#and was the only authority of consequence to the people of the lands between

[death-rebirth-senshi]

Also I've seen people speculate that Marika removed the rune of death out of a fear of dying or something but given that unbinding the rune of death leads to killing the Elden Beast, vassal beast of the Greater Will…

#me vs elden ring #ultimately there's no conclusive evidence either way #given that the greater will apparently can only communicate through the two-fingers it's hard to say how. Hands on. #They are about running things. It's entirely possible Marika had free reign to do whatever she wanted within reason #and was the only authority of consequence to the people of the lands between #BUT ALSO. People say a lot of things about Marika with a lot of confidence that don't seem. Correct. #at the very least don't seem to come from any other source #like the not knowing is in some ways the *point*. #but also in general I see so little speculation about the greater will in lore talks about Elden Ring it drives me insane #Ranni fucking goes on a whole long ass quest to slay her own two-fingers. Seems like something she *had* to do to walk her path #rather than a symbolic gesture of rebellion #which potentially implies a lot about the relationship between them!

[loveshotzz]

fboy!eddie x fem!reader

Rude Boy

Summary: Alone in a basement at Reefer Rick’s party, you finally catch Eddie’s attention.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: 18 + obviously this is an fboy!eddie fic so prepare for him to be smug, mocking and hot. Fingering (f receiving), dry humping, finger sucking, weed smoking, mentions of partying and a slightly angsty ending.

Authors Note: this is for @newlips #milestoneoflove celebration. I wanted to try something new in between working on bigger fics, I also just wanted to write something for you, cece. Thank you for always bringing us writers together on here 💗. Shout out to both cece and @carolmunson the queens of fboy!eddie. If you haven’t read The Sheep or Baby, As If I highly recommend.

Scanning the party over the top of your drink, your eyes search for the only reason you came to Rick’s in the first place. The rumor mill had let it be known that Eddie Munson and his main girl Cece had finally broken up, and you’d only dreamed of having that top spot.

Tugging down the short hem of your dress that you wore just for him, you were starting to get impatient. You had watched his messy head of curls disappear into the basement that was off limits for anyone that didn’t work for the man whose house you were in. No one had followed him in, and you didn’t notice anyone go before him. Sitting pressed against the wall you weigh the consequences of the choice you were about to make.

Pushing yourself off the wall you make a beeline for the door, weaving through the crowd you’re side tracked by a yank on your arm, falling slightly into the sea of dancing people you shove your empty cup into the chest of a handsy man who was trying to get you to dance. Ignoring the way he slurred ‘bitch’ after you yanked yourself free, all you focused on was keeping your breathing steady as you dared to be bold enough to get what you wanted for so long.

A manicured hand on the door handle, you got dark red just for tonight. The girls around town had always gossiped that color was his favorite. It doesn’t make any noise when you open it, the music upstairs immediately clashing with what he was playing downstairs. Closing the door the lighting is dim at the bottom of the stairs. A thick cloud of smoke creates a haze around the yellow glow and it tightens in your lungs with every breath you take all the way down.

The long wooden table with a lush bag of weed and a couple scales is what you see first, dark green crumbs dusting what was clearly a makeshift weigh station in the middle of it. Neon beer signs add a pink coloring to your forbidden surroundings as your eyes land on the worn couch in the center of the room.

The man you’d been looking for sitting right in the middle.

His long legs are spread wide with ease, and you catch a glimpse of the pale skin hidden underneath through the rips in his black tight fitting jeans. His simple white shirt wraps around his torso and arms the way you see on the models covering the packages at the store. The crisp cleanliness of it makes the ink that covers every inch of his toned arms stand out even more.

His face is hidden by a large hit blowing from between his plump lips adding to the fog that coats the room. You can still feel the heat of his stare and it makes your thighs press tighter.

“Lost?” His voice comes out deep with a teasing edge to it — a harsher rasp from smoking. Leaning forward - his elbows press to his knees, his handsome features reveal themselves to you when he pushes through the cloud of smoke. Straight white teeth shine on display in the kind of smile that ruins the thin fabric of your underwear. “Or just looking for trouble?”

It takes you a minute to find your words when the chestnut of his eyes darken as they take in the way the material of your dress hangs just right off every curve of your body. Thick ringed fingers come up to rest on the plush pink of his lips when they spy the dark red adoring your long nails, his smile widening even more almost like he knew you picked that color just for him.

“Trouble’s my middle name actually.” Biting into the sticky gloss of your bottom lip, mischief flashes behind his hungry gaze when he slowly extends the half smoked blunt in your direction. Daring you to take the bait.

He eats you alive with his eyes as your hips sway and your heels thud muted against the carpet carrying you towards him like a lion’s prey walking right into his den. The sound of Chevelle’s Send The Pain Below drowns out the noise of the party upstairs only intensifying the growing slick between your legs. Nerves vibrating from your fingertips the second hand smoke was already starting the job the blunt was going to finish.

You end up between his legs when you come to a stop and he doesn’t make any effort to leave your personal space. His hot breath fans on the exposed skin of your thighs when your delicate fingers brush against his when they take the blunt from his hand.

Your cheeks hollow when you take a drag, despite trying to keep a confident demeanor you can’t meet his eyes from this close. Black and hungry he doesn’t try to hide how his eyes roam all over you. The scent of his cologne is stronger than the weed burning, swirling around you it overpowers your senses.

His fingertips run a slow path up the back of your calf catching the way it makes you rub your legs together in search of friction. His lips ghosting against your skin as he starts toying with the hem of your dress.

“Didn’t anyone tell you not to talk to strangers?” He looks up at you from under his lashes and you try to ignore the sting to your ego that he doesn’t remember you.

“We went to High School together, Eddie.”

The squeal you let out when his teeth nip at the spot his lips had just been hovering covers the disappointment in your voice.

He just hums to himself giving you no indication if you jogged his memory or not. Squeezing rough with big hands at the doughy meat of your thighs he was focused on getting what he wanted, not the words coming out of your mouth.

Leaning back on the cushions of the couch, he watches you with narrowed eyes. Giving you another once over, he licks his lips watching the way yours wrap around the tobacco.

“Those cute feet of yours are probably sore from standing in those pretty lookin’ heels all night sweetheart.” Patting his lap, the smile on his lips twists like the devil before adding “Why don’t you take a seat?”

You exhale your last drag as he spreads himself out in anticipation for the choice he knows you’re going to make. With the blunt tucked between your fingers, you lean forward, hands gripping his shoulders letting him get a look at the lace that pushes your tits up earning you a squeeze on your sides in approval.

Straddling him with your knees against his hips, the heels of your shoes hang over the edge of the couch. Your dress sits rucked up at your waist — the new position giving him a view of the matching panties underneath.

“Wearing these ‘cause you wanted someone to see ‘em huh?” Plucking at the elastic edge near where you needed his fingers most, his smirk told you he could feel how they were already drenched.

“I don’t know what you’re talking abo-“

“Don’t let the blunt go out.” His tone is harsher than before and you hated how it only turned you on more. “You wanted my attention and now you got it princess, don’t be rude and waste my weed.”

You don’t argue with him bringing it back to your lips, putting your full weight down on his lap you could feel how hard he was underneath you despite his indifference. The silent victory has you smirking around your hit. The callouses that cover his fingertips catch against the smoothness of your skin as they grip and massage over the fat of your thighs.

The silver of his rings gleam against the soft light, the cool metal of the chain that wraps around his wrist leaves goosebumps in its wake with every glide against your heated flesh. Slow and teasing his hands make their way higher, clenching around nothing — he keeps his eyes trained on your face. Playing with the edge of your panties close to where you can feel a second heartbeat, he tuts when your hips give the slightest rock.

“Smoking my weed, breaking the number one rule in Rick’s house, and now you think you can be greedy while you soak my lap?” He lets out a low whistle before snatching what’s left of the blunt from your mouth. The glitter from your lip gloss stains the end when he puts it out.

Big hands on your ass, he pulls you forward when he leans back. A single grunt escapes him when your heat hits where he’s pressing against his zipper. A harsh smack followed by a kneading grip, he keeps one hand on your reddening ass while the other goes back to playing with the seam of your completely ruined underwear. He lets his two fingers dip inside, the fat tips tracing once over your slick lips.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” Pulling the offending material to the side his gaze darkens when he sees how you glisten for him, running the pads of his fingers down your slit he’s only partially satisfied when you mewl in response. Your long nails dig deeper into his shoulders when he does it again.

“I asked you a question, trouble maker.”

He doesn’t give you any time to respond before he pushes inside. Despite the lack of warning your walls give him little to no fight as they pull him in until he hits his rings. Eyes screwing shut at the stretch, all coherent thoughts get lost when he curls them to the side. Reaching your g-spot like he knew where it was the whole time.

“Yes! — Fuck, Eddie!” The coil in your stomach tightens when he starts setting a pace that has you clawing at his shirt, eyes rolling in the back of your head when he uses the pad of his thumb against your sensitive clit.

There’s a pang of jealousy when you think of all of the practice it took him to touch your body like he’d done it a million times before, but it’s short lived when he adds a third finger stretching your walls even further a pornogrpahic moan rips through your chest.

“Yeah? It’s like that huh?” His smooth voice is condescending as he mocks the way your mouth hangs open and your brows pinch together but you're too close to seeing god from just his fingers to care. The thought of how his dick would make you feel has you gushing all over him again, walls fluttering with a new wave of arousal. God, you hoped he’d let you find out.

All you can do is nod, your hips starting to meet the drag of his knuckles chasing the high that was threatening to consume every part of you. Too lost in the intensity of being so close you don’t see him lean in until you feel his lips on where the tops of your breasts are exposed from the low cut of your dress. Tongue lapping against the curve of your cleavage he bites down hard enough to leave a bruise, sucking for good measure he was marking you. No one else at this party was gonna touch you.

There’s a flicker of pride that ignites inside you at the thought of being one of his girls, and when the hand that's been firmly gripping your ass starts pushing your hips forward it’s just enough to send you flying over the edge.

White hot heat flashing behind your eyes, his name falls from your mouth in a way that will have your voice horse in the morning. Shuddering on top of him, you don’t think anyone has ever made you cum this hard before.

“Made such a mess of me darlin’, gonna need you to clean it up.” He doesn’t give you time to recover before the fingers that have you still trembling on top of him are shoved in your mouth.

The rough pads of his fingers press down on your tongue, the taste of your release coating your tongue — sweet and tangy. Wrapping glittering lips around them he inhales a shallow breath when you eagerly start sucking them clean.

“Such a dirty fucking girl, I’ve got something else you’d be good at suckin’ just like that.” Rutting his hips up, the over stimulation has you whining around his fingers. He pulls them out with a loud pop and a trail of spit still connects you, wiping the remains on the side of his jeans he gives your ass another spank before ushering you up.

“I’m gonna go get us something to drink then you can return the favor like I know you want to sweetheart.” Flashing you a smile that somehow has you hungry for more, you nod obediently with hot cheeks and a flushed grin on your gloss smeared lips.

“I’ll be waiting, Eddie.” Your voice is shy despite what just happened moments before, and it makes his dimples poke the sides of his cheeks.

You watch him head up the stairs you’d dare to come down, waiting to hear the door click you let out a little squeal. Falling onto the couch with a pleased smile, you toy with the bottom of your dress doing your best to ignore how soaked your were.

It had been ten minutes when you looked down at the mouth shaped bruise on your chest, and another ten when you opted to just lose your underwear for your own comfort. It was when it started pushing forty that the fear he might not be coming back finally set in.

Huffing with a shake in your throat, you finally will yourself to stand. Taking one last look around you finally decide to leave with whatever dignity you might have left after waiting almost an hour.

Your heels feel heavy with each step, the bruise to your ego from before growing ten fold. Turning the handle, it feels like all eyes land on you when you cross the threshold. Whispers and murmurs and stares falling to the mark on your chest, everyone knew who did that to you.

His loud laugh catches your ears and you should have known better than to let the lovesick smile light up your face like it was meant for you. It doesn’t take you long to find him halfway out the front door with his arm slung around a pretty brunette you’ve seen before. His main girl.

Throwing you a wink and less than guilty grin he knew he’d be able to see you again. You owed him a blowjob after all.

Throwing you a wink and less than guilty grin he knew he’d be able to see you again. You owed him a blowjob after all.

#newlipsmilestoneoflove #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #fboy!eddie #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson angst

[pradnyesh1008]

Embark on a journey to the heart of Veridonia, an empire shrouded in tradition and mystique. The Golden Throne stands as the symbol of power, yet beneath its gilded exterior lies a realm of political intricacies and hidden secrets, waiting to be unveiled. In a world where politics, intrigue, and war are the norm, you must navigate your way through the complex web of alliances and enemies that surround you. This game is for those who love adventure, drama, and intrigue. It is a game where every decision matters and every outcome are different. It is a game where you can shape the fate of an empire and make history.

“Dive into the epic world of ‘The Golden Throne’ with its first book, ‘Crown of Conquest’. A journey you won’t forget!”

In the vast continent of Veridonia, a great empire stands on the brink of uncertainty. Emperor Varian III, the revered ruler who has led his empire with wisdom and strength for decades, finds himself facing a devastating reality.

As his health deteriorates, the absence of a suitable heir threatens to plunge the entire continent into chaos and ignite a destructive war between the kingdoms. Now, facing his own mortality, the emperor grapples with the realization that his thriving nation could crumble without a clear successor.

News of the Emperor’s failing health spreads like wildfire, reigniting ancient rivalries. The various kingdoms, each vying for power and control, sense an opportunity to assert their authority. Fear murmurs within the hearts of the people, and trepidation blankets the land.

Whispers of an impending civil war pervade the corridors of power, and tension begins to mount as rival factions strategize and secretly forge alliances in anticipation of the emperor’s demise. Drawing upon an elite advisory council, composed of trusted ministers, scholars, and military strategists, the emperor endeavours to explore all possible avenues to secure a peaceful transition of power.

Noble houses assert their claims to the throne, while whispers of treachery and deceit echo through the corridors of the imperial palace. A sense of urgency fills the air, as the emperor’s condition deteriorates, and time becomes the most precious commodity.

As the final days of the asserting claims and authority draw near, a solution begins to emerge from the chaos. King Aric, the king in the north, your/MC’s father, emerged victorious, chosen as the heir to the Golden Throne. In this epic tale of power, loyalty, and betrayal, will you succeed in helping your father preserving the legacy of his predecessor, or will Veridonia descend into a dark age of war and destruction? Are you ready to claim your destiny? Will you follow your father’s footsteps and become a worthy successor to the throne? Or will you carve your own path and challenge the established order? The fate of a continent hangs in the balance, and only time will tell. This is the thrilling saga of “Crown of Conquest”.

 A rich and immersive setting inspired by real medieval history, culture, and geography.

 A branching storyline with multiple endings and consequences based on your choices and actions.

 A customizable character with four different personality options and various traits that define your skills and abilities.

 A dynamic stat system that reflects your character’s growth and development throughout the game.

 A diverse cast of characters with their own backgrounds, motivations, and agendas.

 You can befriend, romance, or antagonize them depending on your choices.

 Violence and Gore: The game frequently depicts gory, brutal battles and graphic acts of violence.

 Frightening/Intense Scenes: There are many intense scenes that can be frightening for some readers.

 Graphic Deaths: Characters often meet violent, graphic ends.

 Torture Scenes: There are scenes depicting torture.

 Sexual Content: There will be many scenes with sexual acts.

 Dark Humor: The game contains dark humor, which may be unsettling or offensive to some viewers.

 Sadistic Behavior: Some characters exhibit sadistic behavior which can be disturbing.

 Substance Abuse: Characters are shown consuming alcohol excessively.

Demo:

Forum:

https://forum.choiceofgames.com/t/wip-the-golden-throne-60k-words/142838/59

RO's

Male RO's

Female RO's

#if: the golden throne #if wip #if game #choice of games #interactive fiction #wip #interactive novel #demo #choice script #hosted games

[animehouse-moe]

Delicious In Dungeon Episode 4: The Balance of Things

While a far more reserved and plain episode than the last, today's installment of Delicious In Dungeon really provides the first look at the depth of Ryoko Kui's storytelling, and how deeply passionate and interested in this content they are. Because of that, I'd love to explain how Kui expresses balance within the content of this episode.

Obviously, the easiest answer is the fact that Senshi and co are "living off the land". There's an implicit balance between them and the food they eat up until this point, but the episode makes that relationship very explicit today with the golems.

While Senshi uses the golems to grow his vegetables, he also cares for the golems by providing them with water and even fertilizer.

He even argues the point that the vegetables create a symbiotic relationship with the golems, making their soil stronger.

Similarly, he further argues that keeping the golems alive is important within the balance of the dungeon, otherwise monsters will start to pour into the floor that the golems exist on.

Kui's awareness of ecosystems and the balance of things in that sense is really really great. They understand what it takes to build a habitat and even further what's required to maintain it, and how it even might begin to fall apart.

But the icing on the cake is the introduction of the orcs. What a great decision.

You might think them as a boorish race because they killed that entire tavern, but I think that if viewers take a moment to digest the entire interaction with that group of humans, you'll get a better grasp of how that happens.

The owner of the tavern essentially said that the only thing that matters to him is money, obviously. With added imagery the point driven home is the fact that this group of people only take from the dungeon, and are entirely unaware of the delicate balance of it.

Though if that wasn't enough, the leader of the orcs (Zon) conversation with Marcille is perfect at driving that point home.

While it does paint a more hypocritical image of the orcs than what the tavern might say, it forces a deeper conversation in regards to balance.

Kui effectively states that it is the nature of intelligent life to disrupt, and because of that it requires conscious effort to reinstate balance or to suffer the consequences.

For example, the balance that existed while the orcs was above ground was essentially "don't pillage and kill the other races", and they were unable to adhere to that, thereby upsetting the balance, and were forced out of the ecosystem.

Conversely, the dungeon doesn't have a strong or active presence like humans or elves to enforce that balance. Because of that, they suffer different consequences. Namely the fact that the Red Dragon is uncharacteristically roaming, and upsetting the lower levels of the dungeon.

It's a very cyclical narrative that starts from the moment that we open up this series and won't stop until it ends, but it's really incredible how well Kui distills it into each and every aspect, and how she paints Laios and his party as the people to break that cycle of human destruction. I really could talk about it for ages and how it arises within the series, there's so much that Kui does as an incredible author that remains lurking beneath the surface.

But, I refuse to spoil the fun of experiencing the series, so I'll leave things where they stand- Kui's awareness of ecosystems and the role of "humans" (in this case all intelligent life) within them is really outstanding, and they're able to express both implicit and explicit balance between humans and nature in so many different ways.

#delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi #ダンジョン飯 #marcille dungeon meshi #marcille donato #marcille dunmeshi #dunmeshi #dungeon meshi anime #laios touden #chilchuck #senshi dungeon meshi #anime #anime and manga #anime reccs #anime recommendation #anime review

[contemplatingoutlander]

Interesting proposal by Nate Loewentheil in a guest column in The New York Times. Not only was his proposal thought provoking, but two of the comments regarding it by readers were also worth contemplating. Below are some excerpts from the column, followed by the two comments.

Here is a proposal for the environmental movement: Pool philanthropic funds for a day, buy a small plot of land in Washington, D.C., and put up a tall marble wall to serve as a climate memorial. Carve on this memorial the names of public figures actively denying the existence of climate change. Carve the names so deep and large, our grandchildren and great-grandchildren need not search the archives. This is not a metaphor. The problem with climate change is the disconnect between action and impact. If politicians vote against construction standards and a school collapses, the next election will be their last. But with climate change, cause and effect are at a vast distance. We are already seeing the consequences of our past and present greenhouse gas emissions. In coming decades, those emissions will wreak their full havoc on the climate, and it will take hundreds, possibly thousands, of years for those pollutants to fully dissipate. But in the short term, the most immediate burdens are borne mostly by the poor in America and distant people in distant lands. Misaligned incentives are at the heart of why some political and business leaders deny and delay. [...] I would first nominate those who have sown confusion over climate science, like Myron Ebell, who recently retired as director of the Competitive Enterprise Institute’s Center for Energy and Environment, where he sought to block climate change efforts in Congress, and served as the head of Donald Trump’s transition team for the Environmental Protection Agency. Mr. Ebell has argued that the idea that climate change is “an existential threat or even crisis is preposterous.” Then there are lawmakers who have consistently stood in the way of federal action, like the recently retired senator James Inhofe of Oklahoma, the author of the book “The Greatest Hoax: How the Global Warming Conspiracy Threatens Your Future.” [color emphasis added]

Below is the first thought provoking comment to this article:

There is, in Iceland, a memorial to a dead glacier - the Ok Glacier. It reads: "Ok is the first Icelandic glacier to lose its status as a glacier. In the next 200 years all our glaciers are expected to follow the same path. This monument is to acknowledge that we know what is happening and what needs to be done. Only you know if we did it." [color emphasis added] --Chris D., Colorado

Photo of the plaque at the at the Okjökull (OK Glacier) memorial.

Here is the second thought provoking comment to this article:

For reference this graph https://i.redd.it/ljifc828iui31.jpg is from the Exxon internal scientific report on climate change, 1982, produced by scientists working for that fossil fuel corporation. Look at what their graph predicted for 2020. Approaching 420 ppm CO2 and a rise of 1.2 C degrees above pre-industrial temperature - very close to what we actually got in 2020. Then look at what the graph shows for later this century, based on not reducing emissions. Very serious temperature rises, that could make agriculture very difficult in many countries. Yes, and then Exxon, having seen this, got involved in PR campaigns to "cast doubt" on climate science, to protect their assets. [color emphasis added] --Erik Frederiksen, Ashville, NC

1982 Exxon graph depicting average global temperature increases over time correlating with increases in atmospheric CO2. NOTE: Graph color was modified for greater clarity.

Fossil fuel companies like Exxon, and fossil fuel oligarchs like the Koch brothers should be included in any "Climate Wall of Shame."

#climate change #disinformation about climate change #climate change deniers #climate wall of shame #myron ebell #james inhofe #koch brothers #exxon #fossil fuel industry #ok glacier memorial #nate loewentheil #the new york times

[ilynpilled]

The thing about the hand loss and how people attach things behind it like “it was as a result of Jaime’s arrogance,” or “he lost it because he saved Brienne from rape,” is that neither is true to what actually happens in the text. Those actions still hold meaning, sure, but the chop itself is also independent to it all (the maiming is symbolically karmic in a lot of ways as it is tied to his greatest sins, but that is not what i am talking about). The capture itself is different, but the right hand and his fate was doomed the moment he landed in Hoat’s hands for reasons out of his control. What is so good about it is that the hand chop is not really about Jaime as a human being (which makes it causing one of the biggest existential crises in the series all the more interesting), and more about Jaime as a token. Ironically, his status and relationship to his father is what ends up dehumanizing him entirely. There are so many things going on outside of Jaime. He is an integral political piece, every side is scrambling for him for different reasons, and he is fully treated as such in the Riverlands.

Hoat had his own motivation, that is much bigger than Jaime, due to his previous betrayal of Tywin, which turned into a death sentence following the results of Blackwater. As Roose implies throughout the dinner conversation, Jaime’s hand chop was, above all else, the result of Tywin and the ruthless foundation of much of his authority (the Reynes and Tarbecks are brought up again). And what I like about it, other than the emphasis on the players constantly making moves solely for their own benefit in war while everyone else suffers the consequences, is that it does address and criticize the Lannister method a whole lot. The hand chop almost feels less karmic for Jaime himself than it does for Tywin. It is another reason that I find the perspective that these books were heralding this kind of sociopathic ruthlessness as competent and uber effective while completely condemning the relatively more “moral” Starks so funny. Like without even getting into where we are headed in the aftermath of the WoT5K, the holes within the “Tywin method” are already being explored. And the results are creeping towards Tywin himself, invading his family, because it is his very heir that suffers directly from it. The more we move along in the story the more the distance lessens between him and his putrid actions to cement his authority and power. “I’ve lost a hand, a father, a son, a sister, and a lover, and soon enough I will lose a brother. And yet they keep telling me House Lannister won this war.” is a Tywin/House Lannister thesis when it comes to the events of ASoS. For a start, he is the one who brought in the Bloody Mummers. The cruelty he unleashes on the smallfolk ends up coming back to him directly through his heir being the one experiencing it full force. There is the layer of loyalty vs utilizing sellswords, which is one way the conflicting sides in the war foil each other, and it is a root cause of the betrayal to begin with. If you use these men, you can end up suffering the consequences yourself, loyalty can only be bought if you remain the highest bidder. Relying on greed is fragile. Then, the part that Jaime is repeatedly faced with throughout his narrative: fear ≠ trust.

Hoat is smart enough to realize by now that his betrayal will not be pardoned by Tywin. Jaime’s offer means nothing in terms of his safety. He is aware of his low status and the meaning of his action to Tywin. That is what truly dooms Jaime and his hand. Hoat needed that token, and he needed to secure a path for himself (without losing his token along the way to Roose) to the Karstarks. He made sure that he brought Roose down with him, and put him in a difficult situation. Sure, Jaime’s skill itself is a huge threat and liability, but that is not the primary motivator. It is his sole ticket to safety from Tywin’s ruthlessness.

Then the goat gets outsmarted by Roose, and Jaime catches on to that part, so Hoat does take the L ultimately I fear, but these layers remain and it adds a lot. I also like how in ASoS, Jaime’s status is constantly fluctuating between dooming him and saving him. It often depends on how clever he is being in the moment.

#i do not do this type of analysis that much but i do like that dinner convo a whole lot #and it does certainly get overshadowed by the fact that it happens after the bath confession #valyrianscrolls #jaime lannister #roose bolton #tywin lannister #and then j becomes another ticket for roose instead 😭 #honestly being tywin’s heir and what it puts jaime through is incredibly funny considering the aerys hostage situation and all this #also love love how roose is playing w his words #like his sentences are layered and carefully chosen #and all so deliberate #he is still in the process of calculating

[firebloodanddragons]

The Midnight Relief - Part 3 (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) NSFW

Summary: A knight of the King's Guard comes look for you in the middle of the night. Aemond is back from Storm's End and he requests your presence but nothing has prepared you for what you will find in his rooms.

Tags: SMUT, Porn with Plot (sort of), Vaginal Sex, Soft Aemond, Bottom Aemond, Breeding kink, Targcest (Reader is Daemon Targaryen’s bastard), Angst, Insecurity and Vulnerability, Mention of Underage Prostitution, Death, violence and murder.

Author’s Notes: I hoped you’ll enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. As I worked on this chapter, I wondered many times what would make Reader stand by Aemond after learning about Lucerys's death. So I developed her backstory and made it somewhat similar to Aemond's life. I wanted them relate to each other and to bond over death instead of letting it create a gap between them. I was also eager to write a Reader who was different from the goody-two-shoes pure girls we usually pair with characters like Aemond and let's not forget whose daughter she is. You can't be Daemon's daughter and be 100% angelic. Anyway, I can't wait to read your reaction and thank you again for your positive response. Happy New Year. Cee

(PART 1) (PART 2)

“Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin in the air and the world holds its breath. Which side will it be, greatness or madness? It is a saying born from the mouth of the Targaryen lords that spread to the ears of the people back when Maegor The Cruel was still alive. People used to say that the second son of Aegon the Conqueror was the polar opposite of his half-brother, Aenys I. While Aenys was peaceful, loving and artistic, a weedy and fragile man as thin as a twig, Maegor was quarrelsome, heartless and brutal, a tall and strong man as large as a bull. Two completely different men yet two brothers born from the same father. Two sides of the same coin.”

You didn’t know how your mother could possibly know so much about the Targaryen dynasty or why she was so fascinated by their family history.             For years, you had thought her interest for the house of the dragon was the obvious consequence of the heartbreak Daemon Targaryen had left her with, that unconsciously (or not) it had been her desperate way to keep her heart close to the Rogue Prince. But as you grew up you began to believe the opposite. It was her obsession for the Targaryens that had drawn her to Daemon for the dragonriders represented everything she had desired in life: glory, power and especially freedom.          

Her sombre face – that only brightened when she would hear the name Targaryen - came back to you as you observed each side of the gold coin flipping between your fingers. The crowned head of late King Viserys The Peaceful shone in the moonlight while the three-headed dragon looked dull, certainly because it was the side that your mother had kissed for years back when the coin used to be hers.       Even though you were no real Targaryen and merely a bastard of the Prince of the City, you wondered if she had tossed the coin at your birth and if she had, which side it had landed on.

           The door to your dorm slammed open, waking up all the serving girls sleeping in their beds with a start. The crash made you jump with surprise and you quickly hid the gold coin under your pillow, fearing someone might steal it if they knew of its existence.     A young and bearded knight of the King’s Guard entered the room. Silently, he had a look around, scanning all the women’s faces one after the other with unknown purpose. When his blue eyes landed on you and noticed your silver hair, he finally declared in a blunt tone of voice. “You! Prince Aemond requests your presence, immediately.” Nothing more, nothing less.     It was the first time Aemond had sent a white cloak to find you. Usually, he would entrust an upright and meek servant he could easily intimidate with the task, menacing them to be discreet and sneaky if they wanted to keep their toil or their tongue. ‘Prince Aemond wishes for your service in his rooms at nightfall’ was the regular message since Aemond was determined to keep his nocturnal activities with you a secret and his reputation for decency intact. Something wasn’t right. Every girl stared at you as you got up, put on your red dress over your night gown and left the dorm with the guard in silence. Surely, they were wondering questions similar to yours considering their whispers and glances you chose to ignore but couldn’t help but despise. You blamed yourself for caring so much.     You followed the knight down the stairs and he led you to Aemond’s door without a single word. You could see the tension eating at him. His jaw was clenched and there was a certain anxiety behind his harsh blue eyes. What the hell was going on?             Arryk – that was the knight’s name (or was it Erryk?) – knocked and without opening, announced. “My prince, the serving girl is here.” He got no answer but he still gestured you to enter almost as if he was afraid to grab the handle himself.             You furrowed your brow but you did as he said anyway, not because he had asked you to but because you wanted to know the reason behind the knight’s odd stiffness and Aemond’s reckless summoning.     

The prince’s rooms were plunged into the darkness and cold. There was no flame burning in the fireplace that was as clean and empty as when Aemond had left for Storm’s End to obtain Borros Baratheon’s support and the hand of one of his daughters three days ago - a decision made by his family that had hurt you despite Aemond’s assurance that you would never leave his side.          

“My prince?” You said, searching for him in the dim moonlight and in the obscurity but he was nowhere to be found. “It is I … Y/N.” You got no answer, just a terrifying gloomy silence that made you anxious and look around you for comfort.         “Aemond?” You called his name, now too worried and fearful to care about etiquette.

Your informality managed to draw Aemond out of the shadow and he abruptly wrapped his arms around you as he slammed his hard chest against your back. Startled by his stealthy embrace, you immediately gasped and almost yelped, but as soon as you recognized your paramour’s strength and his perfume - which was a mix of leather and cologne drown in dragon musk - your fear immediately vanished and your body leant under his touch. “You scared me.” You chuckled; you heart still pounding in your chest but glad to finally be in his arms. You had missed him dearly. “You know, fear has never been arousing.” You joked as you put your hands over his to make him tighten his embrace around you.       Aemond did not reply. Instead, he hugged you harder and almost with desperate need and he nestled his head in your neck to breathe hard. His behaviour sucked the little playfulness warming your heart out of your chest and the impression that something was wrong reappeared straight away. You slowly turned around to look at Aemond with worry.   You could barely see his face in the darkness but the little you saw was enough to sadden you. His silver hair was wavy as if rain had poured over him and his purple look – that was avoiding eye contact - was swollen and reddened. Had he been crying? “Oh my sweet prince.” You cupped his cheek – he was freezing against your palm- and caressed it until he suddenly grabbed your hand to kiss your knuckles desperately. He was glad you were here. He needed you.   “My midnight relief.” He whispered, almost chocking on his words.        

Concerned for Aemond’s welfare, you hastened to light a fire and a few candles and you prepared a hot bath for him as fast as you could. You thought he would complain about your slowness but the look that he gave you as you did all those things to comfort him was not his usual glare of impatience. Standing in silence in the middle of the room, his head down and his face livid, he genuinely seemed confused.                       When the water was finally hot and steaming, you gently took his hands in yours and escorted him towards the tub. There, you removed his humid clothes one by one, his boots first, then his leather tunic and trousers and finally his undergarments. He let you do without any complain or any reaction, almost like a doll a little girl could dress and undress at will. But when you reached his eyepatch to unstrap it, he winced and grabbed your hand as swiftly as a snake, his sad young face wrinkled by fear and pain. You surrendered to his refusal but only for a brief moment.   “It’s alright.” You whispered as you stroke his cheek to reassure him. He eventually leant in your palm like a fearful cat and you used his moment of docility to remove his eyepatch but as soon as the piece of leather loosened around his head, his purple eye tightly shut and he grimaced again. “What is it my prince? What happened to you?” You asked and he opened his eye again.         No word came out of his mouth but the fear lingering in his purple iris sent shivers down your spine. What could terrorize a man as fearless as Aemond Targaryen? “Get in the bath. It will make you feel better … or at least warmer. You’re freezing.”

Again, he remained silent and gave you no sign of approval or disapproval. Instead, he just let you settle him down in the bath. Catatonic, he didn’t react when his body entered the hot water as if its comforting warmth had no effect on him. Knowing him, you were certain he was lost in the memory of whatever had happened to him, remembering each detail on a loop. He was an obsessional man after all.           You knelt quietly by the tub and plunged a clean clothe into the water to carefully clean and warm the young prince, starting with his shoulders and the top of his back that were still cold as ice. Unsurprisingly, he barely shivered when you rubbed his skin. So, you untied his long hair hoping some water on his head would bring him back to reality, to you.   His silver mane was very tangled and smelt like rain and wet dragon. Therefore, you thought it would be a good idea to grab a comb and a soap. Besides, Aemond enjoyed when you took care of his hair. But the second you tried to stand up, the prince held you back by the hand, his eye begging you to stay. You nodded and sat back on the floor beside him.     It took him a while before he finally uttered his first sentence. “Am I a monster?”           Your eyes widened at the question and you exclaimed, “What? No, of course not.” But you could tell that your words were not enough to convince Aemond. “Have the Four Storms insulted you, my prince?” If they had, they would hear from you when they visit the keep. Stupid cunts! “Is that why so you feel so down right now? Should I tell the Dowager Queen of your mistreatment in Storm’s End? I –”     “Starlight” Aemond sighed, cutting you off almost to calm you down but specially to tell you you were wrong. And for a second, you expected him to talk to you, to confess the truth. But it didn’t come. “Just join me in the bath. Relieve me.” He wanted to sound commanding but his tone was begging.

You nodded and stood up to take off your clothes as Aemond watched. Normally, he would have gazed at you with boiling lust, his hands itching to rip your dress off, his purple eye burning with a dark impatience but not tonight. Tonight, the One-Eyed Prince was nothing but distress. You entered the bath in silence and cautiously sat down on Aemond, straddling his lap. The warm water made you tremble with relief as the temperature soothed your body that was so sore and tensed after three tiresome and intense days working and worrying for your Prince. But your newly-found comfort was of no importance. The only thing that matter was Aemond, as always. Gently, you brought your hands to his muscular chest and started massaging him from his pectorals down to his abs, rubbing circles on his smooth skin, thinking that a little tender devotion could pull Aemond out of his dark thoughts. You were wrong.     He didn’t shiver or reacted to your strokes. Clinging to the edge of the tub, he didn’t even look at - or perhaps notice, which was worse - your hands going down towards his cock until he felt your fingers approaching his silver hairs crowning his sex. Then, he grabbed your wrists to forbid you to slide any further and kept them in a solid grip.         “Not now… Sing a song for me first.”           His unexpected demand confused you for a moment but you asked anyway. “Which song would you like to hear, my prince?”       “Have I ever answered this question before?”       No, he always let you decide, not because he had no idea of the song that he wished to listen to but because you had a real knack for finding the lyrics that resonated with him.         Aemond hated merry melodies, finding them silly and only made to be sung by jesters and drunken bards in taverns. What he loved were tragic lyrics, stories of doomed love and sorrow that he would ask you to sing at night sitting by the fireplace as if they were lullabies. And each time, he would listen to you carefully like a child and emotionlessly like a knight, secretly feeling each line deep in his heart that wasn’t as dark as everyone thought.                      

Aemond let go of your wrists and watched your beautiful face as you began to sing for him, your hands now in his hair to tenderly – if not motherly- run your fingers through the tangled strands and soothe his agitated mind.         “Oh, I am waiting for my boy, noble sailor. His hair is chestnut brown     His voice sweet as a blanket He'd promised me he'd come back to me a saviour           What is this thing that drowns?       Is it my son’s casket?”           Prince Aemond always thought you had the loveliest voice, enchanting as a mermaid and sweet as a mother. He could listen to it for hours. And yet tonight it sounded like the sharpest dagger, a blade made of Valyrian steel clinking unpleasantly in his ears and begging for an eye. It was also the teeth of a roaring dragon, tearing flesh apart and crushing bones, and the screams of a frightened boy who had never seen death before.       “Enough!” He vociferated, refusing to handle the pain you unconsciously caused him any longer.         Your mouth shut and your hands froze in his hair.     Aemond was looking away, unable make visual contact, his jaw as tightened as his fists. Rage was eating him from within but not only.       You thought about leaving him, believing you were useless, but the fact the prince had not dismissed you somehow made you stay. Perhaps, despite your inability to distract him and to relieve him tonight, he wanted you to remain by his side. Perhaps even the worst company was better than solitude.

“Be honest with me” He suddenly said.       “You know I’m always honest with you, my prince.”         “A few days ago, when you told me you feared I would abandon you after my betrothal, do you remember what I said?”             You knew the answer. “That for you own sanity you can’t let me go.” But the mention of this moment made you rather uneasy and perplexed. Why was Aemond talking about this now? Did he change his mind? Did he come to the conclusion that kicking you out of his life was the right thing to do? Was this the reason why you couldn’t comfort him tonight, why he didn’t want you?     You sensed fear growing inside of you, the questions echoing in your head like a hubbub. “Hmm… That is not what I should have said.” Your entire body shivered at his words and you instinctively hold on to his hair as one would hold on for dear life. Desperately. And you found yourself pathetic for reacting that way. You shouldn’t be surprised if Aemond had indeed come back to his dutiful senses, that he had decided to abandon you for his betrothed, a lady that certainly was way more beautiful than you and undoubtedly more educated. It was a reasonable choice, the choice any lord and or prince would make. And yet… “I should have said, for my own sanity don’t let me go.”     The terror knotting your stomach slightly loosened the same way your fingers clung at his silver hair unclenched and then you realized Aemond had been holding you by the waist all along, his short nails dug in your soft flesh. Whether it was to comfort you or out of a fear similar to yours you didn’t know.         “How can you believe I would ever let you go, my prince?”         “Because soon perhaps even in the morrow you and everyone else in this damn kingdom will call me a monster. You will reject me just like my own family have been rejecting me for years, just like they rejected me earlier when they learnt…” He brutally stopped, unable to continue his sentence.         “Have I not stood by you all these years, my prince?” You asked as you stroke his wet hair tenderly.               “You have.” He had a faint but grateful smile that barely could be seen on his heart-shaped lips.         “So why would I leave you now?”

Aemond found the courage to look at you deep in your eyes. He could tell you were waiting for an answer, that you were eager to know what had happened to him, what was the cause of his unusual behaviour. He was no fool. He was just scared. Behind his mask of unbreakable strength and austerity, he was just scared like a little boy, like the child he used to be when he had no dragon and no one as supporting and devoted as you by his side. He was scared to be abandoned, to be cast away once more. He was scared of the curse his kind were said to carry. He was scared but he spoke anyway.           “Because I am a murderer… I killed Luke.” He saw your face change, the worry in your features turning into incomprehension, the way you stared at him and almost pulled yourself out of his arms that refused to let you go as you removed your hands from his hair. He saw all that and he couldn’t see more.         “What? Why?” You asked in shock.   “Because I wanted to.” He confessed the same way he had confessed to his mother and grandsire earlier, with a coldness that concealed his shame.             “Aemond...”   “It’s the truth!” He growled. “I wanted the bastard dead. I’ve always wished him dead, since the day he took my eye … No, since the day he humiliated me by offering me that fucking pig. In my mind, he always deserved to die and only the Gods know how many times I’ve dreamt to gauge his eyeballs and present them to his whore mother on a silver platter. I wanted Luke dead. And now he is.” He could feel your eyes on him but he couldn’t even glance at you, too terrified to face your disappointment but he still found the strength to admit something he had kept hidden from his family because he still believed that despite your probable disgust right now, you would never mock him. “But I didn’t mean to kill him. I … I tried to stop Vhagar, I did. But she …” The images of his nephew and his dragon being torn to pieces stopped him from talking again and he sighed before eventually pulling your body closer to him to nestle his head in your chest and beg you, his purple eye glistening with repressed tears. “You must believe me. Please believe me. Stand by me.”   As a response, your fingers found their way back to Aemond’s hair and your caressed it to comfort him as you kissed the top of his head. He wrapped his arms around you with all the strength and despair he had and kissed your breasts with a heart-breaking gratefulness. You were still here and that’s all he wanted. But nothing had prepared him for your revelation.

“I killed my mother.” You declared, your voice barely louder than a whisper.     This was your darkest secret, the atrocity you had never told anyone but yourself when at night you would remember the macabre scene. And tonight, you were telling it to the man you held against your breasts, not to unburden you but to tell him you understood him. “What I said to you, that she died of syphilis holding my hand … that’s not what really happened.”   Aemond glanced up at you and slowly unclasped his embrace around you to let you tell your story, curious to know what it was and why it happened. There was no judgment in his eye because somehow, he could already relate.     “When I was twelve, my mother got so sick she was forced to be confined to bed. So, it fell upon me to provide for her. I turned to Madam Chataya and she hired me to take my mother’s place in the pleasure house. I was the only dragonseed whore in the Street of Silk, a blessing for the owner of the brothel but a curse for me. Men who dreamt to know how it felt to ‘fuck the blood of the dragon’ paid huge amounts of coins for a moment with me while others who hated the crown came to fuck me hard thinking it would somehow make the royals pay for their misery. And I endured this treatment every day because it was the only way to help my mother. But I got no thank you for it. All I had was more stories about Daemon Targaryen.” A tear rolled down your cheek and you chuckled to let Aemond believe you were fine. But your smile was too miserable and bitter to fool him. The prince thought about catching your tear but afraid it would stop you in your story he did not.   “One day, her sickness worsened and she got a terrible fever that made her hallucinate. For a week she thought my sire was by her side and she couldn’t stop calling his name over and over again while I was downstairs getting fucked by all the sons of bitches of King’s Landing. ‘Daemon, you’re here. Thank the gods!’” The rage and hatred you had never managed to erase made your jaw shake and your eyes darken. “It drove me mad. So, one night as she was screaming his name again, I wrapped my hands around her neck… I tried to resist. Trust me I did but I hated her so much and I hated Daemon and I hated all the men who paid to fuck me. I was just a child, seven hells!” You sobbed loudly and sensed Aemond’s fingers lightly brush the skin of your back. “She struggled, trying to gasp for air, begging me to stop but even as she did, she still yelled ‘Daemon, Daemon!’. I was crying, begging her to stop saying his name. I just wanted her notice me, to care about me, to just be my mother. She grabbed my hands to free herself from my grip but she was too weak to push me away. I felt her dying in my hands and when her body became still and she was finally silent… I think I felt more relieved than sad. I killed my own mother, Aemond. So yes, I’ll stand by you. Because people like you and me, we’re not monsters, we’re just survivors that life broke too many times.”

A new tear fell from your eyes and this time Aemond couldn’t resist the urge to wipe it from your face with his thumb. His sympathy and tenderness warmed your heart and you were grateful for them. It was possibly the first time in your entire life someone gave you pure and unconditional affection. And it felt nice.      

“Thank you.” You whispered with a faint smile that Aemond immediately caught with his lips. You gasped in his mouth but eventually welcomed his kiss with the same softness he gave you. Your fingers woven in his silver locks, his roaming up and down your back, your mouths were brushing each other, enjoying the delicacy that was so needed after such emotional confessions when your bodies began to yearn more for one another.   Your chests met harder, drawing a sharp breath out of both your parted lips and you used this moment to give the prince a passionate kiss. You pulled at his bottom lip and he moaned gutturally before he urged to smooch you, encouraged by your sudden eagerness, his hand holding the back of your neck firmly.         You could feel his cock swelling between your thighs, close to your hole that would soon be aching to be filled. You tried to ignore the growing hardness and the knot that was tightening your lower belly more and more which each second passing. You refused to seem sexually depraved to the prince’s eyes, but as soon as Aemond pressed your core to his shaft you grunted lustfully and began to move against him.         “I need you.” The words escaped your lips as you clung to his hair.           “As I need you.”         Your mouths couldn’t be separated. It was as if you needed the proximity and the mix of both your breaths to be and feel alive before the dreadful curse looming over you would make moments of intimacy like this one too rare.            

Aemond grabbed his length now erected and ready for you and guided it towards your begging entrance waiting for him under the water. Remembering what you had taught him before leaving for Storm’s End, he teased your clit with his tip and watched you squirm in his arms with an amused smirk on his lips before entering you almost smoothly. You wriggled a bit as he slid inside you to take him deeper.                 “Always such a tight warm hole for me.” Aemond purred as he took hold of your hips to sheathe his long shaft to the hilt. Your wet walls fit so well around him, taking every inch of his length perfectly. “Do you like it?” You asked then winced a bit when Aemond pulled out and pushed back inside of you with strength.           Your grimace brutally calmed the prince’s burning ardour and he froze. “Did I hurt you?” He worried with an apologetic tone when he understood he should have perhaps given you more time to adjust to his girthy presence before moving.   His reaction moved you. Never a man had shown any concern for you. You had always been treated like a toy, a doll all men with enough gold or power – Aemond included - could use or abuse to their will.         The prince’s sudden softness brought a single tear to your eye and you blinked to prevent it from rolling down your cheek.   “No.” You whispered and your face beamed with gratefulness. You kissed Aemond again to reassure him and slowly adjusted yourself to his cock by undulating your hips, a necessity knowing Aemond’s tendency to be hard, rough and extremely passionate.           But then he said something that caught you off guard.       “Keep doing that.”     It took you a solid second to understand what he meant and wanted from you and when you finally did, you stared at him confused. Did he want you on top? A part of you couldn’t believe this to be true. And he noticed.           “Ride me.” He ordered, making his wish perfectly clear this time.           “You sure? You never allowed me on top before, my prince.”       “I’m your dragon, aren’t I? Dragons are meant to be ridden. So, do it.” His command sounded so sensual to your ears you suddenly clenched around him, feeling an arousal you had never felt before. Aemond hissed as he slammed his head back against the edge of the tub and he put his hand on your hips to silently tell you to move.         You took a comfortable position on top of him, hands on his shoulders, your breasts close to his face, and slowly you lifted yourself up only to sink back on his hard cock as soon as his tip threatened to leave your hole. Aemond grunted as you welcomed him back inside inch by inch and he breathed hard. He seemed to enjoy it so much. So you did it again and again and again until he began to moan so desperately you decided to accelerate your pace. You took a hold of the edge of the tub right above the prince’s silver head and started to bounce on top of him, flooding the stone floor more and more each time your entrance eagerly met his balls.           “Seven heavens, you feel so good.” Aemond managed to compliment between two growls and you beamed.             “No, you feel so good, my dragon.”             The position was indeed amazing, empowering even. The proximity, the intimacy, the sensation to be in charge and to have Aemond, a prince, all to yourself. You could get used to this. “Indeed, it seems you’re enjoying me quite a lot.” Aemond hissed under your frantic rhythm. You were so wet around him and he was sure that wasn’t the water.                         You nodded and chuckled as you kept your pace steady but passionate. But soon, your desires began to scream loudly inside of you, encouraging you to take more, more pleasure, more power, more of Aemond. You let them guide you and your movements turned into a furious riding, similar to a wild rodeo except that the beast you were straddling was no wild animal but a very docile dragon staring at you with a burning but calm adoration through his lidded eye, his hands worshipping your body but occasionally clawing at your skin.       “Fuck I love riding you.” You admitted and Aemond smirked at your coarseness, definitely amused but proud to see you enjoy his cock so much.   “Keep going then, my fierce rider.” He joked and submitted to you even more to observe you take what you so eagerly wanted. He loved dominating you but there was something truly satisfying in seeing you fervently enjoying yourself on top of him. He made him feel somewhat adored, a feeling that had been too rare in his young life.      

“Touch me, please.”  You asked and one of the prince’s big hands gladly left your waist to slide down to your fold, ready to find your throbbing clit and send you over the edge, a generous gesture he was happy to offer you.       “Not here.” You stopped him, almost breathless. You took his hands in yours and abruptly brought them to your bouncing breasts that left unattended for too long to your taste. “There.” Aemond obediently cupped them as if he was holding two beautiful fruits and instantly started to toy with your sensitive perky nipples, pinching them and rolling them between his fingers. You grunted as he did and dug your nails in the wooden edge of the tub when you felt yourself almost fall on top of the Targaryen prince.           Your breasts brushed Aemond’s face in your fall and, unable to resist their delicious shape, he claimed one by catching it with his mouth. He immediately started sucking it loudly, twirling his tongue around the nipple as his cock began to throb in your cunt. It was no secret he liked your breasts in his mouth but you never saw the prince adoring them like that. Usually, he would suck at them for comfort, not for lustful purposes.     As he kept on devouring your teats, Aemond’s hand slid down your sides to find your waist again. He grabbed you firmly and you felt him adjust himself underneath you, forcing you to stop your eager bouncing on top of him. You clearly understood what he was trying to do. So, you bent on top of him even more, pressing your forehead to his, to help him a bit.     “You don’t mind?”     “Not if you bring me to the stars with you.” You whispered closed to his lips with a smile and he chuckled almost silently.   “Hmm… I can do that.”         “I’m sure you can, my dragon.”         He took your words as a challenge anyway and rapidly became entranced. He thrusted his cock inside you hard and deep to make you mewl and then when he reached the end of your squelchy pit, he began hammering you from underneath.         The water in the tub became agitated as you took each of Aemond’s mighty thrusts with loud lustful cries that only encouraged him to accelerate and soon your walls began to clench more and more around Aemond’s throbbing cock.             You were aware of the power of a tightening cunt around an aching shaft and you could definitely tell by looking at Aemond’s face wrinkled with pleasure that he was very close to reach his high. So, you tried to warn him, afraid he was too lost in lust to realise he was very close to milk his cock inside you.           “Aemond, careful. You will—”         “Let me… let me.” He panted almost begging you.

You eyed at him with surprise but also seriousness. You did not want him to make a reckless decision that he would regret later.     He sensed your state of mind and caught your look. His purple eye was lidded, reflecting the incoming burst growing inside him but he was still very conscious of his actions. “That’s alright. I truly want it. I want to know how it feels to breed a woman… to breed you.”           Just as before, his words made you moan and shiver and you ultimately nodded and buried your face in his neck, offering him your body to do as he wished.       Your submission set Aemond’s loins on fire and a solid hand wrapped around the back of your neck as he bit your shoulder like an animal in heat trying to breed his mate. He did not hurt you though. His hand and teeth were just merely to keep you in place as he kept chasing his release inside you with a rough and fervent pace.   His need was bringing you closer to your climax. Seeing Aemond so desperate, so eager to cum inside of you was the most arousing thing in the world. And after a few perfect thrusts, your walls began to flutter and you finally came loudly, crying in his neck. Your cunt furiously clenched and unclenched around his cock as you went up and down your high.             “Don’t muffle your screams, not tonight, not as I put my seed in you.” The Targaryen commanded as he felt you cum around him and push his aching cock towards its release.                 “Aemond!!” You shouted and he finally spurted his semen into you as he growled lewdly for long seconds, his voice following the rhythm of his manhood emptying itself in your comforting hole.

When there was nothing else that he could give you, the prince’s body became limp and he let himself sink in the tub, dragging you down with him. You laid against him, his cock still inside you keeping his seed as deeply as possible, your head on his beating chest, and you silently listened to his thundering heart.         You were both tired and panting, unable to move and to talk. But even if you could, what would you do? What would you say that your silence and embrace couldn’t show already? You rubbed your face on Aemond, trembling but very satisfied and you wrapped your arms around him. He responded with his fingertips caressing your back and that’s all you both needed right now.          

‘Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin in the air and the world holds its breath. Which side will it be, greatness or madness.’ You didn’t know if your mother had tossed a coin for you and if she had, which side it had fallen on. But as your body was still united with Aemond’s, you began to think that if you tossed a coin right now it would show you madness because you were mad about your prince.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon #the midnight relief

[throneofsmut]

BOUND IN FLAMES - Part 4

Eris Vanserra × Archeron-Sister- Reader

Description: Feyre and her younger sister go hunting in the forest behind their family's cottage and go through life changing experiences.

Warnings: Brief mentions of violence.

Author's Note: None.

Word Court: 1.8k

****

Every step toward the line of trees was too swift, too light, too soon carrying you closer to a fate you had tried to avoid. A fate you promised to avoid at all costs unless you had no other choice and now Feyre was involved. You didn't dare look back at the cottage. To look back at the family that had become the closest thing you had to one.

Feyre and you entered the line of trees. Darkness beckoned beyond.

But a white mare was patiently waiting—unbound—beside a tree, her coat like fresh snow in the moonlight. She only lowered her head—as if in respect, of all things—as the beast lumbered up to her.

He motioned with a giant paw for both of you to mount. Still the horse remained calm, even as he passed close enough to gut her in one swipe.

It had been years since either of you had ridden and Feyre had only ridden a pony at that, but you had ridden mares and stallions. Having always gotten along with animals better than people. Knowing the trek would be long, if the beast brought a mare, you motioned to your sister to mount. To which she responded with a look, as if to say—you mount—but you knew she had to be half frozen by now.

Grabbing her arm, pulling her towards the mare, “Don’t argue, Fey. Just get on the horse. I’ll be fine.”

Begrudgingly she climbed into the saddle. Shutting her eyes for a moment as she savored the mare's warmth against her.

The beast let out a low growl, which made Feyre’s eyes snap open, darting between the beast and you sizing each other up. “Get on the horse.” He ordered.

“No.”

“Get. On. Now.”

“I’ll be fine.” You challenged, holding his stare as he continued to size you up, noticing the way his nostrils flared once. Then twice. Narrowing his eyes before turning around and settling into a walk. Without light to guide you, you walked between the beast and the mare. If he changed his mind you’d try to buy Feyre sometime to run. They were nearly the same size. Neither of you were surprised when he headed northward toward faerie territory—though your jaw was clenched so tightly it ached and Feyre was stiff behind you.

Live with him. Feyre could live out the rest of her mortal life on his lands, but you. You were immortal like him. How long would you have to live with him? Perhaps this was merciful—but then, he hadn't specified in what manner, exactly, you would live.

The Treaty forbade faeries from taking humans as slaves, but perhaps that excluded humans who'd murdered faeries.

You'd likely go to whatever rift in the wall he'd used to get here, to find you. And once you went through the invisible wall, once you were in Prythian, there was no way for your family to ever find you. Feyre would be little more than a lamb in a kingdom of wolves. Wolves—wolf. But you were a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

They just didn’t know it yet.

Murdered a faerie. That was what you'd done.

Your throat went dry. You'd killed a faerie. And now you might’ve sealed your family’s fate. They might suffer the consequences because you went into the woods, trying to keep them from starving.

You'd never seen the forest so still. Whatever was out there had to be tame compared to the beast in front you, despite the horse's ease around him. Hopefully he would keep other faeries away after you entered his realm.

Prythian. The word was a death knell that echoed through you again and again. You wouldn’t have cared if it was just you but Feyre was here.

Lands--he'd said he had lands, but what kind of dwelling? Feyre’s horse was beautiful and its saddle was crafted of rich leather, which meant he had some sort of standing. You'd never heard the specifics of what the lives of other faeries or High Fae were like—never heard much about anything other than their deadly abilities, appetites and secrets you swore to keep.

There were few firsthand accounts of Prythian itself. The mortals who went over the wall—either willingly as tributes from the Children of the Blessed or stolen never came back. Feyre and you learned most of the legends from villagers, though your father had occasionally offered up a milder tale or two on the nights he made an attempt to remember you existed.

As far as you knew, the High Fae still governed the northern parts of your world from your enormous island over the narrow sea separating you from the massive continent, across depthless fjords and frozen wastelands and sandblasted deserts, all the way to the great ocean on the other side. Some faerie territories were empires; some were overseen by kings and queens. Then there were places like Prythian, divided and ruled by seven High Lords—beings of such unyielding power that legend claimed they could level buildings, break apart armies, and butcher you before you could blink. You didn't doubt it.

No one had ever told you why humans chose to linger in your territory, when so little space had been granted and yet they remained in such close proximity to Prythian. Fools—whatever humans had stayed here after the War must have been suicidal fools to live so close. Even with the centuries-old Treaty between the mortal and faerie realms, there were rifts in the warded wall separating your lands, holes big enough for those lethal creatures to slip into your territory to amuse themselves with tormenting humans.

That was the side of Prythian that the Children of the Blessed never deigned to acknowledge—perhaps a side of Prythian you’d soon witness. Your stomach turned. Live with him, you reminded myself, again and again.

Live, not die.

Though you supposed you could also live in a dungeon. He would likely lock you up and forget that you were there, forget that humans—Feyre—needed things like food and water and warmth. You could live with a bit less than she needed.

Prowling ahead of me, the beast's horns spiraled toward the night sky; and tendrils of hot breath curled from his snout. You had to make camp at some point the border of Prythian was days away. Once you all stopped, you stayed awake for the entirety of the night and never let him out of your sight so Feyre could rest. Even though he'd burned her ash arrow, you'd smuggled your remaining ash daggers in your cloak. Maybe tonight would grant you an opportunity to use it.

But it was not your own doom you contemplated as you let yourself tumble into dread and rage and despair. As you rode on—the only sounds snow crunching beneath paws and hooves—you alternated between a wretched smugness at the thought of your family starving and realizing how important Feyre and you both were, and a blinding agony at the thought of your father begging in the streets, his ruined leg giving out on him as he stumbled from person to person. Every time you looked at the beast, you could see your father limping through town, pleading for coppers to keep your sisters alive.

Worse—what Nesta might resort to in order to keep Elain alive. She wouldn't mind your father's death. But she would lie and steal and sell anything for Elain's sake—and her own as well.

Sitting on the mare, with Feyre behind you, you took in the way the beast moved, trying to find any—any—weakness. You could detect none. "What manner of faerie are you?" Feyre asked, the words nearly swallowed up by the snow and trees and star-heavy sky.

He didn't bother to turn around. He didn't bother to say anything at all. Fair enough. You'd killed his friend, after all. Yet, deep down in your heart, you knew what and who he was.

She tried again. "Do you have a name?"

A huff of air that could have been a bitter laugh. "Does it even matter to you, human?"

She didn't answer. He might very well change his mind about sparing us.

But perhaps you would escape before he decided to gut you. Then you'd grab your family and you'd stow away on a ship and sail far, far away. Perhaps you would try to kill him, regardless of the futility, regardless of whether it constituted another unprovoked attack, just for being the one who came to claim both of your lives—your life, when these faeries valued Feyre's so little. The mercenary had survived; maybe Feyre could, too. Maybe.

She opened her mouth to again ask him for his name, but a growl of annoyance rippled out of him. She didn't have a chance to struggle, to fight back, when a charged, metallic tang stung your nose. Exhaustion slammed down upon her and blackness swallowed her whole.

“You used your magic on her?!” You Barked. Securing her arms to you that had been holding on to you. Keeping her atop the mare you were both riding.

The beast whipped around so fast at the sound of your voice. Eyes narrowed, “What—How—“ He said under his breath.

Hopping off of the horse, careful with Feyre's unconscious form still atop it, you stalked up to him, “You didn’t have to use your magic on her!”

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Your little tricks don’t work on me.”

He stood before you, assessing, then he huffed a breath. “Get back on the horse.”

“No. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” You asserted, moving to stand in front of the mare, making it obvious that you were going to protect your unconscious sister.

He shook his head, mane moving wildly with the movement before turning around and walking in the direction of the wall again.

****

Feyre awoke with a jolt atop the horse, secured by invisible bonds. The sun was already high. As she snapped her head to the side, looking for you. She visibly relaxed when your eyes locked. But her brows were still furrowed with confusion. And you actually saw the moment she realized he used magic to make her sleep.

Magic—that's what the tang had been, what was keeping her limbs tucked in tight, preventing her from going for her knife you knew she had. You recognized the power deep in your bones, as if it was an old friend.

As if it was family.

Gritting your teeth, you might have demanded answers from him—about him using magic on your sister—might have shouted to where he still lumbered ahead, heedless of you. Bastard. But then chirping birds fitted past you, and a mild breeze kissed your face. You spied a hedge-bordered metal gate ahead.

Your prison or your salvation—you couldn't decide which.

Two days. It took two days from your family's cottage to reach the wall and enter the southernmost border of Prythian.

The gate swung open without a porter or sentry, and the beast continued through. Feyre’s horse followed after him so whether you wanted to or not, you did too.

For other parts: Bound In Flames Series Masterlist

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10

part 11

Taglist: @historygeekqueen @cat-or-kitten @yeeyeebabe @khaleesihavilliard @impossibelle

*If you would like to be added to the taglist for this story or to my general taglist, please either reply to this post or send me a message.

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar smut #eris acotar #eris fanfic #eris smut #eris x reader #eris vanserra #eris vanserra acotar #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra smut #eris vanserra x reader #bound in flames

[sugaldean]

Is miss Muffet going to appear? Where is she?

I thought she came with them in the Lands In Between

YES ZAC YES ZAC

His nat20s are INSANE.

Oh we went hard Christian indeed

Oh no Lou. You broke my heart. "why other could? Why consequences not only never seemed to apply to other kids but were the ultimate for me. Why did I have to suffer every step of the way. Why must I suffer all the time whatever i do."

"For a moment you are all marionettes together". Stop it. Stop. It's too strong to hard.

Oh no not the turquoise hair fairy

Oh what was this second map with the sea?? Ariel? And I think they were other border of countries

Oh no Gepetto wth. Poor Pinocchio

I SHOULD NEVER HAVE MADE YOU??? What the what the what. Whaaaaat?

I'm crying so hard. I know he doesn't believe it but I hate it. I hate it. I hate it so much

Or there she is

Brennan showing absolutely perfect the danger kids are in when the people in their life don't show them love and affection enough. They get easily manipulated and are ready to give everything to the first glimpse of affection. Real or not. I don't blame Pinocchio, I will never blame him. But I HATE what the Turquoise hair fairy and Gepetto did. Oh you regret what you said? Apologize. Apologize NOW. You can't afford your kid being so neglected and deprived of your affection that the will run first thing to anyone. That's how grooming happen.

Oh the way they all jumped to tell him his dad loved him but it doesn't excuse that what he did and say was wrong

"Even though the moral is wrong Pinocchio still has to escape the moral of his story" oh this episode is breaking me

Oh so the fairies are not a united bunch, interesting

Still absolutely don't trust her tho

Okay so basically the Bad Things are happening because it doesn't match what the Authors want? But if the Authors would. Well. Disappear. What would happen?

Oh we're finally getting some insight on the relationships between groups

I fucking love the big bad wolf. Well I love wolf. I'm just sad he doesn't have a pack, he must me lonely

OH YES RED STORY YES YES FINALLY

Dramatic backstory: starting

Emily: Cinnamon Toast Rolls and Lollypopcorn

Bye broth! A caterpillar chasing their friend the butterfly

"Your ears are honking big" picturing the Wolf listening to the caterpillar and butterfly story while waiting to eat her. Story he already know ofc

They are just loosing it at "Honkin" and honestly same

I love the wolf so hard he is a tragedy that's incredible "why? I am a wolf"

Oh she waited so long. So so long. No wonder she killed the Woodsman.

She was so hungry. I love her. I hate The Wolf. I love the Wolf. I wonder what happened to him to end up there.

YES RED YES. She met death and death convinced her to live!

Gerard's story is so funny, tragic and very reflective but so. Funny.

The absolute chaos if Gerard just. Dies.

"do you go where the dogs are or to your frog pound" "pretty loaded question"

It's adorable that Murph just stated that years after it's still only Fred 2 and 3. Not like. 364.

Oh no they are dead

Oh their meet cute is so adorable

The plot thickens as we met the Gander

OH CINDERELLA

Oh no it's the Stepmother story

Yes it is

That's so much wider she loved her daughters

BABA YAGA OH YES OH FHKGFXHJ

Yeah same Emily EXACTLY SAME

Oh i'm so happy. She's so strong and old

She's going to be a pain in the ass

"your daughters won't be injured if you eat them, and then you will be able to save them" i'm not sure but that's something she could say for sure

There goes the witch way

To be the vilain in every story. To be cursed with never having a story. I would be mad too

How cruel that in a way she has the same goal as Cinderella

She big mad

But when does she eat her daughters?

No no no not her present. You are level 4 guys

Oh that's where she eats her daughters

Rosamund is so smart

The brick little pig being called a boar and a Baron (love the alliteration btw)

I understand from Brennan that while they were running for their life the book of mother Goose downloaded a shit load of information

Have they slept since they arrive in this new life? I feel like they didn't which is HORRIFYING

Any situation: involve a living being

Pib: I kill them

I really would like to understand the nature of that damn book fr

That Gérard&Pib interaction was gold:

Pib: idk how we're going to know someone who knows...

Gerard (vigorously) : yeah we just need to break him out

Pib (confused) : wait... We... No no I think we..

Love them to bits

"so you guys go camping?" well yeah Brennan THEY HAVEN'T REST IT'S A LONG DAY FOR THEM

They are children. "Can we sleap on the roof please?"

LONG REST

The dice sometimes tel' the story of a Frog who got a level of exhaustion from being outside, wet and dirty. Basic living conditions for frogs. While the wooden boy who can rot easily is sooo fine.

Mother Goose bless 🙌🙌

That envoy is absolutely spectacular. A Princess (slept for 100y)with her envoy, basically and old man, a puppet, a cat, a manfrog and a cloak

Rosamund: I AM NOT going to propose myself to be married. No. Not interested and I don't think that's something you do

30sec later: I'm here to offer myself in marriage

Zac and Emily's reactions>>>

Can't believe the Baron isn't call Beter

#dimension 20 #d20 #brennan lee mulligan #neverafter #siobhan thompson #ally beardsley #zac oyama #lou wilson #brian murphy #emily axford #ylfa snorgelsson #little red riding hood #gerard of greenleigh #pib neverafter #puss in boots #pinocchio #pinocchio neverafter #mother goose #mother timothy goose #sleeping beauty #rosamund du prix

[howtofightwrite]

How much detail should go into a fight scene to make it vivid but not oversaturated with information? If the battle is between two trained fighters then should the descriptions be more quick and to the point since the fight would likely be quick? Or would it be better to focus on quick thoughts and strategies leading to the action? How does change with sparring practice or novice attackers?

The best way to think about fight scenes is that they are a cathartic end to prebuilt tension. That tension can be created in a few paragraphs, a couple of pages, possibly even a few chapters, but the fight itself (no matter how tense it is) translates to catharsis for your audience. You build to the scene, have the fight, release the tension, and then new tension seeps back in as a result of the characters dealing with the consequences.

Regardless of how you stylistically choose to approach fight scenes on a sentence by sentence level, it’s important to understand how the scene itself behaves in broad strokes so you’re not accidentally releasing your narrative’s tension out of order.

As for how to write fight scenes, there’s no right way to do it except practicing to find the tempo that works best for you and for your individual characters. Personally, I find that clear images and short visual descriptions work best for both experienced characters and for novices. One of the main differences isn’t just the speed at which the fight is ended, but the level of comfort and confidence a character expresses in their narration. (Knowledge of advanced strategy and tactics on the part of the author also helps, but, remember, what you don’t know can be learned.)

Here’s a short snippet I wrote for two characters in a practice duel. Aysun, a well-trained young woman but inexperienced and has never fought a live battle, versus Leah, an experienced swordswoman who grew up in a rough environment fighting for her life.

Blade lit, Aysun hurled herself across the chasm between pillars.

Leah grinned.

They met in the center.

Aysun rushed forward.

Leah sensed the rising arm, the flaming blade pointed straight into a thrust; Aysun ready to let forward momentum carry her strike to victory. She slowed as Aysun landed, pivoted onto a diagonal as the blazing sabre seared past into empty air. Blade up, she struck.

The sensor on Aysun’s chest glowed red.

A horn blared.

“Out!”

So, what does Aysun do wrong? In her overconfidence against an unknown opponent, Aysun rushes in. Rushing is a common tactic you’ll see in martial artists who’ve only ever fought in safe environments because they don’t worry about getting hurt. This is a novice mistake, but also one you’ll see from people who should know better. When I set out to write Aysun, I decided she’d fight via tournament rules. That’s what she knows.

Meanwhile, Leah, being experienced, takes advantage of Aysun’s mistake. She starts by running and looks to Aysun like she’s also rushing, but this is just to lure Aysun in. As they get closer, Leah incrementally slows her pace to allow herself more control over her own momentum. The problem with rushing is that if you close the distance too fast, you can’t stop in time and you run into your opponent. Leah doesn’t bother to block or parry Aysun, as it’d put her at risk of being on the receiving end of Aysun’s momentum. Instead, Leah steps out of line, allows Asyun to go past, and utilizes Aysun’s overextension to claim victory.

(We are, of course, missing the entire setup where Leah baited Aysun into this bout.)

One of the major differences you see between experts, intermediates, and novices isn’t the usage of advanced techniques, but adept use of very basic ones. They don’t game out a fight on the fly because that takes time, instead acting on prebuilt strategies and relying on trained reflexes. With advanced fighters who regularly see combat, they’re more miserly when it comes to showing the audience what they can really do. They’re aware of the exterior consequences that persist outside of the fight.

Some common personality traits of advanced characters versus novices:

Advanced:

Decisive - what it says on the tin. They’re unlikely to hesitate when given openings and go straight for the kill.

Explosive - they shift from resting into violence quickly and without hesitation when they decide the situation calls for it.

Selective - probably saw this fight and that one coming and will move early to avoid as necessary. Injuries mean you can’t fight when it matters.

Confident - confidence comes from experience. They know what they do, and they know they’re good at it. Can be mistaken for overconfidence until seen in action. More likely to talk shit pre-game. They know the value of psychological warfare. Some variants may get a kick out using this confidence to piss off their opponents so they fight angry.

Practical - experience leads to realistic expectations. Experienced characters don’t need to prove themselves and know to save themselves for when it matters, so baiting is harder. Most of the usual shit talk will wash off. Also, more likely to punch someone in the shoulder because punching with a now swelling bruise hurts and slows them down.

Brutality - not guaranteed, but not uncommon either. Here again, we have psychological warfare.

Fatality - unless you’re looking at a situation where killing is not allowed, they’ll lean into this if circumstances require it.

Sophisticated Bodily Knowledge - they know where all the major arteries, important nerve clusters, and internal organs are. (Yes, this includes knowing that stabbing someone in the armpit or groin can cause them to bleed out.) Also what hitting them does and what hitting them feels like. They’re going to be more pointed and technical with their strikes depending on what they want. More likely to break the human body down into joints and ligaments. Understands small damage leads to big results.

Sophisticated Psychological Knowledge - less experienced characters are not likely to surprise them because they’ve seen the same tactics before. Humans aren’t that unique. A clever idea to a novice is an old song for the experienced fighter, and one they’ve probably tried before. Fighting is more than technical, its pattern recognition, and being good at it requires understanding people on a behavioral level to predict them.

Room to Play - this is simultaneously a do and don’t which depends on how strict the character is. May play with a less experienced character or character with no experience if they believe they can get away with it. They know their limits. Not advised, but nobody’s perfect.

Spends Time Practicing - the more skilled a character is, the more rigorously they practice and the more time they devote to developing their skills. While some characters are inclined to rest on their laurels, truly advanced characters know their edge falls off without training and understand the ceiling is without limit. They’re dedicated to their skills.

Chains Techniques - unless you have a character fighting with a bladed weapon, and even when they do, they’re unlikely to be one and done. Blocks create openings for counters. One strike opens the door to another three and so on. (Lots of writers mistakenly try to ping pong fight scenes to draw them out. Combat isn’t turn based. If an opponent isn’t providing suitable resistance to slow them down, they won’t.)

Considers Long Term Consequences - familiarity with techniques means understanding what those techniques do, what the long term consequences are, and how long it takes to recover from them (if they can be recovered from at all.) The same goes for battle. Violence is escalation. Characters who solve problems with violence should face escalating problems further down the road as a result of their actions.

You might be thinking male characters, but this list is gender agnostic. It’s important as a writer not to buy into a skilled character’s bullshit. They’re working very hard to convince the world they’re invulnerable, but that doesn’t mean it’s true.

Novices:

Optimistic - trends for a more romantic, rosier view of martial combat. Experience with the human condition hasn’t knocked it out of them yet.

Indecisive - for most people, it’s not easy to hurt another human being. To see their pain and suffering and to know you caused it. Novices are more likely to hesitate, more likely to ignore openings given if they don’t like the potential outcome, more likely to extend fights to their own detriment, and take hits they don’t have to. Less likely to seize the initiative and, if they do, not great at holding onto it against experienced opponents. They haven’t fully realized they can’t afford to be nice outside of safe, training settings.

More Tells - everyone has tells, but the less experienced a character is then the more obvious their tells are and the more they have. This can be everything between the way they stand to their techniques generally being larger in motion, more obvious in the early movements of the musculature, less energy efficient, and, comparatively, much slower than their experienced counterparts.

More Likely to Flinch - combat hurts coming and going. It hurts to receive hits, but it also hurts to hit someone. The closer you are to bone, the more it’s going to hurt. The harder you hit, the more return vibrations you receive. Beyond movement, these vibrations are what wears out your muscles in prolonged combat. (It only gets worse with weapons.) Proper technique diminishes some of these damaging returns, but not totally. Inexperienced characters will stop to go, “ow, that hurts.” You’ve probably seen characters on television shaking out their hand after hitting another character, that’s what this is. Pain. Inexperienced characters and novice characters are both less capable of pushing past the pain because their training hasn’t covered it or they don’t know to expect it.

Plays Around - there’s a point between novice and intermediate where someone’s learned enough to be dangerous (mostly to themselves)but not yet realized how little they actually know. This leads to overconfidence and overconfidence leads to playing around.

Less Advanced Body Knowledge - more likely to demonstrate less sophisticated knowledge of the human body, unlikely to break the body into pieces, and focus only on the major points like stomach, heart, head. Less focus on exterior limbs and joints, not a lot of thought given to pressure points outside the groin, less common arteries, or damaging musculature to debilitate. Might realize preemptive opening blow to the throat is good, but probably not thinking in those terms yet.

Less Advanced Psychological Knowledge - they don’t have the experience to pick up on the more subtle psychological games and are more likely to be baited. (If you’ve got an MC like this, it’s important to let them make their mistakes. Mistakes build experience and audience street cred.)

One and Done - most martial schools will train blocks and counters early, along with technique sets, but for true beginners chaining unfamiliar techniques won’t feel natural and there’s more likely to be gaps in their combat flow.

Easily Overwhelmed - much more likely to not understand what is going on or for the pacing of combat to fly out of their control.

Few Considerations For Long Term Consequences - novices have the luxury to be hot headed. They haven’t learned about the debilitations of long term injuries or even just the damages caused by small ones. They’re easier to write because they’re more likely to jump in with wild abandon, are met with more surprises, and have an easier growth trajectory for their character arc.

As a writer with no combat or limited martial experience, you’re more likely to start out thinking like a novice when structuring your scenes. While humans are very impressive creatures, it’s easy to overestimate what the body can fight through in comparison to damage received, especially against skilled opponents.

Ultimately, clarity and specificity in how you deliver the visual image combined with the sensation of the character’s combat can provide an entertaining fight scene. This is dependent on your writing, if you focus too much on technical details like sentence structure and not enough on the content and building up character’s decision making then the scene itself might fall completely flat.

Fight scenes are an extension of a greater whole. They’re the frosting on the cake, but the cake’s got to be tasty to begin with. Like martial combat in the real world, there’s no shortcuts, just a lot of hard work. Try, fail, reassess, try again. With practice, you’ll find your rhythm.

Michi

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#Michi answers #writing advice #writing reference #writing tips #fight scenes

[greenmansgrove]

To Worship a War Goddess in the Modern Era

This devotional writing is dedicated to the Great Queens, Na Morrígna, She who has called me to service. Inspired by a nightmare, this writing is offered to uphold an exchange. May these words aid not in teaching others how to think, but in learning to listen.

One thing since being called by the Morrigan that I’ve had difficulty resolving is the Morrigan’s being a war goddess in the age of the military industrial complex, where wars, especially on the part of the US and other imperialist nations, are fought not for sovereignty or “defense,” like so many USAmericans are raised to believe. Authors on the Morrigan agree war has changed since the days of her worship among the Celts, but none I’ve found talk about what it means to worship her in the face of wars fought for unjust causes and for profit, or the fact that veterans are made forgotten victims instead of honored warriors, or in watching the genocide of the Palestinian people, among other ongoing injustices worldwide. I worry that sovereignty for the Morrigan is equated with imperialism, colonialism, and white supremacy, especially given some personal history interacting with devotees who themselves hold such values. Surely, with just how sick the land and its people are thanks to poverty, climate change, etc., the current “sovereigns” in power do not have the Morrigan’s blessing?

I admit I do not have all the answers or all the vocabulary to speak as strongly as I feel on this topic. As only an Acolyte still forging my relationship with the Morrigan, I am in the process of learning what worship of a war goddess in the modern age looks like. The Morrigan and her care have changed since ancient times, and they should. Her being able to do so speaks to the power of what she represents and the needs of the communities who call on her. Her complexity only grows in the modern age, especially in the face of global economies and imperialism, and as her worship is taken beyond the bounds of her homelands. Thus, I am left wondering how to consider or work with her warlike aspects.

In folklore, the Morrigan is often an antagonist, appears to fight for the “wrong” side, and starts wars out of nowhere. Authors like Courtney Weber (2019) and Stephanie Woodfield (2021) mention that we do not know for what purpose she started wars in ancient times, but both urge that the concepts of war and violence are complex not just to the Morrigan but to humanity. The Morrigan, by her very nature and actions across even her seemingly mortal lifetimes, is a goddess in the grey areas who rejects false binaries between life and death or war and peace. She teaches us not to believe in things blindly or warns us against simple stances on complex subjects. Jewish Witch, devotee of the Morrigan, and staunch anti-Zionist Asa West (2014) says, “The Morrígan implores us not to glorify war or reject all armed conflict on principle, but rather to understand and work through humankind’s propensity towards violence.” I think to deny violence on principal, and especially to uncritically shame its use by others, is a shortsighted stance. I firmly believe in the necessity of violence to end violence. I believe that victims of state-sanctioned violence have a right to defend themselves. I believe that nonviolence has its place (this is the purpose of magick, after all, as well as the Morrigan’s and the Celts’ battle cries, so that enemies may be deterred from battle), but it cannot be the only way to peace when the tools and means to defend oneself are available and help ensure one’s right to life. In these ways, I feel that I understand the Morrigan better. She is not a goddess of war and violence to glorify it, but because it is a facet of our reality. If there are any gods to rule over war, I would want her to be one who understands all its facets, complexities, necessities, goals, and consequences, who mourns as well as celebrates, who seeks peace as its ultimate means, and knows that none of it is so simply defined or easily attained.

So how does the Morrigan fit into modern concepts of war, if we recognize violence as a both a reality and a necessity? To that end, I think it is important to look at the ways war has changed in modern times. To USAmericans and other global imperialist nations, wars are rarely if ever fought locally. Our views of war have become physically distanced as a result of deploying our people overseas, selling weapons to arm other peoples for us, and by employing technologies like drones for environmental terrorism. All this makes obliviousness to and normalization of war easier, contributing to willful ignorance to those impacted by the machinations of individuals who perpetuate and profit from it. As a result of the military industrial complex, I think the purposes of war get lost and even corrupted. I fear oversimplifying this discussion, but I find it important to at least describe how a world economy based on war not only distances us from the realities of war, but makes it easier to forget the different types of, ways that, and reasons for which wars have been and can be fought. Given how often the concept of sovereignty is debated in the Morrigan’s community, perhaps the concept of war requires it, too, because I refuse to believe in a god who would condone the actions of, incite the kinds of violence perpetrated by, or fight for a “side” like those of Israel and United States over the years.

In the modern age, I think the Morrigan incites the internal wars, too, both within the individual and within a country’s political climate through protests, demonstrations, political movements, and the like. These, too, are wars, where violence occurs and where it has shown to be necessary, though not the only armaments for change and peace. Wars for justice in the modern era are ones that have brought us concepts such as Restorative Justice, which seek not only to put an end to things like retributive justice and the concept of a carceral state, but improve the lives of even perpetrators of violence and harm. Woodfield (2021) says of the Morrigan that this is the true cost of peace:

“I could hear the Morrigan in my mind, saying, ‘The true price of invoking peace is that you bless even your enemies, so that all might be whole again.’ Because how you end a battle is sometimes far more important than how you began it in the first place. Or how you fought it […] [A]ll people will remember is how it ended. […] Peace really isn’t peaceful. It’s earned only when you are willing to fight for it.” (p. 67)

Peace doesn’t mean people aren’t held accountable—that’s among the ideas that Restorative Justice seeks to uphold. Peace means ensuring all involved parties learn, grow, and heal from the experience.

And it is why that I believe the Morrigan revels in these grey areas of the definitions of and purposes for war. All authors agree the Morrigan is a peace-bringer as much as she is a war-maker. Those who analyze her mythologies will tell you she wages the wars she does specifically to bring about the kind peace she ushers at the end of the Battles of Moytura. Perhaps the true reasons of the wars mentioned in the mythologies are lost to time or have been romanticized for the purposes of a good story, but there are still lessons to be learned there, I think, for the Morrigan’s faithful.

I am personally drawn to the myth of Macha Mong Ruad, who, in defeating Dithorba’s sons, did not kill them, but charged them with constructing her fort, Emain Macha. Rather than killing those men, she reintegrated them into society, she gave them work, and she presumably treated them well so that they could complete that work. I see that work being a form of justice as they took part in the construction of safety and peace against which they had originally rallied out of selfishness and disrespect for Macha’s sovereignty and gender identity. I imagine they most definitely were outcasts among Macha’s people henceforth. Her people even question why she spared the men in the first place. Shame is a necessary for accountability to take place, and it is sadly something perpetrators of violence and injustice avoid or refuse to let themselves feel, because oppressors can only ever imagine the violence they commit being done unto them. Macha’s decision was an important one for her to make so that not only was peace maintained and her power demonstrated, but also so Dithorba’s sons could be given time to learn the lessons of their transgressions and experience all facets of accountability, including shame.

Peace is a war, too, as we try to heal and restore others to health and happiness, give even our enemies the space not just to learn from and internalize the lessons we have sought to teach them through war, but now ensure that they thrive because of it. Revenge on and eradication of our enemies is what we have been taught war is in the modern era, but I prefer to entertain the notion that that is not what it should be. I would love to reach an era where international wars are fought differently, where machines of violence are eradicated, and where the struggle is spent learning to empathize, learning to negotiate, and learning to wish wellness upon even the people who have hurt us. Revenge and retaliation distract us from and become easy ways out of the harder, healthier work. Thus, we must work to get there, which in this day and age means making use of the tools available to us in order to secure not only our survival and victories, but our abilities to thrive afterwards.

I like to think the Morrigan knows all this, too, and this is what she wants. If she didn’t before, then maybe she knows now as her worshippers have found her across all corners of the globe and as she has grown and changed with them. I think it is important to remember that faith and spirituality are ecologies: there are things gods can do that mortals cannot, and there are things mortals can do that gods cannot, so they rely on one another. I think that ecology includes the negotiations for change and growth, if we are all living and continually changing aspects of nature. Change is good, change is expected. It is a war goddess like the Morrigan, whose changes are near constant, I would trust with the domain of war. May we all, in the face of war both just and unjust, learn to grow, change, and heal together just as fervently as we fight.

#the morrigan #free palestine #druidism #devotional writing #lots of writing this week #trying to get it done ahead of the dark moon this weekend so i can make good on a request i feel the morrigan is making of me #thid has been in the drafts since January and since my February mew moon ritial i have been receiving #clear signs that I should finish what i started #so here we are

[ashyronfire]

Consequences || Chapter 01: When I Meet Death

Title: 01 - When I Meet Death Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Pale King Warnings: Disturbing Content, Horror, Gore, Unreliable Narrator, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Read On Ao3: Beginning || Current Chapter

Summary:

Nothing consumed by the void truly dies. Not even the fallen king of Hallownest.

Author’s Notes: This fic has a LOT of warnings that it needs, but in truth, a lot of them are also spoilers. I don't want to spoil it so I will just warn you that it has some of the most graphic things I've ever written, on top of which it is best classified as a horror hurt-no-comfort. If you're squeamish, don't read. Please.

Also, this fic is only 10 chapters long. So if you're someone who is scared of committing to one of my longfics, lmao, surprise, this one's multipart but not terribly long.

CHAPTER 01: WHEN I MEET DEATH

For some, the endless night came with a kind of peace. A people once revered it as the still calm of death: a sea that stretched on unto eternity, where the beginning and the end could be found. That ancient civilization had regarded the ancient force they shared space with as an inevitable, but welcome friend, and they’d gone into its sweet embrace at the end of their days with no hesitation at all.

But the Pale King’s heart was heavy, and he was not so blessed. For him, that infinite black was not still at all. It was tumultuous, a storm threatening to devour all, and he’d known – he’d always known – that what awaited him was anything but peace.

When the shadows rose from the abyss, creeping through the dream of the White Palace, staining marble with shifting void, he’d accepted his fate with as much dignity and grace as someone in his position could be expected to.

He’d screamed, cried, and tried to beg, and it was all for naught.

The void claimed what it was owed: his heart, his mind, his life.

And demanded so much more.

What should have been still, should have been a vast reservoir of empty nothing, was instead full of souls and they cried out for retribution.

The void did not offer him death, for death would have been a mercy.

The void did not offer him peace, for he had not yet earned it.

And within that maelstrom of power, of hunger and rage, of glowing white eyes filled with disappointment and betrayal, with pain that he’d put there, he learned the cost of regret. The anchor of his mistakes pulled him down, crushed him beneath their fury. Words echoed, cacophonous, everyone and no one at once, and he could say and do nothing to stop it.

Nothing within the swirling tempest was dead. Nor was it alive. They existed instead in a state somewhere between, locked in the moment of a memory that replayed itself over and over again, whispers of ‘Father?...’ like a mantra between screams. Horrible, resonant screams and the void made sure that he heard every single one.

In that place of darkness, what need had anyone for a light? He was without worth.

As he’d always been, really.

A king whose resolution had been to sacrifice everything on a hope and a dream – against hope and against dreams. What folly.

He saw their eyes. Hundreds of white, burning eyes that stared through him with a luminescence that rivaled his own, starlight winking in the shadows and full, so full, of promise, of demands.

What good to scream?

What good to plead, to beg?

Had it ever done anyone any good?

Hallownest would live on and so would he.

Nothing the void claimed had ever truly died. It might have changed hands. It might have changed forms. But memory was an eternal thing, and the void would never forget that which it touched, that which it birthed, that which it had claimed before any other false idols had wandered into its lands.

And compared to that primordial force, he was a false idol. So was she. They both were.

He fell and the distance was endless. There was no ground to break himself upon, no surface for his wings to catch. There was only the expanse, fathomless.

If a black hole existed, it was surely this: memories replaying around him, his voice and others, scenes like a vision most terrible, and the screams. Always the screams.

Those haunting starlight eyes were a beacon by which to guide himself, but he controlled not where he went. He could turn. He could flip himself upside down, as if he might see where he was destined to land – except that there was nothing to see. There would never be anything to see again.

Until there was.

Another glint of white, the flash of steel, and an uneasy bleeding of red. Disoriented, the Pale King turned over and held one claw out toward the difference, the color amidst the monochrome that had painted his world.

He reached out and he was met with claws that seized around his wrist. They moored him, snatched him from where he was drifting, and then a face leaned terribly close to his, breath licking his shell like flames. His heart raced while ice flowed through him, freezing the air in his lungs like needlepoints, icicles forming inside of him in an attempt to jut outward. He’d been afraid before. Recognition of the figure that caught him did little to assist with that.

“My, my.”

Scarlet horns and a cheshire smile that knew too much. Confusion settled at the back of the wyrm’s throat, stole away his words, and he gazed up at the floating figure that had caught him on his descent.

The counterpart to the blazing light of morning. The ruler of the other half of the realm of dreams.

The Nightmare King.

“What a sorry, pathetic state I find you in.”

All around him, those glowing white eyes turned, and the voices joined in unison to repeat one word: Grimm. The confusion of the Pale King intensified as the shadows laid over one another in a discordant melody. Grimm. Grimm. Grimm.

How did they know his name, the wyrm would have asked, but when he tried to speak, he found himself with no words.

That was a fitting punishment, perhaps.

He’d denied his children the ability to cry out their agony, to prevent himself from ever having to hear them weep – and they’d still found a way to scream. The Hollow Knight had screamed in agony before their death, and it was only a matter of time before their successor – for there would always be a successor; he’d ensured that any of the vessels who escaped would find their way back to take their place in the chain, each a link in the bonds that held Her at bay – followed suit.

That he should find himself without the ability to wail his despair –

“Nevertheless, I have found you. At last.” Razor-sharp claws plunged deeper, nesting through his chitin to break it, to hold onto the tissue beneath, and he was surprised to find that whatever the void had done to him, he could yet bleed.

Or could he? Was it in his head?

Scarlet eyes left his face and Grimm’s strangely knowing smile settled on the shimmering orbs above them. They flickered and phantom touches settled on the Pale King’s sides. He felt scratching and petting in the same motion. Grimm did not let go of his wrist and did not acknowledge the fact that shadows were winding up to choke the wyrm, cloaking him in ribbons of darkness, blotting out his light.

Some of the void snaked down the Pale King’s wrist, settled at the back of his hand, moved as though to touch Grimm’s, and then drew back with a shiver.

It was not fear. The shadows did not find frightening a force far less remarkable than they. And yet there was a reverence to the way they devoured him, leaving Grimm untouched; there was an almost affectionate way that they surrounded black claws, never touching him.

Fondness, the Pale King realized. There was something in the void that was fond of the god of fear.

“A provisional lease, if you please,” the Nightmare King murmured, and if the darkness answered, the Pale King did not hear it.

He woke instead.

o

The sharp incline of his body told him that he was crashing into consciousness. The waking world was a violent thing, seizing muscles, stiff fingers, broken wings. Blurring white, blue, violet, and crimson filled his vision, obscuring all but the hard dirt ground beneath his body.

The Pale King turned over and choked. His throat was a raw thing, dry and burning, and his claws – what he could make out – were stained with void.

The terrible realization that he was alive tore his confidence asunder.

He was alive. But he hadn’t survived. He was a living thing that hadn’t been allowed to die and he’d been brought back, dragged from the eternal sea with intent and purpose.

He retched and what came out was black.

It took him a moment to realize that it was more of a murky red when the light hit it. Chunks of discarded flesh and fragmented bone mingled within coagulated blood, peppering the darkness with discolored sludges of gray, of white, of sickly green. The smell seized his stomach, threatened to pull it taut once more, vile putrefaction turning his insides into something more liquid than any organ ought to have been.

Something moved. It had wings. And beneath it, wriggling, were slightly translucent white forms.

Larvae.

He was decaying, and smaller insects were laying their larvae within what had once been his corpse.

And that ghastly, grinning specter had put him back inside of it.

Waking horror made his claws shake and he brought one up to scratch the side of his face. Trembling, the wyrm took in the shadow that loomed over him, stretching far taller than he was, and he longed to curse.

When he opened his mouth, though, no sound came out, and the chuckle that Grimm offered was an awful thing: smug, condescending, and very self-satisfied.

“It will be some time before you are allowed the privilege of words,” he said, circling the Pale King’s half-doubled over form.

Just as in the void, just as in his prison of shadow, he had no voice with which to beg and plead for salvation.

Not that Grimm represented it. No, that harbinger of the end offered nothing that the Pale King wanted, and yet…

They were in the Basin, he realized.

His vision cleared enough for him to recognize the void-stained earth on which he was sitting. The smells carried heavily – roses, magnolias, and chrysanthemums, the flowers that his Root had planted so long ago – and he could taste them on the back of a half-decomposed tongue.

He lifted his head, secondary arms wrapping around himself for comfort, his expression impassive as outrage worked its way through him. The great caverns he’d once carved with his own claws lay in ruins around him, stained and ruined by the gaping maw of darkness on which he’d built his kingdom. Vegetation rested lifeless, the abyss draining all semblance of color away until the rocky gray earth was peppered with black veining in place of roots. Amidst it all, the decrepit arched entrance of his Palace stood, guarded by a lifeless kingsmould, but the structure itself was long gone.

Sent away. He’d sent it away, and himself with it. He remembered that, if little else was clear in the haze of pain and the awful stench of darkness that felt like damp salt in his throat.

Grimm hadn’t simply retrieved him from the void. He’d put him into his old body, which meant he’d found it somewhere in the Dream World. And he hadn’t bothered to heal any of it. Would he continue to rot and decompose? Die properly, then, as all things did when their organs shut down?

“You will have to settle for mine instead,” Grimm continued. He crouched in front of the wyrm, wings pooling at his feet, claws coming up to settle on his mask, though it did little to disguise the self-satisfied smile that he wore. “More’s the pity for you, I expect.”

A foot settled under his chin and then, violently, it smashed into the bottom of his chin and knocked him onto his back.

Any delusions that he might have held that this was an act of mercy were immediately dispelled. Pain shot through his face, settling as a searing ache in his throat, and he scraped his claws along the ground to brace himself. He felt Soul thrum beneath them, the living pulse of the world, but – where he could have called it, made it sing for him, before, it was distant now, far away, as if at some great height.

“Get up,” Grimm pressed. There was no malice in his tone, despite the violent outburst, but there was also no mercy: it was a command and he expected to be obeyed. “We have places to be.”

A far easier demand to make than to execute. He struggled, claws scrambling over cracked and disheveled rocks, to pull himself upright. Flecks of chitin broke away from his carapace where he’d been kicked and he choked again, gagging. The reflexive urge to vomit rose anew, blurring his vision, but this time – this time it was accompanied by the fleeting chill of fear and the worry that if he let himself become distracted by excising the tiny parasites using his body as host, he would be kicked again for his trouble.

They’d met before, he and the Nightmare King, and he had not found Grimm impressive then. His main feelings toward the butterfly had been that he was a flickering light where his counterpart had been brilliant, and that whatever had birthed nightmare had been something that the blazing light of morning had found repulsive, shameful, a thing to be hidden away in the dark. He’d looked down upon him and was met with coy, mocking terms of endearment, ‘How fascinating, the view from your tower made of glass. May it not come crumbling down upon you bathed in flame, dear wyrm – whatever would you do then?’

It was one meeting. The Pale King had believed they’d never again see one another.

Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.

One could not outrun death.

His stomach lurched and he vomited again. The sensation was a distant one, writhing maggots in his mouth, and each little spit had more and more of them, along with the fractured chunks of his internal mechanisms.

He should not have been alive. No creature deserved to live on in such a state, undead and wrong.

Hadn’t he wanted to spare his kingdom’s people such atrocities? Was that not the point?

Grimm gazed down at him with that unearthly scarlet stare and fury settled in his claws as they dug into the ground for purchase. His mouth curled back in a snarl, bearing needle-like fangs, and when he met the Nightmare’s eyes, a growl rattled in his chest.

He was met with laughter.

“Be careful,” Grimm said, rocking on the ends of his feet, wicked smile lingering on his mask. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt any more parts of your internal organs.” He turned and nudged the mess between them, splattered gelatinous blood solidifying on lifeless dirt, with the end of his paw. “I believe that might be a chunk of your liver.”

The growling subsided. The Pale King dropped his gaze to the chunk of tissue, of flesh, of organ meat within the oozing puddle of bile-filled blood, and then straightened his jaw. It realigned, hinging back on itself, teeth slowly folding downward within his mouth.

It was, indeed, a chunk of his liver.

He should have been dead. He should have wished for such peace. Fear held him in a vice grip, though, and despite the itching sensation that resembled thousands of little feet skittering across his shell, the wyrm made it to his feet. His vision blurred and disoriented him, but he dared not reach out to brace himself, dared not show further that he was struggling in the catastrophic state that he was in.

Grimm needed no further ammunition for the unvoiced laughter and his pride struggled beneath the weight of the blows.

That he should sink so low as to be at the mercy of a creature barely qualifying as a god himself –

That he should be obedient, subservient, to a mere fragment of his enemy’s power that dared to think and breathe on its own –

The thought chafed.

“We have quite the walk ahead of us,” Grimm purred. To hear such a tone from so deep, so damaged a voice, was unsettling. The unadulterated joy in Grimm’s eyes felt like nails slamming through the wyrm to his core and he looked at the ground rather than meet laughing scarlet. “Dirtmouth. You do remember the way, do you not? To your little hub town, your connection to the outside world? When all else of your kingdom lay in ruins, they yet live on. The further from your grace they are, the more stable they remain.”

Dirtmouth…?

The name brought to mind images of small, dilapidated buildings and a failed tram project that he’d meant to connect Hallownest with; it brought to mind great cliffs and the moth tribe’s altar to the morning in the distance; it brought to mind the howling cliffs and transients who knew little about his kingdom and even less about its monarch. He’d largely left Dirtmouth as it was, with it serving as a waypoint for those coming from the wastes who would have sought greater prospects in the underground kingdom.

It did not surprise him to hear it was largely untouched by the plague of dreams. Why attack those who meant nothing to him, when there were so many that she could hurt him with?

She’d left them to the tender care of her counterpart, ambassador of death that he was, it would seem. Whether or not his wings were merciful would remain to be seen.

The Pale King wanted to ask Grimm if he would be gentle when he swept Hallownest into oblivion. That was what the Nightmare Troupe did, was it not? They came to the ruins of a dying land and feasted on its corpse, carrion creatures that they were, and then they left it barebones and forgotten. He’d encountered many in the wilds, before he’d become… this. He knew how they operated. Not with malice, but with purpose. Was it so for the butterfly and his people?

Words failed. He had no way to ask.

He had no right to, either.

He’d failed Hallownest and all hope that he had for a better future hinged on a plan that required sacrifice after sacrifice, death after death, links in a chain, congruent suffering until their lives all ran out.

Time frozen. The last eternal kingdom.

What a fool he’d been. What a fool he still was.

He let Grimm lead the way and fell into shambling steps behind him, each movement its own new agony, muscles and shell pulling on parts of his body that should have dissolved long ago. The void was taking its time reminding him of his failure over and over again, and as much as he longed to argue, he could not.

Hallownest was dying and there was nothing that he could do about it. Grimm’s presence there was proof.

But why was he alive?

The question was answered by an all-too-familiar mantra within his mind, made up of thousands of voices overlaying over top of one another. A chill made him tremble anew as he recognized his own words recited back to him in empty, callous answer:  

No cost too great.

No mind to think.

No will to break.

No voice to cry suffering.

Born of God and Void.

You shall seal the blinding light that plagues their dreams.

You are the vessel.

But the last line –

The last line never came.

#ashe writes #consequences fic #hk fanfic #hollow knight fanfic #hollow knight #hk the pale king #hk grimm

[bimbo-ho]

random true crime facts pt.1

Doing this by people/events.

Don’t @ me ik since of these are basically knowledge

Ted Kaczynski

- Is a Gemini, born may 22nd, 1942

- smelled like spoiled milk

- Unabomber=university and airline bomber

- graduated high school and Went to Harvard at 15

- graduated at 25

- Suspected to be apart of MK ultra

- iq of 167

- youngest professor to be hired at the University of Californian at Berkeley

- Left the university in 1969

- After seeing several of his favorite spots bulldozed or paved over, he started his first foray into ecoterrorism with small acts of defiance against the local developers (real asf)

- all Construction of the bomb was done by hand, no power tools were involved and made the tools he needed by hand

- His case reached the FBI’s desk in 1979, when he placed a bomb in the cargo hold of a commercial airplane

- the airplane bomb didn’t go off

- John Hauser received a bomb containing makeshift shrapnel and died from his injuries.

- had a cool off period and only sent one device between 1986 and 1993

- 1993 killed his second victim

- Was the most expensive cases in FBI history

- the manifesto was published on September 19 and with an appeal for tips

- Where in the manifesto he talked about the consequences of the industrial revolution that have divorced humans from their natural environment and laid out his solution, calling for the inevitable revolution of the people against the technology taking over their lives and a return to primitive life

- His brother thought it was him who wrote the manifesto because kazynski wrote “You can’t eat your cake and have it too” instead of “you can’t have your cake and eat it too”

- David hired a private investigator to gather evidence and compile a dossier that was turned over to the authorities in February of 1996

- Although his lawyers urged him to plead insanity to avoid facing the death penalty, he refused to do so

Richard Ramirez

- A Pisces born on a leap year. February 29th, 1960

- after he was knocked unconscious by a swing at age 5, he began experiencing epileptic fits

- Ramirez smelled like wet leather

- Youngest of 5 children

- Parents were Mexican immigrants

- when he was 12 years old, a cousin who was a Vietnam war veteran showed him pictures of Vietnamese women he had allegedly raped, tortured, and killed

- The following year witnessed the same cousin fatally shoot his wife

- Slept in the cemetery to avoid the abuse of his dad

- Was first called “the walk in killer” and “the screen door intruder”

- Was not the original night stalker

- Loved AC/DC favourite song was the night prowler

- Stabbed a women with a butter knife

- Stomped a women to death left a shoe imprint on her face

- Left his AC/DC hat at the scene of one of his crimes

- A juror Phyllis Singletary, did not show up at the courtroom and was found shot in her apartment

- Ramirez Threatened to Shoot His Prosecutor

Jeffrey dahmer

- Is a Gemini born May 21st, 1960

- To Lionel dahmer a chemist, hard worker and achiever and Joyce dahmer

- Mother was in 20+ medication

- Had a history of injuries as a child

- Had to wear lifts on his shoes when he was six, had to wear casts on his legs for four months, treated for an ear infection, got pneumonia, started developing a hernia had an operation to fix it when he was six

- Was never the same after the hernia surgery his dad said he seemed smaller, more vulnerable, he grew more inwards, sitting quietly for long periods, not stirring and emotionless

- They let Jeffrey name his little brother and he named him David

- David has changed his name and doesn’t want to associate with Jeffrey

- Jeffrey was neglected completely when David was born

- Geographically isolated from everyone else in the town

- At six he started collecting road kill and dead animals

- It’s alleged that he was sexually assaulted at this time Lionel and Jeffrey said it’s not true

- Would play infinity land, was extremely complicated, they’re were sticks that represented men and the “men” disappear one by one in a vortex - He did have afew friends

- They would play “ghost in the graveyard”

- He took the remains of a fetal pig home and kept the skeleton in grade 9, starting branching out killing dogs and cats. All he knew was he wanted to see what the insides looked like

- Would show up to high school drunk and Was once asked what was in his water bottle that was filled with alcohol and he responded with “this is my medicine”

- Was obsessed with a jogger as a teenager and planned to attack him with a bat but the day he planned to the jogger didn’t show up

- started heavily drinking at 14

- had a dead body in his bed when the police gave him his 14 year old victim back

- Showered ontop of decomposing bodies in his apartment

- “only killed the pretty ones”

- worked at a chocolate factory and stored severed heads in his locker

- got fired from the chocolate factory cuz he smelled so bad

- police smelled his apartment at first and said it didn’t smell like human decomposition but shit

#tcc columbine #tcc tumblr #tccblr #truecrime #killers #ted kaczynski #Jeffrey dahmer #dahmer #richard rameriz #the night stalker #night stalker #unabomber #tcc

[floufli]

Admit It

Chapter 2 : Consequences (5k)

Summary:

Before the whole "multiverse collapsing" thing, everything was going pretty smoothly for you. As Spider-woman, you saved people, beat up villains and lived an calm and uneventful civilian life. But everything seemed to have changed the moment one boy was bitten by some radioactive spider. Now, the villains you faced have become more active, and always seemed to disappear before you could deliver them to the police. One day, you manage to finally catch the trail of the ones that kept stealing your catches, only to be left to discover another facet of your life waiting for you.

Will this end well for you? You could only hope so. But you are perfectly okay with risking it all, after all, that "Miguel" got one hell of an ass to make up for it.

Tags:

Miguel o'hara x fem!reader, violence, 18+ MINOR NON FRIENDLY SO HOP HOP GET OUT OF HERE, future tags

Chap: (1)

MasterList

Don't copy to another site or I'm gonna be big mad >:C and don't feed to AI obviously

Author notes:

Doing this instead of doing exam stuff related. Tried do to 3k didn't work now take this 5k and the smutty bit . I wanted to put Miguel's POV but it would have been 7 or 8k so it'll be for next chap.

I'll probably edit it later bc there're parts I find weirdly written but anyways-

Why did I do that already? Ah! Yeah! I remember, to " not miss all the fun". Silly me... HOW IS THAT FUNNY???

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT !!" You screamed at the top of your lungs as you almost immediately regretted going through that damned portal. One second you were walking onto a nice- beautiful even, concrete floor, and the next you got yourself propelled into a way too colorful void that made your eyes hurt.

Why does everything they have must be so bright? Does it not make their head hurt, like, please??

But right as of now, you thought the colorfulness of this new environment to be one of your less important problems. At least for now.

You were more concerned as to where you were actually heading, a slight panic running through your body as you realized you had no control whatsoever over your direction or speed. You didn't mind not knowing where you were going to land, no problem, but you would prefer not to crash into a building- or even better the ground, at 100km/h.

Quickly asserting the situation, you tried to take as much information as you could. Looking around yourself, you could observe ass you traveled into what could be a sort of invisible tunnel, if an invisible tube could be called a tunnel, it kind of defeats the whole purpose of the tunnel but anyway. Although you could see some kind of geometrical forms that set the global shape of the way, like guides that allowed the tunnel to go the right way.

The feeling almost made you sick. Sure swinging around was something you now excelled in, but being moved around so much that you lost sense of up and down was now something you dread to experience again.

That's something I'll never get used to. You thought as your eyes tried to find something to anchor yourself before you could throw up your last meal.

Thanks to whoever designed this thing, the experience was quite short, even if quite extreme. In only mere seconds after your entry into the portal, you were back in the real world. And not this weird in-between dimension that threw your senses off.

As much as you were thrilled for the experience to be over, your eyes stung at the bright lighting at the end of the way. But you got no time to rest and recover properly your vision. The moment your body went through the blinding light, gravity suddenly seemed to reappear, pushing you down toward the ground. Acting by instinct at this point, you let your body react by itself as it reoriented itself so you would land carefully on your two feet, and not head first.

" Ah.." You sighed, appreciating the comforting weight of gravity. You raise to your full height, arms by your side, you let your eyes take as many details around you as they could, while your ears tried to assert if there were any threats nearby.

That's a pretty big elevator.

Your eyes were amazed by the sight you were met with. By just looking from side to side, you could see the breathtaking, future-like sight behind the thick protection glass. Incredible buildings stretched so far up into the deep blue sky that you almost could believe your own eyes. How was it even possible? That must be some kind of dimension that's set well into the future for it to be so technologically advanced.

The scenery was pure beauty, roads were spreading around each building like a gigantic snake, embracing each gap and swirling in the place. And unlike your world, those were set up in the sky, allowing an astonishing field of green to surround the whole city.

OH.MY. ARE THOSE FLYING CARS?!

It was still hard to tell from this distance, and knowing that the elevator was actually moving upwards, but you could swear those cars looked weird as fuck.

…Wait, they definitely were flying...there wasn't any road for them to be on ??!

Too caught up in your own excitement, you didn't notice the three people waiting with you while the elevator moved. Running towards one of the glass windows you almost pressed your face against it to better examine this completely new view. But you quickly dismissed the idea once you saw that the elevator was in fact just a platform and putting your face against the window would result in your face being squished down along the elevator's movement.

Wait that's weird... why is everything upside down?

It took you a good minute to realize that your entire vision was in fact upside-down and that your body was in fact dangling into the void, only kept from falling by your talons. Despite the fact that the spikes on your feet were considerably huge, it seems like you didn't notice them piercing into the platform's ground.

Thanks, weird spider instincts. You thought amused, it would have been quite embarrassing if you had landed just for you to fall down because you couldn't spot that the gravity was inverted.

Parting from the glass, you looked behind you. Three different pairs of eyes met your own. You almost let a laugh escape your lips when you saw the scene, stopping yourself last second, but unable to help the smile on your lips.

While the two other Spiderwomen- you guessed you could call them like that for now, were standing perfectly straight on their feet despite the gravity trying to pull them down, Vulture was dangling weirdly, only hold back by the firm grip of the youngest Spider. Seeing something falling upwards wasn't really common in your job, as you almost never let yourself be put in a taught enough situation that would force you to be left head down.

Vulture wasn't as pleased as you were on another note. His face was one of pure worry as he frequently stared at the girl holding his restrained body and then the abysmal void separating him from the bottom of the building. You could almost catch beads of sweat sliding profusely from his now pale face.

"Enjoying the view?" The woman asked with a smile of her own, all the while she was playing with something on her watch-like device. From her relaxed brows, everything was going as usual for her. This told you a lot about the situation as a whole; if they were really who they pretended to be, fellow Spider-Men from; different universes, then they could be many more than just these two and the “Miguel” from before.

“Yeah, flying cars are not really a thing at home. This view is really something to behold.” You stated breathily, even if you didn’t know them- not even their names you realized, you could let your guard down, you could feel it.

It had been so long since you felt this safe.

Not having to worry about enemies coming to stab you in the back, always looking out for people's betrayals, it really was refreshing to say the very least. A much-needed break indeed.

“Miguel’s dimension is surely more advanced than most of ours, that’s for sure!” The woman laughed as if amused by your almost pure reaction to the scenery. Just as she finished doing whatever she was doing with her watch, the elevator started to slow down, and you walked up to where they were currently standing- waiting to arrive at your destination.

But just as you were about to stand before them a sudden vague of pain came through you. The feeling, despite short-lived, left you breathless, contorting in pain, you lost your balance and almost fell to your knees. But weirdly you didn’t.

It was as if you were shredded into pieces, and while you tried to scream, you could hear the bugged sounds that came out of your mouth. You really felt like a scratched disc that kept coming back to one scene over and over.

Thankfully, it went away as quickly as it came. You were now crouched down just next to the older woman, who had lowered herself in the meantime you were out. Now extending her arms, presenting you with a sort of elastic bracelet.

“Shit! I’m so sorry girl, that completely slipped out of my mind. There put this one on, it will stop you from doing that again, I know it’s not the best feeling.” She said to you, expression full of remorse while you quickly put on the thing.

“ That’s for sure..” You breathed, “Shit, that fucking hurt ugh-” You straightened yourself while she stayed near in case you needed help, but in mere seconds you were back to full form.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry again, a lot of things to do at the same time and you weren’t on today’s agenda.” Just as she finished her sentence, the elevator came to a stop, it’s lack of a door allowing you to fully take in the view in front of you.

“But don’t worry, Lyla will give you a real Goober since Miguel asked her to, you should have it soon enough.”

You didn’t pay as much attention as you probably should have to her words, too focused on observing the impossible scene.

There were so many Spider-Men and Spider-Women everywhere.

But you didn’t get the chance to admire them more, the two women and their package were already well ahead of you, still in the elevator.

Oops, wait for meeee!!

You quickly took off towards them, but still, let ourself look around the bright alleys. They were covering almost every centimeter available, from the floor up to the ceiling, thanks to the Spider capacities they surely possessed too.

You jogged behind the two women, avoiding the Spiders that came in your way while saluting the ones that acknowledged you.

“Jessica, do you bring us a new one? Does Miguel knows about that one?” A voice came from your right, a Spider-Man, his suit a deep red and light blue. He seemed to have been talking with others, but your presence must have caught his attention.

How does he even know I’m new here? WE ALL LOOK THE SAME. HOW?

“YES AND YES PETER.” The woman, Jessica, answered without missing a beat, walking unfalteringly toward a gate a bit farther into the ‘main’ way.

The other spider let go almost immediately after her answer, going back to his previous discussion.

“Don’t worry, they are all pretty chill when you get to know them.” The young girl spoke while you continued to look around, catching your attention.

“Yeah, since we’re all Spiders from different dimensions I figured we must be the nice guys I guess. I shouldn’t be too worried about them trying something.” You nodded, and the youngster laughed softly at your response.

“I could even present you some, I’m sure you could get along just fine with Hobby.” She continued as you all entered a darker zone of the building, the atmosphere changing immediately. It even smelled different from the main hall.

The scent is different here but it feels off. Like there’s something behind it? You took a long inspiration. It’s not strong but I can definitely smell something.

It smells pretty good too. Like a subtle mix of pine and oak, just strong enough to pick on but not too overwhelming either.

Hell, it smells divine.

As if in a trance, you followed while they approached different cells-like containers, each filled with what you could recognize as a villain from your own dimension, except slightly different.

Jessica stopped before what looked like an inactivated cell, pushing some sort of code into a nearby panel while the girl approached and put down the Vulture right in the middle of the device that served as the cell’s base.

The moment he left her arms the cel activated, a bright purple hue commit to completely encapsulated him, leaving him unable to leave.

“ They wait here before we send them back to their own dimensions,” The girl said as she pulled down her mask, before pointing toward another room, behind some control panels. “ We got a supper-and-absolutely-not-scary giant spider robot that scans their DNA before sending them back. Super effective.”

“Totally humane and professional.” You completed as you began to see white appendages leaving a hole you didn’t notice in the ceiling, red yes soon following as the gigantic thing came out to work on the prisoner that was just scanned.

Yep! Not scary! Not scary at all!

Quickly, you turned around before you could witness anything more this spider thing was about to do, and chose to follow the two women, staying closer to the girl that seemed more eager to talk.

“I’m Gwen between, I’ve not been here for much longer than you don’t worry, only a month or so. So I know what it feels like at first.” She tried to reassure you, that was easy to tell. But you weren’t stressed, or at least not as much as you think you should have been.

It’s weird. Since I smelt the scent I feel almost at ease.

But there’s more to it, I can feel my entire body heating up.

…Don’t tell me they got some strange laboratory things going on in there and I’m the only one affected… That would be so embarrassing.

You could feel your face heating as you walked. You chatted calmly with the Girl after introducing yourself, and she seemed eager to talk to someone, but inside, you were screaming. It was beginning to be difficult to breathe with your mask, the scent becoming stronger and stronger as you approached a somber room with a sort of platform attached to a metallic arm that stretched into the darkness.

It’s dark enough here, I should be able to pull it off without dying from a headache.

Mimicking the actions of the girl, Gwen, from moments prior, you raised your hand to pull your mask off swiftly, a sigh of pure satisfaction leaving you as the cold air of the room hit your burning face.

I hope I'm not too red or I'll need to make something up.

Thankfully no one seemed to notice your very much cherry-colored face, possibly due to the low lighting of the room to begin with.

Get your hormones in check for fuck's sake.

"Everything's alright here?" Jessica asked as she could tell something was visibly bugging you from the frown on your face.

"Yeah, Yeah everything's good. Just trying to take in all the new info you know?" You answered quickly, but not without missing the curious face Gwen threw your way.

Your eyes went back to Jessica, she was next to the control panel now, and just as she had been doing all the way here, she taped some code on the display. But this time, a holographic figure appeared just next to her.

"Hey, Lyla!" The girl next to you greeted cheerfully the hologram. Wait, THEY HAVE ADVANCED AI TOO?

"Hi Gwen, what's up? Still, sticking with poor old Jess? Miggy still hasn't let you go alone on a mission?" The yellowish woman asked, her form teleporting just next to the girl in question.

"You already know the answer to that Lyla-" Gwen answered, defeated, "I'm ready, at this point I'm just waiting for SOMEONE to tell him that I'm ready too."

The glare she threw at Jessica couldn't be missed, even if you tried, her eyes full of expectations but only met with blank ones.

"Hey it's not my job to babysit, I will have plenty of work when this one will be there," She said while pressing her hand on her belly," If you're sooo ready just go and tell him you are. That shouldn't be difficult for someone as good as you." She finished, a wicked smile playing on her features, obviously teasing the girl.

The two continued their own playful arguing, you could only stand by and watch, at least until the AI- Lyla apparently finally noticed you.

"OH! YOU'RE THE NEWBY MIGGUEL SAID TO MAKE THE GIZMO FOR!" The hologram appeared right in your face, causing you to jump in surprise. She looked like a twenty-something years old woman, a short brunette, and she smiled at you friendly.

"Yeah, I guess that's me..." Everything was starting to become a bit too much for you, having enhanced senses had its pros and cons, and being easily overwhelmed was one of them, and the strange but pleasant scent that invaded your mind didn't help your body to calm down.

"Good, I'm sure you got your own Spidey things to do so we're gonna be brief." She said happily, moving around with way too much energy for such a little thing. "Take that first, it's way better than the daily pass you have right there."

A bracelet similar to the one you saw on the two women materialized in front of you, and you quickly reached out to catch it, not wanting it to break.

Pulling off the elastic bracelet from your right arm, you rapidly replaced it with its metallic counterpart. Up close, you could see the amount of detail and work that went into the item's conception, from the small display to the multiple buttons there and there.

"We'll teach you how to you it don't worry, it's not that hard when you know what to do." Lyla declared confidently, from her proud expression, she must have been the one designing the item.

"But first-" Jessica turned from Lyla to face you.

"-First we'll explain to you everything that has happened." Lyla cut off, earning an angry look from Jessica.

Finally. You thought. it's not like I came here for that in the first place but kinda.

Suddenly the whole room became pitch black, and a beam of white light rose from the middle of it, urging you to come closer. The beam began to take the form of a tree, and from there you could only listen as both Jessica and Lyla explained to you the story of this organization.

"These webs linked us all together," Jessica started, "And one year ago, a gap was left in it, allowing people from one dimension to enter another, those we call anomalies."

"And if we don't do anything, all the worlds could be destroyed."

Waving goodbye to your new colleagues, you stepped into the portal after making sure it was set to your dimension. The trip wasn't as bad as the first, since you were now expecting the whole floating part, but still, it will definitely need to be improved.

When you landed, you were surprised to see yourself in your flat, in the middle of your living room. Almost falling to your knees in relief for the day to FINALLY be over, you caught yourself last second, instead falling face-first into your sofa.

Your body was aching everywhere and you could already feel the headache in your temple, the distinct throbbing enough to let a painful whimper escape your lips.

Need to shower and put this off.

After inhaling heavily, to prepare yourself mentally for the pain to come, you finally rose to your two feet and headed to the bathroom. You took your sweet time undressing, delaying as much as you could the moment the cold air of the room would touch your sensitive skin.

Your flat was modest, and so was your bathroom, you didn't have a very big salary at your local job, and doing Spider-Woman exploit didn't pay shit. Free work all along and still some people got the nerve to hold it to you when you made the slightest mistake.

'Go on take the work' You had wanted to yell more than once. But deep down you knew no one would take your place if it meant going through what you did to have this kind of powers.

As you managed to get most of your suit off, you couldn't but notice the smell that came from off of it. The same as the one in that place in the HQ building. Miguel's 'office' would you had learned it to be. The memory of the man's face still vivid in your mind.

Poor guy, he really lost everything he had. And I can't imagine the amount of guilt he has accumulated over time from that.

And still despite your kind words you couldn't help your body's reaction the moment your eyes met the sculpted body of your new boss. At this moment you thanked every god and goddess you knew the name of to have made this room so dark. If you think you were feeling kind of hot before, then now you were burning from the inside out, everything felt ten times as what you were used to. Sounds, images, odors, everything was multiplied and allowed you to sense almost everything that was going on inside and outside the room.

But it was useless, as your eyes only seemed to see interest in this Miguel's divine complexion.

And damn if your suit didn't make your body heat up once more. Chills ran through your entire body, your talons and fangs starting to stretch despite the fact you didn't want them to. You desperately tried to control yourself, tried to let go of the fabric in your hands, but it seems your body wasn't cooperating. Instead, your hand rose the piece of fabric to your face, allowing you to smell the full fragrance still enclosed in its fibers.

"Shit-" You hissed, as one of your hands grabbed the edge of the sink, your legs were starting to give up on you. You didn't feel this aroused in- hell you've never been this turned on in your entire life and that's saying something about yourself right now. Why was it happening now? It wasn't nearly as bad when you were there, it should have calmed down and not worsened!

You could only let yourself fall on your knees in an attempt to calm yourself, maybe the coldness of the tiles would help? Well, it didn't. Now you could hear a cracking sound coming from above and below you, your talons and claws surely pushing the ceramic of the sink and the tiles to its limit.

As embarrassing as the whole thing was would feel yourself growing soaked, your entire core on fire, waiting for something you weren't sure only your fingers could provide. But your resolution to control yourself started to falter.

So while your nose was still buried deep into the fabric, mouth agape while you inhaled the divine sent, your other slowly caressed your body, starting by your neck, luckily your claws still retracted the moment they touched your skin. You tried to imagine how his body would feel below yours, how his fingers would feel against your skin, would they be rough or smooth? Oh- What you could do to this man at this instant.

Your hand was now on your breasts, your hand easily englobing the mound of flesh, playing with it just the way you liked, causing small moans to escape your drooling mouth. Your hips began to move with a mind of their own, swinging back and forth against nothing, the feeling at your core begging to be too much.

Leaving your other breast without giving it the same attention, you let your hand make its descent towards you screaming for attention vulva. You breathed heavily into your suit, both yours and his scent mixed making your mind go crazy.

"Fuck-Ah!" You jumped as your fingers first made contact with your aching clit, the simple touch almost enough to immediately send you over the edge. Your whole body was tensing now, waiting for something to release the unbearable tension.

Tentatively, your finger started to play around with your sensitive clit, sending powerful waves of pure pleasure through you that left your mind practically blank- except for the image of this beauty of a man panting below you.

Hips grinding on your hand, chasing for more, you allowed one finger to begin spreading your wet folds, sighting in relief when a new sort of pleasure overwhelmed your senses.

But still, it wasn't enough, you were fully moaning into your suit while three fingers worked hard on spreading you and your hips still grinded hard on your palm, trying to get as much stimulation as you could.

You had the picture perfectly painted in your head, mimicking your current depraved act, you would be riding that man until he'd beg you to stop, or until you were fully satisfied. He would look so good with tears in his eyes, you thought, the constant brows on his face as its appeal but god- what would give out to be the one making sure he was milked until there was nothing much he could give you. 

You licked your dried lips at the thought, your tongue brushing slowly upon your bared fangs. You panted heavily, sensing your orgasm approach way faster than usual, the familiar tightness in your core becoming more and more unbearable, but promising a delightful end for all the torture it had been.

You curled on yourself when you grinded particularly hard on your clit, provoking a shockwave that made on fall on the floor of the bathroom. You must have been quite the sight, ass up in the air, hand pushing your suit in your face, all the while you now grinded with a desperate thrust into your hand.

Shit-shit-shit!!

Your entire frame tenses when your orgasm finally hit you full force, the hotness of your core spreading across every centimeter of skin, up until your face. Instinct taking over, you let yourself sink your teeth deep into the fabric still pushed in your face, and the moment your fangs sank in completely, you could feel your own venom ooze out of them.

"Ah AH-" You tried to muffle your sound but to no avail. Fingers still moving against and inside you, you tried to make the few waves of pleasure last as much as you could, even if it meant overstimulating you a tiny bit. After the last bit of pleasure eventually faded, you stayed immobile for a few more minutes, struggling to comprehend what exactly had just happened.

What. The. Fuck. Was. THAT?

Still slightly out of breath from your previous activity, you slowly rose back up, wincing at the feeling of your fingers leaving your leaking cunt. Sitting on your knees, you tried to assert the situation.

You looked intensely at your wet hand, your mind still not processing everything that just happened, as if it had been totally disconnected, leaving your body to be ruled solely by primary and animalistic instincts.

You stood up, not without faltering for an instant, where you incredible sense of equilibria when you needed it?

"Okay. Okay. That is just horny me, no need to think about it. It's just the Sider DND going berserk because of a pretty guy." Your reasoning was strong, at least you thought it to be, just enough to convince you would surely do the work. Looking up into the mirror about your sink, you stared at yourself, hand grabbing its edge with way too much force, causing your fingers to go white and a small crack to appear.

You looked absolutely disheveled, your already not very tidy hair now tangled in a messy patch of color. Your eyes were bloodshot red, your pupils still dilated, taking over most of your eyes, leaving no place for its original color to sip through. Along with you still, open mouth and bared fangs, your shoulder moving up and down in rapid breaths.

You looked monstrous, quite literally. If someone were to see you like this, it would be more than understandable if they suddenly took off running, fearing for their life. You seemed ready to attack anything that come your way, but you could help to find a certain charm to your current state. Sure you looked savage, but the good kind of savage.

Hell, you even though you looked pretty hot like that.

Turning on the sink you quickly rinsed off your hand, a sudden wave of fatigue shutting you down. You then took a quick shower to rinse off any residue of dirk of concrete from today's work, along with the last proofs of your own excitement.

In less than fifteen minutes you were out of the shower, patting yourself dry, and getting ready for bed after throwing your suit in the washing machine before the smell would get you to do this again-and it almost made you sad to know that the only piece of this sent would be gone. Leaving the bathroom after opening a window to evacuate the fog, you stepped into your leaving room for a quick dinner, nothing too fancy.

You took from the fridge some leftovers from this afternoon, some rice along with a small piece of marinated fish, which will be more than enough. You ate at your own pace, not bothered by the clock ticking, reminding you of today's day of work. When you finished, you took out your phone, making sure you didn't forget to activate your alarms.

You entered your bedroom languidly, the darkness of the room comforting you, and with eyes as sensitive as yours, seeing in the dark was included in the package. Putting your phone to charge and the watch thingy- a Gizmo you had learned, o the night table, you throw yourself into the smooth and soft sheets of your bed.

As you found a comfortable position to fall asleep, your mind went back to what today had taught you, memories of all the Spider-men and women invading your mind, and fatally- the image of this Miguel you didn't even know as you watched him lose everything he had.

What a shitty person I am for having this kind of thought toward that poor guy.

Your eyelids were now starting to feel heavy, and before you could react your eyes closed on their own accord, your conscience beginning to drift away.

Thought shutting down as you began to fall asleep you could help but come back to what you saw at the HQ, but this time without the guilty feeling, thanks to being half-asleep.

But he got that cake... Bigger than me.. that's for sure... 

Tag list : (tell me if you want to be added/deleted)

@stany0url0calwh0res111 @mira-dystopiancore @smotheredinlighterfluid @vvitcxen @st4rrlighttt @mstozierr @maxi-ride @miguelsmainb @autismsupermusicalassassin @bluevenus19 @jenniferdixon05207 @candlewitch-cryptic @ahoeformyself @rxionv

#fanfic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x you #spider man 2099 #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel x you #into the spider verse #across the spiderverse #x you #x reader #reader #fem!reader #you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fic #atsv #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel x fem!reader #x fem!reader #female reader #spiderwoman reader #jessica drew #gwen stacy #spiderman #spiderverse spoilers

[ignis-cain]

While Leo thought that there was a good deal of fun in tumblr adopting the stylistic rules of House of Leaves, even in posts not directly about the book, he thought that this could be extended further. For instance, the site could adopt the style of The Neverending Story and alternate between red texts when describing things that happen in the “main” level of the text while using green text to refer to a story-within-a-story. Perhaps clever expectation-reversal in color use could be employed to great effect; for example, by suggesting the difference between levels of story were more nebulous than could otherwise be communicated. Leo was sure there were fancy academic terms to describe these different levels more usefully, but he had never shown much interest in any literary field until his final years of education. He bemoaned taking only two courses in English, both of them too niche for much wider applicability and certainly no help in communicating his thoughts in a known framework. Frustrated, he turned back to his Simulatometer-9000. Plugging in the right parameters, he sat back, eagerly looking forwards to seeing the machine’s prediction for what such fontological plans would lead to.

And so the brave tumblr-user, penning his thoughts entirely in the shades of cheerful green and candy-red that the tumblr mobile app allowed, discovered to his dismay that his writings were not being interpreted as he anticipated. Rather than connecting his stylistic choice to The Neverending Story, the audience instead thought it all to be in reference to The Dread Work, which unbeknownst to many had itself made many seemingly random stylistic choices in order to echo, incorporate, and comment on Michael Ende’s work. Green was interpreted not with the land of Fantasia but with a saccharine fanartist, Red not with the real world but with a murderous villain. Confusingly, the color associations with these characters did not even appear to be consistent within the story. Nevertheless, the use of red and green served similar ends in Hussie’s odious compendium, coating the words of the two figures as they performed both as author figures and audience surrogates in a way that collapsed both the perceived difference between the two roles as well as the sets of behaviors they each represented.

But unfortunately for the brave tumblr-user, the associations these two Caliginous entities carried with them were not quite the same as the ones he intended, yet were similar enough that legible but unintended readings of his commentary were entirely possible. Suddenly the brave user’s thoughts on recursion in stories were being interpreted as commentaries on the author function, his thoughts on how to view a story in the context of its intertexts interpreted as musings on the consequences of reading a work through the lens of fandom.

Moreover, many people were unfamiliar both with The Neverending Story and Homestuck, only knowing that the latter made heavy use of brightly-colored text. Many thus scrolled past, assuming that the brave user was rp-ing characters they knew to avoid learning of. Others assumed that, much like many netizens who grew up on Hussie’s Scribblings adopted a “writing quirk,” the user was unthinkingly using an affectation in an annoying manner. The user fell to his knees, bemoaning his ill fortune, cursing the name of the one who made brightly-colored text as a formatting element played-out.

“Huh,” Leo said looking up from the simulation, “it looks like typing in that style wouldn’t work as well as I thought.” He rose, glad he had not wasted time pursuing his colorful plans as the brave user in his simulation had. Then the Minotaur got him.

#leo says #the neverending story #house of leaves #homestuck #metafiction

[probablyasocialecologist]

Similar problems arise with Vettese and Pendergrass’s contention that “the easiest—and perhaps only—way to achieve large-scale reforestation and feed the world at the same time is through widespread veganism.” They defend this contention by feeding into their model per capita estimates of land requirements for different dietary regimes based on agricultural figures within the coterminous United States and multiplying these by global population numbers. Notably, even the article from which these estimates are drawn observes that a smaller total number of people can be supported by a vegan diet than a vegetarian or low-meat mixed one, as the former is unable to use land suitable to grazing. Although this may be less of a problem in the context of the United States—as even the lowest estimate of the maximum population fed by U.S. agriculture is 1.3 times the size of the 2010 U.S. population—it becomes a much more dangerous assumption when applied to more arid regions, such as parts of Africa, Latin America, and Asia, where attempts to impose sedentary agriculture on Indigenous populations have undermined pastoral livelihoods with disastrous social and ecological consequences. It also runs counter to the nonprofit organization GRAIN’s contentions that struggles around agriculture and sustainability need to start from the premise that “farming communities should also be able to decide by and for themselves, and without pressure, the type of land tenure they want to practice”—a sentiment echoed by movements such as La Vía Campesina and in the Marseille Manifesto. These complexities do not negate the fact that shifting that portion of the world’s population presently consuming large quantities of industrially produced meat to a more vegetable-based diet would have numerous health, ecological, and ethical benefits. Rather, a more comprehensive ecological approach suggests that there are problems with assuming that experiences and conditions based on a single U.S. metropolitan view are directly translatable into global realities. As Rob Wallace and Max Ajl point out in response to a piece co-authored by Vettese that advocates Half-Earth Socialism, planetary veganism, and synthetic meat in response to the COVID-19 pandemic, many vegan criticisms of the social-ecological effects and suffering inflicted by industrial animal husbandry are valid. Nevertheless, they lose their moral and empirical backing when they adopt a series of settler-colonial biases that facilitate the careful drawing of distinctions between industrial and sustainable cultivation of plants while treating industrial and peasant animal husbandry as an undifferentiated whole. That is, the differences between peasant and pastoral animal husbandry practiced by countless peoples around the world and industrial livestock operations are as great as those that Vettese and Pendergrass recognize between industrial and organic agriculture, in terms of their ecological consequences, their contributions to and imbrications with cultural identities, and the amount of harm inflicted on the animals involved. In this sense, Vettese and Pendergrass’s universal condemnation of all “animal husbandry as one of the most consequential and dangerous ways humans shape life on Earth” is both inaccurate and reflects what Wallace and Ajl refer to as “specific values, specific devaluations, and pathological externalizations” undergirding a project “that consents to the brute confiscation and erasure of peasant and pastoral particularisms in the name of ‘universal’ ideals: rewilding Earth upon the bones of supposedly atavistic peoples poor and brown.”

#half earth socialism #meat #agriculture #veganism