#feiten

[i-looove-dillydallying]

I made a meme

[mijnniemandsland]

Een Brief.

Hoe Je Jezelf een Brief naar het Verleden Stuurt: Handige Tips voor Tijdreizigers Mocht tijdreizen ooit mogelijk worden, dan is het sturen van een brief naar je jongere zelf een boeiend idee. Hier zijn enkele tips om je brief effectief te maken: Kies het juiste moment: Stuur je brief naar een tijd waarin een belangrijke keuze moest worden gemaakt, bijvoorbeeld bij het kiezen van een studie of…

[saulsplace]

Waarheid en Mythe

Bij mythen denken we aan meeslepende verhalen over helden en monsters, vaak duizenden jaren oud, helemaal teruggaand op Vikingen en Romeinen. Als we over mythen spreken in het dagelijks taalgebruik, dan positioneren we de mythe tegenover de waarheid. De mythe is dan synoniem voor ‘onwaarheid’: dat wat is verzonnen versus de werkelijkheid. ‘Nepnieuws’ of ‘desinformatie’ tegenover de ‘harde feiten’. Een sterk verhaal versus ‘hoe het echt zit’. Verbeelding en fantasie gecontrasteerd met de objectieve en dikwijls ‘droge’ realiteit.

Maar wat als ik u zeg dat dit contrast helemaal niet hoeft te kloppen? Dat mythe en waarheid géén contrast vormen, maar juist complementair zijn? Elkaar niet bestrijden, maar aanvullen? Het zelfs zo is dat de mythe en de waarheid elkaar nodig hebben, als wij als mensen hier een zinvolle interactie mee willen aangaan? Als u zich laat meenemen op deze reis – om deze valse oppositie tussen mythe en waarheid te ontmantelen – zult u daarmee één van de grootste filosofische dilemma’s hebben opgelost.

Eerst zal ik uiteenzetten wat ik versta onder Waarheid.

Waarheid en waarheidsclaims

Stel dat iemand hierop zegt: “De waarheid is onkenbaar, omdat er in het grote geheel te veel variabelen bestaan dan voor een mens te overzien zijn.” Hij of zij doet op grond van een groot aantal variabelen toch een uitspraak, waarvan diegene stelt dat die klopt. Dit biedt afdoende grond om aan te nemen dat er op basis van een ander aantal variabelen óók andere kloppende uitspraken mogelijk zijn. Dit maakt het mogelijk om naar waarheid te zoeken binnen het grote geheel.

Als we stellen dat waarheid niet bestaat, stellen we in feite dat het waar is dat waarheid niet bestaat. Een bewering die zichzelf ondergraaft, zoals met stelligheid beweren dat er geen absolute zekerheden zijn. Wie meent dat de waarheid onkenbaar is, zet zichzelf dus klem in een onhoudbare positie. Hoe kunnen wij op een zinvolle manier praten over het onderscheid tussen objectief en subjectief, als je bij voorbaat zegt dat het onmogelijk is om in de positie van objectiviteit te komen: de positie van waaruit je die scheidslijn trekt? 

Met andere woorden: om wat over de (on)kenbaarheid van waarheid te kunnen zeggen, moet je op een positie aankomen waar je subjectief van objectief kunt onderscheiden. Als je zegt dat alles en iedereen onvermijdelijk subjectief is, is die positie niet te bereiken. Wie beweert dat waarheid onkenbaar is, moet zijn gedachten alsnog formuleren alsóf hij waarheid claimt, om te kunnen worden begrepen. Je kunt de discussie verplaatsen naar waarschijnlijkheid, in plaats van waarheid, maar dan nóg moet waarschijnlijkheid de waarheid in mindere of meerdere mate overlappen, om minder of meer waarschijnlijk te zijn.

Relativisme en taligheid

Zelfs als ik geen controle over de wereld heb, dan vind ik mezelf terug in een positie waar ik met de wereld moet interacteren onder de aanname alsof ik wél controle over de wereld heb. Althans: ik moet aannemen dat de handelingen die ik verricht, ook de gevolgen teweegbrengen die ik nastreef. Met discussies over de waarheid is het ongeveer hetzelfde. Mensen die ervan uitgaan dat ze de waarheid kennen, hebben altijd sterkere claims, zijn meer authentiek gedreven, dan mensen die zich inzwachtelen met relativisme. Wie zich beroept op waarheid, moet immers ook sterke tegenargumenten kunnen trotseren, in plaats van claims te immuniseren tegen kritiek.

Wij kunnen de talige beschrijving van de werkelijkheid vergelijken met de werkelijkheid zelf. Dit maakt dat mensen hypotheses opstellen, toetsen, en vervolgens vervangen voor nog aannemelijkere hypotheses. Waarheid is géén functie van taal, want als je op die taligheid blijft hangen maak je jezelf kwetsbaar voor de taalspelletjes van linkse relativisten. 

Links wenst de autoriteit van kosmische en universele wetten niet te erkennen. Voor hen kan een man tegelijk een vrouw zijn – zelfs de elementaire bouwstenen van de kosmische orde, chromosomen, worden aan de kant geschoven. Wiskundige wetmatigheden zouden 'racistisch' of 'imperialistisch' zijn. Linksmensen bouwen een bubbel van wensdenken waarin morele verontwaardiging op de plek komt van reality checks. Zij dwingen anderen om hun bubbel van wensdenken in stand te houden met belastinggeld. Links gaat niet uit van een confrontatie met feiten en de wetten van de logica, maar enkel van ‘consensus’, waarbij ze zich beroepen op de autoriteit van instellingen die ze zelf hebben gecorrumpeerd.

Links is dus niet uit op een discussie waarin de waarheid van een claim wordt getoetst aan de basisbouwstenen van rationeel intellect. Ze willen enkel hun morele autoriteit bevestigd zien en hiervoor worden de universele wetten van de logica terzijde geschoven. 

Om dit alles te vermijden, definiëren wij waarheid als het overeenkomstig zijn van een uitdrukking van de werkelijkheid (zij het in woorden, gedachten of beelden) met de werkelijkheid zélf. In plaats van ‘uitdrukking’ mag u ook lezen: nabootsing. Het waarheid uitdrukkende medium hoeft niet talig te zijn. Het mag ook een tekening zijn of een uitdrukkingsvorm die in het heden nog niet voorhanden is. Waarheid is breder dan werkelijkheid, en omvat ook aspecten die met de huidige communicatiemiddelen nog niet te beschrijven zijn.

Dat wat de overeenkomst garandeert tussen de werkelijkheid en het materiële medium dat de werkelijkheid uitdrukt, is door Plato benoemd als het immateriële Idee. Stel iemand noteert een muzikale compositie. Het papier waar dit op staat vergaat en de persoon sterft. Een eeuw later noteert iemand precies dezelfde compositie. Er is geen materiële overdracht tussen beide componisten. Het is dus het immateriële Idee dat garandeert dat het gaat over de exact zelfde compositie.

Mythe

In mijn boek Huis van de Muze (2024) bespreek ik de Franse anarchist Georges Sorel (1847-1922) als voorloper op het vlak van de mythische scheppingskracht. Sorel benadrukte dat de wereld voortkomt uit arbeid en dat de richting van die arbeid wordt bepaald door mythes. Er is een gevoel, een beeld, een bepaalde visie van een eindbestemming, dat de arbeider richt bij elke slag die hij met zijn hamer uitvoert. In mijn boek worden stichtingsmythes geïllustreerd aan de hand van de lone wolf en de pionier: zij scheppen nieuwe mythen door hun sociaal-politieke structuren te verlaten.

Mythen zijn bepalend in de vorming van samenlevingen, zelfs als sociaaleconomische organisatievormen veranderen. Sorel stelt dat mythen de basis leggen voor maatschappelijk handelen. Mythen, als dragers van betekenis, zijn essentieel voor het begrijpen van de wereld en het scheppen van de kaders en context waarbinnen dat begrip mogelijk is. Woorden hebben namelijk slechts betekenis voor zover ze verwijzen naar weer andere woorden, zegt Joris Bouwmeester, met wie ik in Huis van de Muze brieven uitwissel. Hij stelt dat op de uiterste uiteinden van deze grote aaneenschakeling van betekenissen – dit web, dit netwerk – altijd mythe te vinden is en niets dan mythe… Ikzelf stel dat ieder geweven patroon rafelranden kent en dus ons talige web van betekenissen ook. De mythische kracht dringt binnen op het eindpunt van de taal.

Feiten zijn leuk en aardig, maar altijd ondergeschikt aan de mythe waarin ze hun plek krijgen: het wereldbeeld dat ze in een betekenisvol verband plaatst, en zo van waarde verschaft. Met wat duurdere woorden, krijgen feiten pas betekenis tegen het reliëf van een mythologische betekenishorizon. Want dezelfde feiten laten zich benutten voor uiteenlopende doelen, afhankelijk van de uitgangspunten waarmee deze feiten worden ingezet. Joris Bouwmeester schrijft: 

“Zoals je met een hamer kunt repareren, maar ook kunt slopen, al naar gelang de intentie waarmee deze hamer wordt gehanteerd, zo ook laten feiten zich gebruiken op wijzen die allereerst bepaald worden door de richting die is ingezet. Het is deze richting waar het allemaal om draait, en zij wordt door mythen gegeven.” (blz. 97)

Niet het ‘hoe’, maar het ‘waartoe’ is dus van belang. Niet ‘welke regels gelden er’, maar: Waarom volgen we deze regels en geen andere? Mythen zijn dus onmisbaar voor het voortbestaan van culturen en volkeren. De huidige arbeidscultuur, met haar flexbaantjes, hangt weer vast aan een mythologie van de ‘self-made man’. De industriële samenleving bewijst dat het conditioneren van mensen ook een eigen mythos vergt. De compartimentalisering van tijd en arbeid die typisch is voor de economische inrichting van de moderne tijd, hangt weer samen met het horloge, de stoomfluit en de schoolbel. Gaandeweg hebben deze mythes zich ontwikkeld en zijn bepalend voor onze economische oriëntaties en ons verstaan van tijd. 

Nieuwe mythes creëren

Het creëren van nieuwe mythen wordt niet altijd gewaardeerd: zowel de pionier als de lone wolf krijgen met tegenwerking en beproevingen te maken. Het is echter een cruciale taak die vaak gepaard gaat met het verwerpen van bestaande heiligdommen. Bij het vestigen van een nieuwe stichtingsmythe worden bestaande mythes getrotseerd om ruimte te maken voor nieuwe belevingen van de wereld, in overeenstemming met de levensfelheid van het individu dat wenst te scheppen.

Waar het aankomt op macht en politiek, vormen visies, verhalen en mythen de grondstof voor politieke energie. Joris en ik wisselen brieven uit over de vraag of we de spirituele genese van mythes aan AI moeten overlaten. Wij beroepen ons op de Muze – de godin van kunstzinnige inspiratie en mythische scheppingskracht – om een krachtige beeldentaal op te roepen die de Westerse cultuur moet herijken. Dit is nodig in het licht van opkomende uitdagingen, zoals de emancipatie van AI en de concurrentie met islam.

Waarheid en mythe komen samen

We keren terug tot het uitgangspunt van deze verhandeling: ik wil bewijzen dat waarheid en mythe niet met elkaar in concurrentie staan, maar samenstromen in synergie. Denk opnieuw aan het citaat van Joris Bouwmeester, waarin hij toelicht hoe iedere richting door een mythe is voorbepaald. Denk ook aan de vraag: “Wat is de waarheid?” Als de waarheid iets transcendents is, kan de mens dit dan ooit in zijn volledigheid bevatten?

In ieder geval kun je waarheid wat inkaderen, en met absolute zekerheid dingen zeggen als: “Jan kwam om kwart over drie het huis binnen.” Je weet of dit de waarheid is wanneer je weet wie Jan is, hoe laat het was en om welk huis het gaat. Hier wordt de waarheid behapbaar gemaakt door deze te filteren tot aspecten, zoals een persoon, locatie en tijd. 

Een vraag die nu voor de hand ligt is of je de waarheid ziet, of slechts een deel van de waarheid, en of dit überhaupt tegenstrijdig en/of problematisch zou zijn. Je moet dit zien als een telescooplens die je op de horizon richt. De lens kadert het wat af, en beperkt wat je wel en niet kunt zien, maar dat wat je uiteindelijk kunt zien, is nog wel de waarheid. 

Hier blijkt de waarheid iets transcendents, maar wat mensen hieruit putten, hoe mensen hiermee omgaan en op inspelen, wordt door mythen gestuurd. Alles valt samen in de uitspraak, dat de richting iets is dat is voorbepaald. 

Mythe als richting, Waarheid als grondstof

De mythe is de telos – welke kant gaan we uit, wat putten we uit die waarheid en wat produceren we daarmee? Het antwoord op de vraag: hoe maken we die beelden relevant voor onszelf, komt uit mythe. Nu is de waarheid de grondstof van de realiteit en de mythe is de doelbestemming ervan. Mythe is dat wat iets relevant maakt voor de mens, en voor een andere vorm van scheppende intelligentie die vatbaar is voor verhalen en symbolen. Waarheid is de absolute, totale, actuele en eeuwige staat van het heelal, met inbegrip van alle geldige logische wetten en natuurwetten.

Het belang van deze uiteenzetting ligt daarin, dat in de Westerse wijsbegeerte en alles wat hieruit is voortgekomen, van oudsher waarheid en mythe tegenover elkaar werden gepositioneerd. Maar nu blijkt het anders te liggen, en zien we dat überhaupt de vraag, “waar richt je jouw oog op binnen het geheel van de waarheid?”, al is bepaald door de mythe. De tegenstelling tussen mythe en waarheid blijkt een valse tegenstelling, berustend op een begripsverwarring, alsof het zou gaan om een tegenstelling tussen fictie en non-fictie.

De suggestie is bijvoorbeeld dat “het journaal op de publieke omroep ons de waarheid vertelt” en de mythen niet. Dit blijkt niet te kloppen – het zijn de mythen die bepalen welke informatie überhaupt relevant voor ons is, en welke aspecten van het journaal blijven hangen. De mythe bepaalt welke uitgefilterde aspecten van de waarheid beantwoorden aan onze vragen en verlangens. De mythe bepaalt voor welke facetten van de alomvattende waarheid, de ontvanger openstaat.

Volg Sid Lukkassen via Telegram: https://t.me/SidLukkassen Steun Sid Lukkassen via BackMe: https://sidlukkassen.backme.org

[mijnmobielemoleskine]

Feiten bestaan niet. Er zijn alleen verhalen.

Whiteman (Nigeriaanse sjamaan, geciteerd door Adebayo Akomolafe)

[of-a-darkness-untold]

First Dates

Feitan x fem!reader

Navi.

Warnings: masked killer feitan, no major character death, dark content read at your own risk

Note: re the title, I'm hilarious

Wordcount: 800+

It was dark on the field. Dark, and lonely. Lonely, but for the predator on your tail. His silhouette was a jagged shape amidst the crops, the silver glint of his knife the only thing you could make out. The moon was hidden behind clouds, unwilling to watch what sacrifice the world had decided on today. He was no grim reaper; no kind being bringing eternal sleep. Instead, a nightmarish creature, eldritch horror, lusting on your fear.

You had passed him earlier on the street, standing in the flickering light behind a bus stop. A still figure, staring at you, an unsettling smile on his lips, eyes glinting under the shade of his hood. With a sudden shudder you had hurried on, too scared to look back, yet feeling how his head moved, and his eyes had followed you leave. The image stayed seared in your brain; like an unmoving porcelain doll, ready to pounce.

You had hoped the steps behind you were just a figment of your imagination, but then you heard his nails scrape over the metal of his knife, and you bolted without a second thought. His quick laugh sounded so childlike and carefree; it shook you to the core. If only you had not missed the bus. If only you had stayed at home. With only the forest and the fields bordering the street, you had no means for help. You decided to cross the fields, running towards the town lights, hoping desperately that the snickers you heard behind you were just the wind brushing over the crops.

At some point, he disappeared. Your heart was racing, but the town was so close now, only minutes away, you turned your head. He was gone. You stopped. Eyes still wide, chest heaving, breath short, erratic, so loud over the soft wind. The click of a tongue cut through you.

“Why stop?”

Horrified, you turned your head to the right. He stood too close, far too close. Fully dressed in black, he had become one with the night. You couldn´t even see his face anymore, now hidden under a cowl.

He stepped forward, but you were unable to move. The knife glinted in the moonlight for only a split of a second, reflecting the light unto your face. Gently, he bumped your arm with the fist that was holding the weapon with uncanny ease.

“Run,” his voice was quiet, but sharp; a threat that made tears spring to your eyes. A shaky breath escaped your lips. Then you turned and ran.

The smell of grass hit you unexpectedly. Disoriented, your fingers dug into the earth, eyes frantically looking to ground themselves. They found the lamps of an empty street. Houses not far behind. You had been so close. A tear ran down your cheek as he turned you around.

“Haaa, pretty when you cry,” he cooed, using the handle of the knife to brush some of your tears away. His clothes rustled while he adjusted himself, sitting now heavy on your stomach, back hunched so he could be face to face with you. Bile caught in your throat and made you choke. In this position, you could make out his eyes, crinkling in what was no doubt joy.

You whimpered.

“Hm?” Too puppy-like, the way he tilted his head to the side.

“Get off me,” you heaved, trying to suppress sobs attempting to break free. “Please.”

“Ah. Good girl,” he praised and patted your head, barely registering how the knife handle briefly caught in your hair. “Manners good. Won´t get you killed.” He paused, then he shrugged. “Or maybe will, who knows the monsters in dark, hm?” His face got closer, and you turned your head, squeezing your eyes shut and hoping for it all to end.

The stranger clicked his tongue and lightly slapped your cheek with the cold metal of his blade. “You were so good now, keep looking,” he hummed. “Thought you wanted me off?”

“I do!” Abruptly, you had turned your head and stared at him with wide, pleading eyes. “I will be good, I promise.”

A breathy laugh escaped him.

“Believe you. Cute girl don´t lie, hm?“ The flat side of the knife caressed your cheek. The man seemed to think for a while. Suddenly, he sat up and you shivered when the cold wind brushed over your body. “I let you go. You run, I follow. Little hunt for fun. Do that again other days. Send you notes so you know.” He paused to ponder something. “Get you gifts from work.” His dark eyes flitted down to you, crinkled in amusement. Slowly, he pulled down his hood and cowl, revealing soft black hair and skin awfully pale. His lips were pulled unnaturally into a smile. Somehow, his breath was even colder than the wind. He leaned towards you, when he continued:

“What you prefer? Jewellery, or hearts?”

During the troupe's next meeting, Fei is happy to tell them about the cute gf he found 🥺 Phinks tells him he should get you the jewellery but with some blood still on so you know he's strong. Pakunoda strongly advices against that.

[missfine]

Mensen houden zo erg van vrouwen in de autosport dat ze gaan haten en beschuldigen van grooming omdat ze twaalf jaar geleden een gesprekje op Twitter hadden met Max Verstappen of ooit een relatie hadden (tien jaar terug) waarvan mensen nu een big deal maken. Want dit alles maakt de sport zoveel beter.

[twafordizzy]

Lezen tegen schaamte

Kathryn Stockett; bron beeld: cbsnews.com Schaamte is een heftige, primitieve emotie – een van de vroegste die in een zorgeloos en onschuldig hart tot uitbarsting komt. Mensen die zich schamen voelen van nature een instinctieve aandrang om weg te rennen en zich te verstoppen – onder in de wasmand, of in een ander land – op een plek waar niemand hen kan vinden. Neem onze remedie mee de wasmand in…

[decryofabriek]

Al onze cryolipolyse apparatuur voor de scherpste prijs Wij hebben niet alleen de nieuwste cryo apparaten voor u om te huren, u kunt u ook cryolipolyse toestel leasen of kopen Decryofabriek leverancier voor cryolipolyse

[zyonsay]

Begrijp je me? JOOST KLEIN

Summary: You get home to discover an upset Joost.

Reader: Genderneutral

Warnings: Mention of struggling with mental health, sadness BUT theres comfort!

Now playing: 'Antwoord" by Joost Klein

AN: Hi guys! I had this idea a few days ago, never got around to writing it tho. Assignments are kicking my ass and im knee deep in a psychiosis. This one is relatively short (1k words) but more self indulgent! Love yall, take care <3

#Justice for Joost

A dark, heavy blanket was already draped over the city. Your job often required you to work late evenings, which was unfortunate but in your current situation not avoidable. Together with the support of a good friend, you had already sent out a few job applications some time ago, but nothing has come out of that yet.

Ik moest wachten, wachten, wachten op een antwoord

Your shoes quietly clacked on the wet sidewalk. The stars shone brightly but were also accompanied by heavy rain. Sighing tiredly, you pulled your hood further over your head, as if it would do anything against the water drops being catapulted right into your visage. Maybe it was time to take out your bike from the garage again.

Keek in de spiegel, zag de vraag en het antwoord

The water crawled up your jeans slowly but surely, having reached your calves already. The wet fabric slapping against your leg was a sensory nightmare, you were cursing every single inch you’d have to walk till arriving at your apartment building.

Ik moest wachten, wachten, wachten op een antwoord

With hurried steps you raced up the staircase. Number 2.06, Number 2.06. A content and slightly exhausted huff escaped you as the three black numbers finally graced your field of view.

Dans met de duivel, die heeft mij allang door

Your keys rattled as you locked the door. Usually there’d be a salt lamp lit on the coffee table in the living room, but this evening everything was dark and quiet. Not that it was usually loud, but it felt almost like the life was drained out of the apartment.

Maar we blijven grinden tot het einde

That was until you heard a quiet sniffling sound. You discarded your soaking wet shoes along with your equally wet socks at the front door. Like a bloodhound you tracked down where the source of the noises came from. But you barely had to walk out from the hallway to find a huddled up Joost on the sofa.

Ik woonde in Katwijk, dat was lijden

You quickly rushed to his side, slinging your arms around the heap of blankets, under which there was a man hidden. Somewhere. With gentle hands you stripped down the blankets, revealing your teary-eyed boyfriend. His eyes were reddened and glossed over with tears. As much as he tried hiding it, you picked up on the light quiver of his lips and the sniffling from his nose.

Ze willen niet kijken naar de feiten, spijtig

“Come here.” His arms slid around your torso, holding you close. You nestled your face into the mess of blonde hair atop his head. “I’m here.”, you pressed a sweet peck against his forehead, while holding him in your arms.

Maar ik blijf mezelf te allen tijde, begrijp je me?

Joost had been struggling with his mental health for a while now. From time to time, he’d get really bad. In moments like this he needed you the most. Your embrace for sure didn’t fix his problems, but they sure made it feel more conquerable. You knew how helpless one can feel, how you want to be isolated while craving love, how you hate everything but don’t want to.

Begrijp je me?

Joost pressed closer to you, tears now flowing again. You squeezed him, letting him hold onto you for as long as he needs to. “How about I make us some tea?”, you rubbed his back in smooth, slow motions. His hum was muffled by your own figure. Joost loosened his hold on you, his blue eyes searching yours. Your hands cupped his face while you left sweet kisses along his forehead, cheeks and finally the tip of his nose. “I’ll need to get those pants off first though.” He looked down at the soaked jeans and grimaced in a disgusted manner. A sigh of relief left you as you slipped the fabric off, leaving you in your underpants. Joost tangled his fingers in yours and you pull him towards the kitchen.

Begrijp je me?

The kettle whistled a distant song, while you once again wrapped Joost in an embrace against the counter. Two cups stood on the surface, both with a tea bag inside. One of them had one sugar cube, the other had two and a half.

Begrijp je me of begrijp je me niet ?

The blonds heart seemed to beat with yours, he inhaled your scent. Besides your usual cologne you smelled like… you. He huffed contently. The light on the kettle died down and you broke the hug to pour the steaming water into the cups. While your front was turned towards the cups, Joost had found the opportunity to cling to your back. Your warmth, your scent, everything about you was calming to him. Some people need etheric oils to feel at ease, but you were like his own substance. He was addicted to you, your emotions and your words.

Begrijp je me?

You turned around in his arms, smiling at him. God, how he loved that smile. “Wanna talk about it?” He shook his head, “I’m too exhausted. Maybe tomorrow.” He lazily smiled at you, inching closer to your face and then pressing a sweet, short peck to your lips.

Begrijp je me?

“Alright.”, you offered him another loving kiss. “Let’s just enjoy this tea and then head to bed, sounds like a plan?” He still had his signature smile all over his face, his dimples showing and his eyes lighting up again. He loves how you get him, how you understand him in every way.

Begrijp je me of begrijp je me niet?

[jujutsukgojo]

Can you see me too?

feitan x reader

Summary:

“Can you see me too?” He leans in slightly, your hands still in his.    You don’t know how to actually answer that. You’re looking right at him so that can’t be what he means. Or that you see him everyday at school. Feitan is asking something deeper, something you were probably wrong about.    “I’m learning too, Feitan.”

tw: mention of violence, drugs, fluff. ooc Feiten? a VERY quick write might be mistakes

“Dismissed.”

You stretch your legs before getting up. It’s happening again, that heavy feeling that creeps up on you. This has been happening a lot and you don’t like it. The chill is running up your back, making you stiff. Quickly, you gather your things and leave. Being one of the first ones out of the class, the sensation of someone’s eyes leaves. 

  Taking a deep breath, you begin to relax for a moment. Lately, someone’s been watching you and you are too afraid to see who it is. At first, you wanted to turn around and spot the gremlin. However, the person who was next to you had fear in his eyes when he looked over your shoulder. After seeing that, you gave up that idea. Especially when you had a feeling of who it or they were. 

   Being a senior, there is a group that grew up with you in elementary before you moved away for some time. Unfortunately, rather than just be normal human beings, the rumors say otherwise. Shady shit that’s illegal and atrocious. Violence and blood paint their fingertips like polish, the red not leaving without prayer for the sin. And possibly, if the rumors are true, the drugs that leave the addicts and the curious in a trance.

  At first, you just addressed them by their names since you all went to school together. But by the time everyone went into high school, they collectively were called the Phantom Troupe, or the Spider. You want to laugh at the name of their little gang since they were big nerds back in the third grade plays. 

Their acting troupe name.

Hearing it for the first time, you didn’t take it seriously until you saw it with your own eyes. Each of them ganged up on a group from another school. The Troupe was vicious and merciless. Only a few witnessed the fight, you being one of them on accident. You barely saw what scared the hell out of everyone. 

  Someone lost their eyes. You could see a few moments of the fight but you missed that gruesome part. And thank God you did. 

After that, you became fearful and no longer saw them as the kids that shared a class with you since kindergarten. 

  Now, the eyes that have been watching you everyday, you are sure it belongs to one of them. Or maybe that one stiff doll-like guy Illumi? Or the Troupe’s newest member that is the biggest flirt and an absolute freak, Hisoka. 

   When people talk to you, they must see who's watching. The reactions are all the same. Even your friend who is quick to grab you and lead you away from the stalker. 

  Did you do something wrong? Are they after you or something? Want to sell you some drugs? That little one with the long hair, Kortopi, always stands in the corners watching everyone whenever he’s not with his gang. You’re sure he’s the main dealer. Just look at him.

   So badly do you want to turn around and stomp into the classroom and demand who the fuck has been staring at you. Alas, it’s not a smart move. At least not right now. After you put your school shoes in your cubby, you feel it again. That cold intensity that causes you to shiver. For the first time, you feel it closer. Like, a few feet away type thing. 

   You shove your regular shoes on and take off out the door, not bothering to wait and say goodbye to your friend. On your way home, you still feel the eyes on you. This is exhausting beyond belief. This is worse than gym class. 

  How long can this person keep this up? Why are they watching you in the first place? Do they just want to talk to you and they’re too shy? If that’s the case, you’d show some leniency since you can be a bit of a shy bug, too. 

   As you turn the corner and see the small, family owned diner to your left, the eyes disappear. You walk faster with a light and peppy step. They could have gone home and abandoned the stalking.

   Suddenly, you’re against a tree with someone’s arms placed firmly against it, trapping you. The sun has decided to shine brightly and highlight his face. It is none other than Feitan Portor. 

   Never have the two of you been so close. Not friendly or physically. His lower face is covered by a cowl for some reason and his eyes are, surprisingly, looking like they’re different colors. They’re dark, but one is slightly deeper. His cheekbones are defined and right on top are slight freckles against his ghostly pale skin. 

   Words are stolen for what feels like minutes. Finally, your fears get the best of you. 

“Oh my God…you want to sell me drugs?” You are on the verge of crying when he has narrowed eyes. “My mom’s gonna be so mad at me. I don’t want drugs!”

  “Fei, is this her?” A tall blond, Phinks, if you remember right, comes around the corner with extremely light steps. The rest of the Troupe appear too. “No, God no. Don’t sell me drugs!”

They all stop and look at you. Each bearing an expression fit for a sitcom scene.

  “She’s not allowed to be high. Look at her, she’s the paranoid type.” The biggest one, Uvo, states. “She’s gonna turn herself in for something she didn’t even do.”

Dear Lord, they already know how high you’d be? What are they planning? You can’t go home like that. 

   Portor says nothing. He doesn’t even bother to ask which drug you’d want. Phinks steps forward. “Look, Fe-”

“Oh God…I don’t have money! Stopping giving me drugs.” Tears well in your eyes and you shake your head slowly, facing the ground.  

“We didn’t…give you anything? No one wants to give you drugs. Trust me.” You hear someone promise.

“Why you here?” He asks with his whispery voice. 

“Because I was going home and you-” He shuts you up with one look. 

They talk among themselves while Feitan Portor doesn’t move himself away from you. Your mom is going to be pissed if you come with drugs. 

“Is it crack?” You whisper. “For God’s sake-stop that! No one is going to give you anything!” Machi puts her hand on her hips as she yells at you. 

  “Is it, like, a toe? An eyeball? Please no, no-”

Porter’s soft voice cuts through yours. “Stop.”

“Mom’s going to be so mad at me if I have a random toe again.” You try to wiggle out from his trap with no avail. 

   He grabs your head. “Enough,” He turns around to face his friends, covering you. Well, somewhat since he’s on the smaller side. “Go.” 

Immediately you realize that command is for you, and you take off.

---

 

  The next day is no better. He is still staring at you but at a closer distance. He moved someone from their seat just to sit behind you. And at lunch, he sat at another table facing you. He must want something, especially when he barely shows up for school. And now he does? 

  It’s drugs or blackmail. Murder? 

Before the day was even over, the principal called for an assembly. Begrudgingly, you enter the gym and stay close to the edge rather than the stairs. You look around for your friend but find Portor next to you instead. His thigh touches yours contently. There is not a single thing out of place with him. He looks like this is normal, regular for you two to be this close. Everyone else has a few inches between them yet he wants to be glued to you. 

   You say nothing to object. In the corner sits your friend. She “subtly” points her finger at him and mouths what he’s doing. You can’t make any sudden movements or he’ll notice. 

  “You answer her?” His voice is so soft, almost drowned out from the teenagers that the principal slowly reins in. Lucky for him, his mouth is close to your ear. 

“No need. It’s, um, like, right here. She can see this.”

He furrows his brows and asks, “Is it bad?”

You shift awkwardly, fully realizing that you’re brushing up against him. “N-no, just surprising. I mean, we haven’t talked since elementary.”

  He looks forward and says with confidence, “That change. We talk now.” 

Why? 

The principal goes on about the violence in school and how it will not be tolerated. If this continues, he will sort out that police will patrol the school. You side eye Feitan Portor who still wears his cowl covering his lower face but cannot hide his smile. 

   You’re scared. 

When the assembly is over, you jump up and try to walk down the seats rather than pass Portor to go to the stairs. A teacher yells to stop walking on the benches. You ignore her completely and blend with the crowd. Your heart is pounding. You rub your chest in an attempt to calm it. Suddenly, you feel something pressed against you right as you are seconds away from the door. 

  “God!” You shout as you see that he is right next to you with his hands in his jacket’s pockets. “Let’s go.”

“W-what about your friends? They gotta be looking for you.” He walks towards you, causing you to press against the wall and walk to the door. It’s like he’s herding you out the door. You walk stiffly next to him. The sun is hiding behind the clouds, causing the shadows to emphasize his paleness. 

  Your bag and book is snatched out of your hand. He’s carrying it and continues to walk. “H-hey!”

“Walk.” Why is he carrying your stuff? Is it collateral or something? He’s holding them hostage? Oh God, what if he wants you to do something illegal or sexual in exchange for your stuff?

  Quietly, the two of you walk to that familiar tree. “Where’s your home?”

No, no, he can’t walk you home. He’ll know where you live and that would be awful. Him having that kind of information? That’s deadly. “I-I can go the rest of the way. You probably have to head home too.” 

  You reach for your things. “No. Where is it?”

“I don’t have one.” You lie. The things he could do with your address…Lord have mercy. “Lie. Where is it? I take you home.”

  “I can go-”

“(Y/n).” He remembers your name? You remember his because so much has happened and the whole class were friends. Since you didn’t talk when you moved back this year, you didn’t think he’d remember you. 

  “Portor…”

“I walk you.” Too scared, you just agree and walk to your house with the short guy in tow. Your house comes to view. “Oh, your dad’s?”

  “How did-”

“Pool?” Your eyes dart around until you remember that you hosted a pool party once. There was a slip and slide, a kiddie pool, and sprinklers. Everyone had fun and sandwiches and chips. A few of your classmates didn’t have swimsuits so your dad had them wear old shirts for them so they could play too. Now that you think of it, he was one of those that didn’t have anything. 

  “I can’t believe you remember that.” Everything to do with your dad is mostly tucked away from your mind. Portor bringing up a memory that you vowed to cherish makes you remember how much fun everything was. It was so long ago, though. Times and people change regularly. There is no reason to hold onto a memory that didn’t last long enough, right?

  “I remember that what’s-his-name slid right through the slip and slide and into the fence.” You snap your fingers repeatedly trying to remember his name. Feitan is still friends with him. 

 “Bonolenov. He wore bandages for a while.” 

“Ah, I remember that. It still didn’t slow him down.” The two of you stand there in silence. “Well, this is me. Thanks for walking me home.”

  You reach for the bag but he walks out of your reach and heads to the door. His steps are so quiet they don’t even disturb the bugs that tread along the sidewalk to your house. 

  He stops at your door, waiting for you. “I walk you home. Not on the sidewalk.” Even though he’s surrounded with violence and blood, you can’t deny that this is sweet. Suspicious as hell, but sweet nonetheless.

  “Thank you Portor.” You bounce on your feet. “It was nice talking to you.” And for reminding me of that sunny memory.

When you finally finish the day, you don’t feel as scared as you did for some reason. 

--

  “So…what’s going on? Where’s your shadow?” Your friend whispers lowly. There is a nice breeze that refreshes the overheated students. Unfortunately, there is a terrible heat advisory that is really showing its head. You have a loose blue tank top on and blue jeans which you wished you’d traded for something shorter. If this heat is making you wear a tank top and wish for shorts or a skirt, then it is hotter than satan’s breath. 

  Speak of the devil and he’ll appear, cutting right through the crowd of students under the shade, Chrollo and his posse silently intimidate those who hid under the leaves of the school’s trees. You can’t help but roll your eyes. They throw their weight around like a 1950s gang with leather jackets and a comb to fix their over gelled hair. Hell, Chrollo actually looks like the part. 

  Your friend groans next to you and fans herself and you do the same. The principal is expecting too much. You and the rest of the crowd are liable to run back inside if they don’t finish this fire drill. 

  “It isn’t a drill, you know.” She whispers yet again. You turn to her, confused. “What’re you talking about?”

   “Do you wonder why they were the last ones out?”

  “What do you think happened?” She shrugs. “I have no idea. But it’s suspicious. People are whispering about this. I mean, isn’t it weird? This happens right after the assembly that was basically for them?”

  You contribute to her curiosity. “Not to mention the lack of patrols…”

“Oh no, there were some. Where are they now, though? They were here this morning.”

  You want to change the subject. For some reason, you do feel a slight sliver of protectiveness towards them due to the memories. “This fucking heat. I can’t take this…”

  Then, a shadow stands in front of you. “Come.”

“No.” She grabs your wrist, frowning at Portor. She doesn’t trust him at all. Honestly, she has a right not to. All of the rumors that are whispered through the walls surround him like a blanket. And his demeanor doesn't help his case. “Why?” You cut in. 

  “Come with me.” Everyone is staring at the exchange. “This isn’t funny, Portor. Pick on someone else.” 

  You put your other arm around her protectively. “Um, I’ll go. It’s fine.” You try to reassure her in some kind of way. “Then I’m coming too. What’s one more person?”

 His cowl isn’t very good at hiding his expressions. He leads the two of you without a word. Under the tree is so much cooler than you expected. You feel bad for the others. 

   “Don’t worry, there are no drugs.” Phinks says, causing his other friends to laugh at your expense. 

“What’s he talking about?” Your friend leans in and “whispers”.

“They tried to make me take drugs.” You answer. Honestly, you can’t get over that. Not the drug part but how he trapped you against a tree. It was scary and unexpected. 

“No we didn’t!” Machi or Mochi corrects with her hands on her hips. Your friend rolls her eyes at her. Normally, your friend is a little on the timid side. But when it comes to these guys, she shows her dislike as if she doesn’t shake when ordering food. 

   Portor tugs you down to the ground for you to sit. Your legs are at the side of you, curled. The normally timid friend sits in between you and Portor. “I don’t trust him…” 

“You can’t whisper at all.” You tell her. She looks offended and pouts. The only noises are the few murmurs among the schoolmates and the subtle wind in the air. Still, there has been no word from the teachers. Perhaps your friend was right. 

   “Move.” Portor’s voice is soft yet firm. He stares directly at your friend with an indifferent expression. She scoffs and answers with a no. “Absolutely not.”

  “Babe, I don’t think this is a good idea.” You actually whisper. She turns to you wearing a frown. “And these people have good ones?”

  “You have no idea.” Bonolenov says. You can’t tell if he’s joking or not. There is a tense feeling in the atmosphere that reminds you of anxiety. That fight or flight response that just won’t go away as you sit in front of them. 

  “Babe…please do what he says.” You squeeze her hand once. With nonverbal agreement, she moves over for him to sit next to you. “I sit here, okay?”

  “Okay, Portor.” Your friend glares at everyone. She is rightfully suspicious of everyone. There are so many negative things said that taints their image. And their teasing isn’t doing them any favors against the allegations. 

  Your thighs touch his on accident. The wind gives a harsh blow, slightly moving his cowl. You spot a flush on his cheeks.  “Are you hot? Why not take this off?”

  You give light tugs to his jacket. “No.”

“This?” You gently move the fabric from his face. His cheeks are warm and have a youthful roundness to them. “There’s no reason to bake in the sun.”

He removes it then to your surprise, gives it to you. You thank him and don’t mention that his face is red. If you were vain, you’d think it’s because of you. But the sun is out and it’s hot. 

Your friend is bug eyed at the sight with her head cocked slightly.

  “So, this has been weird. We’re going home.” She picks you up by your arm and makes way out of the shade. You are quickly pulled towards your shadow. “Go away.”

  “Portor…”

“And leave her with you? ” She points to him. His face hardens and before anyone can make a move, you rush to intervene. “It’s alright!” You say a little too quickly and grab his hand and leave. She shouts at you as you run away. “Toots! Are you crazy?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” You yell back at her. “If you live that long! He even smells insane!”

  “ Bye!”

--

You take him and run, completely sure that you’re safe. Maybe it’s because he was nice to you and remembered the pool party. It could be how quiet he is, not needing to fill the silence. It’s relaxing that way. 

   “Here we are.” You stop in front of your house again. The plain beige paneling and the lackluster decor. The lawn needs to be mowed, you note. 

 Just as you are about to head inside your home, he grabs your hand and leads you away. His hands have calluses on them and are bigger than yours. They are paler than the upper part of his face, too. He puts them in his pockets and occasionally wears gloves, so that could be the culprit. 

   You turn around and look back at your house. Feitan squeezes your hand roughly and yanks you. You frown and debate on tugging it free. Like he read your mind, he pulls you closer. His already thin eyes squint in suspicion. 

  The little shop is small and has large windows with writing on them. The drawings are clearly done by kids. A sun in the upper corner, a tiny snowman with a large nose and a crooked hat, and so many more. 

  The bell dings when the two of you open the door. The old man at the counter perks up at the sound and smiles widely at you. 

 “Well aren’t you cute!” The old man coos. The apples of his cheeks are red and his smile makes his laugh lines more prominent, a testimony of the joy in his life. His brown eyes are small but they have a twinkle in them. He reminds you of Old Saint Nick but without the beard. 

   Portor holds two fingers up. “Crepe.” The old man puts his hand on his chin then leans into Portor’’s ear. The old baker doesn’t notice the glare he’s getting or the danger leaking from him. 

“How about you two share?” He whispers. Portor side eyes the old man. The guy clicks his tongue and finger guns at Portor. All the while, he remains silent. 

 “What flavor?” 

“Um, what would you like?” You don’t know if he likes the same thing as you. He answers with confidence. “Chocolate. You like chocolate.”

  “Well, how about the lover’s special? It’s the right amount of sweet and pretty, just like your lady.” Your cheeks get warm and you instinctively cover them. 

  “My lady would like something to drink.” My lady. Just what is he getting at? You haven’t talked to him since the science fair or a play, maybe? Nah, he’s probably being sarcastic because of what the old man said.

  “One lover’s twist, coming up.” 

You see a table and walk towards it then are interrupted by the older man who decides to direct you to a red booth that has a rounded top. If you were to look at it right, it’d remind you of a heart. “The lighting is better over here, if I may.”

  Portor sits in front of you as quiet as ever. “Why did you want to come here? I’m sure you and your friends have something to do.”

Something illegal, no doubt. 

Portor taps his fingers on the table. His eyes snap to yours when he catches you staring at his long fingers. 

  “You know already.” You frown and think back. You don’t have a clue and he’s looking at you expectantly. Right before you could ask some more questions, the old man brings out the crepe and a shake that has a cherry on top with two straws coming out of the tall glass. You thank him and dig into the shake first. As you are sipping, Portor does the same. In the corner of your eye, you see the old man trying to make it seem like he isn’t paying attention to you. 

  You take a small bite of the crepe. The flavor bursts in your mouth. The sweetness isn’t too sweet but does hit the spot. You take another bite and chew slowly, realizing that Portor hasn’t touched it. Then, you feel the pad of his thumb brush across the corner of your mouth. 

  Your cheeks are on fire. “I’m sorry. I’m a messy eater, that’s why I was going slow.” 

   His face holds no expression. The weird and heavy feeling makes you uncomfortable. “Sorry if I disgusted you.” 

“No. You okay.” Eating in front of people has made you a little insecure over the years. Your dad was a messy eater and you got that from him. “Thank you, Portor.”

He stops eating mid chew when you two hear sniffles. The old man at the counter wipes his eyes. “So cute…so many memories.” He whispers.

-

   Afterwards, he walked you home with your hand in his, guiding you back. This entire thing has been so, so weird. Yet it feels…right? Casual or normal. Nothing feels out of place except for the fact that he’s dangerous and scary. It is the shock of randomness that gets you. Walking you home, sitting next to you, and the amount of staring is so jarring it’s a fright on its own. 

   The anxiety is what you’ve been feeling under his intense stare is like being the center of attention under a microscope. It is uncomfortable. However, the heat in your cheeks isn't from embarrassment as he links his fingers through yours. 

   “Thank you for the crepe, Portor.”

“ Feitan. Not Portor.” You smile and hum, missing how his cheeks are pink and eyes twinkle for the first time in years. It’s cute.

  You come across your house once again, already dreading going inside to face your parent’s wrath for being late and not wanting this day to end. “I had fun, Feitan.” 

  He’s still holding your hand like it’s something precious he stole. “Me too.”

You don’t make a move to let go and neither does he. You know you should. You should be running away from him. A drug dealer, fighter, gangster, maybe even a murderer or at least will be one. You should pull away. You shouldn’t have entertained this for so long. 

 Yet you feel content? Happy? Comforted, maybe? There’s a word for it but you don’t know the answer right now. Not when he takes your hand and places a delicate kiss on your knuckle. 

  So, that’s why. He likes you. As in, like-like. You smile wide and try to hide your face. You’d never thought he’d have a crush on you or anyone for that matter. How sweet this is and what a cherished memory it will be. 

  And to think, that old man understood before you did. 

“Boss said you like that. It’s in books.” Boss? He must mean Chrollo. “Yeah, I do. It’s not everyday I’m treated like this.”

  He says nothing for a moment. A moment you cherish so you can regain your thoughts and attempt to stop you from being so flustered. So you can actually see him clearly. His eyes are shiny and his face is slightly flushed. You finally notice that his hair wasn’t in its usual state. Long and slightly unkempt. Instead, it looks smoother and better brushed. 

This is a date. 

Your first date. Is it his, too?

“I can see you everyday. You smile nice.” He says. His voice is still quiet and now even moreso, wanting to hide the compliment. “You have a nice smile too.”

“Feit-”

“Can you see me too?” He leans in slightly, your hands still in his. 

  You don’t know how to actually answer that. You’re looking right at him so that can’t be what he means. Or that you see him everyday at school. Feitan is asking something deeper, something you were probably wrong about. 

  “I’m learning too, Feitan.” You are. In a short amount of time you’ve seen something different. Something that was hiding in plain sight. There are still reservations because of what he does. But that’s it. It isn’t him that holds you back, it is the rumors and the fights. From what you see, this side of Feitan is sweet. This moment is something you’ll keep and hope for more of them. 

  You can see him. 

He kisses your knuckle again. “A start.”

[depravitycentral]

Phantom Troupe Dick Headcannons

I have nothing to say for myself

tw: allusions to non-con/dub-con, yandere, power imbalances, excess talk regarding balls and cum I am sorry, slapping, degradation, size kink, male genitalia is gross, fem! reader, MDNI

Characters included: Chrollo Lucilfer, Feiten Portor, Nobunaga Hazama, Phinks Magcub, Shalnark, Uvogin

It’s an average size, roughly five or so inches, with an equally average girth. He’s nothing particularly special, but his cock’s so damn pretty – a pale pink, rosy color, perfectly flushed ombre down to his tip. When he’s close to coming the tip turns a rich red color, throbbing and twitching even without stimulation. He’s got very few veins running the expanse, leaving him perfectly smooth and feeling like velvet inside of you. His balls are perfectly symmetrical, too, only a few black hairs out of place. He’s quite confident in himself, and while he’s not particularly sensitive, the one thing he is sensitive to is temperature. If your hands are cold he’ll jump a bit, trying to mask the way his every nerve is alight with the feeling of your cold fingers teasing his slit. Your pussy, too, is so damn warm, the sensation making his head fall forward, black hair covering his eyes every time he first pushes into you. He has to let the feeling pass, otherwise he runs the risk of coming too soon, and that would look horrible to you.

               He doesn’t come much; it’s a small amount, though it doesn’t taste too bad. He dribbles, the globs slipping past his tip and sliding down his length, the white standing out against the pretty red of his cock. He’s super sensitive after he comes, however – the moment the last few drops come out, any touch has Chrollo jerking slightly, his eyes fluttering shut as the oversensitivity overwhelms him. He’s not sure whether he loves it or hates it when you keep going, ignoring his recent orgasm in search of your own as you ride him carelessly – you can only tell by the way he starts twitching over and over inside you, his nails digging into your sides while his breaths grow ever so slightly heavier. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll manage to get a very light groan out of him when you overstimulate him – aim for the balls, and for the area on his underside right below the tip.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is with hesitant, unsure touches. He likes the way you look all shy and reserved when you initiate touching him (something he very much enjoys, more than you can imagine), your eyes flicking to his to make sure it’s feeling good for him. It makes him feel loved, and the airy light brushes of your fingertip against his sensitive skin makes him suck in short, sharp little breaths, the fleeting pleasure teasing him. He likes to guide you through it, grabbing your hand and telling you to hold firmer, squeeze tighter, to not be afraid to get a bit dirty. Spit on his length, drool on it, grind yourself against it and get him all slick with your arousal. He doesn’t care – there’s just something about your constant unsureness of your movements that gets his heartbeat racing, his fingers twitching at his side and his cock twitching, a drop of precum pearling at his tip, waiting to get inside you.

He’s a little over four inches long; not too terribly much to show, but he compensates with going harder and faster. He’s moderately thick, very proportionate, and the combination of width and the animalistic pace with which he fucks you will have you seeing stars, despite his shortcomings in size. He’s a bit insecure about his cock, and as a result avoids having you look at it whenever possible. He’ll fuck you from the back, spreading open those pretty cheeks and sinking himself inside until his pelvis is flush with your ass. He likes this position because you can’t see him, but he can see you – and god, what a sight it is to see his cock appear and disappear inside you, over and over again. Plus, this way he can stare unabashedly at you and mouth sappy shit he’d never willingly say under his breath.

               He comes kind of quickly, all things considered, but does his best to prolong the experience. He’ll fuck you for a few minutes, then pause or pull out to slap your ass or make you suck on his fingers a bit, anything to kill time and reduce his sensitivity. Ends up edging himself nearly all the time you’re together, but he’d rather delay his pleasure than run the risk of you laughing at him for coming too early. He shoots, and it goes a surprisingly long ways – easily six or seven inches away from his tip, landing in a wet pile on your back. He doesn’t come a huge amount, and it’s a bit sticky – it’s hard to clean up, and most of the time Feitan doesn’t offer you any assistance, kind of entertained and aroused by the idea of you just always having his cum on you.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is quickly and frenzied. It’s not uncommon for him to just grab your hand and put it on his cock, telling you to get me off and letting you do your thing. He still doesn’t want you to look at it too much, but he’ll let your hands roam and grope, to squeeze at his balls and flick a thumb over his tip. He likes it when you explore him, even if it makes him feel a bit uneasy – it feels nice, like you actually want to touch him, like you’re almost enjoying it as much as he is. Prefers for you to use a combination of your mouth and hands at these times, but knows he’ll eventually end up in your cunt so it doesn’t matter all that much. Always secretly hopes you’ll touch him too roughly/squeeze him too harshly so that he can throw you onto the bed and climb over you, pushing your face into the pillow and mounting you from the back, fucking into you until you’re shaking and crying his name.

He’s about six inches and pretty skinny, definitely fills you up in the sense that it’s deep enough to reach parts of you you’ve never felt before. He’s not too terribly sensitive, though he doesn’t tend to last too long in bed – but his stamina is such that he can normally be up for round two after a few minutes of eating you out. He bobs a lot, his whole cock bouncing out of the blue, feeling strange when he’s got it pressed up against you – as if it has a mind of its own, dictating how badly it wants to be inside you. His balls are pretty sensitive though ��� he likes pressure on them, so squeezing them, or especially sucking on them is a favorite of his. (He’s harbored this fantasy or cockwarming for as long as he can remember – except, instead of his cock inside you, it’s his balls in your mouth for hours on end, keeping them warm and cushioned and sensitive.)

               His cum is, unfortunately, pretty salty; definitely not the best you’ve ever tasted. But he’s willing to share the bad taste – he really likes spitballing, and so as soon as he’s come into your mouth, he’s pulling your lips to his and kissing you, cum slipping past your lips and into his mouth, moans in the back of his throat because it feels so raunchy and erotic to be sharing this with you. However, no matter how many times you pass it back and forth, you will be the final recipient, the one expected to swallow. He spurts, but it’s a pretty weak stream – only coming out an inch or so before splattering down onto his navel. It’s a white color and pretty runny, but easy to clean up. He also produces an ungodly amount of precum – before his kimono is even off, there’s almost drips running down his length and pooling at the head.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is gentle, slow touches to his most sensitive areas – his balls, and his tip. Likes firm squeezes to his balls, kneading and lightly pulling on them, especially if your hands are wet or sticky from your own arousal. He likes it when you run your thumb along his tip, shuddering and fluttering his eyes closed when you run it along his sensitive slit. His hips buck if you play with his foreskin; pull up then back quickly and rub at the newly exposed skin, and he’ll actually whimper.

               He’s five and a half inches, with plenty of girth. Overall, a very masculine cock – a bit veiny, slightly leaning left, heavy enough to sag a bit. He’s decently sensitive, but god, his balls – one touch and he’s shivering, cheeks blooming pink in pleasure and embarrassment. He’s extremely sensitive there, and even though he’s a bit ashamed, if he’s right on the edge of orgasming, a few massages of them and he’s thrown over the edge almost violently. He won’t tell you about his heightened sensitivity, but it’s easy to tell when he’s groaning into your neck and bucking into you every time you brush against them.

               His favorite way for you to touch it is just having you grinding against him. He likes the pressure of your body in his lap, weight on him as you grind and swivel your hips, scooping against him rhythmically. He likes the way the stimulation is a bit dull, coming from all different directions, and he likes to watch the way your hips work against his, even seeing wet spots appear in his boxers and your panties. He likes the feeling of your pussy against him, all warm and soft and wet, and would literally kill to get a pussy job from you, to get his tip sliding along your folds, teasing and feeling good but not quite good enough. He likes having both your hands free, along with your mouth – he’s surprisingly a big fan of kissing, and most of the time will have his face buried in your neck or a nipple in his mouth.

               His cum is thick, opaque and an off-white color. It tends to glob up, rolling down your body slowly, shining a bit in the light. He comes in spurts; shooting out of his tip quickly over and over, never seeming to end, as if too much has been stored up and it’s all just bursting out. It splatters all over his stomach or you or in you – His favorite place to come is across your ass, seeing the soft globes stained with him makes his knees weak and his breathing ragged.

He’s just shy of six inches, with immaculately trimmed dirty blond hairs framing it. His cock is honestly a bit pleasing to look at – soft lines and a set of pretty, perk balls sitting behind the shaft. It’s always a baby pink color, and as he gets closer to coming it turns a brighter red, standing out against his pale skin like a homing beacon. He takes pride in his cock; a slightly upwards angle lets him hit all the right spots when he’s got you under him, and god does he love when you’re crying out and orgasming around him; your pussy all tight and wet and spasming all for him…

               His cum honestly doesn’t taste too bad – it’s still a bit bitter, but it’s manageable. Which is great news for you, because Shalnark really likes finishing on your face, and inevitably some will get into your mouth, no matter how hard you try. He likes it when you scoop it all up with your finger, licking your finger clean and making a show of opening your mouth and letting him see that you swallowed all of it. Makes him giggle and plant a sloppy kiss on your lips, complimenting your abilities to suck him off and making a cheeky joke about how you’re just such a natural, maybe you really are a slut! He’s a dribbler, but there’s a decent amount of it, so it just keeps flowing out – you’ve got to be very close to get it on your face, though. Shalnark doesn’t mind, however – you look good all cozied up with his cock on your knees, after all.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is to give him head. There’s something about the sight of you below him, worshipping his cock with your pretty mouth and cute little hands that makes him not only throb in your hands, but also get a power trip like never before. He likes to prolong it, too – he’ll play with his cock on you, holding it at the base and tracing his tip along your lips, occasionally pushing past them with no warning just to watch your eyes widen. (Plus, the surge of warmth and wetness from your mouth certainly doesn’t feel bad.) He’ll slap your cheeks with it, the dull thud noise making his spine tingle, seeing the way you look so small and weak with his cock all over your face. He likes to fuck your face, and he’ll thrust particularly deeply every once in a while, just to feel you choke and gag, your nails digging into his thigh where you’re holding onto him for dear life.

He’s a big man with a big dick – it’s a solid seven inches and thick, the girth alone requiring extensive foreplay for you. He’s aware of it though, and while it prides him to know he’s big enough to surely be satisfying you, he doesn’t mind making you come on his tongue a few times before he sinks inside you. His cock’s a tan color, the tip so heavy it sags between his legs, his balls heavy enough to droop a bit too. He feels lighter after he’s come, particular if that cum goes inside you – which is part of why he fucks you so often. He’s not the best at trimming, and more often than not you’ll have to deal with a forest of dark, unruly hair – but on the bright side, he doesn’t expect you to groom at all, either.

               He comes a lot, nearly buckets full, to the point where you’ll be left to wonder how it’s possible it all came from just one man. It’s not the best taste (too bitter), but he prefers to come on your body more anyways, so you rarely ever have to taste it. He likes painting your tits in white, seeing the way the thick cum dribbles down onto your nipples, pooling up and sometimes dripping down to your thighs.  He shoots, almost violently so – the force is strong, spurts coming so fast that it feels like one continuous stream. Groans the whole time he’s coming, a deep sound that’ll have you rubbing your thighs together subconsciously. He doesn’t really like it when you clean up afterwards, but he won’t say much – anything that goes inside you, however, will be staying there, with a plug to keep it all nice and neat inside your little cunt.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is when you give him head and have to use both your mouth and hands. He likes the way you look all small and petite in the face of his monstrous cock, struggling to fit as much of him into your mouth as possible, using both hands to cover all the rest. It makes him swell with pride to see you with watery eyes as you occasionally choke on him, the sensation and sound of you gagging making him throw his head back and hiss. It makes his size kink flare up, thinking of how small you are and how easily he could manhandle you and fuck you until you break – something he very nearly does, often. He’ll card his fingers over your hair and coo down at you, all the while watching you struggle but offering no reprieve. He’ll finish on your tits and collarbone, painting your pretty skin with the thick, off white, giving you a wet, messy kiss afterwards and telling you to buckle up, ‘m not letting this pussy get away without getting stuffed, angel.

[patchofgrey]

Tenten HeadCannons

NejiTen headcannons: Part One

Here are my individual character headcannons that I mostly use for my fanfictions. I am going to start with Tenten since it took me a long ass time to come up with a back story for her that made sense (years, like years.)

Let's start with the family name:

Tenten's family name is Hua. Kishimoto had originally wanted Team Gai/Guy to be foreigners and even designed them with Chinese influence. I wanted Tenten's name to have some significance to her character traits as well as her abilities. At first, I thought about Chun-Li (yes, from Street Fighter) However, even with their closeness in design, the only connection I could make was their taijutsu abilities (which even then, Tenten really only showcases her summoning and weapons handling anyway). Then, I thought about the Ballad's of Mulan, the great Chinese woman warrior. She fits with Tenten's ideals and-yous are gonna hate me for this one- in the butchered Disney version, Mulan's traits parallel to Tenten's closely (in my opinion), I settled for having her line trace back to Mulan. I chose this name for her with the idea that Tenten was related somewhere down the line to the great war hero Mulan. There are two translations of Mulan's last name; Fa (Canto) and Hua (mandarin); I chose the Mandarin translation due to the connection to Neji's last name that starts with an 'H' as well. (Corny, I know. Let me be corny please.) So, when looking at it; Hua Tenten... Hua Tian-Tian. I liked it a lot. Tenten's last name actually comes from her mother's side of the family. I didn't Develop Feiten that much, and if felt weird leaving him without a last name.

Tenten comes from shinobi parents. I have already sketched out my designs for Tenten's parents and older brother hereeee . This would make sense to me because Lady Tsunade is her idol, and in my mind, her mother probably told her stories of Tsunade when she was young to motivate her in the ninja academy. Her father is Feiten Hua who is a jonnin and specializes in taijutsu and fire style ninjutsu, he is also proficient in weapons. Xiao-Lin Hua is also a jonnin. Shinten Hua is Tenten's older brother who is three years older than her. He shows proficiency in fire style ninjutsu as well, and hold similar abilities to Tenten in terms of weapons handling. Shinten (sometimes referred to as just 'Shin' by Tenten and her parents) prefers fight with swords and has impressive taijutsu abilities. However, after the shinobi war, Tenten surpasses her peers and her brother in terms of her taijutsu abilities; she is only comparable to her teammates (as stated by Kishimoto).

Tenten's mother is from Takumi Village in the Land of Rivers. In order to keep Kishimoto's original idea of Team Gai being foreigners, I figured making Tenten's mother from the Land of Rivers made the most sense. Xiao-Lin (or just 'Lin' to other Jonnin such as Maito Gai, Kakashi, Asuma, and Kurenai as well as family members). Xiao-Lin had met Feiten through missions he would be sent on to Takumi Village and soon they would work in collaboration. They fell in love and Xiao-Lin relocated to Konoha with Feiten, where they had Shinten and Tenten.

The Hua family is a family of crafters and blacksmiths. Takumi Village is an artisanal village home to merchants, traders, crafters and artists. The Hua family focuses on weapons development and custom weapons; one of their clients being the Hyuga clan. Feiten has worked closely with Hiashi and Hizashi Hyuga for business, and when Tenten was born, Feiten would bring Tenten and Shinten to the Hyuga compound for business meeting.

Break down for the Hua family. 1. Xiao-Lin Hua is the youngest of three. Her two older sisters are Chao-Xing and Kai-Ming Hua. Chao-Xing (or just 'Chao' to her family) is the current head of the Hua family and the family business. Chao-Xing is not a shinobi and has one son. Chao-Xing is the last of her siblings to produce a child, and is considered to be jealous of Xiao-Lin due to her agency. Kai-Ming (or just 'Kai' to family) is a shinobi and the middle sibling. Kai-Ming specializes in water style ninjutsu and assists her older sister in managing the family business. She also has two children of her own. All three siblings share similar looks and mannerisms that can be seen through Tenten. 2. Tenten and Shinten are the oldest of the cousins/grandchildren. Even though Xiao-Lin is did not inherit the family business, she was the first to produce children for her parents. This caused great joy for the family, thus leaving Tenten and/or Shin the option to take over the family business once Chao-Xing steps down. The birth order goes; Shinten and Tenten three years later from Xiao-Lin | Nayao (female) and Isamu (male) from Kai-Ming | and Haitao (male) from Chao-Xing. If we were to timeline this; in my fanficiton Frequency ( ffdotnet | A03 ), Tenten is about 20-21yrs old post war, which makes Shinten (even though he is not written in this fic lol) would be 24-25yrs old, Nayao is 17yrs old and Isamu is 16 yrs old, Haitao is 15yrs old. 3. Tenten is technically and heiress due to the birth order of her brother, herself, and her cousins. This means she is entitled to the honorific '-sama' or simply 'Lady Hua'. When Feiten and Xiao-Lin relocated to Konoha (here Feiten is from) they did not use their titles, at the time unsure if they would even inherit the family business due to Xiao-Lin being the youngest of the siblings. Even when Shinten and Tenten were born first, they kept that information to themselves, wanted their kids to grow up 'normally' without the weight of the family dragging them down. Eventually, around the age four, Tenten would be exposed to the family business transactions with her bother and father would be addressed as 'Lady' by Hiashi Hyuga. By request of Feiten, though, Hiashi would drop the title for privacy reasons. Tenten did not mention this to her teammates; in fact, only Maito Gai knew of Tenten's title and still respected her family's choice in dropping it. In Frequency, Tenten doesn't explain herself until an issue arises regarding her family's business. 4. Feiten Hua can come off as intimidating, however is a whole girl dad. There are only two people in the whole wide world that this man will move heaven and earth for and that is his wife Xiao-Lin and Tenten. Tenten is his pride and joy, her headstrong attitude keeps him on his toes and he will usually always cave to her needs without hesitation. When Feiten met her teammates, he was rather blunt and even questioned Gai's ability to handle the kids after watching them interact. Much to his delighted surprise, he was not expecting Tenten to be on the same team as Neji Hyuga. Delight, in terms of he knew the Hyuga clan keeps track of all their members, which means his daughter would be looked after as well to some extent. 5. Tenten get's her attitude from her mother. Seeing how Tenten shows traits of being hot headed and headstrong, Xiao-Lin is usually sweet and gives off very caring vibes, but don't piss her off because she will not hesitate to snap and yes; she will say it with her whole chest. That bad bitch persona is what we love about Tenten, so she has to get it from somewhere.

Here the original sketch I did of the Konoha Hua family;

I changed Xiao-Lin’s appearance so it was evident she was related to Tenten in someway...the buns; she needed buns. I switched her hair with Auntie Kai's.

[mijnniemandsland]

Taal.

De Nederlandse taal is een onmisbare schat van onze cultuur en identiteit. Het Nederlands is een taal die door miljoenen Nederlanders wordt gesproken en bemind. Daarom is het belangrijk om de Nederlandse taal en haar rijke geschiedenis en tradities te beschermen en te behouden. Echter, het feit dat het Engels steeds meer gebruikt wordt in onze samenleving, maakt het noodzakelijk om te overwegen…

[stochastique-blog]

Cool

10 Essentiële feiten die men kan gebruiken in het gesprek met Lockdown-Wappies.

[sugdenlovesdingle]

Oh mijn god mensen kijk Bar Laat (terug)! Ik ga stuk!

Reinier van den Berg (weerman) tegenover een pvv staatssecretaris over het klimaat

Hij legt aan de hand van wetenschappelijk bewezen feiten uit dat het klimaat naar de kloten gaat - met orkaan Milton in Florida als voorbeeld, en hij zit recht tegenover de pvv muts, en kijkt haar steeds recht aan - en de camera focust ook steeds op haar en ze doet ZO HARD HAAR BEST om d'r gezicht in een plooi te houden.

En dan vraagt Sophie Hilbrand wat zij er van vindt en of ze niet beter een noodwet voor het klimaat kunnen maken in plaats van een voor een niet bestaande asiel crisis.

"ja maar wat ik me afvraag is voelen die mensen dat ook zo? Ervaren die mensen die klimaatverandering ook zo?"

En je ziet Reinier van den Berg gewoon the will to live verliezen. Hij zit nog net niet “BITCH PLEASE, je ziet toch wat er aan de hand is?!“ maar het scheelt niet veel.

Ik voel z'n pijn maar het is geweldige tv.

[ochtendstorm]

Ik had deze week te veel 1-op-1 tijd met mijn pijn om nog te ontkennen dat die er is. Ik ontken oorzaken, richtingen en elk kompas, maar niet de pijn. Hoe dieper ik graaf in de waarom, de wat en de wanneer, hoe meer ik de weg kwijt geraak. Ik jaag op feiten die al lang in de geschiedenis verdwenen zijn. Ik roep vraagtekens op die ontkenning aanwakkeren, dan loop ik weg. Ik kan niet verdragen wat ik niet weet. Ik weet wel dat er pijn is, oorzaakloze domme oorverdovende pijn. Er is geen wat, er is geen weten. Enkel deze zinloze, richtingloze (hartverscheurendkapotte) pijn.