#my blog has been tainted

[rainbowmothed]

╰ ⋯ ➢ GOOD GIRL ; CHAGGIE SMUT...

✿ sorry not sorry for this one guys... by the way, it fades to black!! so moreso suggestive than fully smut-ty? header art by sethdomain!

Charlie blinked as she felt the hands on her shoulders, palms meeting the mattress of the bed, feeling the muzzle wrap around her face, restricting her razor sharp teeth from the world. It wasn't suffocating or hurtful by any means– in fact, the darkly-hued hands that wrapped it around her face were soft and gentle, caressing her pale face as they moved, tracing the heavy coat of blush on her face as their hands moved.

“Vaggie,” Charlie huffed out, chewing the inside of her mouth. She felt the primal urge to latch onto something rise up in her chest. Her girlfriend simply hummed in response, fastening the muzzle tightly around her face. Charlie blushed heavily, huffing under heavy breaths. It was restricting, but damn, did it feel good.

“Hold still, hon.” Vaggie replied to her whimpers coolly, pulling her hands away. The loss of contact was aggravating for Charlie, but it was soon replaced as the collar was wrapped around her neck. Vaggie tugged gently, causing Charlie to move backwards compliantly. “Is that comfortable?” Vaggie inquiried, tone sultry.

“Uh-huh.” Charlie responded breathlessly, feeling her pale skin heat up, a burning feeling rising in her chest. Vaggie smirked, placing a kiss to her temple, gently latching her teeth onto Charlie's neck for a moment, digging her sharp canines in gently. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark. That was usually Charlie's thing. She loved leaving symbols of herself on Vaggie; whether that be through a bite mark, a kiss that left her black lipstick smeared behind, or her claws raking against her girlfriend's perfect skin. It was all good to her. Charlie loved the sight of seeing the golden blood of her girlfriend dripping down her neck, dripping down her collarbone–

Charlie was snapped out of her less than appropriate thoughts with another tug on the leash, Vaggie pushing her down onto the mattress, back pressed against it as her head met the headboard. Usually, Charlie was the one in control, so this was a nice change of pace. “You're so pretty, Vaggie.” Charlie whispered, enamored by the sight of her girlfriend in all of her glory.

Vaggie smirked. “Likewise, cariño.” The denizen replied to the compliments sweetly, like she wasn't pinning Charlie down to the bed. It was amusing, actually. Her Spanish accent slipped into her words, constricting them like a snake, coiling around them and slithering their way into Vaggie's sentences. And damn, was it hot. Or at least, Charlie thought so.

Vaggie pulled the leash closer, hand traveling up to wrap around Charlie's now prominent horn, tracing it with her fingertip. “You know,” Vaggie softly began, tone low and gravelly. “I hear people talking on the street, occasionally. As we pass. They say they could make love to you better than I ever could, some lousy sinner.” Vaggie grinned, pearly whites prominent as ever. Gorgeous as ever. Every part of the fallen angel was perfect, beautiful– every compliment in the book to Charlie.

“Do you think that's true, mi cielo?” Vaggie demanded, tone more commanding, but still holding onto those faint undertones of love and comfort. Charlie shook her head, but it was difficult with how Vaggie was restraining her. Hey– she wasn't complaining. It was sexy. More than, even. “Of course not. You're better than they ever could be, Vaggie.” Charlie retorted.

“Buena niña.” Vaggie chuckled, words gravelly, coiling the leash of the collar around her index finger and pulling it slightly. She liked seeing Charlie strain and comply as she pulled on the little string. Not in the painful way– the thought of seeing Charlie in pain wasn't remotely attractive to her. It scared her, even. But just seeing her underneath her, safe, as close as possible? That was the raw appeal behind it.

Vaggie's wings rustled slightly as she felt Charlie's hand touch her thigh, scratching against her skin. “I said not to touch,” she gently reminded, slightly disappointed as her girlfriend pulled away. But that wasn't the goal right now– the goal was to make Charlie feel good. Vaggie smirked, slipping her head between Charlie's thighs in a swift movement, knee pressing against the mattress as she hooked her index fingers around the waistband of Charlie's pants…

. . .

Charlie breathed heavily as she finished, not being able to touch her girlfriend, bite, anything– driving her crazy. Completely under her mercy. Vaggie slithered back upwards, licking her lips, swiping away remnants of Charlie away from her features. The denizen unclipped the muzzle from around the princess’ face, tracing her hand across the pale skin, and circular rosy cheeks.

Vaggie leaned forward, pressing her lips to Charlie's. Charlie could feel the taste of herself on Vaggie's tongue, which was quite… interesting? Charlie arched a brow as she slithered her serpent-like tongue into her girlfriend's mouth, finally settling her hands on Vaggie's shoulders. Thankfully, she wasn't met with being pushed away.

Vaggie slowly pulled away, admittedly hesitantly, as she unhooked the leash and unclipped the leash from around her girlfriend's neck. “Did I hurt you?” Charlie laughed in response to Vaggie's sudden worries, shaking her head. “I'm fine, babe! Truly!”

Vaggie softly smiled, less heated up and mischievous than earlier. Moreso delicate and welcoming, like a loving embrace in itself. “Let's get you cleaned up, then.” Charlie nodded, pressing a quick kiss to the angel's forehead, horns and tail retreating as she cooled down, resorting back into a more humane form.

Vaggie pulled herself off the bed, willing herself off the bed as she looked down at her shoulder, suddenly aware of the bite mark. “I don't even know how you managed that in the split second that you had the muzzle off, but okay.” Charlie shrugged innocently, winking. “A magician never reveals her secrets!”

[handgiven]

the funniest part of my ocs each representing a different part of my mental illness is that i have character playlists ready to go that i can use to effectively figure out my mental state in any given time even if i struggle to name the emotions themselves

[yuureimajo]

so i was just reordering my queue a bit and i was surprised to see that @spectrologie-deactivated2023041 was deactivated, since i tend to reblog quite a lot from that blog. i decided to search the url and see if anyone knew what was up and uh. well. turns out the person who was running it is (allegedly) a terf, a racefaker, and a photography plagiarizer??? i am usually very cautious of "curator" blogs for that last reason but it seemed like she was very good about crediting on this latest blog. but it looks like some of the stuff she claimed was her personal photography was actually stolen. as for the other stuff, there are receipts on @archae-heart (apparently one of @/spectrologie's former accounts that's been reappropriated as an information blog about her misdeeds) and it's pretty wild stuff. obviously i have no way of knowing what the whole truth here is but this evidence seems pretty compelling to me. as does the fact that she deactivated, tbh. i wonder what name she'll turn up under next? sooo i just want to say as a disclaimer or whatever that i don't support whatever questionable shenanigans this woman was up to, and i've deleted the posts i could find in my queue that were reblogged from her. i'm not gonna go through and delete every post i've reblogged from her in the past but obviously none of those, or any future posts in my queue that i didn't catch, that were reblogged from her should be taken as support of her. so yeah. bye

[novaursa]

The Flames We Share

- Summary: You tell your son the truth. He has more than the blood of dragons in his veins.

- Paring: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaenyra's younger sister and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Blood We Choose. If you want to read all parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 5 198

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The dungeons beneath Dragonstone were a cold, damp place, lit only by flickering torches that cast shadows that seemed to dance mockingly on the rough-hewn walls. The stench of rot and mildew clung to the air, seeping into the very stones of the fortress. Gwayne Hightower sat chained to the wall, bruised and dirty from his days of captivity, but his eyes were clear and resolute, fixed forward as he awaited what was surely his fate. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—focused only on you, the woman he had risked everything for.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the stone corridors, and he looked up as the iron door creaked open. Daemon Targaryen stepped inside, a predator’s smirk twisting his lips. He tossed a crumpled message onto the filthy floor in front of Gwayne’s feet. The black wax seal was unmistakable—bearing the sigil of House Hightower.

“Your father sends his regards,” Daemon drawled, a cruel edge in his voice. “He offers to trade his traitorous son for some stronghold I care little about. Imagine that—a worthless fortress in exchange for his even more worthless offspring.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed as he studied Gwayne’s reaction, searching for any sign of weakness.

But Gwayne’s expression remained stony. “You can say what you wish, Targaryen. My fate was sealed the moment I brought her to you.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “As long as Y/N is safe, I care not what becomes of me.”

Daemon’s lip curled in disdain. “Is that so?” He took a step closer, as if to loom over Gwayne. “Safe? You think she’s safe, having fallen from the sky, bleeding and broken? You think I would allow the woman who bore my son—my heir—to suffer any harm under my roof?” There was a dark gleam of possessiveness in Daemon’s eyes, as if the very notion of another man daring to care for you was an affront to his pride.

Gwayne’s gaze sharpened at that. “I want to see Vaeron,” he demanded suddenly. There was a tremor in his voice, a desperation that Daemon did not miss. “I want to speak with my son.”

Daemon’s anger flared at the insolence of the request. “Your son?” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “That boy is a Targaryen—a dragon, not the product of some dishonorable tryst! Do you think I would allow him to be tainted by the shame of what you nearly brought upon my niece, siring a child on her without even the dignity of wedlock?”

Gwayne’s eyes darkened, yet there was a hint of mocking amusement in them as he stared up at the Rogue Prince. “And you believe yourself to be the righteous one? The man who slew his first wife in pursuit of power? Who consorts with whores while claiming the love of dragons? Tell me, Daemon, what makes you any different from me?”

Daemon’s smirk faltered, his face tightening with barely controlled rage. But Gwayne continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “She was denied to me—Y/N, I mean. If your brother had seen sense, had given her to me rather than feeding your ambitions, we could have avoided all this bloodshed. The boy would have been raised in Oldtown, under the guidance of both our Houses, and this war might never have happened.”

“Nothing could have prevented this war,” Daemon snarled, eyes flashing. “It was written in fire and blood long before you or I even took breath. But do not delude yourself into thinking you have anything resembling love, Hightower. What you claim as love is mere possession—an attempt to bind what you could never truly have.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenched at the words, but he did not respond. The two men stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like a drawn sword. Daemon took a breath, his composure returning as he straightened.

“I’ll have the boy brought to you,” Daemon said at last, his tone laced with scorn. “You may look upon him and see the life you were never destined to have. But do not forget—he is mine, and Y/N belongs to me now. She is a Targaryen, and you are nothing more than a failed traitor.”

With that, Daemon turned and strode toward the door. Before he left, he paused, throwing one last taunt over his shoulder. “Do not hope for mercy when your father trades you away like the pawn you are, Gwayne. Your life is worth little, even to those who should care most.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Gwayne alone in the darkness once more. But he did not feel defeated. Even with the chains biting into his wrists, he had no regrets for what he had done, for saving you and ensuring you were delivered safely to Dragonstone. In the end, it was not his fate that mattered—it was yours. Even in the heart of this cold, bitter place, the thought of you kept the warmth alive in his heart.

Because in the quiet shadows, despite all the titles and power Daemon clung to, Gwayne knew one truth that Daemon would never fully grasp—he loved you, wholly and without condition. And in his mind, that was a victory far greater than any throne or dragon could ever grant.

The soft crackle of the hearthfire filled the chamber, mingling with the scent of herbs and ointments from where Maesters had tended to your wounds. You sat by the window, Silverwing’s scales still etched into your memory, the pain a constant reminder of the battle you had narrowly survived. The healing was slow, but the bruises and cuts were nothing compared to the deeper ache in your chest. You weren’t sure what stung more—the death of your dragon or the desperate, foolish bravery of the man who had risked everything to save you.

A knock at the door broke your thoughts. “Come in,” you called, and the door creaked open to reveal Vaeron. The boy’s silver hair glinted in the evening light, and his blue eyes—so much like his father’s—fixed on you with concern.

“Mother,” he said quietly, stepping inside. “How are you feeling today?”

You smiled softly at him, though your heart ached as you looked upon him. “I am mending, sweetling. Stronger with each day.”

Vaeron nodded, yet his expression was troubled. He came closer, sitting on the edge of your bed, the worry in his eyes clear. “I heard… I heard Daemon talking about him,” he murmured. “The man in the dungeons—the one who saved you. Is it true he defied Ser Criston Cole and fled with you from Rook’s Rest? They say he’s a Hightower. An enemy.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. The boy was no longer the child you had once cradled; he was growing, his curiosity sharp and his mind keen. He deserved the truth.

“Yes, it’s true,” you replied, voice gentle. “The man who saved me is Gwayne Hightower. He… he betrayed his own kin, risked his life, and rode through the chaos to bring me here, to safety.”

Vaeron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But why would he do that? Daemon says he’s just trying to make amends for his family’s treachery. That he’s nothing more than a desperate fool.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s more complicated than that, my dear. Gwayne… he did it out of love, out of loyalty to someone who meant the world to him once.” You hesitated, the words heavy on your tongue. The truth was a blade you’d kept sheathed for too long, and it was time to draw it, no matter how much it might wound.

Vaeron looked at you expectantly, sensing the weight of what you were about to say. You reached out, taking his hand in yours, needing the touch to anchor yourself.

“Vaeron… the man in the dungeons, Gwayne Hightower… he is your father.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Vaeron’s eyes widened, the shock raw and unfiltered in his young face. He pulled his hand away, as if trying to distance himself from the revelation. “What?” he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “My father? But… Daemon… I always thought…”

You nodded, pain lancing through your heart as you watched him grapple with the truth. “Daemon has raised you as his own, and in many ways, he is your father. But you have another father, by blood, and that is Gwayne Hightower. You were conceived out of a moment we both knew would never be more than a fleeting dream. He wanted to marry me, to build a life, but—”

Vaeron shook his head, backing away as he struggled to process it all. “No,” he muttered, as if denying the words could somehow make them untrue. “Daemon’s always told me I’m a Targaryen, that my blood is pure, that I am his son, a prince of the realm. How could—why didn’t you tell me? Why now, when he’s chained beneath us like some criminal?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I didn’t want you to bear the burden of that knowledge before you were ready. You were always meant to be strong, to carry the legacy of the dragons. But Gwayne… he isn’t just a Hightower, he’s the man who saved my life when no one else dared. Whatever his blood, he does care for you in his own way, even from afar now.”

Vaeron’s lips trembled as he stared at you, his confusion and hurt palpable. “I need… I need to think,” he stammered, turning abruptly and nearly stumbling over himself in his haste to leave the room.

“Vaeron, wait—” you called after him, but he was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed in the emptiness of the chamber, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Your chest tightened with regret. You had known this moment would come eventually, but you had hoped it would be under different circumstances. There was so much more you wanted to tell him, so much more to explain. But for now, all you could do was hope that he would find a way to understand, to see beyond the conflict of bloodlines and names.

In that fleeting moment before he vanished, you had seen the storm raging behind his eyes—a storm you knew would not settle easily. And in that storm, you glimpsed the boy he had always been and the man he was becoming, torn between the truths that defined him.

But you could only wait, knowing that the choice between dragons and towers was his to make, even if it broke your heart in the process.

Vaeron’s footsteps echoed through the winding corridors of Dragonstone as he fought to steady his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a heavy drum drowning out the world around him. The truth his mother had just revealed rang in his ears like a cruel jest—Gwayne Hightower is your father. The words were a blade lodged deep in his chest, twisting with every thought, every doubt that now swirled within him.

He turned a corner, the air cool against his flushed face, and found himself in the dimly lit dining hall. The large table at its center was set for the evening meal, though the room was mostly empty save for one figure seated at the end, absently twirling a goblet in his hand.

Jacaerys Velaryon looked up, catching sight of Vaeron. His dark curls fell loosely over his forehead, and his brown eyes narrowed in concern as he took in his cousin’s strained expression. “Vaeron?” he called out, his voice low but filled with the warmth of kinship. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

Vaeron stiffened, his gaze flickering away as he hesitated at the threshold of the hall. The weight of the revelation clung to him like a shroud, and for a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to bury it, to pretend that nothing had changed. But Jacaerys’ patient eyes, filled with genuine care, drew him in like a tether.

With a resigned sigh, Vaeron walked over and slumped into the chair opposite Jace, the firelight casting shadows on his troubled face. He didn’t speak for a moment, merely stared at the table as he tried to gather the words that had lodged like stones in his throat.

Jace leaned forward, the lines of worry deepening on his brow. “Vaeron, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

“I…” Vaeron’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing, “I just learned something that changes everything.” He finally looked up, his eyes rimmed with uncertainty. “The man in the dungeons—the Hightower who brought Mother back from Rook’s Rest… He’s my father. My real father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes widened in shock, his goblet nearly slipping from his grasp. “What? But—Daemon’s always—”

“I know,” Vaeron cut in, voice strained. “I thought Daemon was my father, too. I grew up believing I was his son, a true Targaryen. But Mother told me just now that Gwayne Hightower is my sire. I’m… I’m a bastard.”

The word hung heavy in the air between them, laden with shame and confusion. Vaeron felt his chest tighten again, the sting of doubt gnawing at him. What did that make him now? Was he even truly a part of this family? A dragon in name only, born of a union that should never have been?

Jacaerys’ expression softened as he saw the pain in Vaeron’s eyes. He set down his goblet and leaned closer, trying to find the right words. “Listen to me, Vaeron,” he began, voice steady and laced with a touch of empathy. “We’ve both been raised with more lies and expectations than most people could handle. But if anyone understands how it feels to question who you are, it’s me.”

Vaeron blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jacaerys gave a rueful smile, leaning back in his chair as he stared into the flames. “I’ve heard the whispers, the taunts—people saying I’m no true Targaryen because of my questionable blood. They mock the fact that I don’t have silver hair or violet eyes, that I look more like a commoner than a prince. And sometimes… sometimes, I wonder if they’re right.”

The honesty in Jace’s voice caught Vaeron off guard, pulling him out of his own turmoil. He had always admired Jacaerys—his confidence, his sense of duty. He had never imagined that his cousin carried doubts of his own.

“But you’re still recognized as one of us,” Vaeron murmured, brow furrowed. “You’re still heir to the Iron Throne, still a dragon. No one would ever dare deny that.”

Jace nodded, but his gaze remained distant. “True, but that doesn’t erase the whispers. Even with the dragon blood flowing through my veins, I’ve always felt like I had to prove I’m worthy of the name Targaryen. But you…” He looked back at Vaeron, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You look like a Targaryen. No one would ever question your blood—silver hair—you were born a dragon, even if your father wasn’t one.”

Vaeron’s breath hitched at the kindness in Jace’s words. But it didn’t soothe the ache gnawing at his heart. “Does it even matter, Jace? If I’m truly a bastard, what does any of this mean? My whole life, I’ve been told I’m meant for something great, but now… now I don’t even know who I really am.”

Jacaerys’ expression grew firm, his voice taking on a rare edge of command. “It means you choose who you are, Vaeron. Blood alone doesn’t decide it. You were raised in this family, loved by your mother and Daemon alike. That is what makes you one of us. Not some Hightower who’s rotting in a cell.”

Vaeron’s throat tightened at the thought of Gwayne, the man who had defied his own House, who had thrown everything away to save the woman he loved. Did that make him worthy of being called a father? Could that kind of loyalty outweigh his bloodline, or was it too little too late?

“I need time to think,” Vaeron murmured, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… a lot.”

Jacaerys reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Vaeron’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, cousin. You’re not alone in this, alright? Whatever you decide, you’ll always have me and the rest of your family behind you.”

Vaeron nodded numbly, grateful for Jace’s support but still lost in the sea of confusion and emotions swirling within him. The questions gnawed at him relentlessly, leaving him torn between the man he had always believed himself to be and the truth that now threatened to shatter that identity.

The tension clung to the air in the dining hall like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Vaeron sat in silence after Jacaerys left, lost in the maze of his thoughts, unable to untangle the twisted knots of his emotions. His whole life had been built on one truth: that he was a Targaryen, son of Daemon, a prince destined for greatness. But now that truth had shattered, and he felt like a child cast adrift on a stormy sea, unsure of where to turn.

The sound of footsteps approached, measured and deliberate, and Vaeron looked up to see Daemon entering the hall. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept over Vaeron’s troubled face. For a moment, the prince said nothing, merely studying his son—his real son in all but blood—with a calculating gaze.

“You’re brooding,” Daemon finally said, his voice low and tinged with an edge of dry amusement. “A trait you didn’t inherit from your mother, I’d wager.”

Vaeron clenched his fists on the table, unable to meet Daemon’s eyes. “Everything I’ve ever known about myself is a lie,” he muttered, his voice thick with anger and confusion. “How am I supposed to believe anything now?”

Daemon’s gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. “You think this changes who you are?” he asked, stepping closer. “You think some whispered secret about your parentage wipes away the blood that runs through your veins? You are still a Targaryen, still my son in every way that matters.”

Vaeron’s eyes snapped up, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “But I’m not,” he insisted, his voice cracking. “I’m not truly your son, not by blood. I’m just… a bastard. A mistake.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, and he took a seat across from Vaeron, his presence commanding and unyielding. “Is that what you truly believe?” he asked, his tone both gentle and sharp. “That blood alone defines who you are? You were raised in the shadow of dragons, with the legacy of kings and conquerors shaping your every step. That is no lie. I’ve taught you, guided you, prepared you for the world because I chose you as my heir, not because of whose seed sired you.”

Vaeron looked away, struggling with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. “But… why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice a whisper now, tinged with the pain of betrayal. “All this time, you let me believe…”

Daemon sighed, his gaze growing distant as if recalling a memory long buried. “Because you needed to grow up without that burden,” he said quietly. “What good would it have done to burden you with a truth that might have only confused you, made you question everything? You were born a Targaryen in all the ways that matter. I’ve treated you as such, and so has your mother. That will never change, no matter who your true father is.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened at the mention of his mother, and he shook his head. “But now I know, and I can’t just pretend it doesn’t matter. That man in the dungeons… he’s the reason I exist, and yet he’s a stranger to me. How can I make sense of that?”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the wood. “Gwayne Hightower might be your blood father, but that doesn’t mean he has any claim over you,” he said with a hint of disdain in his voice. “He made a choice back at Rook’s Rest—one that I don’t entirely understand myself. He risked everything to bring your mother back here. Perhaps he thought it would redeem him somehow, or maybe he truly cared for her in his own way. Either way, he’s asked to speak with you.”

Vaeron stiffened at the words, his heart lurching in his chest. “He wants to see me?”

Daemon nodded slowly. “He does. He requested it, though he knows the choice is yours to make. I told him I’d send you, but the decision is yours. You can go to him, or you can ignore it and leave him to rot where he belongs.”

Vaeron’s mind reeled, torn between the curiosity gnawing at him and the fear of facing the man who had upended his world with his very existence. He shook his head, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I can’t. Not today. I don’t even know what I’d say to him… what I’d ask.”

Daemon studied him for a moment before nodding in understanding. “That’s your right. You don’t have to face him until you’re ready—if you ever are.” He reached out, placing a hand on Vaeron’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “But know this, boy: whoever sired you, you are still my son. You bear the Targaryen name because I have claimed you as my own, because you were raised with fire in your blood. No man, be he Hightower or otherwise, can take that from you.”

Vaeron looked up at him, searching Daemon’s face for some trace of deception, but all he saw was the fierce loyalty and pride that Daemon had always shown him. For all his faults and ruthlessness, Daemon had been the only father Vaeron had ever known. And in that moment, the boy clung to that truth like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” Vaeron murmured, his voice small but filled with genuine gratitude. “I just… need time. To sort through it all.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a rare, almost affectionate smile, one reserved for the few he held dear. “Take all the time you need,” he said quietly. “But remember, you are a Targaryen, and no truth will ever change that. Not in the eyes of those who matter.”

With that, Daemon rose from the table, giving Vaeron a final nod before turning to leave the hall. Vaeron watched him go, the conflicting emotions still swirling in his chest, but there was a newfound clarity in his heart. The path ahead was clouded, and the shadow of Gwayne Hightower’s existence hanged over him like a specter. But for now, he knew where he stood—with the family that had shaped him, that had loved him despite the secrets and lies.

But deep down, in the quiet recesses of his mind, he knew that one day he would have to face the man who had saved his mother and who claimed the title of his father. Just… not today. Today, he would hold on to the identity he’d always known and trust that, in time, he would find his way through the tangled web of blood and loyalty.

For now, he was still Vaeron Targaryen, son of Daemon—trueborn or not, dragon or not, he was still a part of the legacy that burned brightly in the heart of House Targaryen. And that was enough to anchor him, at least for tonight.

The corridors beneath Dragonstone were dark and damp, the oppressive chill seeping into Vaeron’s bones as he made his way toward the dungeons. It had been a week since his world had been upended, a week of wrestling with the truth of his parentage. He had tried to push it aside, to focus on the training sessions with his cousins, the books his mother insisted he study, the words of comfort from Daemon. But every night, when the candles burned low and the castle quieted, the thought gnawed at him: if he didn’t face the man in the dungeons, he would never truly understand where he came from—or who he was.

So here he was, descending deeper into the belly of the fortress, the iron doors looming ahead. A guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing him entry. The door creaked open, revealing the shadowed cell where Gwayne Hightower sat slumped against the cold stone wall, chains rattling faintly with his every breath.

Gwayne’s face was bruised and gaunt, the days of imprisonment leaving their mark on him. But his eyes, so strikingly similar to Vaeron’s own, flicked up the moment the boy entered. Surprise and something softer—something like hope—flashed in his gaze.

“Vaeron,” he murmured, as if testing the name on his lips. “You came.”

Vaeron stood just inside the threshold, tension thrumming through his body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—anger, indifference, desperation? But all he felt was a tangled mix of emotions that refused to settle.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally took a few steps closer, his voice tentative as he asked, “How could I not? I had to face you… or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Gwayne’s expression softened, a flicker of pride and sorrow crossing his face. “You’re braver than most would be in your position,” he said quietly. He shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of his wounds and restraints. “How… how is your mother? Is she recovering?”

Vaeron’s heart tightened at the genuine concern in Gwayne’s voice. Despite everything, despite the shame and anger swirling within him, he could not deny the sincerity of the man’s question. “She’s getting better,” Vaeron replied, a hint of guardedness still in his tone. “But her injuries are still bad. The fall from Silverwing was…” His voice trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Gwayne nodded, his jaw clenched as if in shared pain. “She’s strong. She always has been. I knew if I could just get her here, she’d fight her way back.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion, and he averted his gaze for a moment before looking back at Vaeron. “Thank you for telling me.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint drip of water echoing through the dungeons. Vaeron swallowed the lump in his throat and finally spoke the question that had been burning in him since he decided to come here. “Daemon says you’re a traitor,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “That you can’t be trusted, that you’ve betrayed your family and your House. But… you saved my mother. You risked your life, your honor, everything.”

Gwayne’s expression didn’t change, but something deep and resolute flickered in his eyes. “Daemon’s right—I am a traitor to my own kin, to my House. I turned my back on everything I was raised to uphold. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The simple conviction in his words struck Vaeron like a blow. He could see the truth of it written in every line of Gwayne’s face, in the quiet determination that had driven him to this point. Vaeron wanted to challenge him, to demand answers, but instead, he found himself asking, “Why?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “Because she was worth it. Your mother was worth more than any loyalty to my House, more than any honor I might have clung to. You see, I loved her long before any of this war came to pass. I wanted to marry her, to build a life with her, but your uncle, King Viserys, had other plans. When she was given to Daemon, I knew my place would only ever be on the outside, looking in.” He paused, eyes darkening with the weight of old wounds. “But that didn’t change how I felt. When I saw her falling in battle, when I saw Silverwing plummet… I didn’t think about anything else. I just acted. I’d rather be a traitor and live knowing I saved her than be a loyal man and watch her die.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened, torn between resentment and reluctant understanding. “You say that like it was noble, like it justifies everything. But it’s still treason. You abandoned your family. You betrayed your own.”

Gwayne’s expression grew more serious, his voice a low rumble in the dim light. “Yes, and I will face the consequences of that. I know what I’ve done, and I’ve made my peace with it. But you must understand, Vaeron—whatever Daemon tells you, whatever anyone says—you are my son. I know I have no right to claim you, not after all these years, but it doesn’t change what you are to me.”

Vaeron felt the words hanging in the air like a challenge, daring him to acknowledge the bond that existed between them, even if he wished it didn’t. He looked down, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t know what I am,” he admitted, his voice strained. “I was raised to believe I’m a Targaryen, that I’m Daemon’s son. Now everything feels like a lie. How can I be both?”

Gwayne’s gaze softened, the hardness of his demeanor giving way to something almost tender. “You are both,” he said quietly. “You were raised as a Targaryen, with all the fire and pride that comes with it. That is a part of you. But you’re also my blood, whether you like it or not. And you get to decide what that means for you.”

Vaeron’s mind spun with conflicting emotions—anger, guilt, a flicker of something like pity. He wasn’t sure if he could ever see Gwayne as his father, not in the way Daemon had been. But he couldn’t deny that the man who sat before him had risked everything for his mother, for the chance to protect her even when all seemed lost. And for that alone, he couldn’t simply dismiss him.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally shook his head. “I can’t face you—not today. There’s too much I don’t understand, too much I still need to figure out.”

Gwayne nodded, accepting the decision without protest. “I won’t ask for more than you’re willing to give,” he said softly. “But know that I’m here, for as long as they allow me to draw breath. And whatever choice you make, whatever path you choose—I will always be proud of you.”

The words stung, leaving Vaeron with a raw ache in his chest. He wanted to respond, to say something more, but the weight of everything—his own confusion, the war, the fractured loyalties—was too much. He turned abruptly, leaving the cell without another word, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of conflicting emotions.

As he walked away, the echo of Gwayne’s voice lingered in his mind, a reminder that some truths, no matter how painful, couldn’t be ignored forever. But for now, he needed time to reconcile the man he had always believed himself to be with the truths he couldn’t yet fully accept.

And so, Vaeron returned to the world above, leaving the man who called himself his father to the shadows, knowing that one day—perhaps too soon—he would have to confront the reality of who he truly was.

[killakalx]

17+ content, ageless blogs dni

male manipulator 🤩, dumbification, brief choking, poorly proofread, author’s note at the end :)

fratboy!dick grayson, a man of many… talents. one of which, turning off that pretty head of yours. “you need a break,” he argues with a sly hand in your knee. “a detox, or a detour- whatever you wanna call it.” the charm is almost painful, yet it still scares you that this is what your girlfriends fall for; the guy that’s just looking out for you, regardless of how whorish he gets at those frat parties.

“I don’t need you to tell me that, grayson.” your hand swats and easily dismisses him, spiky because you’d rather die under your stress than succumb to the disease that is dick grayson. you’re absolutely positive you can see through the lousy attempts of looking at you as if he actually cares. he’s just another fratrat trying to get his dick wet, and your pride won’t allow it.

fratboy!dick grayson, who makes you lose your resolve with just a few favors and treats. interacting with every post, listening intently so he can get those notes you missed from tuesday, speaking in like a proper man whenever you pass by, all so he can fuck you like he’s doing you a favor.

fratboy!dick grayson goes so far he spoils you, pays for the more expensive take-out and pays for your nails every now and then, lets you catch rides so often that a few of his brothers call you his passenger princess- fucking hell, your pride’s out of the question at this point. at first, you decline and decline and decline, but in your slumps, you have to convince yourself it’s playing smart to pretend you’ve fallen victim.

fratboy!dick grayson, who’d catch you on a particularly rough spot in the semester. you’re stressed, snippy, and every type of frustrated, making his goal seem closer by the day. just a couple of well thought words and good points of how hard you work for yourself to sweet talk you into a hook up, and you hate yourself because it was fucking worth it. that mother fucker made you forget about all the assignments, the studying, the upcoming finales, everything except him and his cock twisting up your insides.

“you need this, don’t you?” he’d encourage out of an attempt to keep you from backing out, watching the way your eyes roll just from his hand down your panties. gentle circles around your clit make you gasp just before he delves deeper and he huffs, almost in disbelief at how wet you are. “you’re too pretty to be stressing as much as you do,” he’d mutter against warm skin, open mouthed kisses in place of hickeys he can’t litter across your collarbone until he’s got you too sex dazed to stop him from doing so.

fratboy!dick grayson, who still spoils you, spending generous time groping through your bra before sliding it off when you unclasp the back. knuckles deep inside of you and sucking at your tits as he massages the other, guiding your body closer to his while he murmurs through pleased hums at your sudden eagerness. because he’s doing this for you, remember? your pleasure is his, and he proves it by kissing between your tits and down your tummy until he reaches that sweet cunt he’d been so patient- no, so good to you for.

fratboy!dick grayson who guides your hands to a mess of black hair as he indulges himself, thumb replaced with his lips and tongue to slick up the bundle of nerves and sucking to elicit a startled moan. still deep inside of you, his fingers gain a certain intensity that has you bucking into his face and tugging on his hair until a little moan slips out against your heat.

“right there, yeah?” he checks in after a weak cry of his name falls from your lips, and he’s pleased to have finally abandoned the formality of grayson for the sliver of intimacy he gets from your breathy moans of oh my god- dick— so similar to the moans he’s drawn out of much easier women, but yours feels like a well earned award. “so fuckin’ wet already,” dick groans as he spreads you open, pussy lips already tainted with his saliva and he blows on your clit, just to make you flinch.

fratboy!dick grayson, who makes you cum on his fingers and tongue twice in quick succession before slipping them into his mouth, putting on a little show so you can really see the way his tongue worked those two blissful moments out of you. he gives a low suggestion that you should hav a taste, though the idea’s forgotten when the tip of his cock slots between your thighs.

“such a good girl, huh?” he taunts rather than praises, fucking you deep into the mattress with a firm but gentle hand around your neck to test the waters. your hand clings to his wrist as you whine, unintentionally communicating your need for a harder grip that he’s more than happy to apply. “smart girl just needed that pretty little head turned off for a bit- that’s all, isn’t it?” your legs tremble when you weakly nod, whining and babbling about how good he’s been to you.

“I know, baby,” he assures you when you cry for him again, lowering his head into the crook of your neck. “talk to me- what’s that empty head thinkin’ about now, huh?” dick asks, but coherent words have been lost between pathetic whimpers and loud keens as he sucks at your neck. if you were any ounce of sane right now, he’d have a black eye, but he’s doing you so much more than a favor. it’d be terribly rude to repay him in such a way.

fratboy!dick grayson’s had you cum on his cock at least once before he’s twisting body body around, seemingly forgetting to pull out as he lays you on your tummy and slinks your ass up into his pelvis. dick lingers at the sight- pretty arched back and two supple mounds of your flesh as your drool soils his pillows. by now, you’re so out of it that you feel he’s lingered a bit too long; instinctively, you sway and roll your hips back into him for stimulation. a long whistle follows a guttural groan before his hands fuck you back against his cock, rocking your ass up and down with lewd plaps of wet skin against his.

“feels good, dick-“ you slur into pillows like a used up slut, “‘s so good, fuckin’ me so deep- thank you, thank fuck…” sparkly nails—the same ones he’d bought you—claw at sheets as you go on, biting into your arm a little when he gets rougher.

“cum for me one more time, pretty thing,” he urges, ego dwelling from the pathetic and dumb babbling he’s fucked out of you. pulling your hair to force your arch impossibly deeper, he puts in more work for the last few thrusts, moaning with you as you clamp around his cock and scream into the sheets. “goddamn- can’t even hear me, can you?” distantly, you put together that he’s laughing at you as he fucks you through arguably the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, and your cries become silent from euphoria.

fratboy!dick grayson, who sprays his cum all over your ass with a long curse, cock resting between your asscheeks with a few lazy thrusts as white dribbles from tip and leaks to the dip in your back.

fratboy!dick grayson, who leaves you hanging on to your consciousness by a thread as he flips you back over, holding your jaw and squishing your rosy cheeks for that humiliatingly cute and fucked out face he’s plastered onto you. “you still with me, right?” he grins at the weak whines you manage, “or did I fuck your brains out already?”

fratboy!dick grayson, who sneaks his phone out for a quick flick, taking after his best friend just to keep himself a souvenir in case you decide he’ll never get this lucky again. ❧

a/n ;; first off, thank you for reading, i hope it’s up to parr. second off, thank you SO much for 1k hello,?:!,!? that is a crazy ass number compared to my last blog. you all are so engaging and i appreciate all the love so much, so I thought i’d write something that’s a bit new (and longer lmao) but still very much in my realm of writing. fratboy!dick grayson lingers in the back of my mind 24/7, yall dont understand. i’m ranting but anyway, thank you again <333333

[httpsserene]

𝖍𝖙𝖙𝖕𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖊'𝖘 1𝖐 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑

welcome to the table of contents for my one-thousand followers special !

i'm baffled at the amount of love and support from all of you; in under the two-months i've been writing on this blog, i've managed to have good enough writing to convince you guys to save my blog. i started writing f1 ff's with the sole purpose to provide more black!reader based content, and i never imagined that i'd have a thousand eyes reading my delusional scenarios lol. thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart :)

as promised, the special event is a continuation of the first upload of my f1 kinktober series. those of you who were desperate for a part-two of the corruption kink with charles leclerc / max verstappen / black!reader--here it is, in abundance. a five-part series (including the f1-ktober upload). merry christmas, loves xxx

if you would like to be added to this series' taglist, send me an ask or leave a reply.

all episodes uploaded at 12 PM EST on their release date.

posts tagged as # httpss :// 1k special.

all works can be found in my table of contents (m.list).

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: max and charles don’t mind receiving a five-second penalty for slipping past your boundaries. seeing a black and white flag doesn’t scare them in the slightest; not when you're performing so well under their guidance. 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: charles leclerc / max verstappen x fem!black!reader 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: multi-chaptered series.

view playlist? ↴

pilot: corruption kink w/ charles leclerc and max verstappen

innocent and virgin !reader has never touched herself before. she knows how to, in theory, but whenever she tries, she chickens out. her tried and true way of receiving pleasure is failing her. she thinks that maybe it's time to allow her relationship with her two respectful and experienced boyfriends, to reach the next step. and she'll find that they're very willing to teach her a few things.

episode two: 𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿 | handjobs | 12/9/23

slightly less innocent, virgin!reader has had her view of pleasure shifted. her libido has increased to insane levels after she finally allowed her boyfriends to fix her…dry spell. charles and max have no issues with helping her ride out her newfound sexual appetite, and figure that she may be ready to take the next step. or, more accurately, take the next hand.

soundtrack - gun • doja cat

episode three: 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗲 | fingering | 12/11/23

tainted, virgin!reader is growing tired of grinding against her boyfriends. she’s never touched herself before—no toys, no fingers, no fondling—the friction from a pillow used to be enough. but, maybe having something inside of her isn’t as terrifying as she believed. charles’ pretty pianist fingers don’t look too scary, and they way he raves about how talented max’s daunting thicker fingers are; well, she could be convinced to see what all the fuss is about.

soundtrack - pressure • ari lennox

episode four: 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝘁𝗵 | oral sex | 12/15/23

soiled, virgin!reader is well aware of her boyfriends’ desire to eat her alive, sorry, to eat her out. from the way they can’t resist drinking her wetness off their (or her own) fingers, to the way they can’t stop running their mouths about getting their mouths on you: they’ve made how desperate they are, very clear. for some reason, she can’t get past her mental block to allow them to feast between her legs, or to taste what’s between theirs. max figures she just needs a demonstration to quell her fears; charles is a more than willing participant.

soundtrack - super freaky girl • nicki minaj

finale: 𝘂𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘀𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗿 | vaginal sex | 12/17/23

tonight, innocent and virgin!reader will be defiled, deflowered, tarnished—whichever word you prefer. from the moment she told them she was ready to lose her virginity, they’ve been carefully planning out a special night, for her. and shockingly, there’s not an ounce of fear, anxiety, or doubt in her mind—max and charles have gained her complete trust. they haven’t given her a single reason to believe that they wouldn’t treat her right. she couldn’t have asked for better men to take her virginity—if this is corruption, she’s delighted to experience it.

soundtrack - wet dreamz • j.cole

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 ↴

extra scene: downforce

all my (terrified and oversensitive) homies hate vibrators!! max and charles introduce you to something better

© httpsserene2023

[starshipsofstarlord]

not yet corpses. still, we rot.

summary. you were surviving after the prison fell, whilst you felt lost deep inside of yourself. without daryl, and the others that you had lost and yet to find, everything only seemed to get worse. and all was proven when the claimers interrupted your futile attempts of avoiding nightmares

warnings. death, gore, violence, angst, fluff, smut, unprotected sex, swearing, mentions of s.a, mentions of death

notes. i changed the specification of the timeline a tiny bit, i moved the timeline of the smut into a flash back as in my head y/n and daryl would be too on guard to fuck after all that trauma. i hope you enjoy my attempt at writing your request, i’d love to know your thoughts 🖤

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

The crickets sung as aspiring performers in the midst of the fire’s crackling, you were cold, tired and hungry, and all that you wanted to hear was the epiphany of silence. Each limb in your body ached sourly from the endless trekking that you had participated within, the chance to close your eyes and rest sounded spectacular.

But you refrained from succumbing to a fuelling slumber, for you would only be haunted by the reality of the situation that you had no home, and members of your found family were lost to the land that crawled with ravenous walkers… or dead.

The warmth provided from the flames was greatly appreciated by your bumpy flesh, and you stared distantly into the licking of sunset coloured mirage of the makeshift campfire. It dried the whites of your eyes to an irritating texture, however it was better than facing the truth behind the pitiful glances that the three survivors that you had structured the prison alongside donated in your direction.

You weren’t looking for sorrowful attention, you just wanted to find as many of your group as you could, selfishly Daryl more than others. The plain silver band on your finger glinted from the source of radiating and manmade light, flickering your memory back to you and Daryl tying the knot in a place that you had hoped would remain secure.

If it wasn’t for the Governor and his manipulated army, then it would have. You were glad they had their fates, or at least you assumed they all had considering the destruction that had been waged in the graveyard like grounds. There were countless lives that you had ensured were ended as you did your best to ensure that they would regret their life ruining choices.

The clouds grew agitatedly darker within the midnight sky above you, and to the dismay of your body’s survivalist needs, your shoulders shrunk from the bitter air as Rick extinguished the source of warmth. As you idly sat by, remaining in your shroud of speechless presence, Rick escorted Carl to the immobile vehicle, allowing him to sleep on the backseats for extra protection from the horrors that could possibly creep up on you in the night.

Michonne moved closer to you, placing her hand which rarely not held her executing samurai on your jacket clothed bicep, the moment was tender considering that she was doing her utmost to comfort you. “He’s out there,” she spoke with confidence, believing each word that left her mouth. “He’s a survivor, and he knows what he’s doing out there.”

“We were all survivors.” It was a statement, one that caused you great misery to say. “But in the end nobody survives, we’re all going to die one day, and some of the people out there are worse than the walkers. There’s no saying what has happened to the others… to Daryl…” You shook your head, trailing off into a weight of what one would describe as tranquility.

For you however, it was a reminder that in your future everything would be mute. The outbreak would demolish the remaining population of every single species, tainting them with transformative virus until the new and ‘improved’, infinite flock of homo sapiens lay ruin and feast to anything that breathed. The world now belonged to the dead, they were suitably adapted to the unforgiving nature of the world.

Their past minds had been erased, the concepts of a once modern life vanquished as society was. There was nought memories of waiting in endless queues in supermarkets, or eating a buttered bucket of popcorn in a movie theatre. All that corrupted the simple minds of the corpses was necessity to devour anything that they envisioned as food - your mindsets were now of similar values in that slim respect.

Just thinking of your mouth being bitterly tainted with a murderous wash of irony blood revolted you; it was something that you would never swallow, literally. Ripping into human flesh with your very teeth was a repulsive reminder that one bite, or a death without a deadly pressure to the brain, would turn you into one of those monsters. You had to remain alert, despite your body’s almost hypnotic drowsiness to fall asleep.

At least Rick and Michonne had each other, even if they did not acknowledge the true depth of their reciprocated support. You could tell that through their reunion something had changed within their dynamic, and you missed the deep likeness of companionship that you had shared with Daryl. Often times than not, you and the southern blooded archer would be among the seemingly endless forestation that surrounded the safe homestead of the prison, tracking and hunting critters that could surpass as an edible hors d'oeuvres.

There would be bashful conversations drifting between the two of you, whether that be a suave competition of whom could catch the most lustre of nut harbouring squirrels, or- well, in simpler terms, a concoction of unholy words that would prevail when he was erratically buried inside of your cunt. You’d go at it like rabbits in prosperous heat whilst present in the woods; the prison had no privilege of privacy since the residents of Woodbury had adjoined with the residing numbers.

And that was the thing you missed the absolute most, having your man close, in any which way. That cramped bunk within your sheet concealed cell was something you’d die for currently, you adored being pressed up against Daryl’s chest, listening to his tame heart beat, as you fell tentatively asleep.

Watch was more exhausting than it appeared, with a traipse dignifying each of your steps, you rubbed your heavy eyelids, hoping to excuse the tiredness that was overwhelming your body. In your dominant hand you used your shotgun as a walking cane, forcing yourself to return to your cell that you missed dearly. It was better than falling into a shrouding slumber in the middle of the hall; that almost sounded tempting, considering you wouldn’t have to move any further through the large prison, but you had more reason than a cot to sleep on calling your name.

And you saw it as you achingly slid past the hanging drape of a sheet that allowed some privacy in the individual cell that you always returned to and housed your random array of nicknacks that you had picked up on runs into permanently closed stores. Daryl’s body was strewn across the thin mattress, his hand laid across his face covering his depth-full eyes, as his chest rose and fell in an irregular accordance - he was still conscious, unable to doze off into plentiful rest.

Your lips tugged in an endearing smile that he couldn’t see, and you couldn’t resist from creeping closer. That was all you required, to be close to him. There were only a handful of steps remaining until you got to your desired destination, and without so much of a thought, you persevered. “Hey.” The tone that radiated from you was weak, throughout the daytime, your schedule had been filled with condemning tasks which were necessary to keep the smooth run of the prison a constant. Whilst you were doing your maintenance, there had been a not so big, yet not so small, hoard of walkers appear from over the horizon.

Michonne had joined you with handling their swift executions, but your shoulders ached from the striking violence, and the dragging of water caskets; the council, of which you were a part of, had decided to move them out of the sun so their contents would be of a hydrating temperature.

“Ya okay sunshine?” Daryl rolled around so that he was on his side, and sat up on the edge of the bed with a crouching back so that he could view your approach of him. You came to stand between his legs, enjoying the sensation of his hands running around your hips, their warmth filling you with comfort. To lull into the atmosphere which was turning sensual, your fingers coiled in his hair, running through the locks that had grown over the months.

His nose ran softly up your stomach, as he buried his face into your form, having reciprocated your yearning for his company. With a smooth drag from his strong arms, you fell delightedly into his lap, your faces meeting in a staring match as he brushed the side of your face with his hand. “Love ya, so fuckin’ much, my stunnin’ girl.” He mumbled, leading your lips to his in a slow and meaningful collision. The moment was tender, doused in every word that you were too exhausted to say aloud. You were communicating via your actions, discarding the apparel that concealed your bottom halves, giving you the opportunity to slide your cunt down on his erect cock.

You felt blissfully full, the qualms that had bent you to their will through the day slipping instantaneously away. The cupping of your palms positioned themselves on his exposed shoulders, and you ground your hips together, feeling his tip prod deep within you. Daryl shuffled back, kicking his legs out as he wrapped his arms around your frame, treating you so delicately as he fucked you from below. His lips cascaded along every inch of skin that your tank left bare, expressing his adoration for you with his lips and the little circles he drew along your hips. He could never get enough of being close to you, since the first time the two of you had shared together, he had gained more confidence with his role in the sexual situations you shared.

The breaths that huffed past your lips in attempts of being quiet were addictive to his ears, he was desperate to get an audible sound to fester out of you, but the pleasured expression that was imposed on your face was enough; he knew that he was making you feel amazing, and in these lovemaking events, that was all that mattered to him. He groaned at the thought of being somewhere private, where you could make a sound without disturbing anybody, or risking walkers stumbling upon you.

You were close, Daryl could feel it, your walls clenched uncontrollably around his length, which drove him wild, and cautiously he bucked his hips upwards a little faster, careful not to cause the bed to squeak to badly as there were people sleeping in both cells either side your own. He sat further up, his back straighter so that he could brush his teeth gently along your jaw, driving you wild as your hands drove beneath the sleeveless sides of his shirt, caressing his scarred flesh with tentativeness.

You were snapped out of your daydream in the omnipotent dark as you felt the scuffing of crinkling leaves, and before you could adjust into defensive action, there was a cold metal muzzle pressed into your muzzle, by a man with silver locks and a denim vest suited to his greedy physique. Without a doubt, these were the same men that had traipsed upon the house that you and Rick had been inhabiting whilst Michonne and Carl were strolling the streets.

They were claimers to objects they valued as things that their greed thirsted for, and you shuddered a breath as the man threatening your life steadied his grotesque arm upon your shoulder all the whilst he opened his mouth to converse impolitely. “Maybe we’ll keep this one alive, she’s a looker.” It felt as though he was bragging about the possibility to his hungry followers that you could be his property.

He recognised Rick that was for sure. You’d been a witness to the man that had taken it upon himself to cozy his fat ass on the toilet, and the way in which his throat was denied oxygen to passage through it. You and Rick had been huddled under the bed that dipped from their pocket heavy weights as you had ran to awaken him as you were certain you’d heard something before they bustled into the once home to a stranger that was no doubt long dead. And in your escape, you had put a deadly pressure on the invader’s throat… until he permanently passed out.

To exasperate your distaste for his misogynistic idea, you spat upon the ground, your nostrils flaring as you dared to spin your head back so that his gun was resting upon your forehead. If he was going to shoot, he might as well make it quick, considering you didn’t intend to be alive if they had the intentions of taking sick advantage of your body.

As you prepared to retort an insult that foully would cause further trouble for you and your friends, they momentarily became distracted but still alert as a figure slunk onto the clearing. You had to allow your vision to focus, and when it did, you were shocked in the best possible way. It was Daryl, and he was certainly alive. He seemed to be acquainted with this pack of scavengers, and you realised that the ordeal in which he had went through was the only way in which he could have survived.

He didn’t liken association with low lives that threatened those he cared about, however he hadn’t seen their full nature until now. Daryl felt at a crossroads as he took complete acknowledgment of the weapon that was frozen against your skull; he couldn’t be rash, they were a lousy, impulsive group, and he was lit with elation in every cell of his body to see that you were still breathing.

“Jus’ hold up.” His gentle footsteps were slowly approaching in a careful regard as his voice strained with caution. He couldn’t help but eye Joe up - he had a gun to your damn head! If he pulled that trigger… he wouldn’t allow that bullet to be released. You were far too great a risk to have on the line, he had to settle this, like a man. Rick was squinting up at him, determining the reason for the unsurprising reaction the claimers had given his presence.

“One of these two is the one that killed Lou so we got nothing to talk about.” The rugged, richly certain statement fled from one of the thieving men, as he had his long barrel raised, Rick being the focus on the end of his gun that had most likely been stolen in the crossfires of their apocalyptic journey. Anything was loot to them, even with their rules, they were scoundrels no doubt before the end of the world had began, and they would leave it no different. But Daryl wasn’t willingly going to allow them to either kill or claim you, your worth was insanely precious, and he wouldn’t allow all you had been through to be for nothing.

“The thing about nowadays is we got nothin’ but time.” Joe said from behind you, realising that finally, Daryl had proven himself despite the cautionary warnings and delivered punishments that the archer had bore witness to, but he was just to be a loss to them if he didn’t get behind the way, then he would just be an obstacle in the way. “Say your piece Daryl.” This was his final chance, but he had been given an opportunity. Joe liked to think of himself as an understanding man, there was always a reason as to why a swine didn’t want to roll in the mud; his gaze noticed that your eyes didn’t deter away from the redneck that was new to his ranks. There was an expression that he didn’t recognise upon upon your face, but he was willing to use it for his own purposes if it came to such a crossroads.

“These people…” Daryl cast his eyes momentarily at you again, as though he was pleading for you to remain still and allow him to be the peacemaker. And you subtly nodded, brows drawing together as you concentrated on the group members who had taken up space in your surroundings. “You gon let em go. These are good people.” He was attempting to find some humanity in this man who was leaning like a shadow over you, if there was any. It was the same careful traipse of dialogue that he would use with Merle when he was being inconsiderate before the outbreak, it hardly worked, his brother would laugh and call him a pussy, but Daryl had learned how to use his heart.

It was there to love, and whilst it still felt new, to be loved. These were his people, you were his person, and it was his responsibility to save you. He had tried to protect Beth, and whilst she had gotten out of that mortuary house with her life in tact despite the wave of walkers that had invaded through the front door, she still had to be alive. And so did the others, wherever in the country they were, no one was weak, each of you had your own strengths and that would get you somewhere. It had to.

“Now I-I-I think Lou would disagree with yer on that.” The grey haired man stuttered, and you weren’t sure whether it was due to the lack of respect he felt from Daryl whom he had taken in as one of his own - a stray, or if he felt inferior. You supposed it was the latter, there was a continual pattern with each man that fought for power that you had noticed after your encounters. They feared any soul opposing them, it made them appear frail and insecure, just like the Governor had been with the instances involving Andrea and Michonne. “I’ll of course have to speak for him an’ all because your friends here strangled him in a bathroom.”

Guilt overflowed like a faucet in your throat; you didn’t regret killing ‘Lou’. Rick had been your supporting witness, but there were no longer court trials condemned to determine the punishments for living, instead those that thought they were in control of the passers-by that they encountered - and to them, what fit every crime was death. There was now nought reason for you to brood in your squalor, you could see Daryl’s face, and if that was the last image that you had earned before the end of your life, you were glad. Though you were stubborn to go out fighting, otherwise your entire life after the prison; the tears, the passiveness, and the little amount of blood that had spilt from you would all have been for nothing.

“You want blood, I get it.” Daryl read them, Joe had already killed one of his own men, he wouldn’t hesitate when it came to a found family of strangers. They weren’t good people, they were miscreants that had given him the choice to either join them on their sin induced travelling, or die. And he had been broken, lost and alone, there had been no other choice if he had the intent of surviving in order to drains you. With disregard, he threw his arms in a stance, disarming himself as his crossbow flew out of his hands, falling on the ground, showcasing that he had an offer that Joe would not justify with a refusal “Take it from me man. Come on.”

Your heart swelled, Daryl was putting his own life on the line so that he could save you and your friends. A glaze of emotion was cast over your eyes, as you tried to slow your heartbeat, if you panicked, none of you would get out of this. “This man and woman killed our friend. You say their good people.” It was ironic, if you weren’t so shocked you would have stifled a laugh. These people weren’t friends, there weren’t any tears for their dear Lou, no, they craved any excuse to take and take and take. The revenge they were stubborn with pursuing was only a reason to get their hands bloody, and feel powerful as they got further away from the concept of being a human. “Now that right there i-i-is a lie. It’s a lie!”

Daryl couldn’t bargain through this, they were set in stone when it came to their perception of inflicting both emotional and physical pain. With disappointed defeat, his arms flopped haplessly at his sides, as he continued to stand straight. He had to get through to them! They could budge just a little, he just had to encourage them, make them believe that letting you live was the wrong thing to do. “C’mo-” Before he could continue his pleads to be the centre of violent attention, one of the lowlife claimers wretched their foot into his stomach, causing him to wheeze uncontrollably from the harsh impact.

At the sight alone of him getting hurt, it was on instinct that you prepared to swerve into action. You had to stop this, you had to save him. Your hands scratched against the golden leaves that were all over the ground as you tried to scramble up on your feet, attempting to prevent further bruising or blood withdrawal from Daryl’s body, however a sharp pain flew through your scalp. Joe had grabbed you, maintaining you as his hostage as his fingers weaved aggressively through your hair, forcing you to jut your chin out from the painful discomfort.

“Teach him fellas.” His tone was strong as he beckoned his orders, his deep, soulless eyes twitching from the agitation that had pent up within him. “Teach him all the way.” He ensured that they were aware of what he wanted, and the rest of the claimers were gratified to comply with his protocol of brutality, shoving Daryl up against the frozen vehicle, the clash of his body against it being audible from where you knelt. They threw punch after hateful punch, and Daryl struggled to maintain his stance against them; it was two against one.

“C’mere boy.” The words were growled out through the open car door, as Carl was dragged away from the hiding space. He couldn’t escape, and the claimers were getting the best of your group, and they were in afraid to draw blood. A knife was held firmly against the boy’s throat, and your eyes bulged from the petrifying suspense. Tears slipped from Carl’s blue eyes that had witnessed far too much for his age, and Rick began to panic. Lori had lost her life when she was birthing Judith, who now was also somewhere in the unknown, probably dead. He wouldn’t fail as a father a second time and allow his remaining child to die. “You leave him be!” Rick bellowed, which only made the sick men chuckle at his despair as they held him down from writhing towards an escape to rescue his son.

“Listen it was me! It was just me!” The words shrieked from your lips, as you felt a pool of despair puddle in your eyes. This was all because of you, perhaps if you hadn’t panicked within the moment of entrapment, and you hadn’t forlorn Lou to whichever afterlife lay after the present, then the claimers would have spared you, envisioning you as stragglers that had done no harm. There was a debt to be paid; a score that Joe felt he had to settle, and it was all because of your pathological actions. If anyone had to own up and pay the cost of taking the life of their adjoined associate, it should be you.

They wanted a permanent justice of a life, and you were happy enough to allow them to take it, as long as you were deemed the victim. That said however, if there was a route away from a pledged sentence, you would take it so that your entire family, including you would be spared. You just had to wait for the opportunity to present itself, and then there would be no hesitation on your part. “See now that’s right.” Joe’s words saturated your spine with a discerning flavour of fright, as he pushed the threatening metal harsher against the shell of your brain.

Rick’s eyes drifted in a frantic debauch between his sobbing son, who was thrashing under the weight of the gruesome man who conveyed him as nothing more than an activity; he’d enjoy watching him die; and you, whom was rigid from head to toe. His mind tried its damndest to calculate a way to save you both, you’d become like a sister to him despite the arrogance that you’d greeted him with back at the Atlanta camp, blaming him dreadfully for Merle’s captivity on that rooftop, rather than Merle and his big, loud and agonising mouth that tended to land him in a swarm of trouble. You had always been on Daryl’s side, but now you shared a connection after the fleeting experiences that had doubtlessly backed you against a wall.

“That’s not some damn lie. Look we can settle this, we’re reasonable men.” Joe reasoned with self interest and vengeance, his stone irises scouring languidly down your tense body from above, a little impressed that a woman had managed to withdraw the life of one of his boisterous comrades. His breath heaved down on you, making your skin crawl with distaste. And so he continued, making you all the more seasoned with spite. “First we’re gonna beat Daryl to death. Then your friend next to you. Then the other girl. Then the boy. And then we shoot you and then we’ll be square.” His maniacal laugh retorted in an echo, as his words truly sunk in. There had been enough devastation, and you viewed each of those you cared for with compassion.

Carl was writhing across the golden leaves that appeared gray beneath the silver moon, leaking from his tear ducts with agonising fear. Rick was stern with his demanding pleas that did nothing but resort humour into the audience that had you at gun point. Michonne was wide eyes and prepared for any intrusion that could occur, silently realising that you would be the culprit to begin a ravenous fight. And Daryl, god Daryl was swinging his arm back as much as he was able, losing against the two men that had the delight of using him as a punching bag. You couldn’t wait any longer, no one was on their way to save you, there was no other choice but try again, planning on a physical tactic this time.

“Let them go.” You hissed dangerously thro the your teeth, flickering your eyes around one last time, managing to make eye contact with Michonne, the gun against her braided head remind you that it was now or never. Joe felt hilarity from your demand, and you repeated it in an increased volume, distracting him with the sound of your voice before you threw your head back, whacking the man behind you with a mind numbing force. The bang of a bullet stirred a hazy cast across your field of vision, spiring a high pitched scream of white noise in your ears, but it was worth it. Joe had stumbled aback, the impact having arose a newfound course of adrenaline to fluster through your pumping veins.

With the rush that jolted you into a spiralling spree of sudden action, you span around, standing upon your two feet as you threw a heavy punch to your enemy’s tired face, a concerned look transpiring upon Rick’s face, as Daryl failed with unfortunate consequences to prevail in his hand to hand combat hustle. In return, you had earned a blow to the face, the force of Joe’s fist causing you to be upon the floor once again. “Oh it’s gonna be so much worse now.” To support his promise, his foot met with your ribs, causing a holler and a pained gasp to escape you; there would no doubt be a bruise left if you survived this assault.

Another slap brandished your face with a stinging hue, as you stumbled up, staggering slightly as you did your best to focus on winning this physical battle. “Come on, get up! Come on, let’s see whatcha got.” He was teasing you, drowning you with anger from the mockery he betrothed you with, as a red line ran pleasantly from his nose. “C’mere!” He growled, prompting you for more, and to see his blood spill was a divine gift, even as he breathed disgustedly against you as he grabbed you by the waist, holding you in front of his body. “What the hell you gonna do now slut?”

There was no possibility of escaping his grip with your form alone, he was a sturdy man, albeit an evil one, but he had you in his monstrous clutch. Your brain racked with a free flow of a matching immoral high ground, and thus you thought of the walkers, and how they took life. Your noggin tossed back in a flurry of monstrosity, your teeth gnashing until they pried formlessly upon his throat, the flesh running between each porcelain tooth as you found purchase in the skin, tugging with animosity, until the torn fragment of his body was pulled away, blood spattering in a revolted spray from your mouth.

The claimer gradually fell, pausing his team from their desolate nature of commanding death as their leader met his end, laying in a lifeless pile on the ground. Michonne and Rick pursued their captor’s, sweeping their lives away in a more sophisticated fashion than you had, and Daryl gained the upper hand from your repulsive distraction. As Rick fled from where he had knelt, he sprinted to pursue Carl’s release, as you remained still, shocked with your own tactile second nature. Your face was half covered in blood, like you were a young child whom had gotten into their mother’s makeup bag, but that wasn’t the reality. You shook, astounded with trauma.

Arms coiled around you, as Daryl held your crimson chin in his hand, looking lovingly at you despite the circumstances that had lead to your freedom. “Sunshine.” The term was distinctly ironic, but the cigarette husk that adorned his throat remained full of love. Since the outbreak you had all had to complete extensive steps to remain breathing, and your breath stuttered as you wanted nothing more than to bury your face in your archer’s chest, but he held your head up, as he dragged the red rag from his pocket, swiping across the stain that made the rag even redder. As you looked around yourself, you saw past the massacre and felt relief.

This was home; these people, especially the one right in front of you. His hand stroked roughly against your cheek as a long, heartfelt peck was planted upon your forehead. He had found you, in this sick world that had all of you lost. You smiled at him, resting your forehead against his as you shared a harmonious breath. “I’m just happy your alive Dixie.” You tried to uplift the mood, as did Rick and Michonne, as they fussed with care over Carl. Daryl couldn’t care less for the state that you were displayed in, he pulled you closer, unable to resist your lips. You shared a kiss, it was passionate and filled with circumstantial desperation, your hands pulled at his neck as you tried to get his face closer.

You could only move on from this happening, there was no dwelling. There was no guilt bore in your chest, those that tried ripping you apart deserved a worse fate, and you had only been fair since considering the consequences they had imposed on forcing you to experience. The Governor was the same, and so would the next foolish soul that failed the lengths that you would all go through to protect each other. You felt sick from the vehemence that had concurred from your body, but you had found more pieces of your familial puzzle, and you had every intention of finding the rest.

[seneon]

heyhey i just found your blog cause my love for touya just came back and i really liked your headcannons on him and how you picture him with an harley quinn girlie, it’s just how i picture him too.

can you write something based on the phrase “call and i’ll rush out” or “i’d let the world burn for you”, i really think they both match him so much. thank you so muchhh

LET THE WORLD BURN ──── joker¡! touya.

about. joker¡! touya × fem harley¡! reader trope + coded headcanons. apart of kiss me until my lips fall off.

notes. i will reduce the toxicity in the jarley trope trust. also their theme song is definitely let the world burn and always been you, both by chris grey.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ joker¡! touya. who's actually rottenly smitten with you, his only reason of living besides the man who created him. you're his pride and joy, the light to his darkness. this man treats you like a spoiled brat, always having a reward for you no matter what you do. he's so sooo damn sugary with his words too, calling you names that would make you feel like melted jelly. seeing your reaction also feeds to his ego.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ joker¡! touya. who's mad, like. insane, unhinged, out of his sick mind. yet he still puts you above every and anything else, even if it means he has your life on the line. though, touya always makes sure to have you behind his back where you cannot see whatever he has executed in your presence. of course, he doesn't want his pretty girl to drink in a bloody sight, even if your gaze have been tainted red.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ joker¡! touya. who will be at your side in literal seconds or minutes, depending on the situation and his wrath that burns. "just call, and i'll rush out, pretty doll," he says, voice so enchantingly dangerous that it pulls you into a pool of obsession. "mm, i will," you always reply to him and he's always kissing your bloodstained lips just so he could clean your lips for you because he doesn't want any nasty and unwanted dirt on his sweet beautiful girl.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ joker¡! touya. who would let the world burn just. for. you. and he actually does it. he burns, sets places on fire, creates flaming chaos and calamity all for the sake of you. doesn't matter if you're attacked or not. if you don't like one place, touya will not hesitate to ignite that place on fire. if you're treated badly at that venue, fire. men leered at you? flame. it's dirty or slightly discomforting to you? burn burn burn. what's the surprise? he'll kill for you so why won't he burn down places just for you?

𖥔 ݁ ˖ joker¡! touya. who doesn't forget that you're just like him sometimes, all in love and over him like a leech. he loves the way you'd excitedly greet him and immediately shower him with kisses all over his face. sometimes he's angry and he doesn't want kisses, you can tell. you'd let him cool off a little. and every single time, touya will be the one who calls out to you and insist you come closer to him. then he lets you shower him with the affection that he needs most. makes him happier that you'll him about your day and how you handled a few men and knocked them out cold when they want to harass you. he's so proud of his girl ♡ but look, those men will never see the light of day ever again.

© SENEON 2024 ♱ do not repost, alter, or translate.

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

PAINTED WORSHIP Nanami x Prim Princess!Reader

Minors and ageless blogs don't fucking interact

Pairing: Nanami Kento x PrimPrincess!Reader

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 1491

Warnings: Slightly jealous!Nanami, Posessive!Nanami, plus size reader, female bodied reader, Marks left, no protection (wrap up kids), Food used as an aphrodaisiac (ice-cream)

Summary: When Gojo gets a little peek down your top, Nanami can't stop hiimself from marking whats his.

A/N: What the hell happened?? I sat down to write this thinking it'd be a cute little blurb net thing i know we're at a thousand plus words??? Anyway i wrote this while cooking okra. such an unsexy scenario please keep in mind when you read lol ok byeeee

sort of pt1 here

Pretty prim princess of the Jujutsu world. No one expects you to leave long scratches down the length of your boyfriend’s back every night. No one expects you to be face down-ass up, shoved into the mattress; Nanami Kento pounding into you from behind. No one expects that you get slapped on your ass every time because he loves watching it jiggle.

Nanami is so careful not to leave visible marks on you. He too has a reputation to maintain after all. The hand print on your bum, the little hickeys that litter your chest – these are meant for his eyes only. It’s unfortunate that Gojo got a little peek though; when you bent over to take a look at what he was trying to show you at his desk, and he turned his head, only to be met by the perfect view down your top. The swell of your décolletage tantalizingly close and the gentle bruises all over your skin standing out in a harsh contrast. 

“I have to go!” He said standing up suddenly. “I—”

Gojo sprinted to the loo, almost crashing into an amused Nanami, leaving a befuddled you wondering what happened.

“Wha–” you started straightening up. 

“I think we better get you some turtlenecks” Nanami said stepping close to you and pulling your neckline higher. You looked down and your eyes widened. 

“Do you think he saw?” you whispered into his chest. 

“Lucky bastard… I have half a mind to gouge out his six eyes” He lays a hand on your chest. As if trying to make sure your top would never again leave your skin and presses a reserved kiss into your hair. “You’re mine. For my eyes only…” 

It was a wonder how Nanami made it through the day when all he could think about was how he needed to leave fresh marks on you tonight. Marks that would not be tainted by some other eyes: only for him. 

His arms encircled you, the minute you stepped into your shared apartment, lips planted on your neck he sucked at your skin. Your knees buckled and Nanami held you up, knowing it was coming. 

“Min-min…” You started in a feeble attempt to placate your lover but a low growl stopped you from continuing. His tongue bullied your neck, and his hands shifted your focus to your breasts which he squeezed fingers searching for your hardening nipples under the fabric of your blouse. 

You couldn’t help but throw your head back and moan. Thankful that you were still supported by his arms. You could feel Nanami grinding against your back. The bulge that grew in his pants made you wet just thinking about it. 

“Min-min…” you tried again. 

Nanami sank his teeth into the spot he’d been worshipping in response making you yelp with the shock. “Nanami! What the fuck!?” 

He released you and you turned to look at him. His pupils were blown and his lips were red “We need to eat, but I’m not done with you… ” Saying this Nanami squeezed your ass and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving you to collect yourself. 

Dinner was quick. You always meal planned during the weekend so everything was ready for Nanami to pop into the oven for a quick broil. Nanami finished dinner by serving you a helping of your favourite ice-cream which you both took to the couch to enjoy but once he was done, he climbed over you in a swift movement. “I’m hungry.” 

“What… We just ate Min-min, were the portions not en—” 

You were cut off by his ravenous mouth on yours. Licking at the ice-cream you were still eating. He sucked on your lower lip as if in answer to your unfinished question. His hands came up once again to knead at your breast. 

A low moan escaped you and you felt your bowl being taken from your hands and set aside while Nanami kissed you over and over. His lips slid down from your mouth to his last conquest and he lapped at it gently hearing you hiss at his touch. The indents his teeth had left on your skin stood out against his tongue, and for a moment Nanami felt guilty. But the feeling was quashed with a simple roll of your hips that begged him for more. 

“Kento… need you…”

Nanami grabbed hold of your ass lifting you onto his lap steadying you with one hand he retrieved the ice cream bowl with the other and handed it to you. 

“Feed me.” 

You took the spoon, ready to let him have some from you but he shook his head. 

“Off you.” 

Your cheeks burned but you slowly dripped a drop of the cold desert onto your chest, right between your breasts. Nanami enthusiastically licked. 

“More. Please…” a gravelly plea.

You dripped it – this time down your breast, it rolled down your skin ending at your erect nipple. Nanami licked again, a stripe up your breast cleaning off the sticky sweetness. His tongue returned and flicked at your nipple and you shuddered. 

He reached a hand under your skirt and rubbed at your mound over your panties. “Come on beautiful, keep it coming.” 

You continued dripping ice cream down your body, cold streaks matching the red welts you left down Nanami’s back. And Nanami ate you like a starved man. He sucked and licked and bit, painting a masterpiece in shades of purple. His mouth never once left you, drawing prayer after prayer from your lips. His hands made quick work of your clothing, tearing off what you wore, and only then did he pause to take a good look at his masterpiece. 

You were a garden in springtime, flowers blooming across your skin. He palmed at the fat bulge in his slacks and you took the opportunity to lick the spoon in your hand of the little ice-cream left on it, trailing your tongue along the metal while never once taking your eyes off Nanami. With a snarl he was on you again, discarding the bowl and lifting you up in his arms to carry you to your bed. He dropped you onto the sheets and yanked down his trousers and boxers in a swift movement. Then he pulled you toward him and sheathed his cock in your dripping pussy. 

The initial stretch was always a little painful but tonight you were too aroused to notice the burn, you ripped Nanami’s shirt off, scattering buttons everywhere, his hands found home in your hair and pulled it out of the messy bun, gently holding your small head against his chest as his cock pounded into you. 

“Fuck— no wonder Gojo had to excuse himself. You have no fuckin’ idea do ya.” You could only whine. Body jerking with each thrust. You latched your mouth against his chest feeling his nipple and kissed and licked at it. Desperation pooled in your lower abdomen and Nanami thankfully kept pace. 

  “You have no clue what you do to people. How fucking alluring you are. Like a witch who’s cast a spell on anyone who gets a look at her…” your lover continued. 

“Min-min-n-n-n!” 

“Yeah baby? Gonna come for me?” His breaths were now ragged, his hips sped up thrusting harder. Two thick fingers were slipped between your folds rubbing firm circles at your clit. “I’m close too baby. Whadya say we come together huh?”  He didn’t falter. Fingers, cock, mouth all running you like a well oiled machine. 

You felt your climax just at the surface, ready to explode and managed to whisper a, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop, Ken– so close—” Your arms held his shoulders for support and you bit down on skin, muffling the long keening cry that found its way out of you as you came onto his cock and fingers. 

Nanami followed just after, hips coming to a juddering stop. He emptied his load in you dragging his cock out slowly, letting his release drip down to your ass. You fell back onto the bed exhausted, splaying your arms out for Nanami to come to you. Instead he lifted himself off the bed and took out his phone. You heard the click of a camera shutter and lifted your head. Nanami crawled up beside you showing you the picture. It was a shot of your dripping pussy, angled in a way that one could see the littered hickeys going up your torso. 

Nanami smirked into the shell of your ear. “An artist should always sign their work.”

The next day at Jujutsu High, Gojo noticed two things. One, you were wearing a brand new turtle-neck blouse. And two, later while talking to Nanami, he spotted a large dark mark at the base of his neck – unmistakable teeth marks in a perfect O. 

“Damn Nanamin, never took you to be experimental with flavours!” He teased. “Always thought you were a vanilla man.” 

The End

A/N: THIS WAS SO CRAZY TO WRITE OMG. A massive thank you to @erebus-et-eigengrau who sat and brainstormed this with me in the notes of pt 1.

Hearts and Reblogs are much appreciated and comments will get you KISSIE

[eldritch-spouse]

*kneels down at the bagel alter in the basement

“Pinnie… I can no longer keep this secret… I admit that I read your works before going to Church, think about your ocs during service, and make up scenarios in my head after communion…” 😔

What's this? Catholic guilt? In my blog? Oh, I have just the monster for you then...

Say hello to Caius!

See, in some slightly more remote or just particularly religious parts of the world, monsters were sometimes still part of certain religious practices adopted by humans. Believe it or not, there have been monsters in churches, yes. Key words are "have been", for they were quickly shunned.

One such old practice affirmed that sinners could be purified in a different way. People believed that, the more you sinned, the more your blood would grow "corrupt", and sickness would follow as punishment for your ill deeds. And thus, someone should extract that corrupt blood, so you can be pure again. That someone would be a monster, because only those with some level of siadar descent could perform the purifying ritual and not succumb under the supposed filth of the blood they ingest. Nowadays, in the few sections of the world that still practice this, it is not known why the person that performs this has to be a certain type of monster, but it is taken as an unspoken rule.

Naturally, all kinds of vampiric monsters flock to these positions.

What is Caius?

A leech. Figuratively and literally.

This kind of blood-leech monster is considered to be one of the oldest vampiric monsters to ever pop up. And, curiously, although many of his kind are easily abhorred by the wider populous as no more than ghastly sanguine thieves- He comes from a lineage that lucked out, sporting long-lasting ties to several churches that perform the aforementioned practice.

In the eyes of many catholics, he's seen as a holy figure, not to be questioned and to be addressed with the proper respect. It doesn't help that he falls into the role perfectly, dramatizing his existence as some kind of martyr, consuming the corruption of others at his own detriment- Oh, but it's a weight he will carry in his soul! For the good of the community! To make sure everyone is freed of vices and the taint of malice!

He's totally not just super glad he can gorge himself day and night... Trust him.

Much like his adopted name suggests, Caius Draug is a joyous drinker, often getting drunk on the blood of the sinners that come to him for purification, and becoming a rather jolly figure.

Until he's denied something he wants. Like a particular human of little faith. Oh, then things get a bit messy, yes. But fret not, if there's one thing a predator that relies on charm has, it's patience.

You'll come around, he knows. The church will love you.

[bbyquokka]

4:30 pm (lmh)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | lee minho x fem reader

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 | timestamp, smut – 18+ is strongly advised!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | established relationship, consensual somno, penetration (p in v), oral sex (f rec), clit stimulation, messy pussy eating, pussy drunk minho, spit play, grinding, squirting–if i missed any lmk!

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 | 1.2k ~ (1,265)

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 | the ending is kinda cringe but i didn't know how to end it! osabddjab! also, hugeee ty to @bintificreads for helping me with the warnings (and for the reassurance!)

♡ m.list — ♡ you can also read it on my ao3

dont repost. dont translate. minors, ageless & default blogs; dni! feedback and reblogs are highly advised and appreciated!

the mattress dips behind you. the bed frame squeaking a little due to the sudden weight. the scent of heavy aftershave hitting your nostrils as an attempt to cover up the smell of sweat but it’s a scent you know all too well.

“are you sleeping?” his breath fans against your cheek gently, the tips of his hair tickling your cheeks. you hum a little as a response before nuzzling in the pillow.

it's been a rough day for him and all he needs is something (or someone) to take his stress out on to so when he sees that silver necklace hanging around your neck that gives him consent, does he feel his cock twitch and excitement start to bubble in his stomach.

he swallows a little as he scans your body. his hands curled up into fists from the surging feeling of excitement. you're curled up in a ball, hand under your pillow, duvet covering half your body and showing off that flesh he so badly wants to taint with love bites and cum. 

“you're so pretty..” he whispers. you feel his soft and plump lips kissing your neck, suckling and biting gently before trailing up to your ear. he kisses and blows on the shell, causing you to shiver and groan softly. 

“i'm sorry, pretty. i just need a few minutes, i promise.” he pulls the duvet off you, satisfied to see you in flimsy panties. you feel the weight shift from behind to below you, your legs being slowly opened. his fingers sinking into your inner thighs, tongue licking his lips hungrily as he comes face to face with your core.

he glances up at you before taking a deep breath in and shakily letting it out. he leans in to kiss and mark your inner thighs, lips trailing closer and closer to your groin. you shuffle a little, humming softly before reaching down and itching your inner thigh from where his hair has tickled.

he lets out a soft laugh before trailing his fingertips up and down your folds through your panties. he applies a little bit more pressure on your clit, your body stirring as he slowly rubs your clit. pleasure starts to slowly spread throughout your body, traveling up your arms and legs only to be met in the pit of your stomach.

your lips part a little, allowing you to let out shaky and small breaths. minho traps his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches you. he rubs and teases your clit and entrance whilst watching you squirm and pant a little.

he slides your panties to the side. his breath hitching in his throat at the sight and scent of you. he's missed this, missed you and now you're all his for the taking. he closes his eyes briefly to allow himself a few minutes to calm down before pressing the pad of his finger against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

your chest rises fast as minho teases your clit. he rubs in circles and side to side, occasionally dipping his fingers into your entrance to gather some of your wetness to use as lubricant.

“m-minho..” you moan out softly. he presses his lips together in a thin line, his penis now straining against his sweatpants. he pushes his bangs away from his eyes before rubbing up and down your puffy folds with two fingers, coating the skin and his fingers thoroughly in your wetness.

“you have such a pretty cunt yn.” he mumbles to himself, eyes fixated on the way your entrance throbs. “it's to be expected though. you are pretty through and through. makes me want to taint you so badly..”

he glances up at you for a brief second. convinced that you're still somewhat asleep, he grabs the waistband of your panties and pulls them down your legs. discarding them on the floor, he shuffles closer to your core.

“so perfect, so pretty and it's all mine.” he hooks your legs over his arms, hands on top of your thighs to squeeze the soft and plump flesh. he flicks his tongue out, flicking your clit with the very tip. 

you groan, back arching up off the bed at the feeling. minho's eyes flutter close as he presses his tongue against your clit and swipes, giving it slow and long licks. he nibbles and sucks on the bud, teeth and tongue grazing over it delicately as his fingers sink into your flesh.

so caught up in the sensation, he doesn't notice you waking up. only when he hears his name does he glance up does he realise.

“you're awake.” he says for a brief second before his tongue is back on your clit, lapping away at it.

“yea–fuck!” you groan. you reach down and bury your fingers in his hair. you feel his tongue lick between your puffy folds before diving into your entrance. he laps at your juices, humming and rutting against the mattress as your taste and scent overpowers his senses.

he pulls away for a split second to gather some spit in his mouth. he spits on your pussy before rubbing your clit side to side at a fast pace. you tug on his roots, the pleasure overwhelming you at a fast rate.

he buries his face deep between your legs as he messily eats you out. spit and juices coat his lips and chin. his nose bumping against your clit. you grind on his face slowly, bruises slowly forming on your thighs from his tight grip. teeth nibbling on your clit. he occasionally pulls away to kiss and mark your inner thighs before the need to be attached to your pussy overwhelming him.

“love this pussy. want more of it. fuck, i want more!” minho shakily moans. the lust overpowering him, making him shake and babble. he goes several minutes without breath just to eat your cunt, purposely depriving himself of oxygen. his tongue diving in and out of your entrance, nose and fingers rubbing your sensitive clit.

his mind slowly clouding over. scenes heightening due to your taste, sound and smell. 

your legs threaten to close around his head, which they do, trapping him in between your legs. within a matter of minutes, however, your legs are forced back open. minho's lustful eyes gazing at you, his bangs covering them just slightly.

“minho.. so much. i might end up cumming if you carry on.” you pant heavily. the burning knot in the pit of your stomach getting tighter and tighter with each passing second.

“do it. cum on my face. give me everything, yn. i want it.” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut. you shake, orgasm fast approaching and which one final swipe of the tongue, your orgasm hits. 

your thighs shake as your juices coat minho's face. he pulls away briefly to watch you squirt out onto the sheets. he licks his lips as your pussy throbs and pulsates, minho licking his lips before diving back between your legs and licking the juices off your skin and entrance.

“m-min! b-baby!” you gently push him away due to oversensitivity. he allows it but only because he kneels up between your legs, pulls his sweatpants down and grabs your thighs, pulling you down and closer to him.

he grabs the base of his dick, rubbing your entrance with the tip before penetrating you. he groans at the warmth and wetness, but most of all; the tightness.

“you're going to be good for me and milk me dry, yeah?” he instructs. “i'm going to breed, taint and corrupt you.”

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 (𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍) | @bintificreads ; @septicrebel ; @alyszaen ; @writerracha ; @hyunluvxo ; @aestheticsluut ; @xcookiemonsteer ; @mnwrld ; @fairylouist ; @lilquokka04

[erisweekofficial]

Fanfic

Cures (Eris x OC) by @littlest-w01f

Hold Me Tight (Eris x OC) by @mika-no-sekai-blog

Siblings (Eris x Reader) by @bubybubsters

Game of waiting by @chunkypossum

Just A Scrape (Eris x Reader) by @hellcat8908

Healing/Betrayal by @clockwork-ashes

Dirty little secret (Eris x Reader) by @pit-and-the-pen

Caress Me Down (Eris x OC) by @zenkindoflove

His Father's Son (Eris x OC) by @the-darkestminds

And So We Danced (Eris x Nesta) by @acourtofladydeath

These Silent Hours (Eris x Nesta) by @whisperingmidnights

You Healed Me (Azris) by @fieldofdaisiies

Et Tu, Brute? (Azris) by @born-to-riot

Life Debts (Eris x Reader) by @surielstea

Burning Red Ch 2 (Eris x OC) by @separatist-apologist

Healing | Betrayal (Eris x OC) by @afandomangel

Coffee & Psychotherapy: Something New (Arzis) by @chairofchaos

Cold was the steel of my axe to grind (Eris x Reader) by @daycourtofficial

Strong & Resilient (Eris x Reader) by @mcuamerica

What Did You Bury Ch 1 (Azris) by @brunetterebel010

Gone Through Enough (Part 3) (Eris x Reader) by @thelov3lybookworm

Mother Save Us: Part Two (Azris) by @chunkypossum

Of our own devices by @illyrianbitch

Monster by @jules-writes-stories

A Bond of Song & Flames (Eris x OC) by @sadiegirl2021

This ain't no love that's guiding me (Eris x OC) by @lovely-vanserra-sunshine

Chains around my demons, wool to brave the seasons (Eris x Reader) by @daycourtofficial

What Could Have Been Chapter 2 (Eris x Elain) by @nocasdatsgay

“Why Not Me?” Part 2 (Azris) by @thomasisaslut

Gross Betrayals by @wishfulimaginings

Tainted Love pt 2 (Eris x Reader) by @readychilledwine

Crowded Battlefields: Lost Hearts (Eris x Reader) by @dee-writes-smut

Fanart

Healing/Betrayal by @bonecarversbestie

Healing | Betrayal by @elleybug

Healing by @climbthemountain2020

Healing | Betrayal by @secret-third-thing

Healing Hearts by @lucienarcheron

Betrayal by @conebrain

Betrayal by @/artbyellat (instagram)

A New Hope for Autumn by @daycourtofficial

My ache has a heartbeat (Azris) by @chunkypossum

Misc.

Eris Betrayal Moodboard by @littlest-w01f

modern Eris by @froggywizard

New Dawn by @spore-loser

Eris Headcanons by @lady-of-tearshed

Genderfluid/Transfem Eris Vanserra by @shadowqueenjude👑

Betrayal (Azris) by @chairofchaos

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A year in illustration, 2023 edition (part one)

(This is part one; part two is here.)

I am objectively very bad at visual art. I am bad at vision, period – I'm astigmatic, shortsighted, color blind, and often miss visual details others see. I can't even draw a stick-figure. To top things off, I have cataracts in both eyes and my book publishing/touring schedule is so intense that I keep having to reschedule the surgeries. But despite my vast visual deficits, I thoroughly enjoy making collages for this blog.

For many years now – decades – I've been illustrating my blog posts by mixing public domain and Creative Commons art with work that I can make a good fair use case for. As bad as art as I may be, all this practice has paid off. Call it unseemly, but I think I'm turning out some terrific illustrations – not all the time, but often enough.

Last year, I rounded up my best art of the year:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/25/a-year-in-illustration/

And I liked reflecting on the year's art so much, I decided I'd do it again. Be sure to scroll to the bottom for some downloadables – freely usable images that I painstakingly cut up with the lasso tool in The Gimp.

The original AD&D hardcover cover art is seared into my psyche. For several years, there were few images I looked at so closely as these. When Hasbro pulled some world-beatingly sleazy stuff with the Open Gaming License, I knew just how to mod Dave Trampier's 'Eve Of Moloch' from the cover of the Players' Handbook. Thankfully, bigger nerds than me have identified all the fonts in the image, making the remix a doddle.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/12/beg-forgiveness-ask-permission/#whats-a-copyright-exception

Even though I don't keep logs or collect any analytics, I can say with confidence that "Tiktok's Enshittification" was the most popular thing I published on Pluralistic this year. I mixed some public domain Brother's Grimm art, mixed with a classic caricature of Boss Tweed, and some very cheesy royalty-free/open access influencer graphics. One gingerbread cottage social media trap, coming up:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

To illustrate the idea of overcoming walking-the-plank fear (as a metaphor for writing when it feels like you suck) I mixed public domain stock of a plank, a high building and legs, along with a procedurally generated Matrix "code waterfall" and a vertiginous spiral ganked from a Heinz Bunse photo of a German office lobby.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/22/walking-the-plank/

Finding a tasteful way to illustrate a story about Johnson & Johnson losing a court case after it spent a generation tricking women into dusting their vulvas with asbestos-tainted talcum was a challenge. The tulip (featured in many public domain images) was a natural starting point. I mixed it with Jesse Wagstaff's image of a Burning Man dust-storm and Mike Mozart's shelf-shot of a J&J talcum bottle.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/01/j-and-j-jk/#risible-gambit

"Google's Chatbot Panic" is about Google's long history of being stampeded into doing stupid things because its competitors are doing them. Once it was Yahoo, now it's Bing. Tenniel's Tweedle Dee and Dum were a good starting point. I mixed in one of several Humpty Dumpty editorial cartoon images from 19th century political coverage that I painstakingly cut out with the lasso tool on a long plane-ride. This is one of my favorite Humpties, I just love the little 19th C businessmen trying to keep him from falling! I finished it off with HAL 9000's glowing red eye, my standard 'this is about AI' image, which I got from Cryteria's CC-licensed SVG.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/16/tweedledumber/#easily-spooked

Though I started writing about Luddites in my January, 2022 Locus column, 2023 was the Year of the Luddite, thanks to Brian Merchant's outstanding Blood In the Machine:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/26/enochs-hammer/#thats-fronkonsteen

When it came time to illustrate "Gig Work Is the Opposite of Steampunk," I found a public domain weaver's loft, and put one of Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes in the window. Magpie Killjoy's Steampunk Magazine poster, 'Love the Machine, Hate the Factory,' completed the look.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/12/gig-work-is-the-opposite-of-steampunk/

For the "small, non-profit school" that got used as an excuse to bail out Silicon Valley Bank, I brought back Humpty Dumpty, mixing him with a Hogwartsian castle, a brick wall texture, and an ornate, gilded frame. I love how this one came out. This Humpty was made for the SVB bailout.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/23/small-nonprofit-school/#north-country-school

The RESTRICT Act would have federally banned Tiktok – a proposal that was both technically unworkable and unconstitutional. I found an early 20th century editorial cartoon depicting Uncle Sam behind a fortress wall that was keeping a downtrodden refugee family out of America. I got rid of most of the family, giving the dad a Tiktok logo head, and I put Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes over each cannonmouth. Three Boss Tweed moneybag-head caricatures, adorned with Big Tech logos, rounded it out.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/30/tik-tok-tow/#good-politics-for-electoral-victories

When Flickr took decisive action to purge the copyleft trolls who'd been abusing its platform, I knew I wanted to illustrate this with Lucifer being cast out of heaven, and the very best one of those comes from John Milton, who is conveniently well in the public domain. The Flickr logo suggested a bicolored streaming-light-of-heaven motif that just made it.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/01/pixsynnussija/#pilkunnussija

Old mainframe ads are a great source of stock for a "Computer Says No" image. And Congress being a public building, there are lots of federal (and hence public domain) images of its facade.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/04/cbo-says-no/#wealth-tax

When I wrote about the Clarence Thomas/Harlan Crow bribery scandal, it was easy to find Mr. Kjetil Ree's great image of the Supreme Court building. Thomas being a federal judge, it was easy to find a government photo of his head, but it's impossible to find an image of him in robes at a decent resolution. Luckily, there are tons of other federal judges who've been photographed in their robes! Boss Tweed with the dollar-sign head was a great stand-in for Harlan Crow (no one knows what he looks like anyway). Gilding Thomas's robes was a simple matter of superimposing a gold texture and twiddling with the layers.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/06/clarence-thomas/#harlan-crow

"Gig apps trap reverse centaurs in wage-stealing Skinner boxes" is one of my best titles. This is the post where I introduce the idea of "twiddling" as part of the theory of enshittification, and explain how it relates to "reverse centaurs" – people who assist machines, rather than the other way around. Finding a CC licensed modular synth was much harder than I thought, but I found Stephen Drake's image and stitched it into a mandala. Cutting out the horse's head for the reverse centaur was a lot of work (manes are a huuuuge pain in the ass), but I love how his head sits on the public domain high-viz-wearing warehouse worker's body I cut up (thanks, OSHA!). Seeing as this is an horrors-of-automation story, Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes make an appearance.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Rockefeller's greatest contribution to our culture was inspiring many excellent unflattering caricatures. The IWW's many-fists-turning-into-one-fist image made it easy to have the collective might of workers toppling the original robber-baron.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

I link to this post explaining how to make good Mastodon threads at least once a week, so it's a good thing the graphic turned out so well. Close-cropping the threads from a public domain yarn tangle worked out great. Eugen Rochko's Mastodon logo was and is the only Affero-licensed image ever to appear on Pluralistic.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/16/how-to-make-the-least-worst-mastodon-threads/

I spent hours on the sofa one night painstakingly cutting up and reassembling the cover art from a science fiction pulp. I have a folder full of color-corrected, high-rez scans from an 18th century anatomy textbook, and the cross-section head-and-brain is the best of the lot.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/04/analytical-democratic-theory/#epistocratic-delusions

Those old French anatomical drawings are an endless source of delight to me. Take one cross-sectioned noggin, mix in an old PC mainboard, and a vector art illo of a virtuous cycle with some of Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes and you've got a great illustration of Google's brain-worms.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/14/googles-ai-hype-circle/

Ireland's privacy regulator is but a plaything in Big Tech's hand, but it's goddamned hard to find an open-access Garda car. I manually dressed some public domain car art in Garda livery, painstakingly tracing it over the panels. The (public domain) baby's knit cap really hides the seams from replacing the baby's head with HAL9000's eye.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town

Naked-guy-in-a-barrel bankruptcy images feel like something you can find in an old Collier's or Punch, but I came up snake-eyes and ended up frankensteining a naked body into a barrel for the George Washington crest on the Washington State flag. It came out well, but harvesting the body parts from old muscle-beach photos left George with some really big guns. I tried five different pairs of suspenders here before just drawing in black polyhedrons with little grey dots for rivets.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/03/when-the-tide-goes-out/#passive-income

Illustrating Amazon's dominance over the EU coulda been easy – just stick Amazon 'A's in place of the yellow stars that form a ring on the EU flag. So I decided to riff on Plutarch's Alexander, out of lands to conquer. Rama's statue legs were nice and high-rez. I had my choice of public domain ruin images, though it was harder thank expected to find a good Amazon box as a plinth for those broken-off legs.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/14/flywheel-shyster-and-flywheel/#unfulfilled-by-amazon

God help me, I could not stop playing with this image of a demon-haunted IoT car. All those reflections! The knife sticking out of the steering wheel, the multiple Munsch 'Scream'ers, etc etc. The more I patchked with it, the better it got, though. This one's a banger.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

To depict a "data-driven dictatorship," I ganked elements of heavily beribboned Russian military dress uniforms, replacing the head with HAL9000's eye. I turned the foreground into the crowds from the Nuremberg rallies and filled the sky with Matrix code waterfall.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/26/dictators-dilemma/#garbage-in-garbage-out-garbage-back-in

The best thing about analogizing DRM to demonic possession is the wealth of medieval artwork to choose from . This one comes from the 11th century 'Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros.' I mixed in the shiny red Tesla (working those reflections!), and a Tesla charger to make my point.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

Yet more dividends from those old French anatomical plates: a flayed skull, a detached jaw, a quack electronic gadget, a Wachowski code waterfall and some HAL 9000 eyes and you've got a truly unsettling image of machine-compelled speech.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/02/self-incrimination/#wei-bai-bai

I had no idea this would work out so well, but daaaamn, crossfading between a Wachowski code waterfall and a motherboard behind a roiling thundercloud is dank af.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/03/there-is-no-cloud/#only-other-peoples-computers

Of all the turkeys-voting-for-Christmas self-owns conservative culture warriors fall for, few can rival the "banning junk fees is woke" hustle. Slap a US-flag Punisher logo on and old-time card imprinter, add a GOP logo to a red credit-card blank, and then throw in a rustic barn countertop and you've got a junk-fee extracter fit for the Cracker Barrel.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/04/owning-the-libs/#swiper-no-swiping

Putting the Verizon logo on the Hinderberg was an obvious gambit (even if I did have to mess with the flames a lot), but the cutout of Paul Marcarelli as the 'can you hear me now?' guy, desaturated and contrast-matched, made it sing.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/10/smartest-guys-in-the-room/#can-you-hear-me-now

Note to self: Tux the Penguin is really easy to source in free/open formats! He looks great with HAL9000 eyes.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/18/openwashing/#you-keep-using-that-word-i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means

Rockwell's self-portrait image is a classic; that made it a natural for a HAL9000-style remix about AI art. I put a bunch of time into chopping and remixing Rockwell's signature to give it that AI look, and added as many fingers as would fit on each hand.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

(Images: Heinz Bunse, West Midlands Police, Christopher Sessums, CC BY-SA 2.0; Mike Mozart, Jesse Wagstaff, Stephen Drake, Steve Jurvetson, syvwlch, Doc Searls, https://www.flickr.com/photos/mosaic36/14231376315, Chatham House, CC BY 2.0; Cryteria, CC BY 3.0; Mr. Kjetil Ree, Trevor Parscal, Rama, “Soldiers of Russia” Cultural Center, Russian Airborne Troops Press Service, CC BY-SA 3.0; Raimond Spekking, CC BY 4.0; Drahtlos, CC BY-SA 4.0; Eugen Rochko, Affero; modified)

[suhjihanma]

The Collection

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro / Female Reader Content: Stepfather!Toji, daughter reader, stumbling across personal things, taboo-centered pairing. Author's Note: I'm alive. Great to be back. It's been a minute since I wrote something. Hope you guys enjoy this piece. Hopefully, I'll be a little more active once I'm done with midterms. Also, minors, age-less blogs, DNI. Thank you.

You see yourself...

Stumbling across your step-father's porn collection inside a folder while doing your assignments on the good ol' family computer.

Varieties of women, all recorded in various positions that left the pureness of your eyes. The eyes tainted with curious lust, pondering what a virgin body will feel like under rough hands as such as someone with experience. Prude thoughts of the essence came lingering to the back of your head, holding onto your fantasies like a vice.

The thought of studying for lab practicals seems far too gone now.

Stress takes upon you like no other, yet the fact that your step-father seems to take out his stresses with the sweet releases of impurity.

The echoing, wailing moans of pleasure seems to drown out whatever mindless thought that grown from the back of your head as you continuously watched women screaming out in pain, hinted along with graces of pleasure. As much as you wanted to hit that red button at the top, the fingers that waited hesitantly across the mouse didn't move an inch.

Hands becoming idle, you wonder what emotions will bring if you were under his touch. Nevertheless, you couldn't help the fact that with a man of experience, your step-father might treat you from of two things.

A women getting mercilessly fucked in ill-stained, even the endless shame of taboo.

or a women who choose to spite wrongfulness of sins, and covers her thoughts by suppression.

As a woman who gains the consciousness of right and wrong, from the time you were born, you had chosen the tabooed latter.

And a damn good one at that.

Moans and whimpers danced across your ears as you looked down at your studies in front of you. Surely, the endless piles of notes can wait, all you wanted was to pique your curiosity of the collection that your step-father has gather for years now. Even with small hints of nostalgia opening old memories, you wonder if he kept his collection hidden while you were still a child in his house. Odd, yet, interesting.

The thoughts of wanting more ached the core of purity. Seeking and stumbling on something so cluttered with filth, the continuous thoughts of wanting to look away grew more with strength as you heard a loud, booming voice fill the hallways of the house.

It was Toji making his presence known.

"Hey, ____, are you still on the computer? I got to make a conference call with my clients."

[half-oz-eddie]

I do not want to do discourse but I am quite tired so feel free to scroll past this or ignore it idc

First and foremost I do not care if other positivity projects exist. They can exist in unique ways for unique reasons. It's a beautiful thing. I'm sure people love what they do and they're doing it for fun. Personally? I love what I do. A normal amount. And I do it my own way. Kinley Café is my heartbeat and it's always been a project that I deeply enjoy and that I am passionate about. I ask for nothing in return except the chance to touch other people's lives and make them smile by sending out your orders.

I am so comforted by the amount of love and support I receive. It's motivating and has helped me through difficult times. I have been so distracted spreading joy that I've basically breezed through what is usually the most difficult month of my life.

And yet. And yet!! I have been reported as spam so the café does not come up in searches (it's limited/partially shadowbanned I guess you can say. I constantly worry that this affects people getting notified when they receive treats because I want them to know someone is thinking of them. But I have been communicating with Tumblr about it, so don't worry too much). I have received phishing links in DMs and on the order form. And more recently, a password protected blog that hasn't had any activity in 40 days receives nearly a dozen notifications out of the blue because of a months old post circulating as some sort of gotcha, and I find out someone is telling people that I copied an idea (from myself btw) and sent out anons trying to encourage people to call me out over...stealing my own idea?

And I don't wanna hear "they didn't know it was me" because nobody asked me shit! I didn't show anybody any disrespect. In fact, I was being supportive! I showed love! I took the time out to make something because I wanted to continue to encourage the spread the positivity.

And yet, people made accusations even though I was being kind? Do you want a trampoline since you like fucking jumping to conclusions?

KC has been open for FIVE weeks. And I've dealt with all this in a short period of time for absolutely no reason. I've been nothing but kind and supportive of others. I genuinely and sincerely try my best.

I don't wanna let this taint something beautiful or let anything discourage me from doing this again. But I swear to god.....this shit is getting really annoying and bringing out the worst in me. lmao why am I fighting for my life during this little hiatus? I'm dedicating my free time to creating things, and collaborating with others just to spread love and kindness. I don't want anything but peace and quiet.

What's next? Do I have to keep dealing with dumbassery? Or can I go back to sending out treats and going on about my fucking business? Because I do not have time for this. I do not want all this static!!!

I've turned off reblogs. If you want to talk to me privately that's fine but this has been a little overwhelming and I just wanted to get this off my chest.

[btsfests]

𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔣𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil: for these stories art with us. Let our prophets share their written word with you, and may you find yourself peeking into Heaven or Hell!

Fables coming your way January - February

♡ Title: After Dark ♡ Pairing: Ceberus! Maknae Line x Demon! Reader ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Fantasy, Drama/Angst, Smut ♡ Summary: Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin are your guard dogs, willing to do anything for you. You run an elite casino within the human world, disguised as a human, but you can only get in if you've been invited. Seokjin and Hoseok have been thorns in your side for years, witches hellbent on sending you back to the afterlife.

As scripted by @jmvore

♡ Title: Carry It With You ♡ Pairing: Human!Taehyung x Guardian Angel!Jimin ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health, Angst, Smut, Fluff ♡ Summary: Broken beyond repair, Taehyung is convinced that the Heavens have forsaken him. It’s Jimin’s responsibility to show Taehyung that there really is someone out there who cares.

As scripted by @gimmethatagustd

♡ Title: Celestial Ruin ♡ Pairing: Fallen Angel!Yoongi x Angel!(f)reader x Angel!Namjoon ♡ Rating: 18+ | Dead Dove ♡ Genre: Fantasy, Supernatural, Angels and Demons, Angst, Smut, Corruption ♡ Summary: Just being in his proximity made my skin crawl. As if his tainted wings were contagious and I was putting myself at risk just being near him. Yoongi was corruption incarnate. Once revered upon his throne and now cast aside for the sins he committed. Inky wings replacing the beautiful gold they used to be. The sign of the Fallen. And the way he looked at me said he wouldn't be sinking alone.

As scripted by @remedyx

Read Now

♡ Title: Cursed ♡ Pairing: Demon reader x new demon Namjoon ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: supernatural, crack, smut ♡ Summary: You manage to royally piss off demon lord Seokjin and he punishes you by giving you the assignment no one wants - shaping hapless IT guy Kim Namjoon into a freaky deaky demon.

As scripted by @hamsterclaw

♡ Title: Did It Hurt? ♡ Pairing: FallenAngel!Taehyung x LostSoul!f.Reader ♡ Rating: MA ♡ Genre: Fallen Angel AU | Angst, Smut, Mild Fluff ♡ Summary: Cast from the Heavens and forced onto the mortal plane for breaking his Oath of Holy Divinity, Taehyung only has one way to regain his wings after his exile is up or forever be cast into the 9th Circle—save a lost soul seeking absolution. As his one-hundredth year in exile approaches, his desire to return starts to wane and the kiss of Hellfire grows nearer.

As scripted by @colormepurplex2

Read Now

♡ Title: Fall from Grace ♡ Pairing: Demon!Seokjin x Angel!Jimin ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Romance, Smut, betrayal ♡ Summary: The rules for angels and demons are simple and straightforward and can be summed up as don’t interact. It’s not Jin’s fault that he’s mistaken for an angel.

As scripted by @downbad4yoongi

Read Now

♡ Title: Help! An Angel has Fallen and She Can't Get Back Up! ♡ Pairing: Human!Namjoon x Angel!Reader ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Idiots to lovers, angel summoning, fluff, humor, smut, crack ♡ Summary: Namjoon is satisfied with his life. He has great friends, a promising career, and feels confident he can face any challenge the future may bring. However, when he accidentally summons an angel while doing his dishes, he realizes he might be in over his head.

As scripted by @blog-name-idk

♡ Title: Lead Us Into Temptation ♡ Pairing: Demon!Hoseok x Human!Reader ♡ Rating: 21+ ♡ Genre: established relationship, demon possession, corruption, speculative horror, fluff, angst, smut ♡ Summary: Hoseok is as devout in his faith as he is dedicated to you, and the two of you live by a moral code of remaining pure and perfect – free from sin and temptation. But after Hoseok is stricken with a strange illness that changes him entirely, you wonder if the life you had before is truly the life you desire.

As scripted by @theharrowing

♡ Title: Mist of Chaos ♡ Pairing: Demon!Yoongi / Angel!Taehyung x f! Reader ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Supernatural, Demons, Angels, Angst, Smut. ♡ Summary: The tales told in the night, that 'it is hard to find the light'. You learn that what you see isn't always quite right. You find yourself soul-torn in a mystic valley after an unexpected incident. Alone, however, you were not as an angel and demon cling your shoulders.

As scripted by @taegicity

♡ Title: Reborn In Sin ♡ Pairing: demon!jimin x fem!reader ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: dark, supernatural, fantasy, angst, smut ♡ Summary: for years jimin was your constant and loyal companion in the church, he was a shining example of humility and compassion. but when he was tragically taken from the world before he could experience life, his heart was filled with anger and resentment. and so, in a moment of weakness, he struck a deal with the devil, trading his soul for a second chance at life. but when he returned, he was no longer your kind and devoted boy you once knew.

As scripted by @hoseokshobagi

♡ Title: Shadow of Mine ♡ Pairing: Demon!Taehyung x f. Reader ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Supernatural, Angels and Demons, Angst, Smut ♡ Summary: As one of the few humans in the world without a guardian angel to protect you, you’ve learned to take care of yourself - until you realize that perhaps you haven’t been as alone as you always thought.

As scripted by @sailoryooons

♡ Title: Talk to My Angels ♡ Pairing: human!taehyung and angel!reader, platonic ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Fantasy, humor i hope?, angst ♡ Summary: What should Taehyung pick for breakfast? Which shoes should he wear today? Should he accept the job or look for something better? No matter the significance, Taehyung always turns to his angels for answers. So when he finds you - a real-life angel - the surprise isn't that he can see you or that he accepts your existence. The surprise is that he makes it his mission to send you back where you belong.

As scripted by @daechwitatamic

♡ Title: The End Of All Things ♡ Pairing: Fallen Angel!Jungkook x Human!Namjoon, (Past Taekook) ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Fantasy, Alternate Universe — Angels & Demons, Slow Burn ♡ Summary: He moved with a silent sort of rage that could be felt in the air. There was no mistaking what he was at this moment, entirely unearthly and terrifying. It wouldn't surprise Namjoon if the very ground broke under his feet, Jungkook's very being screaming, look at what I've become, look what you have made me.

He made his way through the crowd, cutting down his foes with precision because he did not move in unblinded rage, — it was grief.

or a story about what it really means to be human.

As scripted by @jknoah

♡ Title: Touch of Hell ♡ Pairing: Devils son!Jimin x m!reader ♡ Rating: 18+ ♡ Genre: Fantasy, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort ♡ Summary: Finding himself exiled to the human world by his own father — the Devil himself, Jimin is stuck in a dilemma. Will the boy who stole his heart love him forever, or will he push him away after he finds out the monster he is ?

As scripted by @leohatter

♡ Title: Wish ♡ Pairing: Angel!Jungkook x Human!Reader; background Angel!Jin x Demon!Jimin ♡ Rating: PG-13 ♡ Genre: Fantasy, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn ♡ Summary: When Jungkook's mentor goes missing, he travels to earth in search of him and when he gets into a spot of trouble, a kind human helps him out. Determined to pay them back Jungkook insists on granting a wish but…

How do you grant a wish for someone who doesn't have one?

As scripted by @madbutgloriouspond