#regardless of the words they have to define it

[enwoso]

INVISIBLE STRINGS - alessia russo

*i started writing this and loved it then got bored by the end so sorry for the rushed ending:) but thank you for the love and support on my first post!!

google would define invisible strings as a thread that connects two people who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or the circumstances. the thread may stretch or tangle but it never breaks.

you and alessia both truly believed you were a prime example of the invisible string theory.

the two of you always existing among each other but neither ever really acknowledged each other until later on when you were both older.

you lived on the same street as alessia growing up, only a few doors down, she was the blonde girl you would always see from afar playing in the park with her two older brothers as they blasted the ball at the young girl.

however she always gave back as good as she got.

you had even went to the same school, however she was in the year above you. there were plenty school photos with the two of you in only a few metres apart. walking past each other in the corridor every single day - not having an idea how important each other would become to be to the other in the future.

you had played football for the local team as did she. the blonde playing in offence taking any spot on the front line whereas you sat at the back and played in defence stopping the opposition from scoring.

that is how the two of you met, well kind of. you played for the same team but you two never really friends. it wasn’t that you didn’t like each other it’s just you never really spoke to one another bar the few words when necessary.

however you only played with each other for a few months before she moved onto a new local team. only seeing her now when your team would face her new team.

you both existed in the backgrounds of each others lives.

when you were sixteen, you were scouted by the arsenal's academy for the under seventeens teams, it took you a little time getting used to playing academy football and not the usual sunday league but after a few months you had found your feet and began to settle in.

you had one goal, the england youth squad. your family pushing you each day to try and help you achieve your goal however just a month before the squad announcement you tore your ACL at sixteen.

you were out of football for a year, endless days sat with a physio, in the gym just trying to get your knee to bend again like it once used to. watching from the sidelines as your friends in the academy got their calls up for the youth teams and how you wished it was you.

you felt as though you were fighting a battle you were never going to win, you were falling out of love with sport that you had played your entire life.

after three hundred and sixty two day you were finally allowed to play again, however your return it wasn't the fairy tale dream you had spent the past year dreamed about. you ended up spending a lot of time on the bench not playing as regular as you did before your injury and you spent many of those ninety minutes wondering why you were no longer good enough.

losing all your confidence in yourself and your ability to actually play football - you felt as though you had hit a brick wall. finding yourself some days where you didn't want to play football anymore.

but thankfully your family, mainly your dad, were not going to let you give up so easily on the talent that they had spent watching over the last ten years. your dad repeatedly telling you 'that you time would come'

and like the fairy tale you had dreamed about you slowly begun to get minutes again and fell back in love with sport all over again. forever thankful for your family for their support each day, for sometimes dragging you to training even when you had told them multiple of times that you were done and that you quit.

and you dad was right, your time did come. your hard work finally paid off and just after your nineteenth birthday you made your appearance for the arsenal first time - even bagging yourself an assist.

the next few season were spent learning and being loaned to another other club spending half a season at brighton when you were 20. but you saw it all as learning and a way of improving - you were getting minutes, plenty of clean sheets and you were working towards a new goal: the 2023 world cup.

you were back at arsenal and were a regular starter in the back line for arsenal and with that came your good from and finally your call up for england came as they were beginning their campaign to quality for the world cup in australia.

"are you excited?" leah asked swinging her arm around your shoulders as you walked towards the changing rooms, she had been a big mentor to you since you had came into the first team, along with helping you to improve your game. you could say you became her little prodigy.

the squad had just been announced on social media for the first time and hearing your name on the sheet of paper had you feeling something you could even begin to find the word to describe.

“yes.. but no, i’m a little nervous” you admitted with a small laugh as leah gave you a soft smile and a squeeze of the shoulders to reassure you.

“listen, you’ll be fine! just play with the passion you always have” she said as you nodded slowly, “plus you’ll have me, beth and jordan!” the blonde added as you playfully groaned, leah gasping and unthreading her arm from around your shoulders.

“i’m just kidding, you know i love you all” you smiled, as leah rolled her eyes as you reached the doors of the changing rooms, “i do kiddo! ..but i’m at the top of that list, right?”

“whatever helps you sleep at night, lee!”

leah was right - you were fine. while you didn’t get any starts in any of the games at your first camp, you did get some minutes as a sub which was more than you were expecting. but while sitting on the bench you did find yourself talking to a particular blonde.

“you said you were from kent, didn’t you?” alessia asked as you hummed, a puzzled look growing on your face as you waited for the blonde to carry on. your eyes were glued to the girls running around on the pitch as you sat on the bench with a bright orange bib over your jacket.

“me too! what part?” the blonde asked as you turned your head at the question being slightly caught off guard at the fact she was also from kent.

“um maidstone” you gave her a small smile, your attention turning back to the girls on the pitch as the ball was close to going into the back of the net. alessia gasping making you think she had seen something you had missed on the pitch as well as making you jump a little, “me too!”

you turned back to her, giving her a shocked look. confusion filling you as the two of you spent the rest of camp talking about each others childhood finding out your grew up on the same street as well as going to the same school.

when the next england camp rolled around, you and alessia had became even closer to the point you were counting down the days until you next saw each other.

short and sweet messages turned into hours and hours spent on facetime until the other fell asleep. friendly comments turned into subtle flirty ones and the touches turned to ones that lasted longer than friends and slowly you found yourself falling for the blonde.

the last england camp before the euros in the summer at home had finally arrived, you had arrived at st george’s park with beth and leah but before alessia.

you found yourself sitting patiently in the common room, like a lost puppy waiting for the blonde to walk through the door. the other girls chatting and playing cards in the background.

“kid, if you stare any longer at the doorframe your gonna burn a hole in it!” lucy teased as you glanced away from the doorway for the first time in a least thirty minutes, rolling your eyes at the teasing comment you moved your gaze to fix at watching leah try and beat beth’s high score on the basketball hoop game.

eventually after what felt at least a year to you and fifteen minutes to everyone else - the blonde walked through with ella, as she made a beeline for you as you wrapped her in a tight hug.

the two of you finding a rhythm and falling into a deep conversation about all the things you had forgotten to tell each other over the phone.

“so then me and ella had to stop, so i could get a coffee and she-“ alessia was in the middle of telling you a recount of her journey here before you interrupted her with a big gasp, jumping up out of your seat to find your phone quickly.

“what?” alessia asked as she watched you frantically search for your phone on the beanbag you were sitting on - finding it wedged under the beanbag.

“i have to show you this before i forget!” you said a grin on your face getting bigger with ever swipe your finger did on your phone screen. moving closer to the blonde, your shoulders touching as she peered over your own shoulder wondering what on earth you were about to show her and why was it such a big deal.

"look-" you moved your phone so that it was in her eye line and on your screen was a group school photo, "i don’t get it? what am i looking at?" the blonde asked her squinted her eyes trying to get a better look at the photo.

"there's me and.." you paused as she pointed to herself as a small gasp followed from her, "and there's me" alessia whispered, so quietly you also couldn't hear her. shock has consumed the blonde and you sat back with a smug smile as she examined the photo a little more.

"how’d you find this?" alessia asked as she turned her head back to you, handing you back your phone, "my mum sent me them,, there's more if you swipe across" you said beginning to swipe along your camera roll.

the two of you spent the next hour looking through the photos, some from school and others from your grassroots club, recounting each others side of the memories both of you in shock of how close you to were to each other growing but in reality how far you were to each other.

"we've literally been in the background of each other lives forever" alessia smiled as you nodded. "attached by an invisible string" you added.

the international camp came to an end and you both went back to your respective clubs, this time the two of you were making an effort to see each other without it being on a pitch or about football — so on your days off you went to see alessia and on her days off she came to see you.

your feelings for alessia were growing each time you saw her, her smile was infectious, her blue orbs were the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. but you didn't want to admit your feelings to her in case it ruined your friendship, plus why would she like you back, alessia sees you as a friend and a friend only.

or so you thought.

"less, why don't you just admit you have feelings for the girl!" ella said as she caught the blonde smiling at her phone knowing that she was messaging you.

"w-what" the blonde stuttered her phone dropping into her lap. "less, we can all see that you like her!" ella paused as alessia's cheeks tinted red, "except for y/n - but she definitely likes you too!"

"she does?"

"of course, everyone can see the way you both look at each other!" ella said bumping her shoulder with the older blonde as alessia gave her a small smile and nodded processing the information that had just been given to her.

before the euros came around in the summer alessia managed to make the first move taking you on the first date — a fancy dinner accompanied by going back to her apartment and spending the rest of the night cuddled into each other while watching a film.

the euros had come and you were back with alessia and the rest of the england girls. the tournament had been the best time of your life making unforgettable memories with the girls. slipping in a few dates with alessia when you two had some downtime.

you were just beginning to enter the second half of extra time the score being 1-1 in the final, yes the final at wembley. the little girl inside of you was buzzing with excitement, you couldn't believe you were going to get to play here. your whole family had made the trip to wembley, sitting proudly in the crowd.

it was england's chance to score, germany had conceded the corner. alex was hovering over it to take it as white shirts littered germanys penalty area.

the ball swing in as everyone jumped up, you watched alessia drop to the ground and then watched as chloe poked the ball into the back of the net. chloe running off to celebrate as the stadium erupted, as you all gathered around chloe celebrating.

all you had to do was hold on for the next ten minutes and the trophy was englands.

keeping the ball in the corner, desperately waiting for the final whistle to blow.

germany had one last chance but before it got into the final half the whistle blew, england where european champions.

running to the closest person near you which happened to be leah, engulfing her in a hug as the tears began to fall. "we did it!" you whispered as she hummed, the two of you sniffing and wiping your eyes and going off to celebrate with the others but your eye caught the sight of your favourite blonde moving toward her.

you don't know if it was the adrenaline of the win that was flowing or if you had finally just grew the confidence to say it but after months of dancing around your feelings for the blonde.

you ran up swinging your arm around her neck, as you both cheered before you faced her grabbing her hands, "less! will you be my girlfriend" you blurted out, clearly catching the blonde of guard as her head perked up, alessia thinking she had misheard you before nodding, "yes, a thousand time yes!" 

you smiled bringing the blonde in for a bear hug, not wanting to let go. enjoying her touch, it made you feel safe and loved. as she pulled away she wrapped an arm around your shoulders pulling you into her, kissing the top of your head lingering there for a few moments.

"all along there's been an invisible string tying me to you."

liked by lucybronze and 915,703 others

alessia day one or one day?

comments -

lucybronze well y/n looks thrilled on the first one

24m 140 likes     reply

-> yourusername she annoyed me that day.

-> alessia how on earth can you remember that?

-> yourusername i can’t? i’m just guessing that you did

yourusername i love you<3

24m 140 likes     reply

-> alessia love you more, my love<33

#lucy bronze #alessia russo x reader #leah williamson x reader #woso x reader #lucy bronze x reader #woso blurbs #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso #woso community #woso one shot #alessia russo x y/n #alessia russo #arsenal wfc #arsenal women #arsenal #awfc #awfc imagine #awfc x reader #football #enwoso

[kindalikerackham]

required reading before you can call mizu a girl:

mulan

rose of versailles

#ppl with perceived woman bodies forced into mens social roles CAN have complicated feelings about it #or can decide that being a man is who he is #regardless of the words they have to define it #and tbfh i think mizu is agender more than anything else #cares more about what the gender role does for them than being a particular gender #being a man: freedom to become an apprentice and pursue revenge #being a woman: a peaceful life #and of course mizu was relived to stop hiding that after marrying #but i think it was the weight of the secret moreso than the weight of any gender #but that's my interpretation #crossdressing for much of your life can show how much a person does care about gender #and oscar did! and mulan maybe did a bit! and mizu? it's a tool or a laying down a tool #blue eye samurai

[autisticaradiamegido]

hi thank you for all the aradia love this blog

do you have a favorite headcanon about her, even a very small/niche one?

day 284

well i assume u mean aside from the one in the blog title lol

a fun one is this dumb imaginary report card i imagine sometimes

obviously i interpret her as autistic, but i also think shes asexual, sssomewhere on the aro spectrum? and agender! which is all fun because her name also starts with a. call that a straight-A student

#day 284 #year 3 #aradia megido #homestuck #tbf i dont think she thinks too hard about gender? like idk that shed DESCRIBE herself that way necessarily #but i think if you pressed her shed be like 'idk do most people FEEL their gender? yes? huh. well i guess i dont have one! interesting!' #and then not think too hard about it ever again #i think she truly does not give a shit #as for the aro stuff idk. its another thing where i think shes very affectionate but has a hard time distinguishing like #romantic vs platonic attraction and what the difference is? esp since the dividing line between some quadrants is like #'well do you want to have sex with them or not?' and for her the answer is 'no' regardless #even in my biggest ships for her i kind of imagine the relationships to be a bit more on the queerplatonic end of things than like #strictly romantic in the more traditional sense #and again im not sure that she thinks too hard about it! #but when you bring partners into it who maybe Do care about defining it a little more clearly i think she does have to stop and THINK hard #about the nature of her feelings and what words she wants to use to define them #wow this got long maybe this all shouldve been IN the post itself. well oops im not gonna retype/reformat it all sorry its past my bedtime

[youssefguedira]

i find that often when talking about some issues on here and on other sites/irl when people refer to 'x group is doing this!' (especially when x group is an entire nationality) there's often a more specific group (sometimes even with a name!) actually responsible for said thing. in the nationality case even just saying 'government of this country is doing this' is more specific and often more productive. like all things there's nuance to this but we are on tumblr there is no character limit if you're going to post about serious political issues you have the space and time to define your terms

#i dont like how a lot of people have seemingly gone from the actions of this government do not reflect the opinions of all of its people #(see: us/uk) to grouping all of them together #like. this is about all of the groups you think it's about including the ones you might not like. regardless of the issue in question i do #think you avoid falling into a lot of dangerous patterns by simply being a little more specific #anyway. don't put too much stock into what i'm saying this is just a personal rule #it's not always just nationality either when it comes to this kind of thing but that was the easiest example i could think of #in general. if you're going to use a word. define what you mean by it. or simply be a bit more specific. ok #neon has thoughts #i do get why headlines may do it because sometimes that's how headlines work. but you are on tumblr and that's not what this is #(not about anyone in particular! but i have seen some things in the notes of posts on here)

[agnesandhilda]

telemachus and orestes are the same guy in reverse but somehow orestes is the more sympathetic one

#bolo liveblogs #I think. I'm not done w/the oresteia rn so I'm just saying words #but I think it's interesting how they were both war babies who are in large part defined by their relationships to their moms #but while orestes kills his mother telemachus kills everyone else #FOR THE RECORD my current take on the string of deaths in the oresteia is #agamemnon kills iphegenia -> may or may not have been necessary but was fair game for retribution regardless #clytemnestra kills agamemnon -> justified #clytemnestra kills cassandra -> unjustified she's literally Just There #orestes kills clytemnestra -> unjustified bc I don't think agamemnon deserves vengeance but I like patricide/matricide scenes #so I'll go ahead and say it's okay bc orestes looked good doing it #orestes kills aegisthus -> idk if this was justified but it was kind of a serve

[evilwickedme]

Fuck it I'm bored so here's a ranking of different Peter Parkers by how Jewish they are

Dead last, obviously, is MCU!Peter Parker. This version of Peter is the farthest from comic canon to the point of being almost unrecognizable at times. Also, Tom Holland answered the question "is peter parker Jewish" in a Wired Autocomplete Interview a while back with a very baffled "no", cementing him forever as my sworn enemy. So he's actually the only peter parker who, at least by word of God, is canonically NOT Jewish. -1000000/10

Next up is Tobey Maguire's Peter Parker. I think this Peter is... fine, at least he's much closer to comic canon than MCU!Peter, but honestly that's not saying much considering how far the MCU strayed from comic canon or even the spirit of comic canon. But like overall, Sam Raimi's movies just aren't particularly interested in presenting Peter as Jewish, so, eh. 1/10

By far the most Jewish of live action Peters is TASM!Peter, also by far the most comic accurate of live action Peters. I'd be remiss not to mention the fact that Andrew Garfield is Jewish, and he understands the character so fucking well. He stated on record that he played Peter as Jewish and that he sees Spider-Man as an inherently Jewish character:

However, the Webb movies still do not textually define him as Jewish, and the best parts of Andrew's Peter's Jewish subtext are better when viewed in light of the comics. Overall, 6.5/10

Next up is the original, our beloved comic book Peter, pictured here saying Happy Hanukkah in a panel from Matt Fraction's Hawkeye. Comic Peter is one of the most heavily Jewish coded comics characters of all time, which is saying something considering how Jewish comic books are as a medium. Obviously he was created and often written and drawn by Jewish writers and artists, but beyond that his driving ethos and values are incredibly Jewish, and as a bonus he's constantly sprinkling Yiddish and Jewish phrases into his speech, alongside things like the above panel where he outright acknowledges Jewish culture in a scene where everyone else is saying merry Christmas. However, despite the extremely heavy coding, Marvel Comics are fucking cowards, and he has yet to be confirmed Jewish, so I must give him a measly 8/10.

Finally, the cream of the crop, the most Jewish of all Peter Parkers, Into the Spider-Verse's Peter B. Parker my beloved!!! Peter B. is voiced by Jake Johnson, himself a Jewish actor, and is a phenomenally accurate representation of comic book canon - but he also has the unique quality of being canonically, textually, in the actual movie Jewish! It's a bit of a blink and you'll miss it scene, but when we get introduced to Peter B. in his "one more time" segment, we see his wedding to MJ, where he steps on a glass. This is a Jewish minhag - custom - meant to represent the destruction of our Temple and Jerusalem, as well as remind us that sorrow and joy come intertwined, and is one of my personal favorite Jewish customs. It's a phenomenal moment in the best Spider-Man movie, and while this version of Peter would have been my favorite film version regardless, his Jewishness absolutely pushes him even further up. 13/10, no complaints

#jew tag #jumblr #comics #marvel #marvel comics #spiderman #peter parker #peter b parker #spiderverse #into the spiderverse #tasm #sam raimi #the amazing spider man #mcu #gail speaks #jewish superheroes

[3hks]

7 Ways to Hook Your Readers

How do you start a story? Why, you start it with a hook! A hook is something that intrigues the reader and has them enthralled. Sometimes, the first sentence is the hardest one to form, so here, I'll give you some examples on how to hook your audience into your story!

>>> A question: This is a pretty well-known tactic: starting off with a question for your reader has them thinking how they'd answer; hence, pulling them further into your work. If you want, your character can answer the question too! However, the question must be relevant to your story.

>>> A idiom/quote/saying: Sayings are commonly used, though one can find them controversial at times. Regardless, the majority of people understand what the meaning behind them are; and because of that factor, along with its popular usage, proverbs quickly attract readers' attention while giving some insight to your character.

>>> One-word starter: This one is pretty simple, and if you really don't have any ideas, maybe give this one a shot! The hook is simply one word (or even a short phrase) that portrays a strong part of your character. Its out-of-context and vagueness trigger interest in your reader.

>>> Starting action: Like the one-word starter, this hook seems contextless, but it's a quick way to captivate your reader and have the suspense emerge! Example: "Blood covered the ground like a thin blanket, staining the once-clean quartz with a shade of scarlet. A pair of depthless eyes seemed to burn a hole into the last person in the room; a messy, pitiful, scrambling figure."

>>> Dialogue: By now, it should be obvious that your hook should be enthralling and evoke interest in your reader. Opening with compelling dialogue can help introduce the plot and characters of your story!

>>> Interesting Introduction: Is there something special about your character? Introductions can be difficult to sneak in, but not when it's a hook! Make a short description consisting of several defining traits of your character, and be sure to add the special thing about your character as a twist to snag your reader's attention! Additionally, you can be creative with this! An introduction doesn't have to come from your main character, it can come from another character describing the protagonist!

>>> Setting: Does the setting have a strong influence on the story? Even if it doesn't, beginning with a descriptive setting can slowly captivate your audience!

Alright! These are seven ways to hook your reader: a question, a saying, one-word, action, dialogue, an introduction, and a setting! Of course, there are many more ways, so explore around!

Happy writing~

3hks :)

#writing #writeblr #writerscommunity #writing tips #writing inspo #creative writing #writing advice #thank you #types of hooks #hook your reader #how to hook your reader #ways to hook your reader #starting a story

[gojipink]

teach me!

ஐ ft. alhaitham

ஐ summary. alhaitham teaches you how to give him a blowjob!

ஐ warnings. N!SFW, mdni, fem!reader, finger sucking, fem. pet names. 1.6k words

ஐ notes. part of my bj mini series! find the other parts here!

alhaitham’s strong hands tug at the towel that’s wrapped around your body, pulling the cloth off you while pulling you closer to him as your lips yield to his onslaught of fiery kisses. you struggle to keep up with him as you tug onto his hair, still damp from the bath you just took together. breaking away from his lips, you peek down at his stiff length; cock flushed and already oozing at the tip all because you innocently wondered out loud how it would feel to have him in your mouth.

“is it…will it fit?” you hesitantly ask while staring down at your boyfriend’s heavy cock, standing proudly against his toned abs.

The dim, candle-lit bedroom creates an atmosphere so sensual it was almost suffocating.

alhaitham exhales a quiet laugh, his big hands coming up to cup your cheeks to tilt your head up to look at him, “we’ll take it slow, love. you don't have to do any more than you think you can take.” 

you pout at him, “i wanna make you feel good though, wanna be able to take all of it-” 

“and we’ll work up to that,” he reassures with a teasing glint in his eye, his thumbs circling your cheeks lovingly. “it doesn't matter how much you're able to take, it’ll feel good regardless, i promise.”

you hum apprehensive, “okay but you have to help me ‘haitham, have to tell me how you like it,” you bargain as your hands come up to rest on his muscular stomach, fingertips shyly tracing the distinct grooves on each muscle. the glow of the candles highlighting every prominent feature on his body, making him look more handsome than ever.

one of his hands trace down your face to rub at your shoulder reassuringly, “i will, love. we’ll practice first, hm?” you give him a small nod as he slides a hand down your jaw, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip before tapping it lightly. “open,” he whispers.

your body reacts before your brain fully processes his words, lips parting immediately with your tongue poking out just slightly to kitten lick at his fingertip. his lips lift into a small smile as he watches you test the waters, his dick involuntarily jumping at the feeling of your soft tongue. 

“see? you know what to do, i don't even need to give you any instructions, do i?” he says lowly, your head becomes a little fuzzy with his praise. feeling a little bolder, you inch forward allowing his thumb to fully slip inside your mouth, your lips wrapping around the digit. alhaitham draws a deep breath in, his eyes becoming half-lidded watching you slightly bob your head around his finger, tongue massaging at the pad of his thumb. his hard cock twitches between your bodies, the leaky tip dribbling pre-cum on the floor. 

he hums a little absentmindedly before pulling out his thumb and replacing it with his index and middle finger. you moan around his fingers, mouth feeling more stuffed as his fingers play and massage around your tongue.

he stares with a hungry gaze at the lewd sight in front of him; your mouth sucking around his two fingers as if it were candy while you look up at him with unfocused eyes, small whines escape you as he plays with your tongue. 

he slides his fingers towards the back of your throat causing you to choke a little in surprise, your fingernails dig into his defined muscles as he repeats the action, slowly allowing your throat to relax and accommodate his long fingers. 

“did someone else teach you? is that why you're already so good, huh?” he teases in a low voice, your cheeks flaring with embarrassment at his mock accusation. you look up at him with doe eyes, eyebrows slightly knitted together, cheeks still hallowed around his fingers as you try to shake your head. 

alhaitham chuckles as he rhythmically slides his fingers in and out between your plush lips, “just teasing you, my love. you’re doing so well for me, aren't you?”

you whimper around his fingers, mind growing dizzy with need as his praises make your slick smear onto your naked thighs. thighs involuntarily pressing together for friction, you hardly even recognize your own actions until alhaitham huffs out a small laugh as he glances down. 

“oh, my sweet girl,” he coos, “you like sucking my fingers that much?” 

 you moan out a small mhm around him, your mind clouding over with a lustful haze, only growing more desperate to feel more of him, to taste more of him. 

feeling emboldened by his positive reactions, your hands drift away from his middle until they loosely grip at the base of his aching cock. 

his teeth grit together at the sudden feeling of your hands on him, your soft strokes timed perfectly to match your head as you bob along his fingers. 

“mmh- you want it that bad? think youre ready to try it out, angel?” he reaches his fingers towards your throat again, relishing in the way he can feel the vibrations of your small affirming “mhm”, the sensation making his dick twitch in your hold.

drawing his fingers out of your mouth, he leans in to press a deep kiss to your lips.

“take it slow, okay? i’ll talk you through it,” he whispers against your lips. 

you whisper a small okay as he gently takes your hands away from his dick in order to keep you steady while you slowly drop to your knees. 

alhaitham takes his throbbing cock into his hand, giving himself a few pumps to alleviate the pressure that was already causing his heavy balls to tighten. paired with the sight of you on your knees in front of him, ready and so eager to do anything he asks, he knows that he's not going to last as long as he wishes to. 

“do it just like how you were sucking on my fingers, it’s the same thing. don't be scared of it, i won't hurt you,” he instructs soothingly, one hand coming up to massage at your neck while the other guides his swollen tip to very lightly trace your bottom lip. 

nodding up at him, you open your mouth and poke your tongue out to swipe along his leaking slit, noticing the way alhaitham’s abs clench and how tightly he flexes his jaw. mimicking the way your tongue played with his fingers, you swirl your tongue around his sensitive cock head before taking the tip into your mouth, cheeks hollowed to create a tight suction. 

“ugh f-fuck-! just mmh- just like that, doing so well for me, hm?” he pants out, his eyes locked on the way your lips wrap around his mushroom tip combined with the unfocused look in your eyes as you drink up every instruction and every reaction from him. 

you hum around his cock making his fingers tighten around the hairs that lay at the nape of your neck. his tight grip tangled in your hair turns to gentle tugging as he slowly begins to guide your movements and the timing of your bobbing. 

struggling to fit all of his thick cock into your mouth, you wrap a hand around the base and twist up to whatever your mouth can’t reach in time with your mouth. 

alhaitham’s head tilts back, eyes closing for just a moment, allowing himself to wholeheartedly focus on how your tongue feels. the dizzying contrast of how your tongue feels when the soft muscle massages at the protruding vein on the underside of his cock on each downward stroke versus the way your tongue swirls around his sensitive tip when you pull back up has alhaitham’s teeth gnashed together as he desperately tries to stifle the guttural groans you pull from him. 

“j-just like that, mmph-! good girl, princes-mmh-! doing s-so good f’me,” he chokes out, tilting his head back down to watch you as that familiar flame of white hot pleasure starts to lick up his spine. “gonna cum just like this ugh, wanna swallow it?” 

you look up at him with lust filled eyes as you moan affirmatively around his pulsing cock making his lips part in a silent moan as his eyebrows knit together, sweat dripping from his neck pooling at his sharp collarbones. 

“oh just like that, angel, oh fuck, c-cumming-!” 

it's a messy scene filled with saliva and creamy cum as his heavy load leaks out the corners of your mouth while alhaitham’s grip on your hair forces your head still while he shallowly bucks his hips into your stuffed mouth. 

he pants harshly as he leaves his cock nestled against your tongue, flinching slightly from the pricks of overstimulation each time he feels you swallow, the action making your suction even tighter paired with the feeling of the back of your tongue pressing hard against his tip.

coming down from his high with a sigh he gently untangles his fingers out of your hair and slowly pulls his half-hard cock away from your lips, smiling when you let out a small aaah to show him you swallowed everything he gave you. 

bringing a thumb to the corners of your lips to wipe away the smears of cum that leaked out, you surprise him when you catch his wrist and lick away the excess collected on the pad of his thumb. 

“you-” he starts, a little surprised at your bold action before huffing out a laugh as he helps you back up to your feet. pressing you against his chest as he brings his hands up to cup your cheeks pulling you in for a sweet kiss. 

you lightly pull away from him, “was that okay?” you shyly as you tilt your head at him waiting for his praise. 

he shakes his head softly smiling at you, feeling his cock twitch back to life at your innocent behavior, “better. better than just ‘okay’, my love. always.”

#hehehehehe (〃▽〃) #goji's.thots˚｡⋆୨୧˚ #alhaitham x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham smut

[itsswritten]

Threads of Hazel

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Warnings: Angst, blood, gore, injuries, hints of death.

Summary: A mating bond can connect those who have not even met, but can it save them too?

All that welcomed you was the cold, splodges of darkness filtering in your distorted vision.

Time seemed to stretch and contract in the void, a dizzying whirl of uncertainty. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? Perhaps even longer.

No one was coming.

Why had you dared to hope? 

It was that gentle hazel glow that danced behind closed eyelids that had stirred within you. A glimmer of something that felt worthy of holding onto. Something to believe in.

But it must have been a trick of the mind, a cruel illusion born from the depths of insanity. 

No one was coming. No one ever would.

Maybe it was time to give up.

Time to surrender to the abyss, to let go of the tenuous thread that bound you to consciousness. As you teetered on the edge of oblivion, a fleeting sensation brushed against your senses, a whisper of familiarity.

You could smell it, faint and distant yet unmistakable. 

Night-chilled mist and cedar. 

It was that scent again. But like a wisp of smoke on the wind, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving your senses grasping at shadows in the void.

Another wicked false sense of hope. Your mind must be creating delusions as it comes close to its end.

No one was coming.

It was time to let go.

***

This was the last location. And then they’d go home. 

Finally.

Azriel straightened his posture, rolling back his shoulders with a weary sigh. His wings unfurled and then tucked in against his back. He felt anchored, weighed down, by the silent burdens he was carrying. Even his shadows were slumped against him, as if they were also affected by his fatigue.

Azriel was utterly exhausted.

Despite Cassian's concerned pleas for him to stay behind and rest, Azriel couldn't bring himself to heed them. The ache in his bones and the weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs were nothing compared to the thought of letting Feyre and his brother face this mission alone. 

He was Spymaster of the Night Court, he would fulfil his duties regardless of his own welfare. Regardless of the demons that weighed on him.

But these demons of his, had been plaguing him for months. Clear in the dark offset look of his gaze, and the purple shadows that sat beneath his eyes– he was a tormented soul. 

The aftermath of the war had etched its scars deep into Azriel. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with, the fallout of anguish and slaughter, had always defined his life. But in recent months, his demons seemed to be haunting him more fiercely than usual, their whispers echoing in the silence of the night.

For months, Azriel had been plagued by a recurring dream, a nightmare he assumed. Because as much as he tried he couldn’t recall the details. Each time he would wake from the depths of his sleep, finding himself drenched in a clammy sheen of sweat, his chest heaving attempting to draw in air as though a claw was clenched around his lungs. 

But that is all that would linger.

A feeling, no memory of what had caused this reaction within him. No clue as to why his body shivered in fear when he woke. 

It was a maddening cycle, the dream hovering just beyond the edges of his consciousness. Clearly haunting in nature and yet elusive. Each day felt like a puzzle with a missing piece, the memory of something crucial lurking just beyond reach.

So close, and yet not close enough. And it was driving him mad.

In a desperate attempt to break free from that grip, he tried avoiding sleep altogether. Yet, that feeling persisted. A restless energy coursing beneath his skin. It was relentless, a constant reminder– that he was forgetting something of importance.

And that feeling terrified him. Azriel had always known most, metalicus with his gathering of intel and information. Skilled in deciphering most people and their thoughts. But his own mind had him at a loss. He was no Spymaster of his own consciousness, simply a male who couldn’t sleep because of a nightmare.

Feyre, Cassian and Azriel had embarked on the final leg of their scouting mission. Despite the passing of time since the war's end, new pockets of Hybern loyalists still cropped up. The three of them were tasked with weeding out any lingering enemies. They had arrived at the last location Azriel’s intel had unearthed. A manor house on the skirts of the borders, had whispered rumours to be a base for some Hybern stragglers.

Derelict and crumbling, the building seemed to sag under the weight of its own deterioration, its once-majestic features now reduced to a skeletal framework of crumbling stone and splintered wood. The scars of fire marred its surface, meaning any valuable pieces of information that might have once resided within its walls had long since been burnt. Nothing but charred remnants and ash laid in their wake.

They had been too late, but they still had to check nonetheless. 

"All clear from up above," Cassian announced, his voice cutting through the silence as he landed beside Feyre, who had just reentered what remained of the foyer. She had meticulously scouted the left wing of the building, while Azriel had taken the right.

"Clear here too," Feyre confirmed with a nod, her eyes scanning the dimly lit space for any signs of danger.

Azriel soon joined them. His part of the search had also yielded no immediate threats. Cassian stood beside his brother, kicking some burnt debris with his foot while mumbling that it was a shame Hybern’s men had burnt this place. That it was such a waste. But Azriel wasn’t listening. 

Running his rough hand down his face, he let out a heavy sigh. A very clear tell that he was not okay. Something Azriel never showed. But he could feel it again, under his skin. Pinching at him. Something faint in this chest, weighed and sliced, only to subside to a dull ache.

He felt uneasy, as he had for months but there was something about this place that had shaken a deepness within his gut. Even his shadows fluttered nervously around him.

Maybe he would need to see Madja when he got home. Or maybe even relinquish his pride, and ask Rhys for help.

“Let’s get this checked over quickly, and then head home. It’s been a long mission,” Feyre spoke softly, offering both males encouraging smiles as she gestured towards the back of the building. 

Feyre’s eyes settled on Azriel, giving him a reassuring look. For a moment Azriel almost let her in, he had noticed the concerned looks and touches his family had given him. Growing more and more these recent weeks. Instead though, he nodded softly following the pair into the back room. 

They descended down grand stairs, into the lower levels of the house. Each step he took echoed through the empty remnants of the building, every move feeling heavier and weightier. They were hit with a chill when they reached the bottom. In the absence of natural light, Feyre conjured small orbs of illumination, casting soft, flickering light that bobbed across the dark space. The feeble glow revealed crumbling walls and decaying remnants of furniture, similar to what they had seen upstairs. 

The air was heavy with the scent of decay and mildew, but there was something metallic that lingered.

Blood.

They could smell blood. And there was something else too. Perfumy and chemical.

Faebane. 

Tensions rose as they all hesitated on their weapons, Azriel’s fingers gingerly hovering over Truth Teller as they stepped deeper within the space. Azriel's shadows flickered and swirled around him, their movements erratic and unsettling. They sensed something lurking in the darkness, something that sent a shiver down his spine.

There was this haunting apprehension washing over Azriel as if he had been here before. He couldn’t quite place it, couldn’t quite pinpoint why he didn’t feel like a stranger in this room.

As though he had been here many times before and yet this was still his first time here. That gnawing began deep in his gut again as his fingers gripped at his dagger.

He heard Feyre gasp loudly, before his eyes quickly scanned to see what her light had revealed. 

A figure, barely recognisable in the dim light, hung limply from chains fastened to the wall, body gaunt and ravaged by torture. Steel rods protruded from flesh, each one coated in the deadly poison of faebane, its sickly scent permeating the air.

Feyre's hands flew to her mouth in horror, her eyes wide with disbelief and revulsion. "Is she..." her voice trailed off, unable to voice the question that hung in her mind. She had to stop herself from gagging, as the contents of her stomach threatened to spill up her throat.

Even Cassian, veteran of countless battles and witness to nearly every injury imaginable, could not conceal the grimace that tugged at his lips. They all took a moment to absorb the sight before them, Azriel remaining motionless as he processed the scene. The sensation from earlier still persisted, but now intensifying as Azriel's gaze fell upon the steel rod protruding from the body's chest, a sharp pang jolting through his own.

Azriel staggered, overcome by a sudden wave of agony that seized him, breaths ragged and uneven. Feyre moved swiftly to his side, her hand offering comfort as she implored about his well-being, but his attention was elsewhere.

He wasn’t listening to Feyre, he was listening to his shadows.

Alive.

They were pulsating beside him, waiting for his orders, waiting to be released, begging to be released.

Azriel clutched his chest, mustering his strength to stand straighter, the pain subsiding for now as he took a hesitant step closer, 

Alive, alive, alive.

They whispered frantically this time, their urgency desperate.

Then Azriel saw it. The faint rise and fall of your chest, the subtle rhythm of your heartbeat still persisting against all odds.

Azriel's breath caught in his throat, his mind struggling to process the sight before him.

How? How were you still alive?

He wasn't the only one to notice. Cassian, wasted no time in springing into action, his voice commanding as he instructed them to release you from your chains, to get you the urgent help you needed. Both Feyre and Cassian, mentally calling to Rhys to be ready with Madja.

But Azriel was frozen in place, his senses honed in on the fragile thread of life that still clung to you. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched, his chest constricting with an overwhelming emotion.

He remembered. 

The sight before him wasn’t new. No, he had seen this. Seen you before. Felt this way every night for months. 

It was you whom he had been forgetting when he woke, the haunting echo of your desperate pleas vibrating in his mind. As he watched your body slump to the floor, freed from the chains that had bound you, Azriel struggled to push back the flood of visions that threatened to overwhelm him.

Visions of you, screaming, pleading for someone to help you.

Begging him to come save you.

How could he have forgotten? Your cries had pierced through the darkness, reaching out to him night after night.

A plea for salvation had rippled down the thread that seemed to connect you.

That thread.

That power that had subconsciously been connecting you both for months began to hum. Louder and brighter than anything Azriel had ever felt before.

It was a realisation, a confirmation to what he had been feeling for all that time. The golden warmth finally settled under his bones, consuming all his senses.

The mating bond.

You were his mate.

Something that was supposed to be so cherished, felt incredibly bittersweet as he watched your near dead form be pulled into Cassian’s arms.

He could feel your pain seeping through the bond, in fact that is what he had been feeling all those weeks. Your suffering leaking its way down to Azriel. Your pleas reaching him in the depths of his sleep.

He had a mate, finally.

And yet when he pulled gently on that faint thread that linked you to him, he could feel it fading.

Maybe he was too late.

***

A bright white light filled your vision, its touch lining your body slowly.

It was time. You were ready.

But just as you were on the brink of surrender, a golden warmth surged forth, wrapping around you like a protective shield. It tugged at you, pulling you back, refusing to let you go.

Not now, not yet. It spoke.

You resisted, clinging stubbornly to the edge of oblivion, but the pull of that hazel glow was undeniable.

Let me go. It hurts. I want to leave. Your soul cried towards the glow.

The hazel glow called out to you with a familiarity that stirred something deep within your soul.

I won’t let you go. Not now, not now that I have you. 

You couldn’t understand. You heard no voice, yet you felt every word.

I need you to fight, for yourself, for me, fight harder than you ever have done and I promise, after this, you will never have to fight again.

Why those words had some sway over you, you weren’t sure. But when your senses filled with that comforting scent you had smelt every night for the past months. It tethered you, anchoring you in the physical realm once more.

You could smell it again, night-chilled air and cedar.

You would hold onto it one last time.

***

Agonising screams filled the air as you writhed in pain on the makeshift table. Your body contorting, fingers clawing desperately at the gaping wound in your chest. Even in the dim light, Azriel could see the blood, thick and crimson oozing through your fingers as you had lurched up when Cassian had pulled the poison coated rod from your chest.

They had managed to remove some while you were unconscious, but the pain of this one, deep in your chest, had yanked you awake. How you were still alive none of them understood. Your injuries and body filled with enough faebane to kill a dozen fae. 

Your vision was still distorted. Just one of the injuries that ravaged your body. Only blurry shapes and figures filled your sight, and the lack of that sense only added to your fear. You couldn’t see who you were with, and although they didn’t sound like your captors, you didn’t know them. Didn’t trust them, and they were hurting you.

Even if they repeatedly told you they were helping you, their touch just brought more pain.

Madja flitted around Cassian, her hands hovering over the faebane-drenched wounds in a futile attempt to heal. Azriel stood at the head of the table, crouched down close as he firmly held one of your arms down. His shadows fidgeted uneasily around him, reflecting his inner turmoil. He had witnessed countless horrors in his life, some inflicted upon himself, but seeing his mate in such agony was a new level of torment. 

Feeling the pain trickling down the bond was tearing him apart.

“Stop, stop. Please…” Your plea was raw, your voice strained and hoarse from the agony that wracked your body. Azriel shuddered at your tone, your voice an echo of the nightmares that had haunted him for endless nights. 

He remembered it all now.

Each night, stumbling through darkness, trying to follow that golden bond to you. To your calls for him. And each time, he tried to figure out where you were, how to get to you, how to save you only to forget everything when he woke. His memory of you slipping through his fingers like sand. 

“Rhys, there must be something you can do,” he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation as he looked over your pained expression.

Feyre had diligently wiped the blood from your face, revealing slashes across your eyes. Remarkably, Madja seemed optimistic about their healing potential, though it was contingent upon your survival. He could feel your fear rippling down the bond, how frightened and in pain you were.

“Azriel…my power, I can’t penetrate her mind. The faebane has saturated her body, creating an impenetrable barrier,” Rhys responded. “I’m sorry brother…I’m truly sorry.”

Azriel couldn’t contain the small whispered sob that escaped him, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

When Cassian had carried you from that dark basement, Azriel had acted on instinct, snatching you carefully from his brother's arms and holding you close. He whispered into your ear, a litany of apologies for not finding you sooner, for the pain you endured. He begged you to fight, to hold on for him. And had clung to that faint glimmer of hope as he returned to the safety of the River House.

Rhys had prepared a table for Madja to work on, but neither of them had anticipated the extent of your injuries.

Azriel had laid you on the table, still unconscious as he nervously watched Rhys and Madja try their best. Cassian and Feyre joining them moments later to help. 

It was then they had all realised.

He was fussing over you, whispering frantically and his shadows had been skittishly tracing over your body and injuries. So unlike the usual calm and collected Spymaster.

Rhys had pieced it together first. Simply stating She’s your mate into Azriel’s mind. Although it was clear by the heartbreaking expressions on his family's faces, they were all aware of the significance you held.

Azriel felt helpless, he couldn’t lessen your anguish, couldn’t heal you, couldn’t do anything.

Your sobbing started again, while you writhed under their strong hands. Pleading for release. Instead, they responded with reassurances and hushed whispers, and there was one voice in particular that washed over you in a familiarity you didn’t understand.

You fought against them, resisting their attempts to restrain you, but they were stronger. Another wave of agony rippled through you as they worked to remove one of the steel bars embedded within your flesh.

“Focus, Shadowsinger,” Madja's voice cut through the turmoil, her gaze landing on him firmly.

“The best course of action is to remove these rods and then attempt to drain the faebane from her system. Her resilience is remarkable, but she won’t survive much longer without intervention.” Madja was speaking directly to Azriel now, he took a second to look down at you crying on the table. Cassian and Rhys holding you down, while they calculated removing the next impalement. 

Madja continued, “If you want to help her, comfort her, support her.” The instructions were clear.

Feyre spoke then, glancing between your pained form and then to Azriel. “Use the bond Az, she needs you.”

With hesitation, Azriel’s rough hand found yours. Holding it tightly. Grooves and lines were etched into his weathered skin, speaking of his own past battles. Instinctively you wanted to recoil from the stranger's touch, but as you felt another pull on your torso you clutched down on his hand tightly. Another sob racking through you.

You felt him close to you now, his presence enveloping you as his warm breath brushed across your face. He was close to you. But you couldn’t make out who he was. Only a blurred version of a male with tan skin and dark hair. His other hand grazed your cheek, offering you a comfort you hadn’t felt in months. 

“I need you to fight just a little longer,” the voice was deep and warm, there was something about it or maybe it was the words he had chosen that felt familiar. 

“It hurts..” you whispered, another sob leaving your lips.

"I know, I know it does...but not much longer, okay? And then you can rest, I promise," he reassured you, igniting a flicker of hope within you despite the overwhelming pain.

Then Azriel pulled gently on the bond sending ripples of reassurance and comfort down the link. So much that he hoped to drown any pain out you were feeling.

You felt that golden warmth fill your chest, that same feeling that had pulled you from the white abyss many times before.

"It's you..." Your voice choked with emotion, the realisation dawning upon you.

Azriel stood there, uncertain of how to respond, but he watched as you turned toward him, your brows furrowed in concentration. Though your vision remained distorted, blurred colours danced before you, and amidst the haze of black and deep tan, you saw it—the faint glimmer of hazel.

"You came for me..."

"Always..." Azriel's voice cracked with emotion, his unwavering commitment laid bare.

With the last of the rods removed, your body bled profusely. Madja urged caution, while Feyre urgently advocated to cauterise the wounds. But with this amount of faebane, they grappled with the best course of action. Their voices melding in a flurry of noise.

A soft, sad smile graced your lips, your hand reaching out to touch the figure before you, feeling the contours of his cheek beneath your fingertips.

Blood began to fill your mouth, the red liquid seeping through your smile. The bitter taste staining your words. Azriel began to shake his head, clinging to that fading bond with all his strength. With a pained slowness, he felt your hand slip from his cheek, leaving a blood-stained print upon his skin.

"You were real..." Your voice was barely a whisper now, breaths shallow. "My thread of hazel."

a/n: ngl I don't love this lol, doesn't feel like my best work but sometimes it's better posted than perfect! I had originally planned for this to be longer, but writers slump has me in a chokehold so this is all I managed! Anywho, hope you enjoyed the angst! <3 - Lottie Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria

#acotar #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #acotar azriel #acotar fanfiction #angst #acotar series #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel fanfiction #azriel imagine #azriel acotar #azriel #azriel angst #azriel x y/n #azriel series #azriel fic rec

[winged-self-indulgence]

Why Do People Like Yanderes?

Hi everyone, my name is Diya, and this was going to be a YT video-essay-type-thing but I'm too poor to afford a mic and too busy with college to learn how to edit videos, so here's my vague exploration of the psychology behind why people like yanderes so much through the lens of my favourite Visual Novels.

TW for uh. yandere content. Mentions of sex, gore, and non-con, particularly in the last topic. This is more like the first draft of an academic paper so while it's not explicit, I do go into some detail.

Introduction

If you’re a fan of anime or visual novels, then you’re probably already aware of what a yandere is, or at the very least you’ve seen that one picture of Yuno Gasai. Still, for the sake of thoroughness, let’s take it from the tippy top. The term ‘yandere’ is a Japanese portmanteau of ‘yanderu’ – the progressive form of ‘yami’ – meaning ‘sick’, and ‘deredere’ which roughly translates to ‘loving’. Together, the word refers to someone who is – in short – extremely lovesick. Obsessive to the extreme, and with little morality to spare, the standard yandere is characterized by a dangerous fixation on a chosen target, often appearing shy and caring at first only to flip the script and become violently aggressive towards perceived threats (Kroon, 2010).

It should be noted that yanderes are not a strictly romantic or sexual trope. The Ancient Greeks classified at least six forms of love, from familial (storge) to guests (xenia). Modern psychologists may distinguish love as either Companionate or Passionate (Kim & Hatfield, 2004) or consisting of three dimensions of Intimacy, Passion, and Commitment (Sternberg & Sternberg, 2018). Realistically, possessiveness shows up in a variety of relationships. However, people are generally primed to view certain dynamics as inherently amorous. Societal norms tend to encourage the idea that romantic bonds ought to rank above all others, and therefore if Person A is bizarrely fixated on Person B, then clearly there must be an element of sexual interest involved regardless of the actual relationship between the individuals in question.

Regardless, yanderes remain quite popular in fiction. Many dismiss it as a fetish, which it can be, but that isn’t the case for everyone. While there is nothing wrong with indulging in kinky fiction, not all of us get horny at the thought of being chained up in someone’s basement, no matter how hot our captor may be. So why is it so pervasive? Why is this trope so appealing that most writers cannot help but include at least a single line of dialogue implying that – if circumstances had been ever so slightly different – my wholesome shoujo romcom might have turned into a psychological horror?

Hybristophilia

‘Hybristophilia’, also known as Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome after the titular criminal couple, is a word is derived from the Greek word ‘hybridzein’ meaning ‘to commit an outrage against someone’ and ‘philo’ which means ‘a strong preference for’. Sexologist John Money reportedly defined it as a paraphilia in which an individual is sexually aroused by a partner who has a predatory history of hurting other people (Money, 1986, as cited in Matuszak, 2017). In his book, Serial Killer Groupies, true crime and crime fiction author RJ Parker distinguished two forms of hybristophilia: passive and aggressive. The former is when an individual contacts a criminal with the intention of striking up a relationship with them, allowing themselves to be seduced and manipulated but having no interest in committing a crime themselves. The latter are far more dangerous, as the individual not only derives sexual pleasure from their partner’s atrocities but are active participants in carrying out or covering up the crime. To quote Griffiths (2013, as cited in Pettigrew, 2019):

“[They] help out their lovers with their criminal agenda by luring victims, hiding bodies, covering crimes, or even committing crimes. They are attracted to their lovers because of their violent actions and want to receive love yet are unable to understand that their lovers are psychopaths who are manipulating them.”

In some ways, hybristophilia is the nearest thing we have to a realistic understanding of why people love yanderes. I mean, much of the fantasy surrounding such characters and their media tend to be filled with posts begging to be spat on or calling the rightfully terrified main character ungrateful for being a teeny bit upset about finding surveillance cameras in their ceiling. However, enjoying fictitious immoral activity does not predict real perpetration, so what does? There exists little consensus amongst psychologists as to what sparks this particular predilection, and that was strange to me. You would think there would be more studies into this topic, in spite of or perhaps because of its controversial nature. Heck, that one dude wouldn’t shut up about white women’s obsession with Bundy and Dahmer, and I assumed he had gotten that information from somewhere, but it turns out that was just him using modifiers to justify sexism.

However, I believe that we can hedge a few guesses, and over the course of my research, I’ve organized the main rationalizations under four umbrellas which I will explore through the lens of my favourite yandere-themed Visual Novels. Please keep in mind that most of these games are rated as mature due to sexual scenes and/or gore. Additionally, in the spirit of transparency, this ramble will be focused exclusively on male or masculine yanderes. So, without further ado:

Call Me Bob the Builder Because I Can Fix Them

If you’re familiar with DC Comic’s Batman, or just happen to have attended any costume event held over the span of the last 20+ years, you may be familiar with the character of Dr. Harleen Quinzel, better known as Harley Quinn. Initially created as the Joker’s one-off sidekick in Batman The Animated Series, she was so well-received by audiences that she became a recurring character in the cartoon and was eventually given a proper origin story in the form of a one-shot titled Mad Love.

Harley’s origin story has seen some alterations over the past decades, but the core aspects remain largely untouched. In the beginning, Harleen Quinzel was a promising young woman who wanted was a degree from the university’s prestigious psychology department, which she gained through…less than scrupulous means.

(Listen, I’m not sure if the authors were leaning on the Dumb Blonde stereotype, or if they simply thought that casting her as a genuinely bad student would make her later actions more believable. Either way, the idea of Harley as someone with a legitimate PhD came later)

After landing an internship at Arkham Asylum – a half-hospital and half-prison straight out of the 1870s that might as well be built out of one-ply tissue-paper soaked with gasoline and left next to a crate of fireworks – Harleen set her sights on the then incarcerated Joker. At the start, her fixation on the criminal wasn’t remotely sympathetic. She didn’t want to help him, she wanted to use him. Harleen Quinzel wanted piggyback off his infamy and write a tell-all tale detailing what sort of messed up childhood resulted in Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime. Yet the more she interacted with him, the more the Joker took advantage of her empathy. By the end of their sessions, Harley no longer saw him as a violent serial killer with a clown schtick, but as a “lost, injured child looking to make the world laugh at his antics.”

But Diya, you may be asking, what does this have to do with the video? The Joker never loved Harley, and it could even be argued – as Shehadeh did in a 2017 essay – that her obsession with the pasty-faced clown is more akin to Histrionic Personality Disorder. While that may be the case, I believe that Harley’s story provides one of the reasons yanderes are so popular: their backstory.

Whether they were abandoned by their family, bullied by their peers, experimented on by evil scientists, starved on the streets, died under mysterious circumstances and then trapped in a haunted VCR tape for decades, or are simply so impossibly inhuman that they frankly do not understand why it isn’t socially acceptable to imprison their crush in a pocket dimension made of meat and non-Euclidean geometry, yanderes often have fairly sympathetic or at least understandable explanations for why they are Like That. Your mileage may vary significantly depending on how much you sympathize with these motives, but the point is that yanderes always make sense to some degree. Their morality and priorities may be twisted or even completely incomprehensible, but the audience almost always knows the reason, and that can be comforting. In the real world, other people aren’t always straightforward, and we never really know what they’re thinking, but narrative coherence demands a semblance of internal consistency lest the audience end up frustrated and confused. So yanderes are not only easy to sympathize with, but also fairly predictable. In-universe they may be unhinged freaks with a blood fetish, but to you watching from behind the safety of the screen they’re just acting out the script written for them based on a prototype. And if you understand the why behind their loose gears, then you might just be able to put them back together again.

The concept of rescue romances or “I Can Fix Them” has been around in our stories for thousands of years. The Epic of Gilgamesh detailed how Shamhat essentially ‘civilized’ wild man Enkidu through ritual lovemaking, and a concerning number of religions push the idea that women are dutybound to save men from the follies of sin. Yet men are not exempt either, with one notable example being the German fairytale, King Thrushbeard. Call it what you will regardless: Knights in Shining Armour, the Florence Nightingale Effect, or a plain old case of Because You Were Nice to Me, studies have shown that human beings generally like helping [DA2] others, even when the reason doesn’t necessarily stem from pure altruism. I will delve deeper into this later, but care and compassion are deeply ingrained in human nature, and arising from those roots is the appeal of this mentality: You can save them. You can change them. You can make them better. You are special, and the way you treat this person carries a weight that has not and will never be matched by anyone else for the rest of their mortal or immortal existence.

The illusion is a delicious one, especially if the person you’ve helped turns out to be a billionaire CEO with cash to burn, a super powerful ghost king willing to raze continents to dust for you, a demon having fun on a Friday night, or just your average hot creep with a knife. Moreover, different people have different ideas of what ‘fixing’ even means. Maybe you want to single-handedly rehabilitate your yandere into a functional member of society. Maybe you’re cool with the incessant stalking but would like them to stop slaughtering your friends, family, and local service workers. Maybe you want to make them much, much worse.

Not only do yanderes provide immediate proof that your actions have a tangible impact on the lives of others, but the fantasy also includes the desire of being seen as special. Of being admired and adored by someone whose life you inexplicably made better by virtue of simply being yourself, or an idealized version of yourself. In this fictional world, in this imaginary setting, the person you are is so uniquely, impossibly irreplaceable to someone. And if that’s the case then they can’t risk losing you, can they?

The Allure of Obsession, or ‘Til Death Do Us Part (Literally)

It shouldn’t be necessary, but here is my obligatory disclaimer anyway. Ahem: obsession is not a good thing in real life. Fixating on another human to the detriment of your own wellbeing and that of those around you is dangerous, as is encouraging someone else to obsess over you. You might think you are being worshiped, but real life is not a visual novel. The outside world doesn’t come with an age rating, the author’s guiding pen, and a convenient fade to credits sequence once you’ve reached an ending. The consequences will still be there in the morning, so don’t do it. Just don’t.

PSA out of the way, it’s natural to want to be wanted. Maslow’s Hierarchy places it just above physical safety, but I’d argue that it could easily be compared to baser drives. According to many psychological and anthropological studies, much of humanity’s continued survival and environmental dominance is largely attributed to our ability to form groups, cooperate with one another, and maintain complex interpersonal networks. Social support, intimacy, and a sense of belonging are linked to emotional and physical benefits, such as more optimistic health perceptions, higher subjective well-being, increased creativity and innovation, and greater self-efficacy (DeWall & Bushman, 2011; Harandi et al., 2017; Wang & Sha, 2018). Therefore, it’s perfectly understandable that rejection of any sort would be construed as a threat.

But if someone is obsessed with you, then you have no reason to worry about that, right? No more nights spent agonizing over how they feel about you, asking yourself whether your last text made you sound too desperate, or if you’re boring them because you spent the past hour info-dumping about Stardew Valley farm layouts. With a yandere, there will never be any doubt that they care about you. Sure, they might go about it in weird, manipulative, and insidious ways that violate your physical and mental autonomy, but you can’t deny their loyalty. They do love you in their own bizarre way. You are the sun around which they orbit. When you’re in the room, no one else exists. Every single messy flaw is just another bullet point on the mile-long list of why they adore you.

In essence, yanderes are not only attentive, but their love can be virtually unconditional. A yandere might know everything about you, and still revere you. It’s unhealthy as hell and you might genuinely question their taste, but it can be tempting to pretend that all of you, right down to the ugliest parts of yourself – the traits and choices that you would never share with another living soul even at gunpoint – are worthy of understanding, if not open praise and affection.   

Attractiveness, or Okay but Have You Considered That They’re Hot Though?

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I mean what am I supposed to say here? They’re hot, what do you want from me?

No, but in all seriousness, fictional media paints an idealized version of the world, and most yanderes are hot because they have the freedom of existing purely behind that screen; artfully arranged and edited to forever appear compelling to anyone who happens to enjoy their particular style. And there are a lot of styles to choose from. Whether you want them pretty faced and disarmingly cute, or scarred up and big enough to pin you like a butterfly, yanderes come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes that are meant to pique your interest and draw you in like a naïve little fish being lured towards the mouth of an angler fish, unwilling to believe that anything bad might happen to us when the bait is this pretty.

This is often referred to as the Halo Effect, a form of cognitive bias referring to the tendency for people to assume that a single obvious positive trait must be associated with other positive traits. The go-to characteristic is typically physical attractiveness, but a nice voice, good humour, and cooking skills are also factors which serve to influence our perceptions.

So, conventional physical attractiveness is one thing, but that’s only skin deep. What about beyond that? After all, the yandere still has to talk to you before they enact their master plan of tying you up in their basement until Stockholm Syndrome kicks in.

When I showed my friend a picture of John Doe from the game John Doe, she told me that he looked like a creepy slob, and she’s far from the only person who’s ever thought so. Look at them. I feel like if I tried to comb that hair it would simply eat me, and some of the CGs really put the scopophobia in Scopophobia Studios. I love Doe, but he is not hot, and he doesn’t behave in a normally appealing way either. If the player chooses not to take a bath, Doe will immediately comment that you “smell good” before following you home, breaking into your house, and leaving a bloody organ on the floor for the player to trip over. Many yanderes can at least fake a veneer of normalcy, but from the get-go Doe doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s anything less than an otherworldly creature stuffed into a vaguely person-shaped meatsuit. In an effort to find out why so many people had latched on to Doe – including me – I shopped around social media and YouTube for answers, and what I found was a widely unanimous sentiment.

While some were drawn to his fun design and goofy personality, most simply thought that he wasn’t inherently malevolent, just very confused. In addition to being a supernatural being with a completely alien axis of morality, Doe’s meta-awareness and unbridled attempts at winning the player’s affection lends him quite a bit of support from the audience, especially if you yourself also happen to struggle with social cues and relate to his pure earnestness. In Ending 7 of the extended version, the player character has the option to tell Doe – who has altered himself to pass as more ‘normal’ – that they prefer who he truly is, at which point he grows visibly flustered and sports an adorable pair of literal heart-shaped pupils.

Whether they’re charismatic, seductive, cute, sweet, funny, nurturing, or generous, the best yanderes have engaging personalities. Even while they’re committing truly heinous crimes against God, man, and your guts, you still kinda want to hang out with them, and you want them to acknowledge you as being just as interesting. And this is all fine in fiction because you’re the one in charge, and if you ever get bored or uncomfortable or busy with something else, then you can simply close the tab or window with zero consequences, which brings us to the final and most important reason.     

Power Dynamics and Consent in Fantasy (I Couldn’t Think of a Joke Here Guys, This Is Kinda Serious)

Once again, I feel that I must preface this section just for the sake of my own peace of mind: sexual coercion and assault are vile and disgusting crimes that should never be emulated or tolerated in the real world. We are speaking purely of fictional media, specifically adult-oriented media in this case, so please be mindful.

In 2009, Bivoni and Critelli conducted a study on 355 undergraduate women with the goal of assessing the reasons behind fantasies of non-consent. At the time, there were two leading explanations of this phenomenon. One stated that women with high libidos but repressed views of sex used these imaginary scenarios to alleviate the guilt they had grown to associate with sex. Because the simulation was a purely mental exercise and they themselves were cast as helpless victims in the scenario, they were able to remain blameless while still finding sexual gratification. The second stated that these fantasies were an expression of liberation by women who were adventurous and comfortable enough with their own sexuality to engage with taboo ideas that they weren’t at all interested in performing in real life. Which do you think was more common?

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If you guessed the second option, you’d be right. The study found that of the 220 women who had experienced such fantasies, 45% found theirs erotic, 46% were mixed, and only 9% reported pure aversion. One justification for this outcome relies on psycho-biological theories, for example masochistic preferences or the unintended activation of the sympathetic nervous system and subsequent mis-attribution of arousal. Other reasons have to do with higher order thinking and are tied to the power dynamics within such fantasies. On the surface is the appeal of being so desirable to someone that they simply cannot control themselves, but then there is a deeper impulse, which the researchers referred to as Adversary Transformation. To quote the article: “[fantasies] involve a struggle between an assailant and a potential victim in which it is relevant to consider who is the winner and who is the loser. At one level, it is a struggle over sex, but the woman's non-consent may be feigned or token. At another level, the woman may be seeking a victory that is not about whether sex occurs, but about what happens emotionally between the protagonists.”

Basically, the imaginary perpetrator may have ‘won’, but the self-character need not have ‘lost’.

Media provides an extra layer to the illusion, one that you as the viewer have absolute control over. If you are choosing to engage with a piece of media that explicitly labels itself as including R18+ yandere content, then you clearly have some expectations, and that background awareness goes a long way in reducing long-term discomfort and allowing audiences to make informed decisions. If you don’t like the plot, you can simply turn it off it with the click of a button, and when the screen goes dark it’s not like the yandere is going to punish you for saying no. Strade isn’t going to break into your house with a drill, there are no homicidal clown ghosts hiding in your TV, and no suspicious pink-haired hackers watching your webcam. They aren’t real, and the consequences aren’t real either. You have all the power here.

Conclusion

In summary, Yanderes are appealing for a variety of reasons. Whether you want to save them, think they’re attractive, wish to indulge in a dream of being utterly coveted, or simply enjoy a bit of spice in your me-time, it’s obvious why the trope has persisted for so long and will likely continue to do so. If you enjoy yanderes but are worried that having a taste for the less wholesome side of things might imply something about who you are as a person, don’t be. The notion that fantasies and media preferences directly reflect subconscious desires is not only painfully out of date debunked nonsense but also indicative of restrictive ideologies wherein bad thoughts = sin. This isn’t 1984. You haven’t committed a thought-crime by having a weird kink. You aren't going to superhell for fantasizing. The human mind is hardly ever so mathematically rational, and the point of fiction is to allow us to safely engage with and explore various ideas, provided the everyone involved is mentally, chronologically, and emotionally mature enough to do so.

Thank you all for listening to me. If you learned something or were just a little bit entertained. If you're curious about knowing more, I've listed my sources below

REFERENCES

Bivona, J. M., & Critelli, J. W. (2009). The Nature of Women’s Rape Fantasies: An analysis of prevalence, frequency, and contents. Journal of Sex Research, 46(1), 33–45. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224490802624406

Critelli, J. W., & Bivona, J. M. (2008). Women’s Erotic Rape Fantasies: An Evaluation of Theory and research. Journal of Sex Research, 45(1), 57–70. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224490701808191

DeWall, C. N., & Bushman, B. J. (2011). Social acceptance and rejection. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 20(4), 256–260. https://doi.org/10.1177/0963721411417545

Flynn, F. J., Reagans, R., Amanatullah, E. T., & Ames, D. R. (2006). Helping one’s way to the top: Self-monitors achieve status by helping others and knowing who helps whom. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 91(6), 1123–1137. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.91.6.1123

Harandi, T. F., Taghinasab, M. M., & Nayeri, T. D. (2017). The correlation of social support with mental health: A meta-analysis. Electronic Physician, 9(9), 5212–5222. https://doi.org/10.19082/5212

Hazen, H. (1983). Endless rapture: rape, romance, and the female imagination. https://openlibrary.org/books/OL3161300M/Endless_rapture

Kroon, R. W. (2010). A/V A to z: An Encyclopedic Dictionary of Media, Entertainment and Other Audiovisual Terms. McFarland.

Matuszak, M. (2017). Hybristophilia White Paper. https://static1.squarespace.com/static/55dfd21ee4b0718764fb34cc/t/5cb7cabee5e5f00ab13be58b/1555548863275/Hybristophilia+White+Paper.pdf

Oarga, C., Stavrova, O., & Fetchenhauer, D. (2015). When and why is helping others good for well-being? The role of belief in reciprocity and conformity to society’s expectations. European Journal of Social Psychology, 45(2), 242–254. https://doi.org/10.1002/ejsp.2092

Parker, R. (2014). Serial killer groupies. RJ PARKER PUBLISHING, INC.

Wang, T., & Sha, H. (2018). The influence of social rejection on cognitive control. Psychology, 09(7), 1707–1719. https://doi.org/10.4236/psych.2018.97101

#reference list is completed! #yandere #sunny day jack #my dear hatchet man #mdhm #stnaf #ddlc #john doe #boyfriend to death #tpof #degrees of lewdity #your boyfriend #14dwy #br<3ken colors #camp willowpeak #br0ken colors #obey me #favour vn #binary star hero

[inkskinned]

we heard that you were very disappointed in us both as a generation and specifically as a generation of women (emphasis yours), how we had let ourselves go and now we were slutty and ill-tempered and holding onto notions of feminism like "having a savings account" and "equality."

we were very sorry about it, we didn't realize. it is very hard for you, in your life, because your entire definition was centered around the word providing, and that's a really vague and undulating word. it is hard to be a provider. for your purposes, the word provider here can be defined as "having a job", although it sometimes also extends to "doing yard work", "grilling on occasion," and "knowing basic car anatomy."

we had to do some reading but we divided it out. do not worry. high-value women will fill in the rest of the gaps of your life - all those silly feminine things like doing the dishes. we didn't realize we had asked too much when we asked you to pick up after yourself. we did not realize you were rendered small and scared and crying about the possibility of doing the laundry. here is a joke to lighten the sentiment: a man that listens when you talk to him.

we heard about how we had fallen from glory and it sickened us and made us very, very sad. lindsey had to cut all her hair off and tara threw up. we lit one million candles and we are going to have a vigil about it tonight. all of the people in this world that you do not approve of are going to be there and we will all be in mourning colors because we have lost your respect which is of course the only thing that any of us were looking for.

we searched around our bedrooms and our closets and for some of us it took a while but we all found the pricetag that we were originally born with, the one that gave our listing offer, the one that smells like rot and pine needles. we were horrified because many of us had taken deductions and hadn't realized it. i had scraped my knees and decided to be a lesbian so they had to take my voicebox out so i could never call home again. janice had been with too many people overall so we had to put her into the big squisher that will hopefully collapse her walls so that when you're with her, you'll feel so big and powerful. it will be like you're conquering something instead of being close with someone.

we are all going to the funeral of feminism and we will tear at our bodies and fall over ourselves. we will invite you onstage for a live recording of your podcast about the occasional minor inconvenience of self-reflection. you will talk about how we have targeted you and made you feel the sweat slick down your back, and we will teach you basic self-defense out of solidarity.

do not worry, we are seeing to all the outliers. taylor asked to be taken seriously so we have shipped her off to prison. laura asked you to accept her femininity regardless of her presentation. you will be happy to hear all women are now and forever going to have to be small and thin and pretty and white and ablebodied and quiet and unassuming and ladylike, which is different than how society has previously told us to act.

i am going to have to shave off my jawline, which is a little masculine, and they are going to have to reshape my hands, which are very square and thick - all the work i've done with them has made their veins stand out, so we're just going to have to exsanguinate me. i am horrified to have been out in public like this.

we are going to sit around the campfire and we will talk about being weird little girls that made potions in pink teacups. we will talk about the first time we made a difference. we will talk about the private lives of crickets, and then, at the stroke of three in the morning (the witching hour, obviously) - we will all promptly shut up.

and this will be your beautiful world. this silence that spans every corner of every street and every zoom meeting and every alley. i do not think you'll notice at first - it will be the same as every television show and movie and book. we will all just simply sit there in our doll dresses and smile blithely at your advances and none of us will do you the dishonor of answering and none of us will appear to be in distress and none of us will nag you or make a fuss or get hysterical about it. it will just be quiet, and you will say finally, some peace for once! and we will smell of smoke and our teeth will be white and the next day will come.

tonight we are going to bury the last little bits of our humanity. you are not invited. it is going to be ugly.

#spilled ink #warm up #sorry for going missing lol #my week in review: #got in trouble at work #for not being at work during non-working hours #then crashed my car within 2 hours of this #and then less than 24 hours after that #in the hospital with the flu #im okay now but ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm #who put a fuckken curse on me #btw this rant is trans inclusive love u

[sunonyoreface]

One Cot - Simon “Ghost” Riley

Hi there, this story is a one shot about Simon Riley. I haven’t played COD before and I don’t know much about his character, but I love the thought of tough men being soft.

Summary: You help Ghost on a cold night and he returns the favour.

Word count: 2398

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: none, fluff.

Crews like task force 141 aren’t the type to pack extra cots. They don’t need them. Because crews like 141 don’t make a habit of bringing home extra bodies. There’s only ever one scenario when they have extra cots. Luckily for them, tonight’s not one of those nights.

For me, however, that means another night on the floor with my ankle cuffed to the bottom of one of their cots in case I try to run.

 Although I’m deemed non-violent, I’m also a flight risk. According to them at least.

 According to me, I have no clue where we are or how I’d even survive away from them. I’ve got no money, no ID, no map or compass, or even the slightest clue how I’d escape. Regardless, the cuffs stay on.

 My wrists face the same fate. But my hands are free enough to rake them through my damp hair, working them through the tangles. It’s a soothing feeling of normalcy in this strange place.

 In his cot on the other side of the room, Soap waits for one of the other boys to return from the showers and trade off babysitting duty.

 One thing I can say is that chivalry is not dead, because they allowed me to shower first. Not that it matters all that much. There’s no hot water anyway so there isn’t much of a benefit in going first. But it’s the thought that counts.

 Ghost is the first one back. It’s strange not seeing him wear layers upon layers of tactical gear. Instead, he only wears dark jeans and a black henley. And the balaclava too. I’ve yet to see him take it off. I wouldn’t be surprised if he showered with it on. I don’t know that the other guys have seen him take it off either. They make comments sometimes, little jabs and jokes about how it never comes off. Ghost hardly notices though. Or maybe I should say hardly reacts. He’s stoic through it all, preventing any emotions from breaking through.

 Soap leaves without a word. They understand their positions. So well, that half the time I think they’re communicating through their thoughts.

 Ghost places a duffel bag on the cot I’m cuffed to. I sit cross-legged on a blanket on the floor as he ruffles through it.

 His strong form towers over me two feet away. Ghost doesn’t make eye contact as I watch him search through the bag. He’s less threatening without the bulky gear and a gun in his hand. But that mask is still terrifying enough to find its way into your dreams.

 However, it's not the mask that sets me on edge around Ghost, it’s his eyes. They’re cold and unwavering, giving away nothing. They’re the eyes of a killer. Of someone who enjoys inflicting pain. Of someone whose been in so much pain himself, his only release is passing it on to others.

 He hasn’t bothered me that much since my first day with them all. Back when he was ready to put me down like a lame horse. I was a loose end that needed to be tied up. Still am, if I’m being honest. Price stopped him, but if it was up to Ghost, I’d have been dead for days now. Even now, I’m sure part of him wants to kill me knowing it’s the more logical option. But until then, he’s under orders to keep me alive.

 “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a staring problem?” His rough voice breaks the silence. He rarely acknowledges me so for him to speak up must mean I’ve struck a nerve. My mouth suddenly feels dry.

 “Just you,” I say. “Sorry.”

 But I don’t look away. I continue to watch him search through the bag. I don’t know what he’s looking for but he can’t seem to find it. The tight sleeves of the Henley hug his strong arms. Even through the fabric, I can see the defined lines of his muscles. His posture is nearly perfect and his movements could almost be considered robotic.

 “What’re you looking for?” He doesn’t seem like the type of person to misplace his things.

 “Nothing,” he responds bluntly.

 “Maybe it fell behind the cot. I can check for you?” I offer.

 “Negative.”

 “Are you sure beca-“

 “Stop talking, y/n,” he snaps. I flinch at his response. As he says this he finally makes eye contact with me and I regret ever looking at him. There’s an anger in his eyes that no man I’ve ever met has been able to match. A deep-rooted hatred for the world and all of its inhabitants. It’s not a look that you’re born with. It’s one that’s carved from years of pain and betrayal. He’s witnessed the type of things that would break most people. The intensity of his gaze is too much. I break eye contact to stare at the floor.

 Fine. I won’t try to help.

 I lean against the cement wall and try to think about anything else. I press my hands to the inside of my thighs in an attempt to warm them up.

 When they found me I was only in ripped shorts and a ratty tank top with nothing else to my name.

 Since then some of the men spared me a set of long johns, a long sleeve shirt, and a pair of thick socks. I’m not allowed shoes in case I try and take off. It’s better than what I had but the warehouse is cold and the cement floor seems to suck out any heat my body produces.

 Ghost angrily zips up the duffel bag and tosses it on the floor at the other end of the cot. I watch the bag skid for a foot before finally coming to a stop.

 He climbs onto the cot with a dissatisfied grunt. Ghost sleeps with his head on the far side of the cot and his feet at the end I’m cuffed to. He doesn’t take his shoes off. None of them do. In fact, I’m surprised he isn’t sleeping with more gear on. Some days they’ll all sleep in their tactical gear as if they’re waiting to be attacked. Part of me is relieved they don’t feel as though that’s a threat tonight.

 I can hear voices echo down the halls. Some of the others must be done in the showers.

 I lie down on my makeshift bed: a pillow and a blanket that I fold in half to act as a mattress and duvet.

 When I lie down, however, something shiny catches my eye under Ghost’s cot.

 It’s a tiny chain. A necklace.

 On my hands and knees, I crawl under his cot to grab the necklace.

 “What’re you doing?” Ghost mumbles above me. I hear him shift his weight against the rough canvas fabric.

 When I back out from under the cot, he’s sitting with his legs off the edge. Suspiciously eyeing my movements. His right hand is in one of his pant pockets probably wrapped around a knife in case I try something.

 I kneel in front of the bed beside his legs. My damp hair clings to my neck and the tip of my nose is red and cold.

 I raise the chain up to Ghost. His eyes latch on immediately.

 “Is this it?” I ask. He eyes me suspiciously. I see him searching for any signs of deceit. Maybe I lied to him and hid the chain from him. Maybe I pickpocketed him before he went to shower. But I didn’t do any of those things. I hold his eye contact this time. His brows soften ever so slightly. It seems to be enough.

 Ghost doesn’t say anything. Instead, he simply grabs the chain from my hand. His fingers brush against my palm as he scoops it up. He examines it a moment before slipping it over his neck and tucking it under his shirt.

 I don’t know why but I was hoping for a thank you. Or at least an acknowledgment that I’d helped. But Ghost remains silent. At the same time, the voices reach the room. Roach and Gaz round the corner from the hallway.

 At their entrance, I turn back to my makeshift bed and pretend to sleep. It’s not that I don’t like them - although I don’t, in fact, I don’t like any of them - but I don’t have the energy for more questions from them tonight.

 I hear Ghost shift in his cot and it seems our thoughts are on the same track.

 As hard as I try, sleep doesn’t come. They shut off the main lights over an hour ago, yet I still haven’t calmed down enough to drift off. It doesn’t help that I can’t stop shivering from the cold.

 The warehouse remains utterly silent except for the light snores and breathing of the men. Only the emergency lights fill the corners of the room with dim, orange light. They’re almost comforting in a way.

 I pull the single blanket tighter around my shoulders and ball up even smaller if that’s possible, but nothing helps. My bones shake and my teeth rattle. If only I had another blanket.

 The cot next to me creaks as Ghost shifts in his sleep. It creaks some more and then I notice he’s sitting up.

 Ghost spares a glance in my direction as he rummages through his pocket for something.

 Something silver glints in the light and I realize it’s a key. He wordlessly tosses it in my direction and by some stroke of luck, I catch it mid-air.

 It’s the key to the cuffs. I spare an uneasy glance in his direction. He wants me to uncuff myself?

 Ghost doesn’t react. Instead, he watches as I process my thoughts, as I push through my weariness and unlock my ankles first before freeing my wrists.

 I reach to pass the key back to him but instead of grabbing the key, his large hand wraps completely around my wrist and tugs me in close.

 I’m face to face with him as his other hand wraps around my jaw so I can’t pull away.

 “If you try to run, I’ll kill you,” his low voice is barely above a whisper. The edge to his tone makes the threat feel all the more real.

 “Okay,” I nod in response. My heart is racing and I feel the blood rush to my cheeks.

 “Come here. Bring your blanket,” he motions to the cot. I spare a glance at the narrow bed. Surely he doesn’t want to share it with me? There’s barely enough room for one person let alone two.

 “I don’t know,” I whisper back as though it’s an option. I don’t know where he’s going with this suggestion and I don’t think I trust him.

 “That’s an order, y/n,” his response does nothing to ease my soul, but I grab my blanket anyway and crawl onto the cot.

 It’s now he notices my hesitancy. How I purposely leave space between us on the bed. That I’m unsure of why he wants me up here. The fogginess of his intentions.

 “I can't sleep with the sound of your teeth rattling in my ears all night,” nothing changes in my expression so he tries again, his tone softer this time. “You’re safe, y/n. I’m safe. Nothing’s going to happen.”

 I sigh in relief but don’t say anything in response. He knows.

 “C’mere,” he lifts the blanket for me to slide in. The warmth immediately welcomes me into the space.

 The cot is more narrow than a twin mattress and leaves little to no wiggle room for two people. I’m pressed tightly into Ghost's chest as his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer and preventing me from falling off.

 I thought I’d be tense but the heat under the blankets completely relaxes me. I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck. His balaclava is soft against my cheek. I hear his breathing pick start to pick up. I can feel his chest expand deeper than before.

 “Thank you,” my voice is barely audible, but I know he heard.

 As I adjust to our proximity, I breathe in the scents that linger on his skin and in his clothes. I can smell the same standard citrusy shampoo on him as myself and the rest of the crew use. But there’s also a remainder of smoke and gunpowder from the day’s work. There’s something else more unique to him and yet I can’t put my finger on it. I take a deep breath and allow myself to revel in the calming smells. This shouldn’t be comforting and yet it is.

 Nothing about this situation should be comforting and yet I feel safer than I have in weeks.

 Wrapped in Ghost's arms, I know nothing else in the world can get to me. My only danger is the man who holds me. Yet I know in this instance after he’s sacrificed his space and his bed for me, that I’ve got nothing to worry about.

 Ghost shifts against the canvas again. This time pulling me on top of him as he spreads out across his cot. He wraps his arms around my back he readjusts for the final time. I feel so small on top of him. Ghost spreads a hand out across my lower back and it feels as though it takes up the entire width of the space. His thumb soothingly brushes back and forth along the arch of my spine.

 I lay my head on his chest and listen to the thrum of his heart. It beats strong and steady like a bass drum. I feel myself relaxing even more as my breathing starts to match his. I feel myself start to drift as my head lulls with his chest when it rises and falls.

 For the first time in a long time, I don’t worry about what tomorrow brings. I’m so content in his arms that I don’t think about what’s next. All that fills my mind is the strength of his heartbeat and the distant scent of gunpowder. The last thing I think about before finally nodding off is the feeling of his thumb brushing up and down along my back, letting me know everything is going to be alright.

Edit+A/N: I have never received this much attention on a story before so thank you!! When I have time should I write more for Ghost?

Fic based on this concept:

#MWII #mw2 #cod mw2 #cod imagine #simon riley #simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley #ghost imagine #cod ghost #cod ghost imagine #mw2 imagine #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #one bed #Simon Riley fluff #cod ghost fluff #ghost fluff #cod fluff

[cpunkwitch]

By the very definition of being disabled, a condition that is debilitating, hindering and DIS-ABLING

Your condition can, will and does stop you from doing things

That doesn't mean you're always entirely incapable, you can still be capable of things

But there's no shame in the cants. Nothing wrong with the can't dos. It's okay to let your disability stop you, that's pretty much the point of calling it a disability, of having one, is that there's some things you can't do.

That's fine.

So next time someone says some shit like "don't let it stop you" or doing something regardless of your condition

Ask them to define the word disability. Or just tell them to go fuck themselves cuz they are not with the spoons you could spend on something better.

#disability blogging #sparrow posting #actually disabled #physically disabled #cpunk #physical disability #cripplepunk #disabled #cpunk blog #cripple punk

[sytoran]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟎𝟎𝟑 — 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇-𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

kinktober day 003 | IW!wife!wanda x gn!reader

you've always loved writing stories since young, but the tale of you and your wife writes itself, and it ends with a sweet happy-ever-after.

cont. soft sex, established relationship, romance + fluff

word count. 1477

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

You’ve always had a thing for writing stories.

From the most devastating tragedies of a sapphic couple in medieval times, to the spiciest of female homoerotic tension during a zombie apocalypse, there were no words beyond the coaxing grasp of your vivid intelligence.

Encompassing was what it was, how the words flowed from the edge of your mindwires to the tips of your fingers, spilling onto page after page of literary beauty. You could get lost in it for days on end, spinning that marionette with a poetic dexterity, making her dance to your stories until her legs could take no more.

It was no secret that writing had been an extraordinary talent of yours, that would later take shape in the path of your future career. 

So there you were, sitting at your study desk on a lazy Saturday morning, nimble fingers flying over your keyboard in an intricate dance, each pausable breath, each rush of words that woved into the fabric of your story.

It’s quite picturesque, if you’re being frank; what with freshly brewed coffee in a steaming hot mug that read ‘Pride not Prejudice’ (Yes, there was an overload of rainbows decorating its surface,) and a breathtakingly idyllic view of the morning sky.

Of course, the skyline would never quite compare to the sight of your lady stepping out of the bedroom. The only causation to cease your words.

“Y/N?”

It’s a beautiful calling, tainted with a sleep-dragged croak of the throat. Brown doe eyes slowly blink to meet your gaze, soft feet making tentative contact with smooth marble.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you respond softly, eyes savouring the sight that is your wife in one of your cream Oxford shirts. Wanda's beauty is underlying and unsaid, beyond the boundaries of conventional and beyond your dictionaried words.

Certainly, Wanda has the traits of what define beauty: your shirt on her is partially unbuttoned to tease at a tantalizing cleavage, the hem of the clothing is high enough to show off the expanse of her porcelain legs.

But it's also the way the sunlight falls on Wanda's skin, like she's a descendant of the Gods that crafted the essence of light, like she was made to dance and roam in the beauty of the day.

It's the way the morning glow accidentally highlights her Grecian-sculpted cheekbones, and the way her light-brown freckles casually pop in that light. It's her collarbone scattered with your marks of violet hues, and that fading scar on her right thigh you never fail to kiss.

A sleepy sigh escapes from Wanda’s lips, and she runs a hand through her perfectly dishevelled hair. You don’t have to say anything, only nod your head in the slightest. The rest is second nature: Wanda slides herself into your lap, arms hooking around the back of your neck, head tucked into the crook of your neck.

Perhaps it was second nature, truthfully, because Wanda didn’t need control when she was around you. You were her control, her steadfast pillar, her rising sun. You were a constant in her ever-changing world, always by her side regardless of whatever insurmountable task might be in her way.

You let an imperceptible sigh of content slip through your lips, but you never stop typing for a second. Emotion was difficult for you to convey, paradoxically, considering the amount of feeling you could put into words. In actuality, it was hard for you to laugh carelessly or have an outburst of fury. Your emotion was quiet and unspoken, much like in the present moment.

Wanda, however, seemed to have other plans in mind.

It started off innocent, because you truthfully believed she was just being affectionate and physically in need of human warmth. And maybe it was, as your girlfriend eased into your lap, nuzzling adorably into your comforting scent.

But when Wanda’s hips begin moving unsubtly, breath growing more delicate on to the curve of your neck, you’re sure without a doubt that this is another one of those times Wanda sought a different kind of fulfillment, the kind that lay adjacent to her pretty thighs.

Your hands dance a little faster on the keyboard. Your eyes are still gazing over the top of Wanda’s head, firmly determined to complete this part of the novel you were working on. 

“Y/N…” Wanda says, reverently softly, pressing up into the warmth of your bodily heat. “Mhm?” you hum absent-mindedly, tucking your forearms in a little closer to entrap Wanda in your embrace.

You replace a comma with a fullstop just as Wanda shifts uncomfortably in your lap. Your wife’s legs fall open and slides her centre around the muscle of your right thigh. Something rises in your chest at the sensation of bare centre meeting your warm skin. 

She cranes her pale neck like a swan, pressing her warm mouth against your neck. You shift imperceptibly, switching a three-letter phrase into a subject-verb concord. When Wanda’s tongue pokes out between her ruby lips, when her sharp teeth scrape over the pulse point of your neck, when her curled hair brushes your exposed skin, an uncontrollable shudder runs through your body.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Your spelling is becoming sloppy, almost like there’s a distraction.

Almost in retaliation, you jerk your knee up, the one that had been situated between Wanda’s thighs, and the mewl that leaves her mouth breaks her porcelain-doll composure. Satisfaction pools in your hips.

Words don’t need to be said between the two of you, as a slight shift in the atmosphere of the dining room sets itself. Wanda’s pants become shallower and quicker, the undulation of her hips speeding up, her legs clenching tighter around your thigh.

Your hands are flying over the keyboard now, your fingers twitching with bridled electricity, having need of some alleviation to express your ever-increasing libido. It’s a wonder how your eyes aren’t yet completely glazed over; yet, they’re moving in mechanical function to type, like you’re clinging on to a fragment of sanity. 

Because honestly, remaining sane while your wife let out the most pitiful whines into your ear certainly wasn’t an easy task. 

“Y/N,” Wanda cries, finally, emitting a sound as she clutches onto the soft fabric of your collared shirt. You can see, in your peripheral vision, the way Wanda’s face morphs into an expression of pleasure, the lines in nose-bridge forming a scrunch. 

Wanda is, without a doubt, the most breathtaking woman you’d ever laid your eyes upon. Reverent devotion bleeds from your mindwires and on to the page, staining it a crimson red as she nears her high. 

Your right thigh is moving in sync with each of Wanda’s humps, and she’s chasing that pleasure for all it’s worth: The clenching of your thigh muscles, the harsh jerks of your thigh as she struggles to ride it properly. 

Leaning down, your lips caress the shell of your wife’s ear, and from your mouth flows the words that are the final seal of acquiescence.

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

Just like that, something snaps inside Wanda, and the edge of your brainwaves fray like an old rope. In that moment, you know your words can take a rest. 

The movement of your fingers come to a halt. There was an unfinished story before you, the plot unfolding but not quite complete. But with Wanda by your side, she writes your story for you, carves the path towards a bittersweet ending. 

She takes the words from the deepest depths of your heart and lets it pour out her mouth, unashamedly, unapologetically, indescribable emotion overflowing from those blossomed lips into her trembling figure, her flushed cheeks.

“Y/N,” Wanda moans, and her sounds raise in pitch when you buck your hips up in a moment of your fractured composure. Her hips grind shamelessly onto the muscle of your thigh, chasing that stimulation.

It’s far from the most intense orgasms you’d brought Wanda to, because she can’t ever reach that level of ecstasy without your prodding fingers or your devil-tongued mouth. Perhaps that’s half of its beauty, though, that the two of you were incomplete without the other.

Wanda curls in your lap as she recovers from her high, enclosed within your forearms and the desk, face buried into your chest to engulf her senses in your scent. There’s sacred solace in the way you tilt your head down to press a fluttering kiss on her neck.

Your word document remains open but unfinished, the coffee in your mug grows cold. Sweet nothings and promised everythings are exchanged between the two of you until the sun has fully risen, hues of amber and gold painting the room.

The only story that mattered was the one before you, the one waiting to be explored.

You’ve had a thing for writing stories since young, and this particular one ends with a happy-ever-after.

this fic is really special to me. i think it's probably some of the best writing i've put out there, so i'd be incredibly grateful if you could give it a reblog ♥

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

#sytoran's kinktober 2023 #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader smut #x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff smut #wanda x reader #wanda x reader smut #gxg smut #wlw smut #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #marvel smut #sub wanda maximoff #top reader #dom reader #bottom wanda maximoff

[fateandloveentwined]

wuxia, xianxia, and cultivation differences meta

translations: wuxia 武俠, xianxia 仙俠, and cultivation 修真/修仙 (xīuzhēn/xīuxiān)

think i've seen posts on this eons ago, and i'm pretty sure there are tons of these online, but since this has been written up already let's just have another one.

wuxia 武俠

wuxia and xianxia sound similar, but basically for wuxia it is about the pugilistic world (江湖 jiānghú). It is relatively more down-to-earth, and people practice martial arts ("kungfu") in their current life -- they do not do it to become xians (仙) and gods (神) however.

Like Thousand Autumns and Faraway Wanderers/Word of Honor, it has more historical background and ties to the current court and kingdoms, because people are living in the moment and concern themselves with worldly issues.

Martial arts may seem unrealistic, but in view of chinese fantasy it would be considered "real". It consists of fighting moves and internal energy, which they call qi or nèigōng (內功), and at times you see people flying around, climbing hills and jumping across rooftops which is qīnggōng (輕功).

xianxia 仙俠

A level up would be xianxia, where characters in the story cultivate to become xians (and gods, like in the heaven official's blessing). They don't really care about earthly issues here now, because their ambitions lie beyond the current world, and cultivation, getting stronger, and an immortal life are majorly all their goals.

You may not always see them working towards that purpose, such as in mdzs they are considered a lower-xianxia society (低魔), meaning people don't go through all the steps of cultivation and only stay at the stage before the "golden core" stage.

In xianxia, characters still learn basic fighting moves aka. martial arts, but to direct the internal energy they use línglì (灵力), zhēnqì (真气), and fǎlì (法力), all xianxia terms you commonly see. "neigong" is practically nonexistent in this genre. That's why people building up their "neigong" instead of "lingli" are likely never going to be able to cultivate.

cultivation 修真/修仙

A subgenre in the xianxia category would be cultivation. Characters actively go through the stages of cultivation, and likely for the MC, because they are the main character, they successfully become a xian and exit the world at the end of the novel.

There are many stages of cultivation, usually defined at the beginning of the novel in the synopsis, and a typical example of the different levels would be this:

练气，筑基，金丹，元婴，化神，炼虚，合体，大乘，渡劫

And with a cursory search, an English translation would be something like this, albeit not with all the cultivation ranks identified.

Qi condensation (练气), Foundation establishment (筑基), Core Formation (金丹), Nascent Soul (元婴), and the names after that vary too greatly with translation and fandom so I'll jump straight to Immortal Ascension

extra info: getting into the philosophy of it all

It'd be interesting to note that the word "xiá" (俠) permeates all these genres. This is something akin to the concept of "hero", but not at all also, and I'd love to speak more on this but this post has already gone way longer than I hoped it would be, so perhaps another day.

Regardless, it is interesting to note that wuxia has a greater emphasis on "xia" than xianxia. (some joke that cultivation doesn't have the word "xia" in it, and much of that is because characters have foregone heroism and focused on gaining powers and working towards ascension instead). As a result, wuxia is more confucianism-oriented, though not without its taoism and buddhism influences.

xianxia, on the other hand, is mainly derived from "dào" (道), from taoism, which is another lengthy concept if I ever get to it.

And some may have heard of the "farming" genre, 种田 (zhòngtián). This has to do with golden fingers (mary sues) in imperialistic china, earning a wealth of money, and all that. It has nothing to do with cultivation, alike they sound in english.

that's it for now, hmu if you wish to ask/discuss!

(and apologies for the pinyin translations, hope it's understandable still! formally writing pinyin they are supposed to be two separate words not one.)

#danmei #mdzs #word of honor #cdrama #thousand autumns #cnovel #wuxia #xianxia #cultivation novel #chinese language #chinese #fate's meta

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Between Fire and Stone

Daemon Targaryen/Strong!female

summary: anxious about her approaching union to Aemond, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks comfort | word count: 2.8k~ | warnings: incest, reader is described with strong features, fingering, p in v sex, arranged marriage, Daemon being a cheeky cunt

A/N: idek what I was on to write this cos I'm not usually a Daemon girlie but here we are besties. Tysm @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for beta-ing 😘 appreciate you

The cold mist nipped at the skin around her ankles, a shiver running up her spine as she struggled through the jagged rock towards the Dragonmont. Her fingers brushed against the stark stone for balance, the other holding the lit torch to light her way before her in the darkness.

It was one of her favourite things, taking a stroll through Dragonstone in the hour of the wolf. Peaceful. Quiet. Something she could have all for herself. Away from the prying of her maidservants and the overbearing boisterous nature of her brothers. Though Jace, now a man grown, still held onto those immaturities.

Yet another thing that set her apart from her siblings.

For she, only a mere year younger than Jace, was considered a woman, ripe for marriage and bearing children, whereas the same hastiness was not pressured upon him. She knew her mother had never intended to bestow such responsibilities on her, but she understood, it was inevitable. As that time loomed ever closer, she found herself roaming her home more often, as if to savour the feeling of once being a child.

Where her brothers could seek adventure with their dragons once they were big enough to saddle, her egg had not hatched in her cradle. She would not inherit the birthright of the blood of Old Valyria, yet another judgement cast upon her that only inflated her sense of belonging at her mother's side. With her moonlit hair and pale lilac eyes, each of her children could not have looked more different.

Before the incident, there existed only one other soul who could truly fathom the depths of her solitude. No dragon. Ceaseless taunts. The notion of isolation, even amongst one’s family. Any semblance of camaraderie had been extinguished the day Lucerys took his eye. That defining moment when Aemond—her uncle—seized his birthright had marked the fracture in their familial bonds. In the aftermath, her mother, alongside her new husband Daemon, orchestrated a grand scheme to mend the shattered relations, a plan that involved her betrothal to him at an opportune moment.

Try as she might, she couldn't conjure the image of herself as his wife. The thought of residing in King's Landing under his roof refused to coalesce into a coherent vision. It remained an elusive spectre, haunting her thoughts with its intangible uncertainty.

Whispers of tradition and duty echoed in the hallowed halls of her childhood, spun by the gentle tongues of Septas who spoke of the sacred rites of marriage. Tales of Lords and Ladies, of the solemn exchange of vows, and the anticipated consummation on the wedding night. Some stories painted a picture of pleasure and intimacy, of unions founded on mutual desire and affection. Others whispered of duty, of sacrifices made for the sake of one's spouse, regardless of personal inclination.

Caught in the web of uncertainty, she pondered which version of Aemond awaited her, a tender partner or a distant lord, bound by duty and tradition. The unknown loomed before her like a shadow, casting doubt upon her heart and stirring a quiet fear within her soul. She knew not what to expect, but the uncertainty itself was enough to unsettle her, to sow the seeds of apprehension in her mind. And as the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, she couldn't help but wonder, which path would her marriage tread, and would she have the strength to endure whatever lay ahead?

Amidst the towering peaks of Dragonmont, she sought solace in the embrace of ancient flames and the soothing hum of Vermithor's slumber. Here, amidst the rugged terrain and the ever-watchful gaze of the dragons, she found a fleeting sense of peace.

But it was not the Bronze Fury that sang to her. 

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis,

Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose.”

She felt the rush of heat at the nape of her neck. Daemon stood straight, back facing her, his voice near-matching the hum of Vermithor’s deep exhales.

“It is late, Princess.” Unlike her, Daemon remained as he dressed during the day, shown when he turned to face her, with the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “What troubles you?” he asked.

She tried to raise her chin, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil that stirred within. 

“My fate,” she said, her careful steps drawing ever nearer. "I am to be wed to Aemond, but I fear what awaits me in that union.”

Daemon hummed, as if curiously amused.

She had known no father figure since Laenor. And though she knew sooner than her brothers the truth that lay beneath the careful picture her mother had forged, since she had been wed to Daemon, he had taken practice with his own daughters and become almost a father to her alike.

She felt his eyes sink over her once before returning to her eyes.

"Marriage is a weighty matter," he said. "But is it the marriage itself that troubles you, or something more?”

She did not miss the lilt to his voice. The one, that like his eyes had done many times before, made something squeeze in her gut. A fire burning bright. A feeling that brought her shame.

He was her mother's husband.

“I cannot say exactly,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is leaving Dragonstone. Mother and my brothers. And being alone in the capital with no face I recognise with trust.”

Daemon nodded almost indistinctly, his fingers reaching out to brush a lock of hair back over her shoulder, admiring her hair loose of its usual braids. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation both familiar and disconcerting. She fought to push aside the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, the warmth of his touch conflicting with the knowledge of their complicated relationship.

"Leaving behind the familiar can indeed be a daunting prospect," Daemon acknowledged, his voice a velvet caress, “But fret not. Within you resides the same fire that fuels your mother's resolve. Embrace it. You are as much Targaryen as any of them.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, at the way he seemed to see straight through her defences. She knew she should be wary of his advances, of the way he danced on the edge of propriety with his words and his touch. But there was something undeniably alluring about the way he held her gaze, about the way he made her feel desired and understood.

"Thank you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your support means more to me than you know.”

Daemon's smile was a slow, seductive curve of his lips, his eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the flames of the Dragonmont. 

"Ah, but my dear Princess," he replied, his voice low and husky, "you have yet to discover the true depths of my support.”

She felt her throat close up, the feeling mirroring somewhat what happened between her thighs.

What could he possibly mean?

“Do you fear it?” he asked. “The act of consummation?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at Daemon's bold question, his words sending a jolt of both arousal and apprehension coursing through her veins. 

“It… is perfectly normal, I would think,” she answered, words failing her.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress against her skin. "There is no shame in feeling uncertain. It is only natural to have doubts, especially when faced with such intimate matters.”

She felt he was circling her, as dragons did their targets. And felt her heart thumping in her chest.

“With Aegon, I dare say, I would join you in your uncertainty. But Aemond, on the other hand… is a different matter entirely.”

“How so?” she asked, breathing out when he disappeared out of her line of sight, his presence at her back, fingers draping past the material of her dress.

“I am afraid he may be less… forthcoming with expressing his desires,” he purred. “He may be cold, or at least that is how it may be interpreted.” Her eyes met his with bated breath as he appeared on her opposite side, closer. “He may not be so adept with the pleasures of a female body.”

She swallowed, a chill settling on her front, her body reacting thus. He remained silent, as if daring her to say what he knew was already on the tip of her tongue. So, she took the plunge. “And…you are?”

Daemon smirked smugly, and she knew she already had her answer., “What do you think?”

Her heart raced. Her mind struggled to contemplate whether she should be honest or not, for she had heard stories and rumours. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, playing with fire in the form of her mother's husband, but there was a part of her that couldn't resist the allure of his confidence, his charm, his undeniable magnetism.

"I... I suppose I never considered such matters," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.

Daemon's eyes danced with amusement as he stepped closer. "Perhaps it is time you did," he murmured, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her spine.

Her skin vibrated with anticipation as she fought to maintain her composure in the face of his overwhelming presence. She knew she should pull away, should put an end to this dangerous game they were playing, but the lure of Daemon's charm was too strong to resist.

“Mayhaps I could demonstrate and put your worries to rest,” he suggested, crossing the imaginary but daring line seemingly without fear. “Rest assured, my experience in such matters is... extensive."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to maintain her resolve, her body betraying her with every flutter of her lashes, every quickened breath. “But… you and Mother—”

Her lips clamped shut with the bruising of his grip in the softness of her waist, urging her back to the rocky, hard wall. Only now, when faced with the Rogue Prince, did she realise just how small she truly felt.

“Your mother is preoccupied with her own affairs," he replied, his voice dripping with a dangerous allure. "She won't concern herself with our little... indiscretion.”

The realisation sank in that she was alone with Daemon in the secluded confines of the Dragonmont, far removed from the prying eyes of the world. And yet, she still felt her lips go dry when he hung the torch and trailed his touch upon her skin where he was taking her skirts with it.

She could not hide her nerves, or the beating rush of arousal, “Bu—but… with Aemond, I must—”

The air felt warm as her skirt was rucked around her hips. She squeaked when his calloused fingers swept through her folds, ashamed to find she was affected by what he was doing to her as her slick coated them easily.

Daemon chuckled, a pleased hum in his chest that she was wet and ready, while his other hand busied with the laces of his breeches, “Sweet girl. When my dear nephew has his cock buried inside you on your wedding night, he will not know the difference.”

His words, combined with the tight circles he applied to the forbidden bud tucked between her legs, had white hot pleasure burning in her veins. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look upon his pleased face with a hedonistic expression, feeling very much like they were doing something deliciously wrong but could find no reasonable excuse to cease.

“Do not look so surprised. I have seen the way you watch me. Are you not ashamed for looking upon your own mother’s husband with lust?” 

The more he touched her, the more arousal he coaxed forth, the sound lewd and forbidden in the raw silence of the Draognmont. She could not answer his question without subjecting herself to further embarrassment. Even so, attempting to concentrate enough to form words as his two forefingers slid within her tight, hot walls, was near impossible. She gasped quietly, the feeling so foreign and yet not unpleasant. And like Daemon in any other scenario, while his motions were forceful, somewhat brutal, they were calculated, without effort. Like it came innately. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, his digits buried deep inside curved towards him, stoking a fire at the hearth of her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—I am ashamed—”

It was all she managed before the feeling began to crest, building and building as if she were climbing some great height and was about to tumble off. But she only exhaled shakily as Daemon withdrew his fingers from her fluttering, sensitive walls, using the moisture to lubricate himself with a careful caress of his manhood.

He chuckled at the wounded expression on her face. “No need for shame, Princess.”

She caught the glint of his ring as he wrung the fabric of her skirts in his fist. Her eyes widened as the head of his cock disappeared easily between her swollen folds, with no real full feeling until he pushed forward, both with hesitation and a sort of evil excitement.

Her back pressed against the jagged stone, her lips only parted to suck in air where it had left her lungs. It was a feeling she could describe very little, the sting of being stretched around him painful and yet once sheathed fully inside her, hips pushing against her own. Daemon wrapped his fingers around her fleshy thigh to tug her leg over his hip, a flash of white hot pleasure creeping up her spine. He only grunted, her slick ridges gripping him greedily without any effort on her part. 

For a few moments, he stayed like that as if waiting for any complaint, but when he found none, began a steady rhythm, fingers creating crescent-moon shaped welts in her skin. He did not share in her reaction. He simply raised one corner of his lips in a pleased manner, watching her face, treating it very much as a lesson in pleasure more than anything else.

She could scarcely think with the violent push of his hips, the notch of his belt stabbing into her each time.

“My nephew does not deserve this perfect. little cunt.” He grunted from the effort. “Tell me, Princess—when he is fucking you with his narrow little prick, will you be thinking of this instead?”

Her eyes slipped shut, her head tipped back and fingers coming to her own mouth to muffle the lewd sound that threatened to come out. Her perceived embarrassment at her own enjoyment of this only seemed to motivate Daemon further, and he widened her hips with a soft nudge of his knee against her leg and groaned at the way she tightened around him.

“You liked that, didn't you?” He breathed against her face, looking briefly down between them to watch how he rooted himself inside her over and over, as if unable to believe this was really happening. “I bet he won't make you this wet. I doubt the little cunt will even know how to make you come.”

Her skirt fell from his hand as it drew down between them, and she resisted the urge to squeal when he began to apply pressure in tight, sure circles around her bud.

“You shall have to teach him those pleasures.”

Her fingers gripped his forearms tight as she climaxed, her tight, hot walls spasming around him uncontrollably. It was so utterly different to the way she had pleasured herself before. This time, the forbidden combination of Daemon stretching her open around him and the pleasure he coaxed from her with his fingers meant that this peak seemed to drain her entire body of energy. Her body feeling boneless in his hold, that if he let go, she would surely lose her balance.

A flash of fear cracked like lightning across her subconscious. Surely he did not intend to spill inside her?

He did not overstimulate her for much longer as he neared his own end. Rather, he savoured the feeling of her warmth sucking him in for just a few moments more before pulling out, stroking himself vigorously to completion, warm ropes of his spend coating her lower stomach.

In the quiet dead of night with only her laboured breathing to echo within it, she felt her eyes could not keep up with her mind as she glanced back up at him. His rapidly cooling seed began to dribble towards her thighs, swiftly covered by her skirts once more as Daemon lowered her clothing back into place. The reality of the dangerous and yet delicious sin she had committed with him began to rise into clarity.

Upon his fingers shone the damning proof of his sordid claim on her, pearly in the glow of torchlight. “What a waste. I’d have liked to see it dripping from you.

But that pleasure… I shall save for my nephew, sweet girl."

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