray from the light, but another outlet in which he can revere it and give thanks.

It is not until he reaches the village of Alton with Uhtred and his men that he discovers the true purpose of the journey he has embarked upon. A group of Danes with a seeress named Skade in their midst has attacked the village, killing all of its holy men.

That is where he finds her. Such a fragile looking thing, sobbing her heart out while huddled behind a vegetable cart, clutching her cross in much the same way he used to do with his.

“Don’t be afraid.” He reassures her calmly, crouching so his face is level with hers.

“Are you an angel?” She asks tearfully, her eyes wide and imploring.

Osferth cannot help but smile at that. For you I’d like to be.

With gentle persuasion, Uhtred agrees to allow Osferth to bring the girl along, provided he is responsible for her. He is all too happy to agree to that. Her mother is long dead and the attack on Alton has killed her father, she has no one else. He was meant to meet her, he feels it in his heart.

Naturally, she is fearful of the others, her only prior encounter with heathens had ended in the death of her only living relative and left her all alone in the world. She clings to Osferth, but he does not mind it. He sees a lot of himself in her, how scared he’d been when he’d first left the monastery to accompany Uhtred. But if she is anything like him, she is resilient and she will pull through this.

As the weeks pass, her face becomes less marred by fear and grief. She is beautiful, Osferth realises. He has been grateful to have someone to bow his head in prayer with, however, the way that she snuggles next to him for warmth in front of the campfire, how closely she leans back against his chest as they ride together and the proximity in which she lays her bed roll next to his no longer feel so innocent, at least not to him.

He feels ashamed for harbouring such illicit thoughts about her. Her piety makes him feel like he is the worst kind of sinner. She does not partake in ale and stays quiet when the rest of the group share lewd jokes. Where her prayers are earnest and heartfelt, his feel flimsy and disingenuous. He would renounce the Lord and worship her instead if she asked it of him. The idea makes his stones ache. When she shivers and huddles to him for warmth it occurs to him that he’d burn everything in his path if only for her to never feel cold again.

Guilt blooms heavily in his chest at the thoughts and feelings she elicits from him, especially when she looks at him, her eyes are always filled with gratitude and adoration. He has grown to crave her gaze, despite the fact that she will never view him as anything more than a protector.

When it becomes too much for him to bear, he seeks the comfort of the nearest brothel. With each thrust into the whore beneath him, he imagines her face, how those hands that fold so delicately in prayer would feel clinging to his shoulders, how soft and supple her flesh would be against the wiry hardness of his own. When he reaches his peak, picturing her, he comes harder than he ever has before in his life. It feels like he has died and approached the very gates of Heaven.

If that is how it feels merely to think about her, he wonders what it would be like to actually be inside of her. It would surely feel holy and sacred, a pleasure not meant for mere mortals. For the second time that night he craves her, and so he seeks out another woman offering her services in the pleasure house.

He pays them well, and he is not unkind to them. He is convinced that that is why they fight over him the next day. He is mortified, especially when he sees that she is watching. She will think him godless, sinful. He hopes that the Lord is merciful and does not intend for her to leave him. He sends a silent prayer of thanks when she remains by his side in the days that follow.

It is not until Uhtred, Sihtric and Finan pay a visit to Alfred, and leave Osferth and her back at camp that he realises they’ve never truly been alone together. He shifts uncomfortably on the log he sits upon, glancing up from the flames of the fire every so often at her, unsure of what to say. She eyes him curiously the entire time, the warmth from the fire and the sunny afternoon meaning she does not snuggle to him as she usually would. Secretly he is disappointed.

“Do you still believe in God?” She asks quietly.

Her gaze is timid and as Osferth turns to meet her eye, she looks to her lap as though ashamed to have asked.

“Of course I do, my lady,” He replies softly, smiling at her. He wants more than anything for her to look at him again, there is something reverent in the way she regards him that makes his chest swell and his cock twitch. He could die happily with a single glance his way from her. “My faith has never waivered.”

“You are not as devout as the people from back home.” Her fingers pinch and stroke over the fabric of her skirt as she says this, not looking up at him as he sits across from her.

“I used to be,” He admits with a slight shrug, wondering if she thinks less of him for his perceived lack of faith. “I suppose travelling with Uhtred has taught me that faith does not mean deprivation. The Lord made life for living.”

She nods, her voice barely above a whisper, as her eyes flicker to his. “Is that why you visit brothels, and why those women fight over you?”

He feels his cheeks heat up as she asks this, and suddenly it’s his turn to look away, embarrassed. He takes a moment to consider his reply, not wanting to sully her innocence with vulgarity, or say anything that might frighten her. “I was celibate when I was a monk…” He begins awkwardly. “I’m not anymore. Truthfully, partaking in the pleasures of the flesh feels like the closest experience to meeting God without dying.”

He knows he has turned pink all the way to the tips of his ears by the time he finishes speaking, he cannot bear to look at her for fear of what he might see in her eyes. She must think he is utterly depraved.

The moment of silence between them hangs thick and uncomfortable before she finally breaks it. “If that is why you are fought over…then I am eager to find out for myself.”

His head snaps up, his eyes wide, stunned and unsure of if he has heard correctly, it seems too forward a statement for such a pious little thing like her. However, her stare is steady and unwavering as it meets his, causing his breath to hitch. He hadn’t misheard her and she meant every word.

The cracking of a twig causes them to finally look away from each other, as they turn to see the others returning. He has never been displeased to see any of them before, but can’t help but wish they’d left it a little longer to come back.

Her words play on a loop in Osferth’s thoughts. I am eager to find out for myself. He frantically strokes himself to release that night, once more plagued by visions of her, the silkiness of her hair, her scent, the dulcet tone of her giggle. There is no sweeter innocence in his mind than the gentle sin that he shares with her.

There is a storm the following evening. Though they are camped beneath a thatch of trees, protected from the worst of the downpour, it does little to block out the boom of the thunder and the crackle of lightning. She whimpers at every crash, clearly frightened, and Osferth’s heart aches for her. He’d do anything to make sure the expression of fear and sadness she wore for the first few weeks they traveled together never returns.

He pulls her tight to him, wrapping the furs around them both as they sit around the fire with the others. They don’t bat an eye at the familiarity between the two, understanding of the fact that she finds comfort in a fellow Christian’s presence and that Osferth is simply offering kindness to someone in need of it.

She melts into his embrace and he allows his hands to wander over her beneath the furs, tracing the curves of her through her dress. He has never dared to touch her like this before and she looks up at him questioningly, though makes no move to stop him.

Emboldened by her silent consent, he strokes her hair with his free hand, while allowing the other to push up her skirt. She gasps at this and buries her face in his chest. He holds her tighter while Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric continue their conversation, all assuming she is just startled by the storm that rages above them.

Her inner thighs are velvety smooth as his fingertips trace over the flesh of them. Not even angel’s wings feel as divine as this, he thinks. As the pads of his digits make contact with the gusset of her smallclothes he draws in a shaky inhale at finding that it is damp with her arousal. It darkens the desire within him to have confirmation that she is just as affected by him as he is by her, and he pushes her underclothes to the side, stroking through the slickness of her folds.

She shudders against him, her breathing growing heavier and he quietly shushes her, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. He looks up to see Finan give him a sympathetic smile, clearly assuming Osferth is comforting her, before he is distracted by Uhtred swatting him softly with the back of his hand in order to gain back his attention.

Osferth looks back down at her, she is peeking up at him from where her head rests against his chest and in the flicker of the firelight he can see that her pupils are wide with lust. It is a look he has seen on the faces of many of the women within the pleasure houses he’s visited over the years. To see it burning bright within the eyes of someone so pure is enough to drive him to madness with the desire it awakens within him.

Shielded from view beneath the furs, he circles her pearl with precision, silently delighting in the way she clutches at his robes and bucks slightly up at his hand. He feels she’s growing close when her body tenses against his and she stares up at him, worry evident in how her brows pinch together. Poor thing has never peaked before.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” He murmurs, coaxing her to let go.

He cradles her head to his chest as she trembles and gasps against him, before finally going limp. Osferth withdraws his hand, allowing her to slump sleepily against him, smiling softly down at her as her eyes drift closed.

He knows in that moment that she will be both his salvation and his damnation, and he welcomes both with open arms.

It is another week before they are left alone together, and life carries on as normal. They do not speak of what happened beneath the furs on the night of the storm, despite the fact that it’s all Osferth can think about.

The others head away from camp one evening to scout the locations of a possible attack from the Danes. It is too dangerous for her to come along, so Osferth remains behind so she is not left alone. This time she seats herself next to him, and he feels his mouth run dry, heart hammering in his chest as he struggles to think of what to say to her.

He startles when she places her hand on his. “You are right,” She says with a shy smile. “It felt…like something divine…when you touched me.”

Osferth swallows thickly. “You liked it?” He asks, already knowing the answer, but desperate to hear her say it.

She nods, chewing her lip nervously. “I did. Does that make me a sinner?”

His eyes widen in mild horror that she could ever consider herself such. “No, that is something you could never be.”

“I am not repentant though,” She muses, her eyes slowly meeting his. “I have thought of nothing else.”

“That is only natural.” He tells her, suddenly aware of how close their faces are, noses almost brushing. His gaze flits to her lips momentarily. Osferth has never kissed a woman before, though he has fucked plenty; the ones he exchanges coin with do not allow such intimate gestures. He desperately wants to kiss her though.

He is surprised by her boldness when she leans in first. It is a quick peck to his lips, which she rapidly withdraws from, looking sheepish. He cups her cheek, coaxing her back and presses his mouth to hers with more pressure. She softens against the movement and for a moment it feels as though time has stopped for Osferth. There is only her. It is a kiss riddled with youthful inexperience and yet he does not think there has ever been anything better.

“Will you…” She mutters against his lips, clearly uneasy with attempting to ask for what she wants.

“Touch you?” He finishes for her.

“Yes,” She whispers, “I want to feel…” She places a hand over her face, giggling. “I have never laid with a man before. I do not know what to ask for.”

“It’s okay.” He reassures her. “I understand.” Osferth coaxes her to sit on his lap as she had the night of the storm, only this time there are no furs to cover them, and he rucks her skirt up around her hips, rather than slipping his hand beneath it.

“Take these off for me.” He says, plucking at her smallclothes.

She does as he instructs and he pulls her tight against him, her back flush with his chest as his arm snakes around her waist, dipping his hand between her legs. She is wet already and he cannot help the groan that escapes him as his fingers make contact with her core.

He circles her bud slowly and she clamps her mouth shut, cutting off the mewl that threatens to spill forth.

“You don’t have to be quiet this time.” He tells her, as she turns her face into his neck, her breath coming in hot puffs against his skin.

Tentatively he dips a finger into her entrance, conscious of the fact that she has never had anything inside of her before - the thought that he is the first makes him swell painfully hard against her rear as it presses back into his lap. Her grip on his digit as he inserts it is vice-like and he wonders how she’d feel squeezing around the length of him, if she ever allows him to take things that far.

He sets a steady rhythm of dragging his finger against a rough patch inside of her that causes sounds that are prettier than any of the songs he’s heard at æfensang to spill forth from her, while circling her pearl with his thumb.

She squirms against him, her arm reaching above and behind her to wrap around his neck, her fingers scrabble desperately at the back of his robes. Her jaw is slack, her eyes glassy and Osferth believes that if the Heavens could speak then her wanton cries of pleasure would be their mouthpiece.

She falls apart with a violent shudder, clenching ceaselessly around his finger and he withdraws it slowly as she begins to calm, continuing to hold her close. Though he is pleased to have brought her to peak, he feels disappointed that the moment is over so soon. He wants, needs, longer to enjoy her.

“You are so beautiful.” He whispers to her, pressing his face to her hair. “Will you allow me to taste you?”

“Taste me?” She asks, confusion etched across her pretty features. “I do not know what you mean.”

“I will show you.” He tells her, ushering her off of him and laying down. “Come here.”

There is no question in Osferth’s mind that he would ever allow her to lay upon the ground, she is too good for that. He will gladly let her sit atop him so that she never has to experience that indignity or discomfort.

He guides her to straddle him, pushing her upwards towards his face, but she falters.

“Osferth, I’ll crush you!” She protests, hovering above him.

“You won’t, my lady.” He tells her with a soft chuckle, tugging insistently at her thighs.

She relents, hovering over his face. “What are you going to…oh!”

He cuts her off, gripping her outer thighs and runs the flat of his tongue against her centre. He can taste the remnants of her previous climax and hums at the sensation. She is sweeter than honeyed wine, an essence so pure it must be holy.

Tugging her flush against his face he laps at her like a man starved, sucking harshly against her pearl, before licking hungrily through the slick that gathers as she whines and writhes above him. If there is a Heaven then he has found it between her thighs and never wants to leave.

He strains painfully against his breeches beneath his robes as she begins to lose control, grinding against each flick of his tongue. He knows she will not last long, already sensitive from his earlier attention and so he savours each moment; her taste, her scent, the feel of her against his mouth and how she moves against him. She is a vision of beauty beyond comprehension as she sits astride him, thread thrown back, moans of ecstasy offered up to the night sky.

She was created in the image of all things good and pure, and his journey so far has led him to her; she is made for him, of this he is certain as she reaches the apex of her pleasure. He swallows down her release like it’s communion wine. In her gratification he is cleansed, reborn.

Osferth lays her down carefully on her bed roll afterwards, covering her body with his own. She appears almost drunk as she gazes up at him, eyes heavy lidded with a soft smile upon her lips.

“My sweet girl,” He coos to her, softly stroking her face. “Can you take more? Will you let me inside?”

As she opens her mouth to answer, the raucous laughter of Finan can be heard in the near distance. The group is returning.

Osferth moves quickly away from her, laying down on his own sleeping mat, watching her as her eyes flutter closed. He hopes she will dream of him. He hopes they will have further opportunities to explore each other. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and she is the most precious mystery he has yet to encounter.

#osferth #osferth x reader #osferth smut #the last kingdom #TLK #osferth fan fiction #osferth fanfiction #osferth fan fic #osferth fanfic #the last kingdom fan fiction #the last kingdom fanfiction #the last kingdom fan fic #the last kingdom fanfic #ewan mitchell

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