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literarycinematics · 8 months

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so i`ve fallen back down the my immortal rabbit hole again (again), and i`ve been looking into the whole toby debacle and rose christo`s book and xXblo0dyxkissxX and ravenisaposer and all that jazz. and overall it just got me thinking about a lot of things.

of course there are obvious questions like whether it`s a troll or not and wtf was going on with the hackings, but i mostly just keep coming back to why the real tara and raven (if those are their real names) would keep hiding after all this time. are they too embarrassed? i mean, it`s been over 15 years, i doubt it would be held against them; they won`t get the same reaction today as they got back then. it has a cult following online and is pretty much unknown offline. do they not care enough to get involved? it`s so widely known, you`d think that even if they didn`t care they would still say something, especially with the amount of people who do care. are they just so far removed from this part of the internet that they don`t even know how big it`s gotten? i don`t buy that. even when they were still writing it, it was ridiculously popular by 2000s fanfiction standards. for this theory to be true, it would mean that one day in 2007 they just stopped interacting with any of their previous interests and forgot, never to even THINK about it again (not even enough to Google it or check out their old accounts!). this thing lasted 2 years and garnered massive amounts of both hate and support, so i find it unlikely that they just forgot about it.

as for theories that seem more likely to me, it`s very possible that the real author(s) confessed already, only to get drowned out by the noise of all the other sensationalized stories. there have been dozens of authorship claims that have been debunked or just straight-up waved away without any follow-up, so it`s not unlikely. it`s also completely possible that they just don`t want to relive bad memories associated with that era of their life/lives. that`s a valid decision. considering what the attitudes towards them were like at the time. the bullying they received was intense and disgusting, especially if they really were young teenagers, and/or were struggling with mental health problems. hell, maybe they just don`t want the media attention! we saw what happened with tara and raven, the acidbath princess of darkness, and how people doxxed and harrassed them to no end just for being teenagers having fun. it isn`t uncommon to want privacy.

assuming that it wasn`t a trollfic, there are also the sadder possibilities, situations wherein they are simply unable to tell anyone. they might not have the means or the freedom to come clean about it all (e.g. toxic relationships, imprisonment, extreme poverty), or perhaps simply can`t prioritize thinking about something so old and trivial (e.g. dealing with health or financial issues, familial strife). or, of course, the conclusion that i came to after my first foray into the my-immortal-verse: they`re dead. thousands of people have been looking for them for over a decade, and whether they want to be found or not, it seems...odd, that everything that`s come up has been a dead-end, that we don`t have any more idea now than we did then as to who wrote it. additionally, so much of my immortal included seriously heavy subjects, using sexual assault, pedophilia, self-harm, and suicide as plot devices to the point that it isn`t hard to imagine that if tara and raven truly were real people, telling at least partial truths about themselves, they were dealing with some serious suicidal ideation. a dark mental space of that kind would only have been magnified by the haters and hackings of their work, perhaps leading them to an irreversible decision, the permanent solution to any problem. held in tandem with the number of weird implications that raven died (yes, i know many of them were unrelated or complete lies, but that`s beside the point), it`s easy to come to the conclusion that one or both of the writers has passed away. and as much as i try to look at alternatives, that`s just what my mind keeps coming back to.

i believe that raven and tara were real people. fictionalized, yes, but they weren`t characters, and they weren`t writing a satire -- at least not fully. i think that they were teenage girls who were persecuted for having "weird" interests, who were considered overzealous or overpassionate, and who decided to vent their frustrations and express themselves through idealized versions of themselves on the internet. they used common alt names, or maybe took inspiration from teen titans, and started writing about the things they were into: vampires, gc, mcr, self-harm, satanism, etc. oh yeah, and harry potter. maybe they had fun with it, made it dramatic and dumb on purpose, but i think they had some degree of genuine intentions. the way they casually throw around topics like self-harm gives off the impression of kids just saying things they`ve heard online to express genuine emotions without a full understanding of what it really implies. not to mention, i know so, so many people who truly were outcasts in real life, who turned to writing bad mary-sue fanfiction on fanfiction.net (later wattpad and ao3) to help them cope with their loneliness. the author(s) of my immortal read the same way that a lot of people involved in 2000s emo internet subculture read, between the spellings and the slang and the interests, and i can totally imagine tara gilesbie being some misunderstood tween that got involved in it all. hence, i can totally imagine her getting hurt when her magnum opus started getting flamed.

and hey, if it was a troll, colour me impressed. they have my full respect for inventing such a weirdly believable and relatable "author", for giving us chronically online nerds a compelling mystery, for putting so much work into the interconnectedness and the meta-story of tara and raven`s accounts, and for writing quite literally the greatest piece of literature of all time. i can only hope that i can one day be as dedicated to something as that, because THAT is how you write a fucking parody. it`s just brilliant, what else can i say. i`ll even give all of the tara impersonators credit where credit is due; they gave us all one hell of a story. talk about committing to the bit. that said, the anti-climactic ending was distinctly un-troll-like though, so there`s that.

i sincerely hope that wherever tara and raven are nowadays, regardless of whether those were real identities or not, they`re living their best lives. if the intentions behind my immortal were genuine, i hope that tara is working as an alternative fashion designer and that raven is a professional book editor, both significantly healthier, happier, and more well-adjusted than they were when they wrote their masterpiece. if the whole thing was an elaborate joke, i hope that whoever made it is still taking pride in their insane creation, and that they appreciate the ridiculousness of just walking around, doing everyday things, while knowing in the back of their minds that they wrote my immortal. i hope beyond hope that none of my "sadder possibilities" for why they haven`t revealed themselves are true, and that there is a simpler, more mundane reason that they haven`t said anything. maybe they did just forget about it.

the thing, though, with my immortal is that it is almost impossible to come to a conclusion about anything because we know so damn little. without any real confirmed information, questions remain questions. have i made any good points throughout this whole thing? maybe. depends on what we assume to be true about the sincerity of...well, any of it. even within my own diatribe, i`ve contradicted my stance on raven and tara`s mental health struggles; were they broken down and spiralling, depicting dark scenarios that echoed their own problems with mental illness, or were they calling themselves "wrist-slitters" to sound edgy because that`s what they saw other people doing? i don`t know. i haven`t come to any concrete judgment and it`s possible that i never will. here`s hoping that sometime this decade we`ll finally find answers.

what happened with justin, if he existed? what happened between tara and raven? how authentic were the hackings? were the toby-tara emails real? was i secretly toby all along? if the fic was a troll, how many people were working on it? what was the inspiration behind it? troll or not, what`s dubya? why did it stop being written? how does the author feel about the false authorship claims, assuming they know about them? how do they feel about the mcr reunion tour? how old are they? and WHY THE FUCK DO WE STILL NOT KNOW WHO THEY ARE?

there`s not really a point to this whole rant, i just felt the need to express how i feel about this whole thing. i needed to get all of these thoughts out of my brain. there`ll be more in the future, i`m sure, because this is one thing that absolutely haunts me at night. i know i go on about november 5th and the way it broke tumblr but if we ever ACTUALLY learn who tara and raven are, with proof and everything, not a repeat of rose christo... that will be the day that we crash this goddamned hellsite.

#my immortal is my roman empire #maybe i wrote it in a fugue state when i was a baby #fangz to sarah z and strange aeons for introducing me to this thing in the first place and inspiring me to get consumed by it over and over #my brain is utterly rotted because of this #my immortal #rose christo #tumblr culture #ari articulates #long post

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transfemlogan · 11 months

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im thinking So Hard abt how roman & logan were treated in the earlier years of the fandom.

#treated as inherent villains because of how they treated everyones fave characters: patton & virgil #& its especially interesting 2 me bcuz of the parallels between them & janus (though janus' hate was on a much more extreme level)#i have a lot of. thoughts & i cannot exactly. phrase #& theyre kind of all over the place #like. how ppl infantalised virgil & patton but couldnt infantalise roman & logan due 2 their personalities & traits #the straight up PARALLELS 2 how early fans treated roman & logan 2 how the sides treated the dark sides #like. how can a fandom so easily miss the point in the series they are watching?#its so fucking strange #watching a series' morals & storyline get so easily ignored #like . prev posts i talked abt how ppl miss the point of accepting mistakes. ppl missed the entire point of virgils arc #accepting virgil despite him being “mean” bcuz he was just trying 2 help c!thomas. he shouldnt be demonised #but people could not take that & apply it 2 logan & roman #& couldnt apply it 2 janus #& then couldnt apply it 2 patton once everyone started 2 dog pile him #its . fucking insane 2 me sorry im .#like. how do you MISS THE POINT . OF THE THING YOURE WATCHING SO BAD??#i know that its bcuz a lot of sasi fans r. children. but it just hrughoarugh #revy.txt #SORRY IM HAVING SO MANY SASI THOUGHTS RN JESUS

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somewhereincairparavel · 21 days

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Percy this. Percy that. It was always about Percy Jackson. All the fucking time.

It was always about the Hero of Olympus, the one who defeated Kronos and led the battle of Manhattan, the one who was offered immortality by the king of the gods himself, the one who restored glory to Rome by returning the golden eagle, the one who became praetor of the Roman camp in 2 weeks with limited training.

His Roman camp. Jason Grace's Roman camp.

Percy Jackson had pulled off everything in 2 weeks that Jason Grace wasn't able to accomplish despite dedicating his whole life for duty. 11 years of blood, sweat and tears, simply gone down the drain.

Jason had failed his camp. He had failed his home. Turns out, he wasn't as great as the people of Rome had once preached about him. It was obvious considering the less than warm welcome he had gotten from his so-called “home”.

He received no hugs, no cheers, no “we missed you jason!”, no “I was so worried about you!” or even a single pat on the arm by his “friend” Dakota. Dakota and Gwendolyn hadn't even spared a glance at him.

Nothing. Instead, this new Jackson boy was held up to worship like a god amongst the people who once considered Jason a “hero”.

Jason laughed bitterly. Was it selfish of him to be disappointed with Reyna? With a pang, he got to know that Reyna hadn't sent a single search party out to look for her “best friend”. Not like Annabeth did for Percy, not like Thalia did for Percy.

With a pang, he got to know that the whole camp basically deemed him as ‘dead’ and Reyna hadn't even set up a memorial of remembrance for him. The camp had simply moved on with their new hero. Without a single shred of thought for Jason Grace.

The forgotten Hero. The lost hero. Jason Grace.

These thoughts of doubt gnawed on Jason's mind, slowly eating him up ever since he'd first seen Percy Jackson in those damned praetor togas that once belonged to him.

He didn't dislike the boy, of course not, it wasn't Percy's fault that Hera wiped their memories or switched camps.

But it was hard for Jason to not resent him, or feel even the tiniest amount of envy, knowing that Reyna willingly replaced him with Jackson. Very quickly too, at that. He overheard Octavian blabbing to his lackeys about how Reyna “was head over heels for Percy almost immediately”

“I guess that's it. Maybe I am someone who is easy to replace.” Jason thought, his eyes pricking as he looked over from the flying ship, at the place he once used to call home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jason watched remorsefully as Thalia, Grover, Percy and Annabeth were all gathered at the table in camp half blood, cracking jokes about dam french fries or whatever that meant.

Thalia caught Jason's eyes, staring at all of them from a distance. She smiled softly, and gave him a tiny wave. He weaved his lips into something that was meant to look like a wry smile, but it came out as a slight grimace, as he waved back.

Thalia was so close to Jason, yet so far away.

He knew she loved him, but it felt different. And an annoying, nagging part of Jason had known that Thalia would never be as close to him as she was to Annabeth or Percy.

Ironic isn't it? Jason and Thalia were always connected since they came from the same womb, yet she was closer to Annabeth, a girl she'd found after she had run away from the same woman that had given Jason to the wolves. The same woman who had turned his life upside down by abandoning him.

Thalia had found Annabeth right after she thought she had lost Jason. In a strangely ironic way, Jason felt like he'd been replaced all over again.

Thalia had replaced Jason as a younger sibling with Annabeth without even realizing it, all of this took place mere months after a baby Jason was considered to be dead. This situation had strangely reminded him of Camp Jupiter, how he was replaced by Percy right after Jason was considered “dead” by Camp Jupiter.

This made Jason reach the possibility that if he were indeed “dead”, he wouldn't be missed. People wouldn't bat an eyelash. Since there was always someone better than him. Someone like Percy Jackson, who could easily fill the void Jason would leave behind.

His eyes watered, as he looked at how much fun his sister had with his friends. Knowing full well, that he'd never be able to do the same.

Jason felt ashamed that he had to ask Percy about Thalia’s likes and dislikes, he was thalia’s brother. He was supposed to know.

Jason watched as Thalia quickly hugged the trio, as she left their table to leave with the hunters, not even realizing that there was one person whom she forgot to hug.

Don't take it personally. Don't take it personally. She just forgot. She doesn't hate you. She just forgot. She doesn't prefer Percy over you. She's in a hurry. That's why she forgot. Jason repeated that like a mantra, the only person he was trying to convince was himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“And he rejected immortality!- oh you should've seen Zeus' face!” Annabeth exclaimed to Hazel excitedly, as Percy was blushing at the compliment fountain being poured at him by Hazel and Annabeth.

Jason had always been fascinated by that story, the almighty Percy Jackson getting offered to become a god, by Zeus.

His father. Jason's father, Zeus.

Jason felt stupid and guilty for getting envious, it's not the fact that Percy had been offered immortality, no. Jason couldn't care less about being immortal. It was the person who offered Percy invincibility that bothered Jason so much.

Jason knew that even if he went to the ends of the world to accomplish something, his father wouldn't be able to praise him or even talk to him for a long time.

Zeus and Jason could never be like Hades and Nico, or Poseidon and Percy. That's just how it is.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reyna had come to camp half blood for a fun visit. Jason would've been ecstatic in other circumstances, but in this case, he wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Because currently, Reyna seemed to be looking at everyone, but refused to meet Jason's eyes. She seemed to keep her distance as she laughed at something Percy and Piper were saying.

She may as well have just stabbed him, it would've hurt a lot less.

He had truly been naive to believe that he could make amends with Reyna. Now he knew, it would never be possible. There was too much pain mixed with bitterness on both ends. But seeing her get along with Percy reminded him of the old times of friendship he and Reyna had shared. Keyword: had.

Once again, the fates had shown him that Percy Jackson would always be better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Jason Grace lay on the cold floor, coughing out blood. He realized he was alone, he was dying, but he was alone.

Like always. The sickly voice of Gaia, that had once haunted his nightmares, boomed in his head. Jason knew he was hallucinating as a result of blood loss, Gaia is in deep slumber. But that did not stop the voice in his head that was invented by his insecurities. Even in the end, you've been forgotten, Jason Grace. Because that's what you will always be. The second best. The leftover. The pawn who is discarded, after his purpose has been fulfilled. Percy Jackson would always be better in everyone's eyes.

To the Romans, you are simply the one who betrayed his lineage. But Percy is the one who restored glory. He did your job for you.

To the Greeks, you are simply a burden, one whom they were forced to welcome.

To your father, you are merely one of his many sons.

To your sister, you are a stranger.

Jason's resolve to live had weakened, hot tears were streaming down his face as he closed his eyes in defeat, he had come to the painful conclusion that nobody is going to come find his body. Nobody is going to mourn him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh I will always be much better than you at this! Bring it on, dude!” Percy laughed as he striked his play sword lightsaber at Jason's. They clashed.

“You wish, Jackson!” Jason shot back jokingly, as they sparred playfully with toy lightsabers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Jackson, you jerk. You were right after all, you will always be much better than me” Jason laughed bitterly, as he recalled that memory of his sparring session with Percy.

Suddenly everything went black. The life had successfully ebbed out of him.

Little did Jason know, was that someone had indeed come to look for him. Tempest, his Pegasus had come to retrieve his body, but Jason was long gone. People had indeed mourned him. His friends were, indeed, anguished. His sister was, indeed, heartbroken.

Jason's soul parted this world, with the knowledge that he'd always be The forgotten Hero.

The lost hero. Jason Grace.

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spacelazarwolf · 1 month

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something i think gentiles do not get abt judaism is that it’s not a religion in the modern sense. rabbinic judaism as we know it today exists because of the roman destruction of judea and subsequent genocide and expulsion of a huge number of the judeans living there. prior to that, there were judeans who lived outside judea and still participated in many judean practices and followed many judean laws. there was a conversation happening particularly in the rabbinic movement (which was an incredibly small and fringy movement btw) about how to maintain a cohesive identity and community with members of an ethnic group that had stayed in babylon after being released from slavery or had moved to the italian peninsula or to egypt, and that identity was beginning to form. jewish identity was becoming something we might recognize today.

but prior to the roman expulsion and destruction of the temple, that identity had been centered around the land and the temple for very obvious reasons. ancient israel, judea, it was a place and the people who lived there lived under the same governance with the same culture and the same language. it makes sense they’d be a unique ethnic group. another huge part of the identity they’d formed was opposition to occupying forces, greeks, babylonians, assyrians, and finally the romans. eretz yisrael was constantly under occupation. and rebellion was a unifying force for these people. so when suddenly they have no land to defend, no central temple to look toward, suddenly the rabbis’ outlook on “portable judaism” was pretty much the only option if they wanted to remain a coherent group. they started communicating with each other over thousands of miles and multiple continents, discussing how to maintain their identity while in exile. and that is how judaism formed. it wasn’t a belief system that was spread throughout the world like christianity. it was a group of people whose population and homeland was devastated by a brutal occupying force who were trying to hold on to the only thing they had in strange lands where people weren’t always very welcoming: community. particularly in places like eastern and central europe where jews physically looked so different than the rest of the population, their culture was so different, and europeans reacted very violently to that, holding onto their traditions and immersing themselves in the study of how to stay connected is the reason those communities still exist today. they could have just moved to a new place and assimilated into the populations there and we would not have jews today. the reason we have jews today is because of that communal decision, across continents, to stay connected.

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satoshy12 · 8 months

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IRS Agent Danny

IRS agent Danny

The Joker looked at his goons and screamed, " Do it faster!"

Batman, who came through the window, said, " Stop Joker!"

Joker looked at his goons and said, " You all don't stop packing, Bats! I don't have time for you. I have to pay up; otherwise, I will go to jail for tax evasion!"

Batman;" What? "

Joker: " The IRS sent their new agent after me again! I own them for 36.000.000 dollars, and I don't pay; they will come with IRS levy permits!"

Danny walked into the place and said, " So Joker?"

Joker smiled a not crazy smile:" Here you have it. Not one penny less or more. Now Batman, you can put me in prison."

Batman wasn't sure what had happened as the Joker left into the police car.

Bruce looked at the young agent; he looked pretty young, between Jason and Tim's ages, wearing a fur-trimmed brown jacket, tactical military pants, and a knife holder. He seems to be looking at a list.

Danny, looking at his list, says, " So, I talked with Bane, Oswald Cobblepot, Harvey Dent, Red Hood, Roman Sionis, Victor Fries, Hugo Strange, Slade Wilson, and now the Joker, other then well as Pamela Isley, who is in prison for tax evasion for 2 years. They all paid. I think I am done with Gotham, so Metropolis is next."

And yes, Bane paid taxes on the money he earned from his drug empire.

Danny turned his face to Batman and said, "So, Mr. Batman, I heard your electric Batmobile is around $US1.5 million. So we should have a talk about your taxes."

Bruce had no idea what happened, but he didn't like what was about to happen.

It ended with Batman sitting next to the Joker in the police SUV.

The Joker looked at Batman, not sure what had happened.

"I want my phone call; I need to call Nightwing. I have to pay my Bat taxes."

Joker:" Hahahahaha! Smartly, you didn't try to run away. We all tried, but well, we'd rather fight you than him again."

In Arkham

Ivy is kind of a pariah, criminals don't like people who evade taxes. As the IRS send then their special agent. So it was her fault he was back in Gotham!

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=G56VgsLfKY4

Danny's clothes are like RE4 Leon's clothes

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vintagegeekculture · 2 months

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The Evil Little Hairy Cave People of Europe in Pulp Fiction

From the 1900s to the 1940s, there was a trendy theme in occult and horror stories that the explanation for widespread European legends of fairies, brownies, pixies, leprechauns and other malicious little people, was that they were a hereditary racial memory of the extremely small non-human, hairy stone age original inhabitants of Europe, who still survive well into modern times in caves and barrows below the earth. Envious of being displaced on the surface, these weird creatures, adapted to the darkness of living underground and unable to withstand the sun, still mean mischief and occasionally go out at night to capture someone.... usually an attractive woman....to take to their dark caves for human sacrifice.

Displaced by the arrival of Indo-European language speakers at the dawn of the Bronze Age, these original, not quite human stone age people of Europe were driven deep underground into caves and barrows below the earth, where they went mad, adapted to the darkness and acquired a fear of daylight, became extremely inbred, in some cases acquired widespread albinism. It is these strange little people who gave the descendants of Europeans a haunting racial dread of places below the earth like mines and caves, and it also is these strange, hairy troglodytes who originally built the uncanny and mysterious menhir, fairy rings, and stone age structures of England, Scotland, and Ireland that predate the coming of the Celts and Romans.

In some cases, these evil troglodytes are usually identified with the mysterious Picts, the pre-Celtic stone age inhabitants of the British Isles. In some cases, they are identified with the Basque people of Spain, best known as the inventors of Jai Alai, and the oldest people in Europe who speak a unique language unrelated to any in the world.

The original codifier of this trend was Arthur Machen, a horror writer who is less remembered than his contemporary, Henry James, but who may be the best horror writer in the generations between Poe on the one end and Lovecraft/CL Moore/Clark Ashton Smith on the other. His story, "the White People" from 1904 (a reference to their strange cave albinism) was a twisted Alice in Wonderland with a girl who is irresistibly attracted to dark pre-Roman stone age ruins and who is eventually pulled underground.

In addition to being a great horror writer, Arthur Machen was a member of the Hermetic Society of the Golden Dawn, an occult organization, and was often seen at the Isis-Urania Temple in London. Many of his works have secretive occult knowledge.

H.P. Lovecraft in particular always pointed out Arthur Machen as his single biggest inspiration, though he combined Machen's dread and occultism with Abraham Merritt's sense of fear of the cosmic unknown, seen in "Dwellers in the Mirage" and "People of the Pit."

Another and scarier example of this trend would be "No Man's Land," a story by John Buchan, a Scotsman fascinated by paganism and horror, who often wrote stories of horrific discoveries and evil rites on the Scottish moors. He is often reduced to being described as a "Scottish Ghost Story" writer, a painfully reductivist description as in his career, Buchan wrote a lot of thrillers, detective, and adventure stories as well. In later life, he was appointed Governor General of Canada, meaning he may be the first head of state to be a horror writer.

It was Buchan who first identified the cave creatures with the Picts, something that another Weird Tales writer decades later, Robert E. Howard, would roll with in the 1920s.

Howard is a very identifiable kind of modern person you often see on the internet: a guy who talks tough, but who was terrified to leave his small town. He created manly man, tough guy heroes like Conan the Barbarian, Kull, and El Borak, but he himself never left his mother's house. It's no wonder he got along well with his fellow Weird Tales writer and weird shut in, HP Lovecraft. With 1920s Weird Tales writers, despite your admiration for their incredible talent, you also can't help but laugh at them a little, a feeling you also apply to a lot of Victorians, who achieved incredible things, but who are often closet cases and cranks who died virgins ("Chinese" Gordon comes to mind, as does Immelmann).

With Howard, his obsession with the Picts and the stone age cave dwelling people of Europe started with an unpublished manuscript where at a dinner party, a man gets knocked out and regresses to his past life in the Bronze Age, where he remembers the earliest contact between modern humans and the original inhabitants of the British Isles, the evil darkskinned Picts. This is a mix of both the "little cave people" story and another cliche at the time, "the stone age past life regression novel," another turn of the century cliche.

Still with the Picts on his mind, Howard would later create Bran Mak Morn, a Pict chieftain, who predated Kull and Conan as his Celtic caveman muscle hero. Howard was of Irish descent and proudly anti-Colonial and anti-British, with his Roman Empire and Civilized Kingdoms as a stand in for the British and other Empires, which he viewed as rapacious and humbug, a view shared by his greatest inspiration, Talbot Mundy. His "Worms of the Earth" gets to the heart of why these little cave people scare us so much: they remind us that we live on land that is impossibly ancient and we don't fully understand at all.

It was another Weird Tales Writer a decade later who wrote one of the last stories about the little hairy cave people of Europe, though, Manly Wade Wellman in 1942. Wellman was mainly known for creating the blond beefcake caveman hero Hok the Mighty set in stone age times, and for his supernatural ghost stories of Silver John the Balladeer set in modern, ghostly Appalachia (like many ex-Weird Tales writers, he made a turn to being a regional author in his later career, in the same way Hugh B. Cave became a Caribbean writer), but Wellman also had a regular character known as John Thunstone, a muscular and wealthy playboy known for his moustache who used his great wealth to investigate the supernatural and the occult. Thunstone had a silver sword made by St. Dunstan, patron of Silversmiths, well known for his confrontations with the Devil.

Most John Thunstone stories featured familiar stories, like a demon possessed seance and so on, but one in particular featured a unique enemy, the Shonokins.

The Shonokins were the original rulers of North America, descendants of Neanderthal man displaced by American Indians. This fear that the land we live is ancient and unknowable and we just arrived on it and don't know any of its secrets is common to settler societies, who often hold the landscape with dread, as in Patricia Wrightson's fantasies of the Australian Outback. It was easy enough to transport the hairy cave people from the Scottish Moors to North America. I suspect that's what they are, a personification of a fear shared in the middle class, that in the back of their minds, that everything they have supposedly earned is merely an accident of history, built by rapacity and the crimes of history, and that someday a bill will come due.

A text page in the May 1942 issue of Weird Tales gives strange additional information on the Shonokins not found elsewhere:

Since then, there have been too many examples of evil cave people who predate Europeans. Philip Jose Farmer's "The All White Elf" features the last survivor of a pre-European people who live in caves. A lot of other fiction of course has featured the Picts, but according to our modern scientific understanding, which describes them as much, much less exotically, as a blue tattooed people not too different and practically indistinguishable from the Celtic tribes that surrounded them, and which they eventually blended into.

#pulp fiction #horror #pulp novels #stone age #picts

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mhsdatgo · 4 months

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By the way, you can say you hate characters and STILL admit that they were abused or harassed. There's literally nothing wrong. Denying it or romanticizing it because of a strange kink of yours won't make your hate any less evident, trust me.

Rhaenyra was abused. She's continuously taken advantage of, and brushed away the moment she isn't needed anymore. And she experiences this first hand with her own father, who completely ruins motherhood for her when she grows up watching Aemma get impregnated and either miscarry or have the baby be stillborn or die in the cradle. If Viserys had been by her side as a supporter to her claim since the start, he wouldn't have gotten Aemma pregnant again and again in the pursuit of a male child. He wouldn't have married Alicent for the same reason. Even after, the only reason why he still stands by her side, and it's time the fandom accepts this, it's solely because of his grief and guilt, because Rhae is the only remnant of Aemma.

And there it starts. Firstly, groomed and left alone naked and alone by her uncle in a brothel. Secondly, slept with Criston Cole (although she did coerce him, that's still a literal TEENAGER) then she's married to a gay man and still approached super young by her new bodyguard and just one year later she's started giving birth to his children. (Side note: FUCK Rhaenyra x Harwin. FUCK with reverb. With hard K.)

And up to this point, most fan agree that she's had a shitty life, although I don't agree with some of her choices. (like her treatment of Criston Cole and the bastards, not because I'm some kind of bigot, but because passing bastards as trueborn in THAT precise world sets them up for failure, not being legally deserving of a thone DOES NOT mean me hating them. That's for another post.)

To top it all off, she meets her uncle again, and there starts the fanfic self insert. They have sex on a beach the day of Laena's funeral, the only one of the three wives he's ever been canonically loyal to (FUCK you writers) and fans think it's soulmates meeting again or sum shit. They subtly threaten Laenor to fake his death or actually die (that's what they were trying to do, cope harder) and marry mere days after the death of Laena.

Yes, all cute and romantic (for Dumbnyras twats) but literally, has it done anything good? For Rhaenyra or like, anyone else? It just brought Daemon closer to the line of succession. Literally. That's all the good it has done.

Fast forward to ep 10. How do I even start with this? Only Jace seems to be on Rhaenyra's side. It's clear he only obeys to Daemon out of fear and is scared to talk back to him. Meanwhile, he COMPLETELY disregards his wife's, and by his faction's loyalties, QUEEN's, orders, he ignores her wails of pain as she miscarries their daughter out of pure shock and grief for her father's death. He lashes out and chokes her on the same day and people still see him as the malewife to Rhaenyra's girlboss. They're always ready to do award-deserving mental gymnastic to justify this man.

"He was planning war because he wanted to distract himself!!!!" "He only choked Rhae because he was mad at Viserys, he'd never hurt her!!!!!!"

Fuck off. Coming from probably Rhaenyra's #1 hater. Fuck. Off. Don't say you care about her place in the view of men when you're ready to justify shit like this.

This is the same man who runs off and has an affair with a teenager, and then prefers going on and having a badass death instead of joining his wife and children who need him in King's Landing.

Do I like Rhaenyra? No. Do I think that, because of this, she's never been abused, or exploited in any way, in her life? ALSO no. My distaste for her character has NOTHING to do with Viserys, Criston, Daemon, Harwin or literally ANYONE ELSE in her life.

Alicent Hightower time, baby.

My mother, my aunt, my grandmother, my entire bloodline, my Roman Empire. And more. To anyone who thinks of her as nothing but a bitter/jealous girl, go read @feretrumdulcia 's post about this matter cuz there's literally no one I've seen that words it better. (And bub if you're reading, long live you and the way you think.)

https://www.tumblr.com/feretrumdulcia/720746371814195200/i-have-seen-quite-often-that-many-people-consider

Anyone who can read this and argue that Alicent is envious/jealous or bitter, honestly needs to take the heart shaped sunglasses off, get off tumblr and Ao3, learn what media literacy is and start learning how to possess a crumble of it. To us it makes sense to synpathize with both, because we've seen the big picture. To Alicent, Rhaenyra gave her virtue to the man that almost killed her brother, and chose to believe she did not out of trust and maybe nostalgia for her friendship and easier times, only to have her father be blamed and taken away from her as a result.

She has four kids in the span of, how much? Five, six years? Seven at best? Helaena and Aemond are NINE MONTHS APART. Viserys didn't even let her rest after she gave birth to her daughter. And I'm convinced 100% that he kept her as Idk some whore he didn't need to pay for because it's stated that he never wanted Aegon but the son he butchered Aemma for. Why keep on bedding her and forcing children on her when you'd never get what you want from her?

Throughout the series she's called bitter and downright a c*nt for this and that reason. She tries convincing Viserys that Rhae's children are CLEARLY bastards and she's setting herself and them up for failure by committing treason and putting them on the throne? Nah, power hungry, jealous, bitter. She marries Helaena to Aegon as a last resort because she's Valyrian and probably would've received proposals worse than the ones Rhaenyra made that would eventually convince Viserys to give her away? Hates her daughter, abuser, shitty mom. Rhae's sons slit her son's eye out instead of running when they had the chance and she rightfully lashes out? Nah, crazy ass, for the dungeons. She gives money and moon tea to her son's rape victim to ensure she gets a way out and isn't forced to have a baby she doesn't want? Bruh, rape apologist. She goes to Aegon and RIGHTFULLY disciplines him? Abuser. Forced to show her feet to a rancid filthy man to know where her son is? Upholds the patriarchy, hypocrite. She convinces Aegon to start fighting for her family because it's either them or the Blacks and he needs to start putting his life together and fight for them, so she crowns him and makes him King? Treason, deserves death, long live the brothel queens.

Somehow, it is ALWAYS HER FAULT. And those few that admit how wronged she was make fun of her.

CAN SHE FUCKING WIN?! Or y'all just hate her because she isn't Valyrian?

Btw almost all of these arguments are the same for Book!Alicent who I personally believe to be FAR MORE than just a bitter stepmom that hates her stepdaughter. She arguably has more reasons to start a coup against her in the books without that prophecy shit.

TLDR; It's OKAY to hate characters and admit they're abused and taken advantage of at the same time. You don't have a moral high-ground on no one because you hate or love a character instead of the other.

#rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #anti daemyra #anti daemon targaryen #anti daemyra stans #team green #team black #anti viserys i targaryen #anti larys strong

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fatesundress · 1 year

Text

⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task."

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it.

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky.

And you do it.

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours.

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not.

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him.

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?”

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions.

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation.

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt.

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you.

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him.

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle smut #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

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adickaboutspoons · 7 months

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Let's talk costuming significance! Because there's some really interesting stuff going on! So Zheng Yi Sao drops the soup bitch mask when she buys the Roman puzzle box full of indigo, correctly identifying it as extremely valuable. And there's a LOT going on there - because indigo dye has a long history of being a hot comodity, even being referred to as "blue gold", but along with that, especially at the height of Spanish colonization, that was of course heavily tied up in slave labor. And I think it's curious that, in a show that has been quite careful about depictions of and references to slavery, and unequivocally condemning and punishing those who endorse or practice it (think the British officers who called Olu a slave and got a knife through the hand, or the French Party Boat where the hoity toity people were either left to the fire or jumping overboard while Abshir and the other POC make a safe escape in a treasure-loaded skiff with a bright-looking future on the horizon) that Zheng buys the Revenge Crew as an ancillary purchase along with the indigo (I want to make it clear that I am in no way suggesting that this is in any way comparable to the horrors of the institution of chattle slavery. However, it IS strange that she is is framed so sympathetically, to the point that she is presented as a viable romantic possibility for actual ray of sunshine Olu, while at the same time using the labor of the Revenge Crew without any mention of any compensation other than a bedroll on the deck and some really good soup...). BUT! ALSO! I think it's notable that every one of her subordinates are attired head-to-toe in indigo-dyed fabric. Like, that is SUCH an ostentatious display of wealth on her part. She is SO successful that she can afford to "waste" blue gold on her peons. And that is just FASCINATING.

And just another, completely unrelated costume note - How Hornighost's clothes were actually a HUGE clue as to Ed being in limbo (not purgatory, writers. Purgatory is a different thing). So here's his "favorite shirt":

I'm particularly interested in the great big ring just behind his right elbow with all the ropes hanging from it. That is sailcloth, my v. dears, the large-gauge grommets being the places where the sails could be rigged to the yardarms. And "burial at sea" wasn't just a matter of pitching a corpse overboard - first the body was sewn into a weighted shroud - usually sailcloth. Couple that with the way the dangling ropes are giving strong Marley-weighed-down-in-the-chains-of-vice-he-forged-in-his-miserly-life, and the shroud-like cape thrown around his shoulders, and you've got a brilliant costume that is shouting "THIS iS A DEAD GUY".

#ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd #our flag means death #my modest contribution to fandom

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claymorexpunisher · 3 months

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Good Girl (18+ Fic)

Disclaimer: This is NSFW. If that's not your thing, keep scrolling. I tried to tag everyone I could, but I apologize if I forgot anyone... Anyways, thank you for the love as always. I tried my bestest lol and I hope you enjoy! As always, do please let me know if you wanna to continue on my taglist or if you want to be taken off.

Pairing(s): Roman Reigns x Fem. Reader

Summary: Reader gets dumped on Valentine’s Day and Roman’s in the right place at the right time.

Tag(s): 18+, casual hookup, dumped reader, Valentines Day, dirty talk, praise kink, light choking, dom/sub dynamic, seated reverse cowgirl, mirror sex.

Word Count: 2,621

I got dumped.

On Valentine’s Day no less.

My boyfriend of 5 years decided to take out on a date to a fancy restaurant for Valentine’s Day, just to tell me that he felt that we were going in different directions.

And to tell me that he’s been seeing one of his coworkers for over a year now.

So here I was, deciding to finish my dinner and dessert and drink.

And upon laying eyes on the most exquisite dessert in the entire restaurant- dark hair pulled away from his face and into a sleek bun, an expensive and meticulously tailored suit over an obviously ripped and tone body… a well-trimmed beard that framed his gorgeous features beautifully- maybe… maybe I did have a bit of revenge on my mind too.

The strange yet beautiful man wasn’t alone.

He seemed to be having some kind of business meeting, his demeanor was seriously concentrated in whatever they were talking about.

I could hear his smooth deep voice even from where I was sitting facing him and the sound seemed to send electric tingles all over my body, my ex long forgotten.

If he had the audacity to mess around on me, why would I sit here and mope?…

This man looked familiar but for the life of me, I couldn’t place a name to the gorgeous face.

I had no idea how I was going to pull this off.

But as soon as the beautiful stranger’s chestnut brown eyes met mine over the other man’s shoulder and his lips slowly quirked into an inviting smirk, I figured this wouldn’t be so difficult.

I coyly looked down, smiling and lightly playing with the necklace that hung around my neck, a dainty golden chain with an emerald cushion cut stone hanging off of it and a pair of earrings to match.

I felt my face warm underneath his attention.

When I looked up, the man was beginning to stand up, effectively dismissing the other man he was with a wave of his hand and a wad of cash being plopped onto the table and he was headed my way.

My heartbeat sped up, watching him come closer and closer.

But our smiles only became wider as he sat down in front of me.

“Hi,” the man said.

His smooth baritone voice coupled with his obvious cool confidence warmed me over even more and for a moment my brain stuttered before I managed to recover and respond.

“Hi,” I said, biting my bottom lip softly as we sat there staring at one another.

We introduced ourselves and he said his name was Joe.

But it was only when he revealed that he was a pro wrestler- Roman Reigns- that I realized where I’d seen him.

I sheepishly admitted that I had brothers who would occasionally put on some wrestling while we all hung out and that his face had definitely looked familiar.

Me recognizing him a bit didn’t seem to deter him, though.

We sat in the restaurant getting to know one another a bit, despite my intentions of just looking for a bit of fun.

But conversation with Joe felt easy. Light. As if we’d known each other for decades.

“I, uh… I kinda overheard you and your ex.” Joe admitted, his features melted into concern.

“Dude sounded like a complete asshole.” He said bluntly, to which I giggled.

“Ah, you’re not wrong. But,” I shrugged. “At least he helped me take out the trash… listen, do you… maybe wanna get out of here? I’m kinda over this place.” I replied just as bluntly and I chuckled softly, looking around the hustling and bustling restaurant filled with people dressed to the nines.

Couples in fancy attire mingled and laughed with one another as they ate and if you looked closely at some of them and at their coy expressions, there was no doubt as to what they would be engaging in once they left…

I was waiting for a pang of nostalgia for what I had just lost, but as soon as my eyes landed back onto Joe’s smiling face I felt nothing except a pang of smoldering attraction.

I squeezed my thighs in what I thought was a discreet manner, but I watched Joe’s eyes trail lower and lower over my satin gold dress that hugged my body perfectly before his eyes moved back onto my face.

His brown eyes lit up as if he just knew what my body was craving for.

And holy shit I’d hoped he’d give it to me…

I watched him take out another wad of cash and he tossed it onto the table before I could protest and take out my credit card from my gold clutch.

And as he nodded and stood, holding out his arm for me to hold onto, I felt my mouth go dry…

~~~

Joe was staying at The Marriot not to far from the restaurant, thankfully.

My heartbeat kicked up a notch and my hands shook the closer the car got to the hotel.

Joe had one arm over the seat of the car, not quite draped over my shoulders but the heat emanating from his body, coupled with the sweltering anticipation of what we were about to do once we reached his room, had my brain feeling a little foggy.

I had no idea why I was suddenly acting like a bumbling virgin but it was starting to get on my nerves.

My heartbeat and the tremors in my hands settled when Joe reached out the hand that was resting on his lap and he slipped it into mine and gave my hand a comforting squeeze.

“You okay?” He murmured, waiting for me to meet his eyes.

I nodded, sure of what I wanted despite feeling a bit out of my element.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m good. Just… it’s been a minute since I’ve done something like this. Something… casual.” I replied, finally meeting his warm eyes straight on.

Though I honestly didn’t know how casual this would end up being.

“Well, I want you to know that there’s no pressure. And I don’t bite… unless that your thing. I’d be happy to oblige.” Joe winked, bringing my hand up to his lips and kissing it before he playfully nipped at the soft skin there, only to the soothe the spot with another soft kiss.

I noticed that he had beautiful hands… hands that I wanted all over me.

He chuckled as I let out a surprised laugh, and I felt a waterfall of calm wash over me as the tension momentarily broke.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I replied just as playfully.

My eyes couldn’t help but flutter down to his luscious lips and I licked my lips as his tongue poked out to wet his own.

Without giving myself a chance to chicken out, I leaned into him and cupped the back of his neck to press my lips to his.

I moaned softly at the taste of his lips, tasting the smooth tartness of whatever drink he had been sipping on tonight.

Whiskey, maybe.

Joe let out a pleased moan of his own, the sound vibrating against my lips as our tongues snuck out to mingle.

As soon as our lips touched, we didn’t care where we were, or about his driver knowing what we were doing.

Our minds, lips, and hands were only focused on tasting and touching as much as we could of each other.

We pulled away for a moment to breathe only to sink back into each other for more.

I whimpered wantonly and angled my neck to give Joe more access as his lips wandered.

Gasping softly as his mouth moved up to my ear, I could swear I heard Joe whisper ‘god, you’re a fucking goddess, babygirl…’ but I wasn’t sure as his teeth playfully nipped at my earlobe before his tongue again worked on soothing any light pain his teeth would cause.

Before we could get into even more and possibly give the driver a show he’d surely never forget, Joe pulled away and I watched him open the car door as we came to a stop in front of The Marriot.

In my haze, I hadn’t even realized that we had pulled up to the hotel back entrance.

The elevator was empty as I pressed the button to call it a little harder and more impatient than I had intended.

Joe’s soft chuckle hit my ears, making me shiver as my back rested against his front and he dragged his beard along my skin, tickling my neck and the spot on back of my ear.

“We’re almost there, babygirl.” He purred and I nodded, sinking into him as arms snaked around my waist and his lips continued to kiss along my neck.

I tried to fly out of the elevator as soon as it opened on Joe’s floor and we walked hand-in-hand towards his room.

He slid the keycard through with a steady hand, but as soon as the hotel room door closed behind us, his lips attacked mine again.

As Joe bit, sucked, and licked at my tingling lips, I gave as good as he gave me.

I let myself be blindly guided towards the bed, and my dressed be slipped off my body before I helped him out of his own clothes.

God, he was as glorious as I thought he’d be…

“C’mere…” he said, beckoning me towards him as he sat towards the edge of the bed.

As he turned me around, my back facing him and he instructed me to straddle his lap on my knees on the bed into a sort of reverse cowgirl position, my brain short circuited again as I stared straight ahead and was met with our own reflections.

I somehow missed the giant mirror that was dead center in the room but as soon as I spotted it, my arousal dampened my inner thighs even more.

“Look at you… so fuckin’ beautiful, baby. That guy was so fuckin’ stupid to walk away from all this.” Joe whispered in my ear and I moaned and arched into his touch as I watched in the mirror as his hands moved ardently along my body.

I bit my lip as I watched Joe kneading my breasts and pinching my pebbled nipples, rolling them around in his fingers and making my hips swivel on his lap, chasing some form of relief.

“Keep doing that… fuck, Joe!” I moaned and he obliged, taking his time and paying attention to my breasts despite the hardness I could feel resting between my thighs.

“Yeah? This feel good, baby?” Joe murmured, his breath heavy against my ear and I let my eyes flutter shut before he pinched my nipples, making me release a strangled groan of pain mixed with pleasure.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.” He commanded and I listened, despite how hard it was with all the sensations coursing through me.

“Look at this fuckin’ body, oh my god…” Joe groaned through a clenched jaw, his eyes trailing over my body just as his hands did.

Our eyes met momentarily and he smirked cockily at how quickly I was falling apart for him.

“Grind that beautiful pussy against my dick, baby-“ Joe said, his words breaking off into a guttural groan as I once again complied, grinding my pussy against hard length.

The muscles in my stomach tightened and my nails dug into his arms that came to wrap around my torso as his cock grazed over my sensitive clit with every frontward grind of my hips.

I could feel his breath hitch every time my pussy reached the head of his cock and I felt his thighs shiver as he was no doubt restraining himself from just sliding into me.

But I was done waiting.

As if he read my thoughts, Joe lined himself up with my slick entrance.

Both of us released strangled groans of pleasure as soon as his cock entered me at first.

But he was pretty fuckin’ big and it took a bit of adjusting and relaxing on my part to accommodate him.

I let no more than half of his cock inside of me at first and then I slowly sunk down further, both sighing in almost relief as I my thighs were flush with his.

We looked at each other through the mirror, Joe staring straight through my soul over my shoulder.

My chest heaved with arousal as he only gave me one command.

“Keep grinding.” He said and as I did what I was told, my eyes almost rolled back into my head, feeling his cock hit my sweet spot almost immediately.

I watched him chuckle as I quickly reopened my eyes, remembering his command from earlier.

“Good girl… you’re such a good fuckin’ girl, huh?” Joe moaned, clearly pleased that I followed his every command to a T.

But I couldn’t help it.

Despite only meeting this man tonight, I was eager to please.

And so was he…

I groaned again as I felt his praise send a zing of pleasure over all of my erogenous zones and my made my hips move more.

“Slow down, sweetheart… I wanna savor this fuckin’ pussy.” He said, moving one of his hands down to my hip to call the shots and have me just the way he wanted.

Joe’s free came up back to one of my breasts and gave them some attention, our eyes never leaving our reflections.

My ex had never been this attentive… this thorough…

Watching Joe’s features contort in pleasure, watching the way our bodies were joined together sent a ripple of pleasure up and down my spine.

“God, Joe..! That feels so fucking good, holy shit!” I whimpered.

I was so eager to move fast but I couldn’t deny that this slow pace felt amazing.

I felt every single inch of him, hitting every sweet spot inside of me- even where I didn’t know they exist.

“That’s it. Good girl. Thats it, baby.” he praised, making me hiss a bit in pain and pleasure as his tongue momentarily sunk into my shoulder, watching my every move through the mirror.

Trails of sweat trickling down his neck and chest made my mouth water…

My brain stuttered as the hand that was playing with my breast slowly snaked upwards and came to rest on my throat, not squeezing but the sensation alone made my head swim and my pussy clench.

“Ah, shit… you squeeze me like that again imma cum right inside this pussy. That what you want, babygirl?” Joe said, now guiding my hips to roll a little faster.

I could do nothing but nod silently and squeeze the walls of my pussy again as my mouth opened in pleasure but no sound escaped it.

I could barely think anymore, but still my eyes stayed on him, intent on obeying.

“Cum first. You cum first, babygirl. You’re being such a good fuckin’ girl, you deserve it.” Joe rambled.

I could hear that he was close.

I could hear it in his voice, how his words almost seemed slurred and drunk with pleasure.

Wave after wave of pleasure washed over me as Joe snuck his free hand in between, rubbing my clit in tight circles until my body finally gave into the euphoria I had been craving.

My whole body shook with pleasure-filled tremors until I could only release weak little whines and Joe finally reached his own peak, feeling his cum fill me up and spill over onto the back of my thighs and the front of his where we were still joined until we caught our breaths…

@theworldofotps @alyyaanna @southerngirl41 @harmshake @mzv11 @letsgivethisonemoreshot @theundertakeriscoming @ladyshipwildrose @slutfortheeclaymore @auraravenora77 @babiidee28 @thesamoanqueen @omegasshyghuleh6661ghosts @xndalynch @84reedsy @romanstheory @kianaleani @elefrog25-blog @motherknuckers @phantasmacabre @wandering-fox @lxndonorris @girlnred @yo-yo89 @smile1318 @theemorose @lanifisherpageofficial

#roman reigns #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x female reader #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns smut #wwe fic #wrestling fanfic #wrestling smut

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just-late-roman-republic-things · 5 months

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Reasons why Roman politicians got kicked out of group therapy

Cato: Never fucking shut up.

Brutus: Brought his mom to a therapy session.

Cassius: Tried to resolve conflicts with "I stab" instead of "I feel" statements.

Antony: Kept showing up drunk.

Pompey: Brought in 30 armed veterans to "protect the security of the therapy office."

Crassus: Tried to bribe the therapist into giving him client records.

Caesar: Kept flirting with the therapist. Both therapists.

Caelius: Liveblogged group therapy sessions. Did not change anyone's names.

Cicero: Kept giving Caelius blog post ideas after Caelius was kicked out.

Clodius: Tried to cancel therapy by taking over the office and blockading the door with chairs.

Milo: Killed Clodius and then claimed he was trying to make the therapists' job easier.

Catiline: Thought he could become the new therapist by setting the office on fire and overthrowing the previous therapists.

Octavian: Polite. Friendly. The only one who ever did therapy homework. Attempted to carbomb Antony.

Agrippa: Never actually got referred to therapy because they couldn't find anything wrong with him except for his terrible taste in men, but that's not a mental disorder.

#roman politicians in strange places #just roman memes #jlrrt speaks

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daddyhausen · 7 months

Text

• kinktober day nine : free use — roman reigns •

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{ masterlists } | { kinktober 2023 }

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{ commission info } | { like my work? buy me a coffee — kofi — dxddyhxusen }

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ summary } — for an hour each day roman made a rule that he could use you whenever and however he wanted

{ warnings } — 18 + { minors do not interact } dark!roman, cnc, free use, size kink, daddy kink, hair pulling, mild hunt chase, manhandling, spanking, oral sex { male receiving }, facials, cumshot, throatpie, face slapping, outdoor/balcony sex, exhibitionism, sexual humiliation, rough sex, stomach bulges, vaginal sex, penetrative sex, male + female orgasms, multiple orgasms, squirting, unprotected sex, internal cumshots, vaginal creampie

{ word count } — 1.1k

{ pairing } — fem!reader x roman reigns

{ genre } — smut

.*•…………………..•⊹•…………………..•*.

{ taglist } — @cosmoholic13 @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @adamjf @wardlow @alexisquinnlee-bc @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @cherrytheeredheadmamaclaymore @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @elsteenerico @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @violetmacher @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles

{ beta readers } — @allelitesmut + @legit9thlunaticwarrior

{ comment if you want to be added to the taglist }

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you felt his looming presence behind you

your bodies seperated by the couch

his eyes burning into the back of your skull

you tried you best to ignore the feeling in a futile attempt to finish the novel you’d been anticipating to read

his hands rested on the back of the couch

you felt his weight dip into the leather,

feeling his breath on the back of your neck

you froze in place

fingers gripped the hardcover sides of the book

staring down at the page, repeatedly re-reading the same

sentence over and over again

“it’s time, baby” roman’s voice low and guttural against your skin

you stood up slowly, keeping your back towards him, avoiding the sultry gaze he was staring you down with.

you gulped thickly feeling his breath tingle against the nape of your neck

you made a break for it, trying to run from him but he was too quick

he reached out, grabbing a fistful of your hair, dragging you back in the process

“not so fast, babygirl. don’t you remember what happened last time you tried to run from me?”

you remembered vividly, it was only a week ago

he had bound you to a chair, left a vibrator buzzing against your clit for a consecutive five hours or so

it felt like it lasted all night

no that you could remember much, you’d lost count after the first two

it was a pleasure you most enjoyed but no one you’d wished to revive anytime too.

you nodded, as much as your head

could muster with how tightly roman gripped your hair

“i’m sorry, daddy…”

you mutter

softly, putting on the most innocent voice you could muster

roman smiled softly, still maintaining his grip on your hair

“i know baby, but daddy still needs to use those pretty little holes of yours”

he picked you up by the waist, tossing you over his shoulder

your body flailing in his arms

trying to free yourself but to no avail

he gave a rough slap to your ass to silence you

you yelped in pain at the sensation

he carried you into up the stairs

at this point you thought he was going to ruin you in the comfort and solace of your bedroom

your throat ran dry as be bypassed your shared bedroom entirely

making his way towards the large, glass sliding doors

leading to your balcony

he propped you down, while a strange and quite comforting gentleness that he was not known to showing during such scenes

he locked the door behind him, ensuring your escape was inevitable

“you got no choice to run now, babygirl.” he mentioned with a twisted smirk.

“now strip for me”

now you certainly did. it want to meet a grizly end from 5 storeys high that’s for sure

yet you froze, body paralyzed by his stare.

“did you not hear me, princess?” he made strides towards you, until his body was firmly pressed against yours.

“i said fucking strip for me”

his grabbed the collar of your shirt, ripping the thin fabric off clean in half

you gasped at the sudden chill of spring air ghosting across your nipples

the buds stiffened against his palms

he did the same with your shorts and panties, the fabric tearing clean from your skin

without a word he pushed you down to your knees

commanding you to keep your position with a simple, silent glare

he stripped himself

unbothered by the lack of privacy the balcony provided

he welcomed the onlookers stares, if there were any

“open wide babygirl”

roman was anything but patient, as if he was gonna actually wait for you to open your mouth

he pressed the tip of his cock to your bottom lip

prying your mouth open with ease

instantly fucking your throat

feeling him deep in the column of your throat

roman’s hands weaved into your hair, lightly massaging your scalp despite him absolutely abusing your throat

“that’s it baby, choke on it”

he began to feel you sputter and gag around his cock

spit dripping down your chin

roman held his cock down your throat,

until your nose prodded at the mount

loving the way your nails clawed at his thighs

beggin for him to let up and allow you so air

he did for a moment, nor before resuming to fucking your throat raw

“take all of it babygirl” roman’s voice grew more gutteral, more desperate as he spilled down your throat

pulling out at the last second so the final spurts of cum coated your lips and cheeks

he said nothing, merely pulling you up by the hair

facing you away from him, angling your body over the balcony

forcing your to look down to the bustling cityscape below

how cars and others movies by without noticed of you

roman’s hands held your waist tightly, ensuring your safety

“everyone is gonna see how much of an easy whore you are”

roman’s hand, still locked in your hair, prying you back against his chest

his hard cock grinding against your ass

“and you’re gonna fucking enjoy yourself”

he pushed past your folds without another word

letting himself revel in the warmth of your cunt

he began to move instantly

without regard for you in that moment

“daddy please…too big…”

your whimpers flooded his ears merely egging him on

feeling his thick cock stretch you out

his cock pushed deep into your cunt, the outline of him prominent in you flesh as he held himself inside you for a moment

“aww baby…i thought you liked my big cock”

“i d-do, daddy” you stammered though a moan

“then stop complaining”

he grabbed your chin, his large palm encapsulating half of your face

“look around princess, the entire city knows who this pathetic cunt belongs to”

“to you, daddy…it belongs to you”

roman smirked against your skin, planting a harsh kiss to your lips

“good girl. now shut the fuck up while i cum in that pretty little cunt of yours”

roman was relentless, his size stretching you with ease

adoring the was the flesh of your plump ass rippled against his hips with the force of his thrusts

his palm met your ass with a series of sickening slaps

all the which made you whimper with a mix of pain and exhilarating pleasure

you tried your best to keep quiet, having to cover you mouth to stop the moans from spilling

he came inside of you in silence and without warning

instantly pulling out, not allowing you to feel the aftershocks of his cock

or the pleasure of orgasm for that matter.

your thighs shook with arousal, weak as you had to stabilise yourself against the railing

roman merely smiled down at the site of your cunt dripping with his seed

“oh princess, we still got fifteen minutes left” he stared you down

“who don’t we go back inside and you can come sit on this cock? how does that sound”

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#{ my fics : 🤍 }#roman reigns x reader #roman reigns smut #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #roman reigns imagine #roman reigns fanfiction #wwe imagine #wwe smut #wwe x reader #wrestling imagine #wrestling smut

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star-ocean-peahen · 5 months

Text

The more you think about Jason Grace's life, the more fucked up it gets.

Like, the whole "joined Camp Jupiter as a three year old" thing. We already know Camp Jupiter is fucked up because it places heavy importance on a child army, despite having plenty of demigod adults at hand, but they straight up recruited a three year old into the military. He showed up and got promptly stuck in a barrack for the rest of his childhood.

Like, why?? Why on earth would they do that instead of giving him to someone in New Rome to raise and inducting him into the legion at a respectable twelve??

And who raised him anyway?? A rotating cast of nineteen-year-old demigods?? His bunkmates in the Fifth?? If he was a young teenager I could see that, but he arrived when he was three, was he even potty-trained??? Did he just grow up being educated by bored teenagers and ghosts, watching as demigods arrived and served and retired, being told that he had to be the greatest of them all?? Did he have any other children to grow up with?? Did the legion even consider him different than the other recruits, or did he have to shovel unicorn dung when he forgot his phonics and live with the constant threat of perhaps being sewn into a bag of weasels??

I find it odd that Jason, as a demigod who grew up in a demigod's world, doesn't have his unique perspective explored more. I find it especially odd that the difference between his childhood and everyone else's is ignored. However difficult and varied everyone else's backgrounds are, they've at least attended a school. They had parents, and family, and a home, at least at one point. They had mortal toys and dwellings and communities that weren't merged inextricably with the myths. They knew where they came from. Do you think Jason, with his powerful, kingly father and impending destiny, ever felt like he didn't know who his family was?

I also find it strange that he doesn't seem to have a very wide network of friends from Camp Jupiter? He has Reyna, who he trusts and works with and depends on. He lists Hazel and Frank among his friends, but they look up to him as a role model. He mentions Bobby and Dakota familiarly, but never again. He's familiar and on good terms with basically everyone—but the only person he seems to consider as a close friend is Reyna. And that wouldn't be odd if he hadn't grown up at Camp Jupiter. He doesn't seem to have any constant companion—anyone he considers his family until he meets Leo.

Maybe he and Leo bonded so well because they both knew what it was like to grow up transiently. To have any constant in your life, and know that the day you would move on or they would move on was fast approaching. Maybe the reason he looked at Camp Half-Blood and admired how united and familial they seemed, and wished Camp Jupiter could be similar, was that he could see in them the family he wished he had.

Honestly, I feel like meeting Thalia should have left him in a lot more turmoil than it did. He grew up with no family but a god for a father, and here's a person who wanted him. Someone who always wanted him because he was Jason, and not the demigod son of Zeus. Maybe even someone to whom he mattered more than his destiny.

I really, really wish we'd gotten to see more of the contrasts between him and Percy. He is explicitly the Romans' version of the hero Percy is, except he's the hero first, and the person second. Jason did everything right! He did everything perfectly, and Percy still got where he did without being trained for it his entire childhood. He's got such a better reason to resent him than "bad vibes". They could have been foils for each other hhhhhhhrngh.

Just. This lonely, idolized, child soldier's life hurts me.

#and honestly i want to know all about his life before HOO #all the quests he went on! the friends he made! what shaped him into the person he is today!#his identity problems should run deeper than “i like the greek way but i was born a roman” and “i find it difficult to process the kind of #person my mother was"!#riordanverse #heroes of olympus #jason grace #heros of olympus

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gxbbyhoneybadger · 1 year

Note

Can you please do a part two of mission .???!!!

Oh my! Well, of course anonymous user. Never though there'd be a sequel but oh well! Part 2 is right here now!

Mission XXXIV-XXXV

Part 2

Pairing: !Yautja!Scar x !F!Shy!Reader

Summary: Y/n wakes up in a different place, her home no longer anywhere and instead placed within a strange cell with different Warriors watching her. Soon she's delivered to kneel in front of an Elder—next thing she knew, she was mated with Scar. Becoming first Yautja mated couple ever in their history, but for Y/n to permanently be respected as one of them, she must first become a Warrior.

Warnings: Adult language, threats, assault, scarification, death, arguments, anxiety, fluff, teasing, sexual tension, eventual smut, gentle to rough smut, clawing, biting, comfort.

A/n: The Roman numerals in the title translate to 34-35. So it means Mission 34-35 . . . Or Mission-69 heheh. I also did some studying on their language, (keyword: some.)

Fun Fact (Maybe): I saw a comic page and read that the Yautja can "speak" through their own sign language: Hand-signal of the Hunt. Or Silent Hand.

Part 1

Minors DNI 🔞 18 below the cut.

~Y/n pov~

Was my bed always this cold? I fell asleep in his arms, and I finally woke up alone in a dark place. I gasped as I backed up and hit my head on the cold wall, I shivered as I tried to figure out my surroundings. I was naked, the only thing I had was my old blanket, I hugged it as I stood up on my feet.

My thighs ached from—I shuddered remembering that I lost my virginity to whatever creature he was. I walked to the cell bars and tried to see if there was anyone here, "H-Hello?" I said, "Hello! I-Is anyone there! Can you please tell me where I am!?"

I could hear muffled beeping noises from down the halls, everything was unusual and unfamiliar for me. "Please! Anyone-! Gah!" I yelped—two large beasts walked in front of me. I stepped back and watched them, they wore similar masks with different designs. Around seven feet tall, both musclar beasts.

". . . W-Where am I?" I whispered, they clicked and growled lowly to each other. I could hear some soft of soft engine humming around us, where was I? "Please! Tell me where I am!" I begged.

They both looked to the left as another creature like them clicked out and order or some sort of command, one of them unlocked the cell before the second walked in towards me. "W-Who are you-? Hey! Let me go!" I yelped—he pulled me out by my arm and pushed me to walk forwards. I'd instantly get killed if I tried to fight any of them, I just obeyed and went along with their orders.

~3rd pov~

The Yautjas led Y/n deeper into their ship when it just landed on their planet, Yautja Prime, she was given a collar and had her wrists chained before she was brought out. She was so lost in the new world, being pulled along like a dog and shown off as an accessory to the other fellow Yautjas who lived there. Each one stared at her with confusion and judgement, thinking of her as a weak opponent to kill.

The two dragged her to a large empire, the large stairs led into a hall which opened up into a room where a Clan Leader sat. He had multiple spikes and grown dreadlocks that almost touched his thighs, his claws tapping on his throne chair as Y/n was forced to her knees in front of him.

She was terrified and lost, she held onto her blanket as she watched Scar, wearing his silver mask, approach the Elder. She couldn't understand what they were saying, but it sounded close to a argument, or Scar trying to convince the Elder to allow something. Y/n glanced behind her and saw the other Yautjas, all glancing at the Elder and Scar before down at her.

She was shaking like a leaf while she knelt there defenseless, Scar stepped aside as the Elder snarled while standing up. He raised his left hand and signaled one of the Yautjas to bring him an item; she jumped when she heard the familiar screeching of a Xenomorph before one of them killed it. The seven foot creature handed the Elder a severed finger of the Xenomorph and approached Y/n—he removed her chains as his eyes examined her frail form.

She gasped when his rough hand held her shoulder, her eyes found Scar's as the Elder clenched her shoulder for her attention. "W-What are you doing?" She asked him. "You are Blooded." The Elder said to her, his tone deeper than Scar's was. She let her eyes close when he brought the acidic finger to her cheek, scarring her skin permanently with a symbol of her Xenomorph kill.

Scar was informing the Elder of her kill, and how she managed to use one of their weapons against their enemy species, how she proved to be an ally and a warrior. She clenched her jaw in pain from the burning feeling, he then stepped back and looked at the Warriors. Y/n gulped as she reached up to feel the permanent mark on her cheek before everyone roared in unison—she covered her ears again. After they were done the Elder Yautja approached Scar and held his shoulder, clicking and snarling as they communicated in their language.

Scar growled but the Elder snarled back, before looking at her. "W-Why am I here? What's going to happen to me!" She whimpered out with fear rattling her nerves. A Yautja approached the Elder, his dreadlocks were short and he looked slightly smaller than Scar did—in his hands he carried some sort of pelt from one of the creatures that probably lived on this planet with them, something was packaged within it.

The Elder Yautja pointed at her and the Yautja walked to her before dropping it at her knees, "W-What is this?" She asked, she heard the muffled snarling and clicks coming from the other Yautjas behind her. Her hands trembled as she reached for the package, untying the skin like thread and unfolding it.

Seeing a few pieces of rather revealing clothing, if you can even call it clothing. "I-I don't think this is appropriate-?", "Dress yourself." The Elder growled out to her. She lifted the strange light green colored top that would just barely even cover her breasts. Her sides would be bare and the bottom would reveal her legs, she sighed from the outfit choice but stood up with the pieces before glancing at Scar. "Do I. . . dress up here?"

The Elder looked away and communicated with Scar instead, Y/n with no other choice, started to slip on and try the outfit, of course still having the blanket over herself. The bottom was similar to a thong beneath the hanging pieces of cloth attached to it, she pulled it up and let the cloth hang—covering just her front and rear, reaching to her knees while her thighs and waist were exposed. She grabbed the top next, seeing that it'll only cover her breasts and nothing else, she'll be showing sideboob, but hopefully the front will be hidden.

She tied a knot with the strings behind her neck and let it remain covering her chest just barely. She rechecked to see if she was fully covered before looking at Scar and the Elder who were now looking at her—she sighed and dropped the blanket. Showing her new two-piece outfit that she'll most likely have to keep on for however long she's kept here. She hugged her arms when the Elder signaled for them to leave, Scar walked to her and escorted her out of the temple.

"Why am I here? What is this place?" She questioned Scar, now covering her stomach as she passed dozens of more Yautjas. Everyone of them were males, adults or in their teen years. Some wore armor, while some didn't. The weather was warm and sunny, it didn't feel cold at all. "Where are you taking me?"

Scar led her to a further place away from the others, approaching a medium sized hut. Skulls and bones remained hanging around it, his trophies of past hunts. He led her inside left her there. "Well, this is great. I get fucked by some sort of alien, fall asleep and wake up to a knockoff Pandora planet like I'm in some sort of Avatar movie, and now I'm wearing this slutty outfit like I'm a stripper or something! I don't even know your name, that big one in that temple was looking at me like I was his next meal, I don't know what's going on and you still aren't saying anything to me-!"

"Scar." He growled as he approached her, easily overshadowing her as he watched her. "S-Scar?. . . That's your name?" She whispered as she slightly stepped back. "Top-Knot ha-as agreed to ma-ake you Blooded ally. He accepts yo-ou, but for yo-ou to keep your non-co. You mus-st become a kv'var-de." Y/n could piece his words together, but she didn't understand that word.

"A-A what? A kavalar?" Scar shook his head and knelt on one knee to be close to her height. "Kv'var-de. . . Hunter." He said. Y/n looked at her clothing then at him, "What if I don't want to become a hunter?" She whispered, "I'm weak. I'm not like you or the others out there. . . I'm just. . . Human."

He snarled, tilting his head but remained watching her, "M-di ooman can kill kiande amedha." He growled out. ". . . Huh?" His mandibles clicked as he stood again. "We te-each each othe-er." He said before walking out of the area and into another small room in the hut. She was left confused and lost in their language, how long is this going to last?

~Y/n pov~

Scar was true to his word about teaching each other something. He showed me how to sign, speak, and understand their language, after he tested my learning by signing a sentence out for me. Which I barely understood, so he flicked my head for messing up—it shouldn't have hurt as much as it did, but I forgot how much bigger and stronger he was compared to me. I'd teach him how to pronounce and understand English words and sentences, and in return, I'd be able to smack his chest—which I doubt even hurt this S'yuit-de.

He'd throw tiny insults here and there at me, call me a Hulij-bpe jehdin, which I finally found that it meant Crazy One, or Crazy Individual. So in return for learning his language, I called him S'yuit-de kv'var-de, which meant Pathetic Hunter, or Idiot Hunter. And I knew it offended him when he'd just quietly glare down at me, but I enjoyed it. At least four or three days have passed already and I've been dragged out into the unfamiliar world, I'd watch how he'd hunt and kill our next meal. It was upsetting but oddly satisfying to see. I saw the trees and strange like flying creatures that they had, but nothing prepared me to see the females who passed through.

I could feel their judgemental eyes lingering on me when I wasn't looking, they were taller than the males. Around eight feet tall at most, broader and rather aggressive. "Why are they staring at me?" I whispered to Scar. "They do not approve of ooman-dei."

They don't approve of human women. . . That explains it. They'd snap and flare their mandibles when I looked at them, I kept my eyes and head low out of submission, to not pose as a threat. I felt like I was at a new school and the mean girls were already scheming against me. Scar pulled my arm and held me against his body when a Yautja approached us, it was a female and of course she started to communicate to him.

My broken understanding of the Yautja language could only pick up so much. They rarely talk, but they used sounds to communicate to one another. The female arched her back and flared her mandibles at Scar, he roared at her before she shoved my shoulder back. Almost shoving me to the ground if it weren't for Scar's hand.

He told me about this. When a Yautja pushes your shoulder with their hand: they're challenging you for a fight.

I started to panic, my strength was nothing compared to Scar's, or even a female! I didn't know what they were clearly arguing about but it made her pissed off to the point where she wanted to fight me. And most likely kill me during that fight. "What's happening?!" I asked. She roared at me and Scar finally shoved her backwards out of defense when she tried to grab me.

He picked me up and his lower mandibles were flaring, before he carried me away from the female who was staring me down.

~~~

He didn't bring it up once, but it was on replay in my head, I'm pretty sure he sensed my confusion since he decided to lay beside me on the large furry cot. It was soft and comfortable to lay on, something I didn't expect. ". . . Scar, how long am I going to stay here." I asked him.

He raised his hand and tested me, he signed out what I could possibly read out as: Until you become Hunter. I held my head before asking, "How much time do I have until the Elders test me?"

He signed again: Two Weeks.

I groaned and laid on my back as I looked at the ceiling, I still wore the same revealing outfit before looking at him. "Why was that female mad? Did I do something wrong?" I whispered to him. "M-di. . . She wanted me to breed her." He answered.

"Why did she challenge me?" I questioned, slowly scooting closer to his larger frame and resting my head on his bicep. "I said m-di to her. I told her that you were my mate." I looked at him and felt my heart jump out of my chest. His mate. His mate!

"I-I—You told me that Yautja don't mate for life, you just. . . Reproduce?" Scar lowly purred before his sharp eyes looked in mine. "No-t you and me." He replied. I rested my face on his large pec and bit my lip, feeling that flutter of butterflies swirl in my gut when I thought of being his. His alone. He's not going to mate with anyone else except me. It then led me to getting an idea that would probably scare the crap out of any other chick, but not me, clearly I'm the crazy one for wanting to fuck this Yautja.

I sat up and sighed as I let my head hang back, "Do you still think about it? That night we spent together?" I asked him, he let out a deep growl before I turned and straddle his large hips. His eyes opened and found mine, "I still think about it." I added—letting my hips slowly grind against his loincloth, which I felt growing stiffer every passing second.

"Prove that you are not just kv'var-de, but a good Pauk-de as well." I smirked. Kv'var-de meant Hunter, but Pauk-de meant Fucker. His growl reverberated through me before he shoved me onto my back, pinning my arms above my head as he growled at me. "Do no-t temp me, Hulij-bpe jehdin." He warned, his dreadlocks brushed against my shoulders and arms. I let my right leg graze his waist as I arched my back on purpose—letting my top press perfectly against my breasts to show them off to him.

"What if I want you tempted?" I giggled, his mandibles clicked and snapped, he growled before placing his jaws on my shoulder and biting down on me. I gasped and let out a choked groan when he released my skin, licking up the blood that formed from the small puncture wounds.

"You need me to ell-osde' puak." He snarled out, I understood those words clearly: You need me to fuck you. "Sei-i." I mewled, yes, yes, I did want him to fuck me. I don't know what's been up with me, but I've been craving more of Scar ever since I got here. I've been pissing him off to make him snap, but clearly he has restraint. Maybe all I needed to do was make it obvious.

I lifted my hips into his and bit my lip when I felt his erection, "Come on, puak me, Scar." I purred. His jaws snapped in front of my face, I only responded by lifting my head and licking his mandibles. He held my wrists down with one hand, and let his other reach down to move my cloth to the side. A soft sigh left me when I felt his large length rub against my folds, "Kwei ooman-dei. . ." He snarled. Sly human woman.

I wanted to try something I've never done, but I wasn't sure. "Scar, please." I begged. His repetitive clicking was a sign of him chuckling at me, I whimpered when he notched the tip of his unnatural cock inside of me. Slowly pushing each inch into me, I could feel my cunt being stretched and accepting his invading length.

His hands clenched my wrists while he continued to sheath himself inside of me—finally gasping when his full cock was buried inside of my velvet canal. My legs hugged his sides as I arched my back, "Scar!" I moaned out; his scale covered body was emitting heat onto mine, his hand undid my top before he cupped my breasts. Squeezing and kneading them—exploring my body with his hand.

Slowly, he started to roll his hips into me. He earned multiple mewls, grunts, and moans from me; hisses and growls came from him, his tongue trailed up from between the valleys of my breasts, up my throat and into my mouth. I whined as I pressed my tongue against his forked one, he pulled out and heavily thrusted himself into me.

"Eek!" I yelped, I felt his claws tickle my side as it brushed down the side of my ribs and my waist to hold my thigh open. He watched as he slowly pulled out to the tip—then sinking back into me. Purring as he enjoyed the sensation of his cock being squeezed by my tight cunt, "More, more, Scar!" I pleaded as I clenched my knuckles.

Scar enjoyed being in control, taking his time and relaxing in the experience. He told me that the females were aggressive during their mating, and from what happened this morning, I believed him. Scar's pumps into me was satisfying to hear, it felt so amatory. He finally released my wrists and gripped my hips—he stood on his knees and lifted my lower body off the bed. I cried out when he continued to fuck me in such a lewd position.

It was so hot to see this Predator take what he wanted from me, such a sweet way but with harsh strength. "Ngh! Yes! Yes! Scar! Ah, keep going!" I exhorted out. Scar's snarls turn into a growling purr as he dug his nails into my flesh—I felt his thrusts get a bit harder. My mouth was agape as he started to get quicker with his grinding. He stilled inside of me fully for a moment and lifted my back towards his face—dragging his tongue over my breasts and tasting me.

I hummed with satisfaction as I let my body melt in his hands, he was so strong, it didn't bother him to hold me and fuck me at the same time. I touched his dreadlocks and licked one of them, he roared before he started to piston his cock up into my stretched cunt. "Oh fuck!" I screamed out with agonizing pleasure. The room was already hot and so was the weather, my body was shedding sweat as he grinded his musclar self onto me.

I dug my nails into his shoulders as he kept going, moaning at each heavy pump he made—my nails dragged down his skin but he didn't care. I doubted he even felt it. His skin texture was so different compared to mine, his strength, his eyes, his demeanor and culture. Everything was unique about him.

My end was nearing, I was going to cum, I was so close to cumming. I let my hand started teasing my clit as he kept fucking me, his large paw cupped my head while he wrapped the other around my waist—still keeping me midair. Weak and broken gasps croaked from my soaked lips as he kept getting rougher.

That tight band—tighter and coiling up in a tight ball, about to blow. The light from the stick of dynamite about to denote within my nerves—my hands instinctively grabbed his dreadlocks and held on. He roared again and hugged my torso tightly. Thrusting faster than before, my tongue was hanging out like a bitch in heat, my heart racing faster than a race horse as I finally squealed—feeling my juices coat our lower areas.

The spark ignited and finally blew. The shocks burned through my limbs and my sight went white as I shut my eyes, my breath lost from my lungs as I climaxed on his thick cock still ramming into me. My sensitive squeaks and cries were ignored by Scar—he was lost in the wave of his own pleasure.

I knew we'd be here all night, I'm tired out, but he won't be anytime soon. He told me he finished quickly last time because I was exhausted, but now, I'm sure he'll stop. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and rested my head on him, he still didn't slow down. My body was beginning to feel like lead as I tried to speak. But I couldn't.

I was too exhausted by this. So exhausted, I wanted to sleep. . . Which I did eventually.

~3rd pov~

The sun had risen, and so did Y/n. She woke up to a messy cot, her top on the floor as she remained wearing the bottom piece. She woke up to an empty bed, Scar was gone and she didn't know where he went. She got up and tied on her top once again before heading walking out of the room to find him.

"Scar?" Y/n muttered, crossing her arms as she slowly walked around the hut, checking the meat room, the main area and even outside next. No sign of Scar. She was worried until she remembered that he was probably out on a hunt. Sighing, she walked to the room again and sat on the bed. Relaxing into the pelt as she thought about him.

She just woke up, fully clean and even tucked into the pelt, he cleaned her and fixed her up in bed. She lightly traced her lips with her fingers as she smiled at the thought of a extraterrestrial being treating her like a lover. Some time passed and he returned to the hut, she looked and saw him drop a strange creature on the ground before entering the room. Carrying a box with him.

She crawled on her hands and knees on the bed and sat as she looked at him, "I missed you." She said. Scar let out a deep hum as he approached her, she reached up and planted a kiss on his shoulder. A growl escaped him as he handed her the box. She took it and started to open it up, her brow arching when she saw the odd outfit.

"What is this-?. . . Wait a minute." She mumbled, pulling out a fishnet outfit with solid pieces of armor on important places such as the breasts, and the nether regions. Reminding her of Scar's own armor, she lifted the fishnet outfit and saw a silver mask that looked similar to Scar's just without the blooded mark. It wasn't big, but it was her size. Arm cuffs and a small weapon within it. She looked at him with a confused look.

"Today. . . yo-ou Kv'var." He said to her. She gulped as she looked down at the custom made armor.

Today, she hunts.

_______________________________________________

I hope you enjoyed the sequel!

#fanfic #smutwarning #slow burn #yautja smut #yautja x you #yautja x human #yautja x reader #yautja #predator x human #predator x you #predator x reader #alien vs predator #predator smut #predator

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

Text

“Oh, shoot, sorry. Go back to sleep. Sorry.”

Nico shifts, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The light in the infirmary is low, and strangely soothing. It’s almost hard to keep his eyes open. But he manages, rubbing his knuckles under the curve of his eyesockets, and searches in the dark until he finds what woke him up.

Will stands a couple feet away from his bed, figure curled and shadowy, owlish eyes wide and almost unnaturally reflective in the dark.

“‘S’okay,” he mumbles. “Couldn’t really sleep anyway.”

“Oh.” There’s a shuffling sound, and suddenly Nico feels warmer where Will has stepped closer. “You in pain?“

“No. Just bad at sleeping.”

“Hey, me too.”

Surprise at Will’s easy admission and a little bit starstruck at the bright flash of Will’s grin, Nico doesn’t have the chance to beat himself up over being so flippantly open. His teeth seemed to glow as much as the whites of his eyes, which would be creepy, except it’s hard to feel anything but calm as a cool night breeze wafts the scent of lavender from the sill planters in every inch of the infirmary, and it’s hard to think of Will as anything but warm. Especially the hand he places, briefly, on the curve of Nico’s knee.

“Insomnia?”

“Something like that.”

“Still. Sorry for waking you up.”

Nico hums, fiddling with his skull ring. “Why were you up, anyway?”

“Oh, I won’t have time to sleep for another couple days.”

There’s a mellow cracking sound, and then all of Will’s knuckles begin to glow a soft, sunset yellow. Nico startles.

“Apollo thing,” Will explains. A smirk is now visible at the corner of his mouth, forcing a dimple on his right cheek. In his hands, almost hard to see under the glow, are three small vials of something Nico doesn’t recognize. “Getting meds and salves in order.”

Hesitantly, Nico drags his gaze away from the clinking glass bottles, forcing himself to meet Will’s eyes. They’re ridiculously bright. Is that an Apollo thing, too?

“Why does that mean you can’t sleep?”

Will gestures to the myriad of occupied beds outside the curtains Nico has pulled up. “Shitton of injured, man. I got way more people than I got stuff. I prepped for the Romans beforehand, obviously, but I didn’t have a good hand on their numbers and didn’t prep enough. I’m short on supplies. Haven’t slept since Gaea did.” At Nico’s look of alarm, he quickly assures, “But don’t worry, I had Cecil brew me something strong. It’s disgusting, so I think it might be his Coffee Redbull Matcha Heartstopper Special, With A Shot Of Crushed Caffeine Pills For Good Measure, but I’m not sure. Hands are only a little shakey, though, feel.”

In a mirror of a few days ago (fuck, Nico hopes he’s kidding; how long can people go without sleep?), he darts out and rests his hands under Nico’s. Sure enough, they’re trembling, although nothing nearly as bad as before.

“Dangerous levels of sleep deprivation aren’t as bad as delivering a baby, huh.”

Will shudders. “Don’t even joke.”

He looks so genuinely horrified that Nico can’t help but laugh. All they’ve seen, all they’ve suffered — and golden boy is gagging at the miracle of life. If Nico wasn’t so sure that he’d seen at least as many gory nightmares as Nico, if not more, he’d tease him for being squeamish.

…Actually.

“What kind of school nurse wannabe is squidged out by birth?”

“Nurse?” Will squawks, snatching his hands away (Nico finds his own hands, strangely and suddenly, cold). “I didn’t go to seven years of med school to be called a school nurse wannabe!”

Nico narrows his eyes. “You didn’t go to med school. You’re fifteen.”

“As I said.” He grins teasingly. “I didn’t go.”

It takes Nico a second, but when he gets it he cannot physically hold himself back from kicking him. Solace, weak from muffled laughter, stumbles sideways into a lamp.

“Ay! Be careful, you wanna kill the camp’s only brain surgeon?”

“If he’s being annoying,” Nico bites back. He can’t quite stop smiling, and he’s embarrassed about it, but thankfully the darkness hides his face. “There’s no way you’ve done brain surgery.”

The shitty cot Nico’s been coerced into camping on for the next three days creaks as Will perches on the edge of it.

“Have so. In the woods, two years ago, removed a brain tumour. Stressful as shit.” He flashes another sideways grin. “Couple dozen more medical emergencies under my belt, and I might actually be as qualified as a nurse in this country’s garbage medical system. Thank the gods for them, honestly. They do a shit lot more than a lot of doctors claim to.”

Sensing the topic change for what it is, Nico doesn’t press any further. “That what you wanna do?”

“Aw, man, I don’t even want to think about it. The idea of someone else running this infirmary gives me a stress ulcer. Y’all do a lot of stupid shit and frankly some of the procedures I have performed exist in no medical textbooks anywhere, medical or no.” He snorts. “Anyways.”

His hands are blazingly warm again, almost like sun through a maginifying glass, when they pat his shin twice. He stands, stretching — more bursts of light appearing along the length of his spine, lighting what his fading knuckles leave out.

“Try to sleep again, Neeks. You’ll need it.”

“Maybe I should be the one to say that to you,” Nico says. Will waves his hand dismissively, and in a fit of impulse Nico reaches out and grabs it, meeting his raised eyebrow with a stubborn set to his jaw. “I mean it, Will. No one’s awake right now. I just woke up. Why don’t you crash for an hour or so? I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

Will hesitates. “If anything happens, that’s on me. It — I can’t let it be on me.”

“Do you trust me?”

Stupid question. Of course Will doesn’t trust him, Nico let someone die in front of his eyes, Nico is the bringer of death and darkness, why would he —

“Yeah.” Will sighs. Nico looks up, startled, but the medic is eyeing one of the few spare cots, face screwed up in consideration. “You’ll wake me?”

“Immediately,” Nico assures hastily. He nods his head at the bunk next to him. “Sleep, man. You look like you need it.”

“Oh, well, just what I’ve always wanted to hear from you. You look stunning, by the way.”

Nico knows it’s a joke, but he flushes anyway. Thank Hades again for the dark infirmary, and the length of his hair.

“Whatever. Sleep or don’t.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

In seconds he’s out of his flip-flops, slightly-scratchy blankets turned up and wrapped tightly around him all the way up to his neck.

“Thanks, Nico. I owe you.”

In the next breath, he’s out, all that’s visible of him the flutter of his light eyelashes and the tangled mop of blond hair. He snores, slightly, with every puffed exhale; a tiny, stuttered sound, not unlike a cat. It’s kind of cute, and Nico’s smiling before he realising.

“You don’t owe anybody shit.” He shakes his head fondly, leaning back onto his pillows to keep an eye out. “Goodnight, Will.”

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