#irritaties

[k3fanblog]

Nieuwe clip?!?

[daisys-notes]

De Rode Vlag Cult: "Glas Half Leeg."

🚩 Nieuwe blog online: De Rode Vlag Cult - Glas Half Leeg! 🚩 Herken jij die eeuwige pessimist, of ben jij het zelf!? Duik in de wereld van negativiteit en zelfmedelijden. Lees nu en lach mee! 😈 #blog #humor #cynisme #glashalfleeg #zelfspot #new

We hebben allemaal wel zo’n persoon in ons leven (of ben jij die persoon!?). De eeuwige zwartkijker, die de kunst van het zeuren tot een olympische sport niveau heeft getild. En nee, ze zijn er niet zomaar eentje. Nee, nee, ze komen in verschillende, over de datum zijnde, smaakjes. Elke variant geeft een nieuwe dimensie aan bloeddrukverhoging. Laten we er een paar uitlichten uit de collectie van…

[kinkinderelatie]

Stik niet in je 'ick'!

Amygdalar disliking / Ick Stik niet in je ‘ick’! Question-P- vroeg (op Tumblr): Weet je, Ik hou van haar maar ik kan me soms zo aan haar ergeren. Is dat normaal?Answer:Een bekende relatiecoach vroeg eens aan zijn publiek: “Who has ever experienced marital hatred in the marriage?”… en 80% stak z’n vinger op.Het is normaal dat je jezelf ergert aan je partner, soms zelfs even walgt van je partner……

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Would you write a part 2 of the aftermath of this ending https://www.tumblr.com/sourcherryandsprinkles/754130135676076032/sending-aemond-dirty-letters-by-raven-while-you

Request: Aemond ask for Velaryon!reader’s favor at the king’s tourney to piss off her betrothed who is also competing as knight from another house

I was secretly planning this 🤭 It's shorter than I wanted...

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You should have seen Aemond’s move coming. 

He had a smug smile on his face when he met you in secret and stole a good fortune kiss after breaking fast. He told you he would ask for your favor if he won — and not only the flowers kind. 

Seated alongside your brothers, you watched from the royal box as Aemond entered the tournament ground with the other knights of House Targaryen. He sat tall and strong on his black horse, his long silver hair peeking from beneath the helmet. There was something about him in full armor that made you clench your legs, feeling your core ache. You didn’t know if you wanted to tear it off him or keep it on and ride him with it on. 

The other knights parted to the other side of the court, but Aemond stayed. He looked up and spotted you amongst the crowd, his intense gaze fixed on you.

‘’Prince Aemond of House Targaryen will now choose his first opponent,’’ the tourney announcer said.

Knights from other houses were lined up and Aemond trotted before them. He eyes them all, making it seem like he didn’t already know who he was going to pick. The prince smirked behind the protection of his helmet before stopping and pointing his lance at Lord Tully’s son — your betrothed. 

You tensed on your seat, knowing this duel was not going to end well and would stir drama. Aemond wanted to take him down. This was revenge for taking you from him. 

In the court, the two knights positioned themselves. Aemond was calm and collected, but you knew he was relishing every moment of this. His horse was stomping impatiently.

When he signed up for the tourney, Alicent disapproved immediately. But Aemond was determined to participate. He knew it would be more challenging for him since he only had one good eye, but he was confident in his skills. He’s been training for years with only one eye, and learning tactics to work around his blind side. If he could send Ser Criston on the ground, he could manage participating in the tourney. 

‘’Begin!’’ the announcer shouted, and the riders charged towards each other at top speed. 

Horses' hooves thundered, and a part of you wanted to close your eyes, scared of how this duel was going to end. Bloody, that was for sure. Another wanted to watch Aemond tear Lord Tully's son down.

Aemond's horse surged forward, his lance gripped tightly as he aimed true, striking the Tully knight squarely in the chest. A smirk curled on the prince’s lips as the impact sent the knight reeling, his armor screeching against the tilting barrier as his horse galloped on. 

Lord Tully's son regained his balance, then turned around, ready to go again.

You watched nervously, scared for the second round. 

The next clash was fierce, both lances aiming at the same time and splintering with a resounding crack. New ones were swiftly provided by their helpers, and they went again.

‘’Who do you think is going to win?’’ Jacaerys asked, seated on your right. ‘’I think Aemond should get his pride hurt and fall from his horse. He is too arrogant. Did you see the force he struck at the Tully knight?’’

You kept your gaze on the court, the air tense with anticipation. As they charged once more, hooves pounding like thunder, Aemond struck first, sending his opponent crashing to the ground in a clatter of armor. 

‘’That’s my son!’’ the King cheered from his chair, seated right beside Otto Hightower. 

The crowd erupted in applause, Aemond basking in his victory. He approached the royal box with his horse, the sunlight glinting off his armor. You stood to greet him, much to your mother’s irritation, a smile playing on your lips. irritation. She wasn’t happy about his antics, but she couldn't say anything to stop him. Not with so many eyes on you, watching.

‘’Nicely done, Uncle,’’ you congratulated as he removed his helm, revealing his features, his long hair cascading down his armored shoulders. 

‘’Thank you, Princess,’’ Aemond replied, smug satisfaction emanating from him. ‘’I’m certain I can win more duels, but I would like to ask the favor of the fairest lady of the Realm.’’ 

Daemon, who was sitting next to your mother, was watching the interaction, fuming. He knew Aemond was asking your favor on purpose. It was a subtle act of defiance, one that he knew would rile up your betrothed…who he just unhorsed.

You smiled and fetched your prettiest flower crown, the one your mother thought you made for your betrothed, sliding it down Aemond’s lance. ‘’Good fortune to you, Prince Aemond.’’

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale @mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden @memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron   @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08  @mymultiveres  @secretsthathauntus  @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas  @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit @blublock404 @Icefyre19 @paulilvsremus @mfedits @aemondwhoresworld @angrybirdxx @YarianyIrizarry

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[junocornkiwi]

I don’t have all day to answer your questions. Ask or leave, I have a lot of work.

I made a low approval Gale accidentally 😔 he's kinda so 😳 when he's angry/irritatied

my silly silly wizard 😌❤️

[parolerandagie]

Ogni volta che, invitati ad essere più umili, ci sentiamo infastiditi ed irritati dalla cosa, stiamo facendo poco d'altro se non dimostrare a noi stessi ed alla controparte quanto fosse assulutamente dovuto, necessario e preciso, quel suggerimento. E che seguirlo senza indugio sia, senza dubbio, la miglior cosa da fare nell'immediato.

[ambrenoir]

Cosa hanno fatto PAPA' e MAMMA per invecchiare da un momento all'altro?

Sono invecchiati... i nostri genitori sono invecchiati.

Nessuno ci aveva preparato per questo.

Un bel giorno perdono la compostezza, diventano più vulnerabili e acquisiscono delle manie "stupide".

Hanno molti chilometri addosso e sanno tutto, e quello che non sanno lo inventano.

Sono stanchi di badare agli altri e di servire da esempio: ora è arrivato il momento di essere curati e coccolati da noi.

Non fanno più piani a lungo termine, ora si dedicano a piccole avventure come mangiare di nascosto tutto ciò che il medico gli ha vietato.

Hanno macchie sulla pelle.

Improvvisamente sono tristi.

Ma non sono obsoleti: i figli sono obsoleti, che rifiutano di accettare il ciclo della vita.

E ' difficile accettare che i nostri eroi e le nostre eroine non abbiano più il controllo della situazione.

Sono fragili e un po’ smemorati.

Hanno questo diritto, ma continuiamo a chiedere loro l'energia di una locomotiva.

Non ammettiamo le loro fragilità, la loro tristezza.

Ci sentiamo irritati e alcuni li sgridiamo se sbagliano con il cellulare o un altro oggetto elettronico e non abbiamo pazienza per sentire per la millesima volta la stessa storia che raccontano come se l’avessero vissuta veramente.

Invece di accettare con serenità il fatto che essi adottano un ritmo più lento con il passare degli anni, ci arrabbiamo semplicemente perché hanno tradito la nostra fiducia, la fiducia che sarebbero stati indistruttibili come i super eroi.

Provochiamo discussioni inutili e insistiamo affinché tutto continui come sempre.

La nostra intolleranza può essere solo paura.

Paura di perderli e paura di perderci, soprattutto paura che smettano di essere lucidi e allegri.

Con la nostra rabbia abbiamo solo causato più tristezza a coloro che un giorno hanno solo cercato di darci gioia.

Perché non possiamo essere un po' di quello che sono stati per noi?

Quante volte questi eroi ed eroine notti intere erano accanto a noi con i farmaci, curandoci e misurandoci la febbre!

E ci arrabbiamo quando si dimenticano di prendere le medicine e quando si discute con loro li lasciamo piangere, come le creature che siamo state noi un giorno.

Il tempo ci insegna a trarre profitto da ogni tappa della vita ma è difficile accettare le tappe degli altri, ancor di più quando gli altri sono stati i nostri pilastri, quelli dai quali potevamo sempre tornare e sapevamo che sarebbero stati ad accoglierci a braccia aperte e che ora stanno dando segnali che un giorno andranno via senza di noi.

Facciamo per loro oggi il meglio, il massimo che possiamo affinché domani quando loro non ci saranno più, possiamo ricordarli con affetto, ricordare i loro sorrisi di gioia e non le lacrime di tristezza che loro hanno versato per causa nostra.

Alla fine, i nostri eroi di ieri saranno i nostri eroi per sempre.

[smutcraft]

Daemon Targaryen AI Script Reading of “The Wager” (Daemon x Fem! Reader Smutfic)

Original story on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60466729

AI reading inspired by the ingenious @em-writes-stuff-sometimes.

Enjoy!

This certainly isn’t the Lord of Fleabottom’s first visit to your brothel. The Magic Pillow is as good an establishment as any, with excellent dancers and musicians -- not that your clientele are there for music or dancing. No, what’s unusual about Daemon’s visit on this particular evening is the fact that he’s come calling while Mysaria is away.

Say what you will about the Targaryen prince, but he’s a creature of habit like any other man, and he rarely passes a night at the Magic Pillow without Mysaria. If not Mysaria, he tends to favor your pillow sisters with pale hair and skin like his -- like a Targaryen’s. You’ve grown accustomed to seeing the same three or four women with the prince in his finely tailored doublets, or in his armor as the Commander of the City Watch.

This evening you’re wearing a sheer gown that ripples along your body like a fountain of gold, the color coaxing another layer of warmth from your flat brown eyes. You’ve worn your hair in a simple plait that’s bound to come unraveled by morning, looking every bit the unruly Dornish woman you are. Amara Sunstar is your fitting name around the pillow house, inspired by the spiky scar on one of your hips.

As you adjust your jewelry and eye your prospects for the evening, you catch Daemon eyeing you with a curious look. Not long after, he saunters over to the brothel owner and leans in to speak privately into the man’s ear. Is it just your imagination, or does Daemon gesture in your direction with the slightest jerk of his chin before disappearing up the stairs? Moments later, the brothel owner hustles over to you with eyes wide as saucers.

“He’s sent for me?” you ask, confused.

Lord Egen is equally perplexed. “Requested you specifically by name, Amara. And said there was ‘a "dragon's den of gold" in it for the Dornish woman, if she’s lucky.’"

You snort, making a show of being unimpressed, though the mention of so much gold has you thinking wistfully of all the things you could buy. Passage on a ship, for example…

"I'll see to the prince," you say, averting your eyes, as if the brothel owner could read your thoughts in them. "Where is he?"

"The round room," he replies, nodding upstairs. "Best get to it."

You smooth your hair and stop in your chambers to apply a light coating of powder and blush before making your way to the large turreted chamber that is the round room. Just before you enter to greet Prince Daemon, you take a deep breath and lift your shoulders back.

Daemon is lounging on the plush red cushions of the round room, idly toying with a tankard of ale as you enter the room. Never one for subtlety, tonight he wears a fine black doublet tailored closely to show off his arms. A dark cloak with fur trim lies discarded on the floor already. As you approach, his eyes rake over your body from the ground up, lingering on your toned arms and calves in particular. The pleased curve of his mouth suggests he has special plans for you as he gestures for you to join him, patting an empty cushion beside him.

"Amara Sunscar," he says, his voice low and rich. “Thank you for joining me.”

"At your leisure, my prince," you say, settling herself beside him. You lean forward to pour yourself a small measure of wine, hoping to settle your nerves, but Daemon places a hand over the top of her cup to stop you. He lifts the cup away without a word of explanation, and you stifle a burst of irritation at his presumptuousness.

"I would like to know," he says smoothly, still offering no explanation for your forced sobriety, "what brings a Dornish beauty such as yourself to King's Landing. I hear you were banished from the brothels in your motherland?"

You swallow another gust of irritation. "I was," you say between grit teeth.

Daemon's eyes dance with keen interest. "Care to explain?”

You sigh, wary of spreading the tale any farther than it already has. "A useless drunk with no coin forced me to defend myself. Unfortunately, I defended myself...too well." Though this was years ago, when you were just learning the skin trade, you can still picture the dead man's torrent of blood spilling from his neck.

Daemon, strange man that he is, doesn't look put off by your admission. Rather, he looks more keen than ever.

"Banished for ridding the world of another useless louse,” he muses. “I find that to be a rather backwards rule." He considers you more closely now. "And what would you do differently, given a second chance?”

You answer honestly, sensing Daemon will see through any attempt at subterfuge. "I would have slit his neck from the front, so I could see his expression."

Daemon grins, a feral expression that says he might just like you for your candor. "Ah, but I can think of a better weapon for a Dornish viper such as yourself."

He rises from his spot on the cushion and moves to the corner to retrieve his Valyrian longsword.

Of course the brothel owner has made an exception for Damon to bring a weapon into the inner chambers, you think to yourself as Daemon retrieves his longsword. The black metal glints under the candlelight as he presents it to you, hilt first.

"Dark Sister," you say, surprising even yourself by knowing the name.

"You know your history," Daemon comments with approval. "Yes, this is Dark Sister. A sword crafted for the likes of a legendary woman."

He gestures for you to take it, watching intently as you accept. You're no Queen Visenya, of course, but an undeniable thrill runs through you as you lift the sword by the hilt.

"Go on, then. Show me what you know," he encourages, leaning back against the wall to watch. Your admiration of this fine blade must be clear to Daemon; his look of pride is almost unbearable.

You grip the sword more firmly, lifting it as if in challenge. You move the blade through some simple movements, the cold metal slicing through the air in a way that's surprisingly... pleasant. All the while, Daemon observes you with mounting intensity. When you finish in a fighting stance, your arms sore from wielding the heavy blade, Daemon gives you a slow, showy round of applause.

"A formidable opponent," he says as you reluctantly return Dark Sister to him to sheathe and set aside. "Tell me, how does a common whore come to know her way around a longsword?"

The insult is nothing you haven't heard before, but it stings for being so unexpected.

"I was borne into a family of blacksmiths before our village was set to the torch," you spit at him. "And how does the prince of the seven kingdoms come to shed his highborn manners so quickly?"

Daemon chuckles with an expression as sharp and calculating as a wolf's. He says nothing in reply to your retort, merely looking pleased with himself as his attention shifts to the tone of your upper arms. Slowly, lazily, he seats himself at a low table.

“I see you are not one to shy away from a challenge,” he says. "So let us have another. You say you would have enjoyed watching your target’s expression as you defeated him -- let us see if you can bring a Targaryen to wince in defeat." With that, his hand falls open in a clear invitation to arm-wrestle.

You consider Daemon with a slight frown. You've received your fair share of unusual requests from patrons, of course, but this is not one you've ever been presented with before. "If I win?" you demand.

"If you can best me, you will leave this room with a small fortune and my sincerest admiration, Amara Sunscar."

Your mind resolved, you take a seat and roll up the sheer sleeve of your golden robe. "I accept," you declare. "I will show the prince how Dornish steel is forged."

Daemon chuckles at that. "By all means," he says, rolling his own sleeve with mischief in his violet eyes.

Your hands grip one another tightly. Despite your bravado, the solid lock of Daemon's non-dominant hand does nothing to assure you of your chances of winning. Not to mention that his pale forearm outsizes your darker one by a healthy margin. You shake your head, focusing on keeping a steady grip as you count down aloud from three to one.

Daemon's smirk is unwavering, even as the countdown concludes and the game begins in earnest. To your fury, he eases back in his seat and allows his gaze to wander down the bodice of your gown. He looks wholly unconcerned with the outcome of your game, even as you throw all of the strength you can muster into your right arm with sweat beginning to bead your brow. Your wishful thinking of the prize money begins to chafe as the seconds wear on.

All the while Daemon’s arm is unwavering, statue-like, with a fire burning brightly behind his unusual violet eyes. The prince's expression, as always, remains a mask of composure. His eyes flick up to meet yours with an almost teasing gleam. "Do you tire, Amara?"

You do, and greatly, not that you'll give him the pleasure of admitting as much. You merely shake your head, unwilling to let him hear the strain in your voice.

As a full minute ticks by, Daemon seems to sense your determination. His grip tightens, and for a moment you wonder if you've bitten off more than you can chew. The prince's expression remains unreadable as his gaze returns to your face, drinking in the obvious strain on your brow. "You are a fierce little creature, aren't you,” he marvels.

You grit your teeth at his teasing. The longer the arm wrestle goes on, the more the muscles in your arm begin to twinge and ache.

"Perhaps we ought to renegotiate the stakes?" Daemon offers with a crooked smile, his eyes sparkling. "A small concession in return for an easier victory."

"What have you in mind?" you ask, fighting to keep from panting.

"A kiss.”

You snort but hesitate, knowing you can't possibly hold on much longer.

"One embrace," he says, leaning in, "And you will have your prize."

You almost roll your eyes, but the fact that the prince is letting you keep the 'small fortune' regardless of losing toes you in line.

"An agreeable compromise," you say between grit teeth. "I'll let you keep your dignity, my prince."

As soon as the mutual embrace of your hands slackens, Daemon’s hand lunges forward to grip your thick plait of hair.

The table topples as he rushes you forward, pinning you to the wall with his lips as much as his grip. It's such a far cry from the smug press of his lips you were anticipating that you squirm in panic, kicking at whatever parts of Daemon you can reach.

"Now, now, no need for such resistance," he chastises after breaking the kiss - if you can call such an ambush a kiss at all. Just as quickly, he releases you. "You have spirit, that much is clear." He leans closer, the heat from his body almost palpable as he whispers, "I can think of ways to use such spirit."

"I believe you owe me a prize already, my prince," you say hotly.

Daemon's lips twitch in amusement. "Very well." He reaches into a pouch at his side, tossing it to you with a regretful smile. "For you, my Dornish viper."

You force yourself not to gape as you count the generous sum. "I did not realize men would pay so handsomely to touch my hand alone," you jest.

"And what a lovely hand it is," Daemon says lightly, impatiently. "Tell me, Amara Sunscar, will you accept one final wager?"

You hesitate, unsure of what the prince could possibly challenge you to next. "I will hear your terms," you say at last.

Daemon smiles, pleased. "The terms are these. I shall leave this room and wait outside for one minute's time. When I open this door again, you will try to slip past me and escape this chamber by any means necessary. If you can manage that, you won't need to take another man to bed so long as you're alive. Should you fail, you shall be rewarded handsomely, but not extravagantly. Do you understand?"

You swallow, your throat tight. You can do this, you tell yourself - it's not an impossible task, considering that you are much lighter and faster on your feet. To Daemon, you repeat quizzically, "By any means necessary?"

Daemon smiles more deeply, seeing you puzzle out the possibilities in your head. "Any at all," he confirms. "I leave even Dark Sister at your disposal."

And with that, he strides from the room, the heavy door closing behind him. You're alone in the round chamber, the fire still crackling warmly on the hearth. And time is ticking.

Your first thought is to hide. The round room has few hiding places: under the bed, behind the door, and behind a floor-length tapestry. But something tells you that Daemon has not survived so many battles by being clueless enough to waltz right past his mark, and hiding under the bed would leave you precious little room to move. Quickly, you dart behind the tapestry, hoping Daemon will think to look under the bed first. As he does, you might be able to bound over the bed and reach the door in time…

While you consider your next move, the door flings wide. A delicious tension hangs in the air as Prince Daemon steps inside with lithe movements, moving as though he anticipates an immediate attack. Finding none, he grins, and you could swear he looks more pleased than ever.

His gaze sweeps the room with practiced precision. You can practically see his clever mind at work as he assesses your potential hiding spots, honing in on the bed as you brace yourself behind the tapestry.

"Dear Amara," he calls out playfully, "I fear you cannot hide for long."

You watch as Daemon turns a slow circle, looking completely unbothered at the prospect of losing enough coin to make your head spin. His careful steps about the room suggest that everything before this moment has been a prelude to what the prince really wants: this cat-and-mouse game between the two of you.

"Where are you, my Dornish viper?" he calls, his voice thick with lust. "I see you’ve not armed yourself with Dark Sister. Does this mean you plan to outfox me?"

You watch with your heart in your throat as the prince kneels to lift the bedskirt. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, you spring from behind the tapestry and attempt to leap over the bed and out the door to victory.

Unfortunately for you, Daemon is much faster than you'd anticipated. In an instant he's snagged you by the waist and lifted you, trapped, within his unyielding arms. "Not today," he says, his voice low and heavy with triumph.

Disappointment and rage courses through you at being restrained so easily. But it's the thought of that "dragon's den of gold" slipping between your fingers that drives your next desperate bid for escape: You seize upon a nearby candelabra and swing it forcefully into Daemon's chest.

Daemon's hold on you falters at the impact, and you tumble to the floor with a curse. But as you scramble back to your feet, ready to make another run for it, you freeze in place at his low laugh. "A dragon does not fear fire, foolish girl."

You ignore the prince's taunting to crouch low, mentally planning your escape, but Daemon mirrors you in every direction you look to, his hands outstretched, a lustful glint in his eyes.

Clearly, he's relishing the chase. And though you're faster on your feet, you can't seem to outmaneuver him.

"Come now, Amara," he purrs, "What will you try next?"

Your answer is to fake right and break left, toward Dark Sister. Not that you have any intention of maiming the prince, but if you can put the longsword between you and Daemon, you just might be able to -

But Daemon sweeps your feet out from under you, catching you yet again like a babe fallen from a tree, before his lips collide hungrily with yours. Despite the distraction, his hold on you never wavers as you attempt to squirm free.

"I have you now," Daemon whispers along your jaw. He seizes one of your hands in his and brings it to the front of his breeches, showing you how strained the fabric has become, how painfully erect he must be.

Inspiration strikes a second time as you reach lower, to make a squeeze at his more vulnerable parts.

Daemon drops you with a shout. You’ve barely hit the floor before you're scrambling upright, breaking for the door as though the room were on fire. But Daemon is already hot on your trail, and your stomach sinks as his arms seize you by the waist for a third time. Only now, instead of clutching you to him, he turns and throws you forcefully to the bed.

"Crafty little viper," Daemon snaps, the words rough with both anger and arousal. As you watch, Daemon tears away his doublet, leaving an expanse of bare-chested skin that you're suddenly dying to nip and bite at. Instead, you look to the door behind him, your nature not allowing you to give up even now.

Following your gaze, Daemon chuckles. "Still not giving up, are we? An admirable quality in a whore," he taunts, stoking your competitive nature all the more. "Let's have it, then. You may try as long as you like. I’ve nowhere I’d rather be.”

Soon enough you've lost count of how many flight attempts you've made, only to have the bare-chested prince seize you by the middle like some disobedient animal and return you to the bed. His fingers dig into your skin, his touch firm but not painful as he wrestles you into submission, over and over. Each time he returns you to the bed, he returns to the same stance in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind him and his eyes pointed to his feet.

As time bleeds together, your defiance starts to fade. Perhaps it's the way his eyes glint with a hunger that's become harder to resist with your every failed attempt to escape. Perhaps it's the way he looms over you like a stormcloud, and all you want is to be the lightning that cracks through him. Or maybe it's just the realization that you're sore and tired and still no closer to that dragon's den of gold.

Either way, you find yourself squirming beneath Daemon's grasp, no longer out of desperation to flee, but an entirely new source of heat building inside of you.

Daemon's lips quirk in satisfaction as he senses the shift of defeat in your body and spirit. He bends low, his breath hot on your ear as he murmurs, "Good girl. At last you understand."

He brings a hand to the edge of your bodice. With a swift tug, the laces are loosened enough that he can pull the gown off one shoulder to reveal a swath of creamy skin.

Teeth graze your neck, nipping gently. "You're mine," he repeats, as if claiming you. His lips trail down to the hollow of your throat, the stubble on his chin scratching pleasantly against the tender flesh.

As his hand drifts, his fingers brushing lines along your collarbones, he looks up at you like a lion on the brink of supping at last. "Are you going to deny that any longer?"

The stare he fixes you with in that moment is what does you in.

"No," you answer, almost too softly to be heard.

Daemon smiles, the wickedness in his eyes clear as day. He claims your lips in a savage kiss that leaves you gasping when he finally tears you away by a fistful of your hair.

"Good girl. Then let's begin," he murmurs, and he pushes the bodice off your other shoulder, tossing it to the floor. He traces your curves with his fingertips, dipping beneath your chemise to cup one of your breasts.

You whimper under the long-awaited grip feel of him, a sound so raw and unguarded that it seems to spur Daemon on. His lips make an eager path down your torso, nibbling and sucking at your skin as he goes, until he reaches the juncture between your thighs.

Daemon wastes no time burying his face there, lapping at your folds. You cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets as you arch your back, offering yourself fully to his whims. His touch only intensifies from there.

You hiss and writhe with pleasure as Daemon works at your core, lapping at your wetness with an urgency that borders on madness.

The Prince of the seven kingdoms looks like a man possessed as he forces your thighs farther apart. His tongue lashes and lathes between your legs as Daemon learns how to coax his favorite sounds out of you, his hands brusquely forcing you flat against the bed each time your hips start to lift of their own accord.

You gasp as Daemon works at your clit next, alternating between a gentle suckling and a slow pattern with the tip of his tongue that quickly has you feeling light headed. He chuckles into you as you grip at his long silver hair, your need palpable and rising still higher every second.

You sense Daemon’s own need building, the scent of your arousal and the sound of your moans driving him onward. His tongue plunges deep inside you, flicking against your entrance as his fingers pinch at your clit with just enough pressure to send shocks through your body.

Soon enough you're quaking on the verge of orgasm, panting as if you’ve run a marathon.

Daemon smiles into the damp curls between your legs before he rises to his feet without granting your release. "Patience, Amara," he admonishes.

But patience is not a gift you possess, and the state Daemon’s left you in drives you to pounce instead, driving him back into the mattress as you snake your legs and arms around his. Daemon’s reaction is immediate but surprising: at first he obliges with a groan, his head lolling slightly backward, his gaze surprisingly tender. But this effect doesn’t last long. You soon find yourself grappling with Daemon, enjoying the battle of wills -- not to mention the opportunity to exercise your strength to the fullest, to exert yourself in this way you’d nearly forgotten.

Your exertions don’t last long, for Daemon pins you to the bed once again and lords over you like the smug highborn dragonrider that he is. "My little viper is insatiable. But I suppose that's why she’s irresistible, as well.”

With those words, Daemon settles himself between your legs. His thick shaft nudges against your entrance, and you can feel the heat radiating off him. He grinds against you, teasing the wet opening with just the tip of his cock. "Ready for me?" he asks lazily.

Through your haze of lust, another wicked idea occurs to you.

"Wait," you whisper, pushing your hands against his chest. Daemon obliges, easing his weight from you with a quizzical smile. As he does, you guide him into a new position, settling him behind you while you face the door on all fours.

Daemon's eyes flash as he understands what you want from him, seizing you by the hip with one hand and seeking your wet core with the other. He doesn’t wait for an invitation this time, but pushes inside you slowly, stretching you open to accommodate him.

Once he's buried to the hilt, Daemon seizes you by both hips and pulls you slowly back against him. He drives into you a second time, then a third, until he seems to forget the world around you both and begins to take you in earnest.

"Daemon," you groan as the prince bottoms out within you over and over. At the sound of his name in your mouth, he gives a beastly groan and drives into you with a primal greed that leaves you breathless. Delicious as it is, you are distracted…and with good cause.

You decide to help the prince along using your usual tricks. You arrange a pillow beneath you and grip the base of Daemon's cock with one hand, adding a pressure that has him groaning louder than ever before.

"Are you going to spend inside me, Daemon?" you croon. "Or spill your princely seed on my ass? I've not had a chance to ask Mysaria which you prefer..."

You're pleased to hear another feral grunt at your words.

"Keep talking like that and I'll forget every whore I’ve ever lain with," Daemon pants as you work him, your hand squeezing his cock in time with your hips rolling with each thrust. His own hand comes to rest on your lower back.

You wait for his grunts to pick up before forcing his hands to his sides, using the force of your own hips to impale yourself upon him over and over.

Daemon's breath hitches at your boldness. "Damn you, woman," he curses. "Are you trying to drive me mad?"

You answer by turning your head to fix him with a coy smile that you hope will urge him ever closer to the end.

"Cum now," you order. "Make a mess of my cunt or ass, I care not, only do it now."

Daemon's breathy chuckle at your insolence quickly becomes the sound you were hoping to hear: the faltering grunts of a man's pleasure about to reach its mark.

It's then that you spring into action, using your hands to springboard from the bed and onto the ground, adrenaline leaping along with you as you make for the door.

But as you scramble for the door, you make the fatal mistake of looking back.

Daemon's face is wild in the aftermath of his ruined orgasm, thanks to you. The shock of your flight -- your final, most clever escape attempt -- strikes him plainly, like a slap to the face. That quickly, his look of surprised irritation elapses into rage, and the snarl from Daemon’s chest is filled with rage as he comes charging after you.

You have the door open now, you can hear the sound of the musicians from below --

But Daemon comes up fast upon you, his fist forcing the heavy oak door closed again mere inches from your nose.

His other hand shoots out to grab your throat, an iron grip that keeps your back pinned against his chest.

"Silly slut. You think you can toy with your prince so shamelessly and get away with it?" he hisses in your ear. His hand around your throat squeezes even tighter as he speaks, digging tightly enough to steal your breath.

As the room spins, you register being forced back onto all fours, this time onto the chamber’s bearskin in the center of the room. And this time with Daemon in front of you, not behind.

He slaps the head of his swollen cock against your lips until you part them. After that, there is no tenderness as he claims your throat, his every thrust a punishing one. You hear Daemon’s anger in each seething breath through his nose. And yet, even with his hand still gripped tight around your throat, you can’t deny it - you like it this way. Daemon thrusting into you relentlessly, his pale hips pistoning into your face with the force of revenge as much as lust.

"You’ve lost, little viper,” he growls. “My sneaking Dornish whore.”

You can barely hear him through the whirling between your ears and the pain around your throat, and still you can't help moaning weakly. It's an odd combination: fear and pleasure, humiliation and ecstasy.

You never want it to stop.

With a triumphant smirk, he releases you, allowing you to fall back and draw breath.

“Daemon,” you sputter, air filling your lungs, the simple pleasure of it flooding through you.

Daemon watches your reaction with a mix of satisfaction and contempt. As you watch, he kneels to the ground to retrieve his belt, which he cinches around your naked waist like reins.

Your head falls back as he positions himself behind you once more.

He thrusts into you from behind again, this time without mercy, his movements brutal, as if each slam against your hips is another slap at your pride.

"Now," he breathes in your ear, "You will beg."

"I won't," you hiss. Even now, you can't resist stoking his anger further, curious to see how far you can push the Rogue Prince.

Daemon chuckles darkly at your defiance. He slams into you, his thrusts more forceful than before. Your body is a perfect fit for him, taking every inch without hesitation. He tightens his grip around the belt, making you feel more than ever like a vessel for his enjoyment and amusement.

“You will.”

Overcome with need, you press your eager fingers against your cunt and turn your head to beg Daemon with your eyes instead, hoping to maintain the last traces of your dignity.

"Beg, Amara," Daemon orders again, clearly losing patience, his eyes never leaving yours. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of desperation, of the most carnal need, he stops, pulling away in silence.

The longer he leaves you teetering, the more your desperation mounts. It's not until your voice cracks do you give in, and the words leave on a sob.

"Please, Daemon," you manage, your face flushed from need and shame. "Let me.”

“Let you what?”

“Let me cum,” you say without meeting his gaze.

He smirks at your submission, his eyes glittering with satisfaction as he slides back inside of you. Daemon's cock fills you again, the return like a promise made good. He grips your hair and starts to pump into you, the pace faster, the angle sharper, each thrust more intense than the last. His pace is relentless, driving into you without mercy, taking your body with the same ferocity that he's taken everything else in his life.

You can hear your own cries mingling with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, and it's only a matter of time before you approach your edge again, trembling under his unforgiving thrusts.

When you do, you can no longer contain yourself, your pleas for release tumbling out of your mouth. "Please, Daemon, please, let me come."

"With me,” he growls, the command unmistakable. He doesn't slow down, only continues to drive into you with a fervor that makes it clear he's determined to take you both over the edge at the same time.

As the wave of ecstasy builds within you, so does Daemon's own need. He thrusts more wildly than ever, his hand reaching out once more to seize you by the throat, that tight hold that both terrifies and delights you.

“I have you,” Daemon snarls again. “Did you truly think you could get away from me? That anything in the seven kingdoms could keep me from claiming this sweet, perfect cunt of yours?”

Sensing Daemon about to come undone, you look back to relish the prince's expression and see his face set in a grimace of wild pleasure that mirrors your own. Whereas Daemon looks more like a ferocious beast bearing down on its prey, however, you feel more like the prey on the brink of reaching safe haven.

The moment he reaches his release, a twin spark ignites inside of you as well. You cry out as your long awaited orgasm rips through you, and Daemon’s along with it. As your shuddering stops, he pulls out to spend along your back; you can feel the warm traces of it against your skin.

As he collapses next to you on the bed, Daemon's chest rises and falls in deep lungfuls. Sweat glistens on both of your skin. You're spent, utterly drained, but satisfaction hums through your veins in a way it rarely does with paying customers.

“Well played, my prince,” you say after a minute of blissfully exerted breathing.

“To you as well,” he replies with his eyes closed.

You might sulk if you weren’t so spent. You’ve lost the wager, after all; now the prince will pay you “handsomely but not extravagantly” for your troubles. You let your eyes fall closed as well, exhaustion threatening to overtake you, but you open your eyes again as Daemon runs a callused finger along your collarbone.

“You indulged my game admirably, little viper. And I do so love a challenge.”

You smile ruefully. “So long as this is your game, you’re unlikely to find a better challenge than I.”

He pauses at your words, as if considering. “Your fierceness is certainly unrivaled. Or your greed, perhaps…”

You say nothing.

“You may keep the whole of your prize money, then,” he murmurs. “Ten gold dragons, all yours. On one condition.”

You swallow nervously, wondering what else the prince could possibly ask of you. “Yes?”

He leaves you in suspense as he gathers his discarded breeches and doublet from the floor. Only when he’s fully dressed does he pause in the doorway to wink back at you. “That we play it again soon.”

[crazy-so-na-sega]

Gli animi, sempre più amareggiati dalla presenza de’ mali, irritati dall’insistenza del pericolo, abbracciavano più volentieri quella credenza: chè la collera aspira a punire: e, come osservò acutamente, a questo stesso proposito, un uomo d’ingegno, le piace più d’attribuire i mali a una perversità umana, contro cui possa far le sue vendette, che di riconoscerli da una causa, con la quale non ci sia altro da fare che rassegnarsi.

-Alessandro Manzoni (I Promessi sposi)

--------------

[falcemartello]

Volevo solo ricordarvi che poco più di un anno fa i garanti della Costituzione chiedevano che gente sana spendesse 50 euro a settimana per lavorare e irritati dalla loro tenacia impedirono loro di farlo del tutto. Se ti vaccini è gratis...

[arcobalengo]

Come era prevedibile, dopo essere stato scaricato più o meno da tutti tranne che dalle poderose armate del Baltico (e nemmeno tutte), Macron ha deciso di buttarla in caciara. Intervistato su France 2 e TF1 ha detto tutto e il contrario di tutto: non abbiamo intenzione di mandare le truppe ma potremmo farlo; non siamo in guerra contro la Russia ma non può e non deve vincere; la Russia è il nostro avversario, non un nostro nemico, ma è anche un "pericolo esistenziale" che ha causato tutti i mali della Francia, dall'aumento dei prezzi agli ospedali che non funzionano; se vincesse in Ucraina non si fermerebbe lì, e insomma tutto il campionario sentito negli ultimi mesi. È stato sostanzialmente un discorso patetico, indegno di quella che è pur sempre una potenza nucleare e una delle colonne del sistema difensivo della NATO. Del resto, dopo l'angolo in cui si era messo da solo, qualcosa doveva pure inventarsi.

La pateticità macroniana fa passare in secondo piano il fatto che, per il terzo giorno consecutivo, le truppe della "resistenza russa" continuano i loro tentativi di passare il confine, non lesinando né uomini né soprattutto mezzi: carri armati, veicoli blindati, e oggi addirittura elicotteri. Il copione si ripete bene o male uguale, con perdite piuttosto alte e, al momento, nessun guadagno. Alcuni commentatori ucraini sono francamente irritati dal fatto che, apparentemente, queste unità hanno a disposizione una gran quantità di materiale e non si fanno scrupoli a sprecarlo, quando tornerebbe molto più utile in altre zone del fronte. Non tengono conto però del fatto che lo scopo di queste azioni non è ovviamente militare, ma propagandistico. Da questo punto di vista l'intenzione sembra piuttosto chiara: le elezioni presidenziali si terranno da domani al 17, e l'obiettivo è stabilire il controllo su almeno un villaggio della fascia di confine per rivendicarlo come "Russia libera", far fare una figuraccia a Putin e sostenere che le elezioni sono illegittime, come stanno facendo decine di account su Twitter (non esattamente il social media più diffuso e praticato in Russia, quindi è chiaro chi è il bersaglio di queste azioni e di queste dichiarazioni). Ma che le elezioni in Russia non saranno riconosciute lo ha detto poco fa, senza perdite né di uomini né di mezzi, Peter Stano, il portavoce degli Affari esteri dell'Unione Europea, che ha dichiarato appunto che i singoli Stati si comporteranno come meglio credono ma l'Unione non le riconoscerà. Di qui a domenica aspettiamoci un crescendo di dichiarazioni surreali, operazioni militari velleitarie e tonnellate di propaganda. Poi forse si daranno tutti una calmata.

Giorgio Bianchi

[ma-pi-ma]

E sapere infine che sei

tu la barca di brezza contro le mie rocce;

e sapere infine che sei tu

il vento di ghiaccio sui miei campi di grano umiliati e irritati:

fragile contro l'altezza della mia fronte,

mortale ai miei occhi,

inflessibile al mio orecchio e schiava della mia lingua.

Nessuno mi ha detto il nome della rosa, l'ho saputo annusandoti,

Vergine amorosa che oggi mi ferisci come un fiore nell'amore donato.

Salire, salire senza sosta da una spina all'altra

e questa sarà la quarantesima spina,

e il tuo enigma sarà sempre così vicino alle mie mani,

ma sempre una brace più in alto,

sempre quella lunga attesa tra guardare l'ora

e guardarla di nuovo un attimo dopo.

E scoprire infine, esangue e desolato,

scoprire che è in me dove eri tu,

perché sei ovunque

e non solo in cielo dove ti ho cercato,

che sei tu, non io, tua e non mia,

la voce che sanguina dalle mie ferite.

Gilberto Owen, Il tuo nome, poesia, da Perseo vinto, 1948

[susieporta]

"personalmente... vi consiglierei , quando incontrate qualcuno, di ascoltarlo molto attentamente, in modo da capire se è una persona velenosa o una persona nutriente.

Se è una persona velenosa, ci si sente scocciati, esauriti, irritati; se è una persona nutriente, ci si sente crescere, verrebbe voglia di ballare e di abbracciarla.

Qualsiasi frase, allora, qualsiasi cosa uno dica o faccia può essere velenosa o nutriente. Tutto quel che ricava appoggio dal sé è nutriente. Tutto quel che è manipolato, artificiale, intenzionale, nella maggior parte dei casi è velenoso. È falsità, ipocrisia, è una bugia.

(...)

È chiaro che spesso ci si trova di fronte a un misto, ma qualche volta capita anche gente veramente velenosa, velenosa al cento per cento.

Se sei un tipo velenoso, questo vuol dire che dentro di te hai un djbbuk, un demonio, una persona che ti avvelena, e che tu hai ingoiato tutta intera.

(...)

Se siete in compagnia o in un gruppo, e poi vi sentite completamente esausti e svuotati, potete star sicuri che vi sono arrivate frasi velenose in quantità.

Se invece vi sentite rinfrescati e svegli, vuol dire che vi è arrivato molto nutrimento.

E spessissimo il veleno è ricoperto di zucchero, tuffato nella saccarina."

Fritz Perls: la terapia gestaltica parola per parola, Roma, 1980, pp. 148-149

[fanficsfreeideas]

this is a one-shot

"Shattered Echoes: Memories of Alastor"

As Alastor's consciousness slowly emerged, his head throbbed with a dull, incessant pain. Gingerly touching his scalp, he recoiled at the sensation of wetness and pulled back his hand to see it smeared with blood. His heart raced in panic as confusion and fear washed over him. He examined his hands, only to find that they were no longer human fingers but sharp claws instead. And upon reaching for his head again, he felt something pointed—what appeared to be deer ears.

His last memory was helping his mother in the warm comfort of their kitchen while the scent of fresh cake batter filled the air. But now, as he lay there with strange appendages and a growing sense of dread, he couldn't help but wonder: Where was his mother?

Attempting to rise, he was met with searing pain shooting through his leg and chest. Gasping and clutching at himself, he realized he had suffered deep wounds on both areas—his chest bearing a gaping wound and his leg broken beyond use. His vision blurred as questions raced through his mind: How did this happen? Who could have done this to him?

At that moment, voices began to drift closer—voices that sparked an unfamiliar fear within Alastor.

"Why do we have to find the boss?" grumbled the first voice bitterly. "We're better off without him."

"Charlie cares about him," replied the second voice softly yet insistently.

"He ran away like a coward during the fight with Adam," spat the third voice angrily. "He left us behind to fend for ourselves. We should just leave him."

The fourth voice retaliated defensively. "King Roach is not a coward! He's injured and needs our help."

Alastor's breath hitched in his throat at these words—who were these people? Were they affiliated with his father? Was this a punishment for something he did? And what about his mother—was she safe?

Panic surged within him, compelling him to find a hiding spot. With great effort, he pushed his broken body towards a nearby opening in the wall and waited for the voices to pass.

Peering out cautiously once the voices had faded, he was met with another shock as a hand suddenly reached out for him. In a burst of fear, he retreated into the safety of his hiding place, trembling at the unknown figure outside. The man cursed under his breath.

Lucifer's furious gaze pierced into the dark hole in the wall where Alastor was hiding. His brow furrowed in irritation as he muttered to himself, "How the hell did that damn bellhop get in there?" The room was filled with uneasy tension as the devil paced back and forth, his mind racing with frustration and anger.

With a deep breath, Lucifer spoke again, his voice dripping with venom. "You better have a damn good reason for hiding in there while my daughter fought against Adam." As he waited for a response, his patience quickly wore thin and his tone became sharper. "Get your ass out of that hole before I drag you out myself."

Alastor's heart raced with terror and pain, his body instinctively curling into a small ball. He could feel every beat of his chest screaming in agony, but the fear was even worse. Trembling uncontrollably, he covered his head with his arms as if it would protect him from the world collapsing around him.

"Stop hiding like a coward and face your punishment," Lucifer's voice cut through the air like a knife. But Alastor could barely make sense of the words. He couldn't understand why these people wanted to hurt him. He didn't get into fights; he didn't know Adam or anyone; it was just him and his mom. He was just a kid, his mother's son. Tears fell down his cheeks as he closed his eyes tighter, wishing for this nightmare to end.

Lucifer's breath caught in his throat as he heard the soft bleating sounds coming from the hole. Frustration and anger surged as he squatted down to get a better look. He clicked on his flashlight, and its beam revealed Alastor cowering, looking like a broken and battered creature. Lucifer's initial irritation turned to shock as he took in Alastor's condition. Blood matted his hair, leaving crimson streaks across his face, and his chest was soaked with it from a gaping wound. His leg jutted out unnaturally, the bone protruding through the torn skin. The sight made Lucifer's stomach churn with pity and disgust. "Hell, you look like a wreck," he whispered, his voice now devoid of its earlier anger.

Lucifer's throat tightened in a knot as he watched Alastor's trembling figure. He could see the fear and panic in the sinner’s eyes, and it only added to his own internal turmoil.

"Alastor, it's alright." Lucifer tried to keep his voice steady, hoping to calm both himself and the sinner before him. "I'm sorry for yelling earlier. I thought you had abandoned Charlie, but now I see that you fought. You fought hard, and I am proud of you."

Alastor lifted his head weakly, his wide eyes filled with terror. "You're lying," he stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "My father sent you to hurt me. You want me to leave, to beat me... you even said I had to accept my punishment." His words were broken by sobs as he pleaded, "Please, don't hurt my mom. Don't take her back to him. I'll do anything." In a desperate attempt to save his mother from her abusive husband, Alastor was willing to offer anything—even starving himself and working for free.

Lucifer's heart constricted at the sight of this broken and terrified child before him. This was not the cocky bellhop or the cunning radio demon he knew. This was a scared and vulnerable boy who believed he was about to be taken back to his abusive father. The weight of guilt settled heavily in Lucifer's stomach as he wondered what exactly Alastor meant by "anything." But he couldn't bring himself to ask the traumatized child before him. He needed to handle this delicately—if not for his own sake, then for Alastor's fragile state of mind. With a heavy heart, Lucifer closed his eyes, determined to find a way to help Alastor without causing further harm or trauma.

Lucifer's heart raced as he fought to keep his voice steady. "Shh, Alastor. I'm not taking you to your father. Your mother is safe. But you need to tell me... What's the last thing you remember?"

Alastor's voice trembled as tears streamed down his blood-stained cheeks. "I promised her... I promised her I'd protect her." His words were filled with pain and regret. "But I failed. I failed, Mom."

A wave of disgust and anger washed over Lucifer at the thought of Alastor's father harming his own family. He needed confirmation before he could make any moves. "Alastor," he asked gently, "how old are you?"

Alastor looked at him with a mixture of confusion and pain in his eyes. "Thirteen, sir. I'm turning fourteen in a few days." He paused, his voice cracking with emotion. "Mom and I... we were making a cake for my birthday." It was also the celebration of our freedom from him one year after we got away from him.

Lucifer was taken aback by this revelation. Alastor was a child; he remembered his life before death with clarity. That shouldn't be possible. No one retained such memories, let alone in such detail.

"Wow," Lucifer forced a smile, his tone overly bright to hide the turmoil inside him. "Fourteen! That's a big deal. And you know what? I throw the best parties." He could only hope that this small talk would distract Alastor from his injuries for a moment.

"But first," Lucifer continued, trying to sound nonchalant despite the weight of responsibility now on his shoulders, "let's get you out of that hole there and healed up."

Alastor tensed at the prospect, fear evident in his eyes. "You... you promise you won't take me to my dad?"

Lucifer gave him the most genuine smile he could muster, trying to ease his fears. "I promise. And if anyone ever tries to hurt you, I'll protect you." He extended a hand towards Alastor. "So please, come out."

After a moment's hesitation, Alastor began to move, only to be met with searing pain that caused him to cry out in agony. Lucifer cursed under his breath, realizing that the initial shock must have worn off. "Kid, this is going to hurt. I'm sorry." Alastor gave Lucifer a sad smile and said okay.

With careful hands, Lucifer crawled halfway into the hole and reached for Alastor's arms. Despite his best efforts, each movement caused the boy more pain, and he screamed louder. "I'm sorry, Alastor. I'm so sorry."

Finally, with one last scream, Alastor passed out from the pain, leaving Lucifer holding the broken body of a once powerful demon now reduced to a wounded and terrified child. As he sat there cradling Alastor's unconscious form, Lucifer's mind raced with questions and plans on how to help him heal—physically and mentally.

"Happy birthday, kid," Lucifer whispered softly as he gently stroked Alastor's hair, feeling a pang of regret for everything that had happened to him. "Now let's get you fixed up."

[alonewolfr]

La leggenda Sioux sul vero amore

Un giorno Toro Bravo e Nube Azzurra giunsero tenendosi per mano alla tenda del vecchio stregone della tribù e gli chiesero:

“Noi ci amiamo e ci vogliamo sposare. Ma ci amiamo così tanto che vogliamo un consiglio che ci garantisca di restare per sempre insieme, che ci assicuri di restare l’uno accanto all’altra fino alla morte. Che cosa possiamo fare?”.

Il vecchio saggio, emozionato nel vederli così giovani e così innamorati, così ansiosi di una buona parola, disse:

“Fate ciò che deve essere fatto. Tu, Nube Azzurra, devi scalare il monte al Nord del villaggio. Solo con una rete, devi prendere il falco più forte e portarlo qui vivo, il terzo giorno dopo la luna nuova. E tu, Toro Bravo, devi scalare la montagna del tuono; in cima troverai la più forte di tutte le aquile. Solo con una rete dovrai prenderla e portarla a me, viva!”.

I giovani si abbracciarono teneramente e poi partirono per compiere la missione. Il giorno stabilito, davanti alla stregone, i due attendevano con i loro uccelli. Il vecchio saggio li tolse dal sacco e costatò che erano veramente begli esemplari degli animali richiesti.

“E adesso, che dobbiamo fare?”, chiesero i giovani.

“Prendete gli uccelli e legateli fra loro per una zampa con questi lacci di cuoio. Quando saranno legati, lasciateli andare perché volino liberi” – rispose il vecchio saggio Sioux.

Fecero quanto era stato ordinato e liberarono gli uccelli. L’aquila e il falco tentarono di volare, ma riuscirono solo a fare piccoli balzi sul terreno. Dopo un po’, irritati per l’impossibilità di volare,gli uccelli cominciarono ad aggredirsi l’un altro beccandosi fino a ferirsi.

Allora, il vecchio saggio disse:

“Non dimenticate mai quello che state vedendo. Il mio consiglio è questo: voi siete come l’aquila e il falco. Se vi terrete legati l’uno all’altro, fosse pure per amore, non solo vivrete facendovi del male ma, prima o poi, comincerete a ferirvi a vicenda. Se volete che l’amore fra voi duri a lungo, volate assieme, ma non rimanendo legati con l’impossibilità di essere voi stessi”.

[aitan]

Il mio bisnonno Luigi Vergara (1880-1930) con i suoi genitori Maria Capasso (1840-1934) e Carmine Vergara (1839-1920).

Quando vedo queste foto mi vengono in mente le commedie di Eduardo Scarpetta e certi quadri di Ilya Repin dei primi anni del '900.

Gli uomini, poi, li vedo tutto impettiti ed eleganti, la trisavola, invece, mi pare una brigantessa con le mani bruciate dalla polvere da sparo.

Le pose erano lunghe e ancora non si era diffuso il vizio di fingere di sorridere alla telecamera. Forse era più forte l'esigenza di apparire autorevoli e severi. O, semplicemente, si era stanchi e irritati per i lunghi tempi di attesa.