#obsolete but successful

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

if you want to know how the lines started to blur between YA fantasy and adult bodice-rippers, and how TikTok catalyzed the market shift, look no further than middle-aged women writing Harry Potter fanfiction in the early 2000s

[cherry-bomb-ships]

Was talking with my gf last night about PPG ship stuff and realized I've made my self insert a programmer and coder... in a series that takes place within the turn of the century... bro Y2K gonna fucking kill her 😭😭😭

[rainbow-femme]

The fact that Tom wins succession is so funny cause he objectively is not good for the job

Gonna be one week in sitting on the floor under his desk calling his wife to come in and speak to the shareholders for him because Stewey is being mean again

Shiv in the board room in a power suit with a baby strapped to her chest giving a “he said no pickles” to the shareholders while Tom is pressing his face to the glass and one hand texting Greg to find a high schooler he can buy adderall from

[saentorine]

The best part of the stolen/bricked phone situation is when you need a 2-factor ID send to the old phone to SET UP THE REPLACEMENT PHONE 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

theres bikes around the city you can rent but you have to use an app that needs your drivers license. theres buses that drive right to your destination, but if you dont have change you need the app. you can wash your car here if you sign into the app. you can go to the bathroom here you just have to unlock it with the app that needs your location on. you can order at this restaurant if you scan the code and download the app. im losing my freaking mind

[hazelfoureyes]

The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice (part 3)

I deadass wrote part one as a one shot. Is this what peer pressure is? I love it.

It would have been easy to forget you, your soul was his anyways so the real fun had already finished. But that pesky video hit most streamed in 24 hours, he couldn’t even walk to the butcher without hearing you scream his name from errant phones. Surely there was a way, even from hell, to finish what he started and get you out of his system.

⟢ part1♡̶sidestory♡̶part2♡̶part3♡̶part4 ⟣

tags/warnings/promises: Alastor x reader, smut, soft Alastor, unprotected sex (duh?), creampie, edging a little, feelings, Valentino exists, Vox also exists, literally wrote this split screen with part 2 on the right side so I could line it up right like he does hehe, Alastor has a bad time

tag requested: @astraechos , @thekanrojimitsuri2 , @hoeforalbedo , @crazylazybabyk , @oddball08 , @lovingyeet , @just-trash-yeah-thats-it , @random-3455 , @alicehasdrowned , @des-deswain5621 , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @doctorswife221b

When Val released, ‘The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice’, it immediately went viral. The website crashed, downloads surpassed his wildest, horniest dreams.

It’s scary but also hot? ☆☆☆☆☆

Eat me Mr. Radio Demon!

I’ve never wanted to be a pussy so much in my life.

The reviews were all favorable, the comments rolling in, it was perfect.

Until Vox said it wasn’t. He had seen the video, but figured no one would care about seeing Alastor fuck anything. It wasn’t the success that got under his skin, it was the wave of positive attention it brought Alastor. Suddenly everyone was tuning in to his broadcasts, little miss princess’s hotel was busier than ever.

And it was ubiquitous. Every screen seemed to feature Alastor’s breakout role.

“I said pull it, Val!” Vox slammed his hands on Valentino’s coffee table.

“Vox, baby, you’re being really sensitive about this. I’m literally fucking piles of money right now. Actual piles of money, like, person sized piles.” Val took a drag of his cigarette, “Its good for business.”

“Would you rather fuck money, or me?” Vox’s screen glitched.

Val leaned his elbows on his knees, “That’s a really difficult question for me and I think you know that.”

“Augh! Val! Think of the big picture! That obsolete dickhead gaining attention means gaining power. And that’s bad for business.”

Val’s eyes fluttered, “What if we like, say it wasn’t him?”

Flashes of Alastor’s face fazed in and out of focus across Vox’s screen, your body flipping over, a mess of tentacles writhing.

Val took off his glasses, “Oh yeah, that’s pretty obviously him.”

“What is?” Vox’s face splintered back to the screen.

“Do you—- do you not know you’ve been like,” Val used his cigarette to gesture at Vox’s face, “just straight up playing his porno?”

Vox’s hands flew to his screen, “No! Fucking shit! What the fuck!!” He picked up a vase and threw it across the room, “Wipe it clean off the server! Delete it! Ban it’s fucking streaming! End of discussion!”

Val shrugged, he owned every bootleg distributor in the pride ring. He’d pull it and up the price threefold for illegal downloads. “Whatever you want, amorcito.”

Alastor was quite happy the video went ‘underground’ of sorts. The first month after you left, he was plagued by the sound of your voice. Everywhere he went it seemed you were screaming his name, every phone and television a conduit for you.

What really bothered him though, was the reaction others had to him. Where once sinners leapt from his path and set theirselves on fire to avoid him, now people winked and waved. It made his skin crawl. When alive, at the peak of his radio show fame, it wasn’t uncommon to have fans approach him in jazz clubs. But the decorum of 1930's jazz fans was a far cry from the brazen displays of desire from the citizens of hell.

“Perhaps I should have thought it through?” He mused.

“Ya think?” Rosie put her tea down, “Was it worth it, at least?”

He mulled the question over. Worth it? Well, he had your soul. Which is grand. But you weren’t even in hell to be called upon. What did he really get from the deal? Alastor brought his palm to his face, already feeling the blush spreading. Rosie's chuckle didn't help. He did get something. You'd been gone a month, and each day he woke up having forgot you existed. And every night he lied down to rest and imagined your eyes staring back at him. Did he want to fight you, or surrender, when he saw that look? When the silk tie had fallen from your face, slipping down your nose to reveal your intense stare...He thought his heart had stopped. For every ounce of resilience in your voice he found a pound of fury in your gaze. What poor luck Valentino had been given to receive you as an offering.

"Too soon to tell." He leaned back, finally dropping his hand.

“Well it seemed you had a good time… not that I could see much through the green glow and all that static noise. Really spoiled the climax with that move, Alastor dear."

Alastor’s eyes were saucers, “Rosie. Are you implying-,”

“What?” She drew out the word, “I thought you weren’t into those things so of course I was curious!”

He sighed, “I’m not.”

Rosie pushed the teaspoon around her cup with one finger, “Sure looked like you were.”

He crossed his arms, indignant, “You don’t have to have an appetite to enjoy a meal.”

“Message received loud and clear dear! I won’t bring up the subject again.” She cackled and changed the topic to the latest gossip around the colony.

Another night staring at the ceiling, mind ghosting over the idea of you. He felt like he his sanity was unraveling Leaving his bed, he stepped barefoot onto the grass of the swampy forest he materialized into his room when he moved in to the hotel.

With an outstretched hand, Alastor felt for your connection. He couldn’t see it, but the weight of the chain connecting your soul to him sunk into his palm. Curious, he wrapped his fingers around the invisible links and pulled.

With a soft green glow, you rose from the grass.

His breath hitched, he hadn’t expected that. “It seems our deal really did stick, didn't it?" walking towards you, Alastor dropped to his knees at your feet. You were on your side, unmoving.

His head cocked to the left, ears turned in. Alastor crawled toward you, rolling you onto your back and opening your legs. He slotted himself there, “Hellooo,” He took your face in his both of his hands, elbows resting beside your ears, “Are you… sleeping, dear?”

This is ridiculous.

Alastor inspected your face; peaceful. It was a new sight for him, he'd really only ever seen you in some kind of rage or lost in pleasure. His hand slid down your body, realizing you were in the robe still. He laughed, but realized it was for no one. "Are you really going to sleep, hmm?" He hooked his hands under your knee and brought it up around his hip.

Nothing.

"I'm starting to get offended, dear." He leaned down and whispered into the crook of your neck. "If you don't wake up-" He slid down, the robe open enough to let his breathe ghost over your stomach. He stopped. He couldn't do anything to you while you slept. It was void of any enjoyment for him. Without your reactions, it was just....pointless. While he did enjoy your performance in the studio, he was taught to show respect for those of fairer means. A sleeping partner fell into that category.

He reached beneath you and straightened your robe that had bunched there under your body. Placing your leg back down by your ankle, he began pulling the collar up and closed it snuggly.

He stood there for a second, looking over you. It worked. You're here again. His mother had taught him that the human soul was most vulnerable at night. When asleep, the soul could wander from the body and travel earth and beyond. She even said people could train themselves, and with practice, remember their journeys even after waking.

Kneeling down, Alastor pushed your hair from your face, "Don't forget. What fun is there in that?" The shadow beneath your body shimmered neon green before you were swallowed by inky darkness and Alastor was once again, alone.

After his mother died, Alastor was often alone. Most of his time, really. Well, there were people always around. But they were staff, or hangers-on, or women looking for a comfortable life. They were dancers and bootleggers and musicians. Which was fine and grand. But, they never saw him. He never let them, they never tried. He was the radio host. The great dancer. The southern gentleman. The killer. The cannibal. The deer in the woods. Not a single person ever looked at him on earth and saw him. Which was precisely what he wanted, and manufactured with his wide smile and good manners.

So when your eyes bore into him from that tacky studio set, and he felt suddenly naked in front of you, he knew you were looking at the him. You saw him.

It was worth it. Alastor was willing to admit that to himself.

Over the next couple days, he would randomly try to pull you to him. Through out the day, in different places, he would summon your soul and wait. Nothing. It confirmed his theory, your soul was only able to leave your living body while you were asleep.

In the privacy of his room, Alastor paced the space between grass and carpet. What was this feeling? Nerves? He hadn't felt nervous since he was a child.

But, what was causing him a pause, was if he summoned you and you didn't appear. Maybe it had been a fluke? Maybe for the 7th time in 3 days he would pull on that connection and be left standing there, alone.

Still.

He ran his hands through his hair, trying to regain composure. Finally, he reached out for your ties to him, and pulled you into hell.

He held his breath, unconsciously.

With a glow, you appeared again before him. He was quick this time to approach you, setting beside you and leaning close to your face. Asleep.

"Is this my foreseeable future?" He asked, "Staring at you while you sleep, my doe."

Suddenly, you opened your eyes and met his. Reaching up, you grabbed him with both hands and pulled his face into yours. Your hands ran through his hair as you took him in a frenzied kiss. Alastor froze for a beat, but when your tongue licked at his bottom lip, he was brought back to the moment. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, rolling over yours and reaching as deep as he could. He felt like he could unhinge his jaw and swallow you whole. He really could, if he wanted to.

Alastor swung his leg over your body and straddled your hips. "Mon cher, you've finally joined me." His chest was rising and falling with excited breath.

"Alastor?" You tried to feel your body, but it was nowhere near you.

"Don't worry your pretty little head. You're still alive and well. I've merely borrowed your soul for the evening." He looked down at you, and finally, for the first time in what felt like months, your eyes fell to his face.

But today, they were soft and out of focus.

"Can you see me, my dear?" He leaned down slightly, trying to read the look on your face.

"Am I dreaming?"

He chuckled, "Perhaps we both are." With an exhale he wondered if he had been holding his breath this entire time. "No, this isn't a dream."

"I don't understand...but--," You lifted your arms towards him, "Should I say thank you? It was fucked, what happened." Your voice was slow, words a little slurred, "But, I'm home safe and sound now. You did what you promised me. I don't know if I'll ever see you again so...should I thank you now?"

Your tongue felt fat in your mouth, heavy and delayed.

Alastor leaned down over you, "You don't have to say anything." He used his knees to open your legs, and settled there. "Unfortunately, you've become a little worm in my mind." His hands slid under the silk robe you hadn't stopped wearing yet, "I'm hoping if I finally have you, I can...whet my appetite, and return to my normal self." He felt along your hips, hands stopping when he realized you were naked under the thin piece of fabric.

"I keep remembering," you covered your eyes with your hands, "that big hand of yours. And I realize, you never touched me past that."

He smiled, genuinely, truly, "Exactly! You understand the problem precisely. Shall we both have our fill and be done with it?"

You moved your hands to touch his ears, waiting for him to disappear at any moment, "Please. I'm so tired of missing someone I don't even know." He removed your hands, and you held them to your chest.

"My thoughts exactly, mon cher." He adjusted his hips, letting his crotch rub against your core. This was the closest he had been to you since you'd met. It was dizzying, and it felt like his skin was vibrating everywhere it met yours.

A soft moan left your throat, causing his cock to twitch in his pants. Yes, it was you. This wasn’t his standard response to such sounds. Alastor sat up, his legs bent and knees at either side of your hips. Taking one of your hands from your chest, he placed a kiss on a digit. Then another. He kissed his way down your arm.

“So gentle. Weird.” You tried to focus on him, but your mind was still cloudy. The sensations were here but also so far away, too far away, in another lifetime all together.

“Was I not gentle before, all things considered?,” he continued his way down your arm.

You let your eyes drift to the sky, stars watching you from above, “More than him.”

His mouth went dry at the mention of Val, "I am many things more than him, darling." As his lips found your neck, he took a deep breath. "I can actually take my time now. No audience." He sucked a bruise, and released you with a pop. He presented two fingers to your lips, and without thinking about it you began to suck them. While you were slipping your tongue over and between his fingers, he moved to continue a trail of kisses and nips down your right arm.

"Get them nice and wet." He watched through half lidded eyes as you licked his long fingers. He knew he needed to remove his hips from yours, but the idea pained him. Finally, he took his fingers from you and swiped them over your entrance. Your chest jumped, so he did it again. He tried to push the fingers into you, but the resistance was more than he expected. You were wet, but tight. He let his middle finger slip inside you. So soft. So warm. His shadow tendrils allowed him some feeling but not this, this was something they kept to themselves.

"When was your last time, mon cher?"

Your mind searched for memories still left behind in your body somewhere, "In hell."

"You're in hell now."

"This doesn't feel like hell." You ground your hips onto his palm, trying to get that single digit slowly moving in you to come deeper, to become more. He replied by pushing in his pointer finger, erection becoming painful already as you let out a little moan. Bending them up, he began to make long thrusts past your g-spot. His mouth long stilled on your arm, staring at your face as you whimpered into the sky.

"Look at me."

Your eyes darted to him, half open and wet. Alastor felt his patience snap. Undoing his belt and zipper, he finally freed his cock. He ran his head between your entrance to your clit , gathering your fluids on him to ease his entry. Taking both of your legs, he held them at the ankles and set them on his left shoulder. With your hips slightly raised, he pressed into you.

With a hiss you dug your fingers into the dirt, body tensing instinctively. One of his arms hugged your legs to his chest, the other was now bruising your hips as he continued to push into you. With just his head in, he began fast and shallow thrusts. Every time making more progress into your warmth. The stretch burned, but the feeling of him forcing space into you for himself just made you wetter.

Finally, he bottomed out. He had no sense to still himself, shallow thrusts gave way to long, deep plunges. Alastor's breathing was filling the space around you, mixing with your own. Leaning back, he looked down at where you two were connected.

He withdrew slowly, nearly entirely, and pushed back in. Again. And again. It was intoxicating, how he felt himself melt into you. He'd had lovers in life, but never had he been with someone without a barrier of some sorts. Be that his well placed smile or latex. He'd never fucked anyone raw before. He almost regretted not trying earlier, as the sensation of your walls and arousal sticking to his cock and thighs was breaking him. Watching himself entirely disappear inside you, he closed his eyes. Everything was so hot, so tight, would he disappear entirely? Would he lost in the pleasure your body was so effortlessly giving? Was he the unlucky one?

Alastor pushed your knees up to your chest, using his body weight to hold them down as his paced picked up. You brought your dirtied nails to your own legs, holding on tightly. Desperately you needed something to tether you to the ground, keep you still against the twitches shaking your stomach and chest. You felt with any jolt to your nerves you'd fall off the world and drift into the night.

He felt the build up, his balls tightening and drawing in, he wanted to slow down-- he wanted to bring you there first but he couldn't stop the rutting of his hips. With a whine, Alastor's forehead came to rest on yours, hips smacking into you with a wet slap. "Look at me," He commanded again, and you obeyed. One of his hands came to your chin to hold your head still, "Don't you dare look away."

Struggling to keep your eyes open, he pushed into you with one final, deep thrust. His hands came down now to the ground around you as he pushed you into the grass. Hips stuttering, cock twitching in you. You'd never let anyone cum inside you before, the sensation of heat quickly filling your cunt made you tighten around him. "Good girl", He purred, jaw tight.

He pulled back slowly before bringing his hips down, sweat sticking to his forehead where it met yours. His pace was quickly becoming brutal, a hand finding its way to that little bud of nerves of yours. With rough pressure and hurried speed his thumb drew out your orgasm. When you came, you gasped out his name, craning your neck up to ghost your lips over his open mouth. As the pleasure surged from your center, you could feel your body again. He tried to keep his eyes on your eyes, but the overstimulation of your cunt trying to wring him dry forced him to shut them.

A light shone through his eyelids, startling them open again.

"Wait-!" He watched you get pulled away from beneath him. Before he could react, Alastor was on all fours in the forest, alone. Eyes wide, he pounded his fist against the grass. He tried to summon you back to him, to drag you to him but nothing happened.

He thought he'd gone crazy. Hands came to his head, smile pained as he tried to process what he was feeling.

No.

Not enough.

Too soon.

A growl ripped through his chest. This hadn't satiated him at all. No, he was worse off now. He was starved, he had nourishment ripped from his mouth and he as angry for it. Angry to hell, to Valentino, to the conditions of owning a living soul.

He did not even attempt to rest that night. Taking his time, he had to find composure again. Alastor managed to pull himself together after several hours of self isolation. After his heart stopped racing, after his hands stopped feeling phantom skin beneath them, he calmed his smile and went about his day.

When night returned, he couldn't help but stare into the forest domain. He wanted so badly to bring you to himself, but that want was terrifying. It was overpowering him, and he couldn't accept that.

Another night left, another day passed. Husk found Alastor's cruelty to be growing, his patience giving out at the smallest perceived slight. Angel stopped engaging entirely. Charlie found herself wanting to approach him, find out why it seemed his hair was always standing on end, his eyes sharp. But, she didn't. She couldn't. Alastor would pass through the halls like a raging specter. He wouldn't slow or acknowledge anyone.

He managed a week. Satisfied with his resolve, he waited for when night fell and he was sure you'd be deep asleep, yanked your soul from your body and into him. He felt rabid, like he his brain was catching fire. Finally when you materialized before him, he grabbed your face with his hand.

"My doe?"

Just like before, you stirred, and your hands immediately went for his hair. He pulled back, "Are you awake?"

"Am I dreaming? Alastor?" You looked drunk, mind struggling to process the change in scenery. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he hovered above you, and you pulled him into a kiss. He happily returned it, hands quick to untie the robe you had taken as your own. He wasted now time in getting himself unsheathed and lined up with you, before he could enter you reached out to him, "I wanted to say--- thank you. I don't know if I'll ever really see you again."

The realization made his blood run cold. His mother's stories flooded back to him. It takes training, and time, to remember the travels of the wandering soul.

"You don't have to say anything." Alastor thrust into you, your body tense but not as resistant as before. When he was finally enveloped in you, he could feel himself calm. He didn't feel any need to be gentle this time around. He immediately set a bruising pace, digging his nails into the soft flesh of your ass as he forced your hips to meet his with every thrust. You gasped beneath him, eyes wandering up to the sky just past his head. He'd bring you to climax, wanting to drink in your expression, and to his horror as you choked out his name you were spirited away from him again.

Everyone on the floor heard Alastor's rampage. When Angel ran to get Charlie and Vaggie, they were scared to knock. With a steadying breath Charlie rapped the door, "Al? You okay in there?"

Suddenly, silence.

The door whipped open, Alastor smiling with half lidded eyes, "Why of course. What ever made you think otherwise?"

"The fuckin' sounds of carnage, maybe?" Angel looked past Alastor. The sofa shredded, coffee table in pieces. The wallpaper had been ripped down and torn to shreds. Charlie noticed the dirt under his nails, but Alastor coolly pulled his hands behind his back.

"Can I do something for you?" His tone was cold.

"I guess not, Al...," Charlie took in the damage, "Did something happen?"

Alastor smiled wider, "No," and closed the door. No one saw him the following day, which wasn't entirely unusual but it was weighing on Charlie. When Alastor finally appeared and announced he was going to Cannibal Town, she was elated. A chat with Rosie would surely bring him back to himself.

"I don't see the problem. You've got her soul, you can summon her to you, and you get a little," She searched for the word, "relief. Why do you look so pained, old friend?"

"You know better than most I have no interest in chasing women, Rosie."

"Yet..." She cocked her brow.

"It isn't about the release. I don't particularly need that. I never have." He huffed, the conversation already exhausting him, "When I would kill someone, I was God. Their life was in my hands. I took that power from them."

Rosie clicked her tongue, "And when she's in your hands?" Alastor hunched over his black coffee before remembering himself and straightening his back. "I've never seen you like this before, hun. You've got it bad, huh?"

"Personal connections like this, Rosie, are dangerous. I lost my self restraint entirely. It's a weakness." He fought to regain his smile, never knowing who could be passing by.

She tutted him, "Oh no, that's where you're wrong. The difference between a strong man and an unstoppable man is having something to care about." Rosie leaned over and set her hand on top of his, "Imagine you walked into Val's studio right now and found her like you did a couple months ago. How would you react?"

His stomach wretched forward, if he saw you today, hanging from the ceiling? The stench of Valentino's cigarette smoke clinging to your hair, the marks where his hands had made contact with you? His hand under her's tightened, claws leaving marks into the wooden tabletop. "Do you feel weak right now, Alastor?" The hair on his ears was standing straight up, his now black eyes met hers, "You sure don't look it."

He’d remembered hearing something similar before from Vaggie. Could it be true? It was a precarious ladder. If he let himself be close to someone, then the person is in turn close to him, then that person knows him intimately, and then— they are a walking soft spot. Someone could take them and torture them for information. Or, hurt them to hurt him.

But, who would dare? A fire rose in chest at the thought. What was the point of power if he couldn’t have what he wanted? If he had to answer to others about his desires? To pursue strength and status was what he wanted but if that strength didn’t afford him freedom than what good was it, really?

"I say, not that you asked," Rosie smiled and withdrew her hand, "Could be nice to have a little company now and then. Plus, better than waiting 60 years or something for her to just die." She shrugged, "Now, eat. You look like a shit."

Rosie had a point, while your existence was fragile, it was still available to him.

For awhile, he would call you nightly. Alastor would fuck you into the grass, beneath the trees, under the stars. He learned your orgasm would wake you, and he would draw it out as long as he could. He'd edge you for hours, watching you sob for your release. Slowly, your consciousness became more and more solid during your meetings.

To his relief, his hunger for your presence calmed over time. He could handle a week or even two without sharing your company, and he noticed each time you seemed to recognize him more. You'd participate more, moan louder, scream his name and squirm from the pleasure. He relished trapping you underneath his wide shoulders, pulling you onto his lap as he fucked up into you.

He wasn't fond of the few times he summoned you and you were already wet, or smelling of cologne. He'd tease, "Lonely?" and when he'd fuck his back cum into you before helping you chase your own orgasm, he'd remind you, "You're mine, little doe. No one can replace me." And he'd feel his chest swell. Others had your body for the night, but your soul was his forever. With every meeting, he felt more like himself. And the nights you were screaming his name in the forest, and his horns were looming over you as he marked you over and over as his, he felt powerful.

Some nights, he'd call you to him to just let you rest. He'd enjoy a book, or some jazz over a meal, while you lied quietly in his bed.

The days he pulled you into hell and your hair smelled of the trees, of sweat and dirt, he would be gentler. He could feel the ache in your muscles, the tan on your cheeks, and sent you back.

One such night came, where he of course took your chains in his hand and tugged. But this time, when you arrived, your face was painted with anger. You were asleep still, and even when he whispered to you, you didn't wake. You were having a nightmare, from what he could tell. He took you to his bed, and let you settle.

You stayed there until waking up again in your bed.

And every night that week, he'd bring you to his bed and go about his tasks while you fought some demons in your head. He'd never seen you have a nightmare, and began to wonder if something was happening in the overworld.

Alastor was enjoying a deer carcass in his room, humming softly to himself, when a green light erupted on the floor.

He was well aware it wasn't night anymore, and that he hadn't brought you here. With a soft smile, he left his meal and approached the light. Slowly, your body rose from the darkness there. Not just your soul.

When you looked up at him, a smile on your lips and two small doe ears on your head, he grinned, "Did you miss me terribly, my little doe?" He offered you a hand up, "Welcome home.”

༻Masterlist༺

[jesuistrestriste]

♡ Cooking & Cleaning; Art Donaldson x Reader ♡

nsfw! (18+) cw: service sub!art donaldson, dom!reader, afab/fem reader, use of ma'am as an honorific, brief food play, oral sex (reader receiving), begging, handjob, brief edging, praise, degradation, multiple orgasms (character receiving), dry orgasm

wc: 6.3 k (whoops)

note: this was pulled from the most depraved parts of my brain. i refuse to be held accountable for the absolute filth this contains ! :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆.

The very second that your key is in the apartment door and you're finally home, you find your legs nearly collapsing underneath you as you step inside and kick off your black kitten heels.

"God," you groan, shutting the door behind you before you move to peel your chic new blazer off of your shoulders. You toss it onto the coatrack nearby and bring a handful of your fingers up to your forehead to rub at it tensely, sighing deeply.

It had been a long day at the USTA (United States Tennis Association) office, and all you wanted to do was come home and see your husband.

-

After Art had lost several important and consecutive tennis matches, as well as his confidence on the court (despite his actual tennis skills still being phenomenal -- he just psyched himself out too much), he had decided to give up his life as a professional athlete.

At first, this devastated you. Not only did you love your partner and believe in him throughout his career, as well as believing in his very real ability to eventually win the US Open, but this decision of his also meant that your position as his coach would become obsolete..

You actually became quite anxious about you and Art's future at the time.. you had needed a purpose, and so did he. You both were just those kinds of people; you and him both wanted to feel that you were contributing to something bigger than just yourselves, and that you were being useful to someone or something.

Luckily, his many previous years of successful tennis playing had scored you and him a shit ton of wealth. Like, genuinely a lot. You were beyond grateful, but you still wanted a life of your own. You didn't dare to think about the idea of becoming a stay-at-home wife while he went out and did whatever he wanted. Yuck. It just wasn't for you.

Your fears and inner turmoil about this change in your lives were quickly eased once Art had sat you down about two weeks after he had left his tennis career behind. He had taken your hands in his, smiled softly like he always did, and told you that he wanted to stay at home and take care of everything in it while you went out and continued your career in the field of professional athletics.

Of course, you immediately and excitedly agreed with the idea of this new plan, and then that was that!

You two developed new lives and new roles as people over a short period of time, but it didn't take away from the love you two shared. That always stayed consistent and at the center of everything.

Eventually, after a month or so of coming home from your new job to Art doing things like vacuuming the wooden floors of your guys' expensive New York apartment, or making elaborate protein-packed smoothies for the gym sessions that you two still did together, you came to realize that the whole "house husband" persona was actually kinda hot.

He had realized it too. Quicker than you had, actually. In fact, he can distinctly remember the overwhelming feeling of heat that had pooled deep in his gut the first time he had ever served you a home-cooked meal after you came home from a long day at your new job. He had gently rubbed your sore feet that night while you ate, and then suddenly couldn't find a way to deny how this new practice of.. servicing you.. made him feel.

I mean, God, he loved doing that stuff for you.. cooking.. tidying.. pampering.. washing.. he would do it all. You knew that he worshipped the ground that you walked on—reminding yourself constantly of the time he had admitted to you during sex that he believed he would be "nowhere without you"—and you devoured the increased sense of power that came with it every. single. time. It eventually became very easy and comfortable for you to let him take care of you. You grew hungry for it.

And then this persona of his, over time, dissolved into something much more intimate..

-

After tossing your blazer on the rack and rubbing at your temples, you drag your pantyhose-covered feet across the floor and into the kitchen.

Your nose is instantly filled with the aroma of fluffy, vanilla sweetness and a bit of nutmeg. you sigh happily as you turn the corner and see Art standing over a mess of what appears to be flour and sugar in a large bowl on the kitchen counter. He looks over his shoulder briefly with a smile as he mixes the dry ingredients together with a whisk.

“Hey, hon,” he grins, before turning back to look down at his current baking project.

you shuffle up behind him and hug him, your cheek pressing against his warm upper back as your arms reach to wrap gently around his abdomen. You sigh deeply.

“Hey, babe.. ‘m so tired. It was such a long day.”

He laughs softly, which shakes you a bit as you hold him.

“What’d your colleagues do now?”

You shake your head against him, groaning dramatically.

“I don’t want to talk about it.. what are you baking? It smells good in here.”

“Nothing crazy, it’s just some holiday cookies. I found the recipe online this morning after you left.”

“How many are you planning to make? There’s already some in the oven,” you ask, peeking around his frame from behind to see him set the bowl aside and wipe his hands on the apron he’s wearing. (It was white with small pink hearts by the pockets. You got it for him when he started cooking for you everyday, and he used to feel weird about it. He said it made him feel “slightly emasculated”, but he quickly grew to absolutely adore it. It was just another way for you to claim him as your personal chef. One night before you got home, he jerked off while wearing it, but he would never tell you that.)

“I don’t really know,” he shrugs and chuckles sheepishly, “there are twelve baking right now, but I thought that maybe I could make some for our neighbors.”

You chuckle softly, your hands disconnecting from their place on his stomach to reach down and give his ass a small squeeze. He jumps a little at the feeling, embarrassed laughter bubbling up in his chest.

“Where’d all this holiday cheer come from?” you smirk, pulling back from your position against his back to lean your hip against the counter. You just wanted to look at his pretty face. Your eyes quickly fixate on the fact that he’s got a bit of flour on his flushed cheek.. It’s only a small puff and smear of the white substance near his jaw, but for some reason it starts a flame in your lower stomach. There was just something about the way he got a little messy when he cooked or baked for you.

His cheeks plump up in shape ever-so-slightly as he grins at you.

“I don’t know.. I had time before you got home- I mean, well, before i thought you’d get home, and so i thought I’d just-”

You take a step forward, nodding at his words while your body is now only inches from his. You look up into his glassy blue eyes.

“You thought you’d just.. what?” you purr, your hand coming up to caress his lower back.

He swallows thickly, briefly looking down at the mess on the counter before he looks back to you. His body temperature is steadily rising as he feels your fingertips caress him over his loose t-shirt.

“I just thought I’d make some more,” he whispers.

You lean in, reaching your other hand up to gingerly hold the side of his neck while you press a kiss to it.

“You’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

He nods, slowly, his eyelids fluttering slightly at the feeling of your mouth on him.

“I..I mean, yeah, I guess.”

You lean in a bit more, sucking softly at his neck. His head lolls a bit forward, and you nip at him when the sound of his shaky breathing reaches your ears.

You pull back, a small smirk covering your face as you look up at him.

His focus darts from your eyes to your lips as he reaches both of his hands out for your waist, but he’s rudely interrupted when the timer for the oven goes off— cookies are done.

You both nearly jump out of your skin at the sound; the incessant beeping pulling you both out of the thick fog of tension between your bodies and minds.

“Shit,” he mumbles, flushing pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he turns off the timer at the top of the oven and moves to hastily grab an oven mitt from the lower drawer.

He pulls open the oven door, and you step back to watch him pull the tray out and set it on top of the stove area.

He sighs, pulling off the mitt and setting it aside as he leans over the cookies. His eyes are inspecting each one, and he has a very focused expression plastered on his face. He was as much of a perfectionist in the kitchen as he used to be on the court, that was for sure.

Your body moves in to stand beside him, also peering down at the tray of gorgeous golden-brown cookies. You place a hand on his upper back, rubbing it encouragingly.

“These look incredible,” you say, smiling at him.

He nods, still inspecting them, “They look better than I thought they would.. I actually messed up earlier and accidentally added three-fourths of a cup of sugar instead of two-thirds..”

“They look perfect, don’t stress.”

He looks to you, his gaze meeting yours and then suddenly everything was back to how it was before the timer went off. His hands reach for your waist, squeezing at your hips as he looks lovingly down at you.

“Be proud of yourself, Art.. you did a good job,” you laugh softly, your hands reaching up to cup his face. He pulls you closer.

“I am.”

“Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

You suddenly get a very filthy idea.

“Can.. can you tell me what the recipe called for?”

His brows furrow slightly as he seems taken aback by your request, his cock already starting to stir to life in his sweatpants just from holding your body. He didn’t want to talk about the damn cookies anymore.

“What?”

You roll your eyes, one of your hands dropping from his face to reach around the fabric of the front of his apron and grope him over his sweats. Your other hand moves down too, but just to gently hold the side of his torso. His whole body jolts forward and his lips part instantly.

“You’ll like where this is headed, trust me. Just talk to me.. tell me what you did to make the cookies look so perfect..”

He breathes unsteadily, his fingers digging into your waist as he feels your hand start to work his cock up to a full-blown, hot, twitchy erection.

“I.. uhm.. I just..” he breathes out, his eyes growing lidded as he absentmindedly bucks up against your touch, still trying to maintain eye contact as pleasure starts to flood his senses, “one cup of b-butter.. ngh-!.. two cups.. two cups of flour… and then- ugh!- two.. two-thir-r-ds.. of..”

His voice trails off, shaky and low and broken as he hangs his head a bit, leaking incessantly into his boxers. It was that easy for you to work him up.

You frown, “Uh oh.. come on, baby, don’t go nonverbal on me that quick.. we’ve just barely gotten started…”

A small whimper leaves his chest as he tries to finish his words, “Two-thirds, I m-mean- three-f-fourths of a c-cup of.. s-su.. sugar… one teasp’of vanilla.. and.. o-one.. teaspoon of nutm-eg.”

You smile, stroking his cock over the fabric of his pants, “Good boy.. God, you’re so pretty when you’re slurring for me..”

He moans obscenely, melting at the praise while he feels his length grow suddenly intensely hot. A certain kind of numbness starts to creep over his crotch before his hands are flying from your hips to your wrist.

“Wait! W-Wait!” he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as he blows a concentrated shaky breath from his lips, his fingertips digging into your arm.

Your eyebrow lifts and you smile as you take in the way his body shakes and shudders as he holds it in for you. He knows how to behave.. what would make you happy.. what would make you disappointed.. After all, he’s been trained by you in more than just tennis.

“Close?” you whisper.

His body starts to slowly relax again as he regains some of his composure. He blinks his eyes back open slowly, looking into yours.

“Very,” he groans.

You pull your hands from his body, and he whines softly.

“Take off the apron. Put it on the floor.”

You’re sure you’ve never seen him move so fast— his hands reaching behind his back and undoing the tied string. Then, he pulls the apron off over his head, tossing it off to the side. He watches you study him with parted lips, and he bites onto his own.

“Now take your sweats off for me.”

He does as he’s told; his shaky fingers reaching down to slip his pants down to his lower thighs, and then down to his knees and ankles, and then he steps out of them. He kicks them gently next to where the apron was thrown, now making a mess of grey and white fabric where both items pooled on the kitchen floor.

You step close to his body, cupping his face before running a hand through his messy strawberry-blonde locks. But it doesn’t take long for your eyes to travel solely down to the bulge prominently pressing against the inside of his navy boxer briefs. You run a fingertip up and over the outline of his dick, relishing in the way it makes him shake. He was now just in his tee shirt, boxers, and white socks, while you stayed fully clothed. But not for too much longer.

"My pretty husband.." you coo to him, making his lips part to let out a few uneven breaths. You glance around his frame and notice a bowl off to the side that had remnants of the soft cookie dough from the first batch of the cookies. You smirk.

You lean forward and swipe your thumb along the inside of the bowl, gathering some of the sugary, buttery mixture on your digit. His gaze remains lidded and locked onto your face, not finding any importance in your hand's movements at the kitchen counter. You bring your thumb back in, showing him what you did.

He spares your thumb a quick glance, but then his eyes are back on yours, and then your lips, and then the way that your breasts are peeking out from the low-cut collar of your work top. You bring your thumb up to his mouth.

"Open," you whisper.

He does as he's told, parting his lips further and leaning in to encourage your finger to slip past them.

You push your cookie dough-covered thumb into his mouth, feeling him immediately begin to suckle on it; his tongue swirled over it, and his eyes fluttered shut right after they began to roll back. His brows furrow, and a couple of faint whines bubble up out of him as the taste of his homemade sweetness melts seamlessly on his palate.

While your thumb is in his mouth, you push it down softly on his tongue.

"Knees, baby," you say breathlessly.

Art knew this command like the back of his hand.

Effortlessly and steadily, he dropped down to his knees one after the other, keeping your digit in his mouth the entire time. He didn't dare let it go. He moved to sit on his calves.

"Good job.. good boy..."

He whimpered, the vibrations of his pathetic sounds causing your hand to buzz slightly.

"I want your mouth on my cunt.. can you do that for me, darling?" you purr, running your hand through his hair for a moment. He nods around you.

"Y'sh, m'm.." he mumbled, trying his best to speak while still relishing your touch with enough attention.

You pull your thumb from the heat of his wet mouth, and smirk as you watch his lips chase after it.

"What was that?"

You already had a good idea about what he had murmured, but it was just.. best to be sure.

"Yes, ma'am," he gasps out softly, his eyes glazed over.

He reaches up and pulls at your skirt, shimmying it down and over your ass and thighs, letting it fall to your ankles. You kick it aside, and lean your back against the countertop. Art positions himself on his knees so that he's on the floor in front of you, looking up at you. His hands shakily reach up to the sides of your pantyhose, his tongue licking out over his bottom lip. He digs his fingers into the taut fabric and looks up at you once more, beginning to pull them down.

Immediately you grab his wrists, halting his movements. His eyes look up into yours, worried that he had made a wrong move, but you shake your head with a soft smile.

"You can rip them."

He doesn't even mean to, but he moans when you give him permission to be a little desperate right now.

In an instant, his strong hands are pulling needily at your tights, causing them to rip from your crotch to your lower thighs. He hooks one of his index fingers into the inside of your panties, his thighs tensing up at the feeling of your wetness, and then he's pushing them to the side. His tongue rests out over his bottom lip as he leans in, holding the back of your leg with his free hand as his eyes flutter shut and he engulfs your heat with his mouth.

"Oh, fuck-!" you yelp, reaching down to tangle your hands in his soft curls, "fuck, fuck, that feels good, Art, don't stop.."

He moans, his eyes squeezed shut as he lathes his tongue up and down and over your wet hole. He lewdly sucks and swallows your slick that's quickly spilling over his tongue, trying to focus harder on your pleasure (and less on the feeling of his cock throbbing rapidly in his boxers.. he can feel himself leaking).

You remove your hands from his hair and move to unsteadily grip the countertop, your back pressing hard against it. Art hums around you in his mouth, moving his tongue up to lick sloppily at your clit. He opens his eyes, his brows furrowed, and looks up at you.

"God, you're so good at this.. you're doing so well.. i'm getting.. close.." you breathe out, studying the upper half of his face while the lower half remains buried in your pussy.

He doubles his efforts, smushing his face deeper against you, his lips pursing to suckle against your sensitive nub as his grip on your leg tightens. Art has half a mind at that moment to just scoot forward a bit and slot your ankle between his thighs, but he won't. You came first, in his mind. Literally, and figuratively.

You sling the leg that he's holding over his shoulder, giving him more access, and then you begin to feel an overwhelming, hot numbness creep over your lower half..

"ANGH!" you moan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut as your body begins to shake. Your fingers grip the kitchen counter so hard that you're afraid you'll break a nail.

"I'm going to cum, Art..!"

"Mm! Mm-mm!"

"I'm.. oh my god.... I'm... I'm-! Cumming-!" you whine, feeling your orgasm crash over you.

"MM-!" he laps at your pulsing cunt, squeezing his eyes shut before forcing them open so that he can watch the way your beautiful face moves to contort in ecstasy.

You groan and whine as your orgasm's aftershocks are uncomfortably prolonged by Art's relentless tongue, and your hands release the marble countertop to reach down and grab two soft fistfuls of his hair. You try to tug his head back from your cunt, but he just closes his eyes and presses his nose and mouth further against your core. The repetitive movements of his tongue over your folds cause lewd, wet noises to fill the kitchen.

"Art... A-Art..! Enough!" you slur out as the pleasure from before starts to melt into a prickly sting of oversensitivity.

His eyes flutter open and you shoot him a warning glance as he peers up at you.

"I said enough, yeah?" you snap, "stand up."

He immediately pulls his mouth away from your sticky body and stands up on shaky legs. His eyes look downward, guiltily avoiding your gaze, as he wipes at the clear slick covering his chin with the back of his hand.

You try to catch your breath for a moment, studying his chest as it heaves up and down -- him trying to catch his breath all the same. You reach out and take his lower jaw softly in one hand, forcing him to look at you properly.

"You got a little fucking greedy there for a minute.. didn't you?"

He bites his bottom lip for a second, nervously chewing on the inside of it as he debates what answer he could give that would result in the least amount of punishment from you.

"Did you hear what I said?" you whisper coldly, taking a step closer to him as your hand grazes against the erection standing proudly in his underwear.

His body automatically jolts forward, and he lets out a shaky breath as his brow twitches. "Yeah.. I did.." he huffs out.

You smirk, wrapping your hand around him over the dark blue fabric, "And what do you think, hm? Were you being greedy?"

He looks deep into your eyes, his lips parting as he feels you start to stroke him. He tries to stop it, but his hips start to shallowly buck against your grasp, and now he can't get any words out. He wants to, but he just.. he really can't.

You roll your eyes.

"You know what I want you to say, honey. Use that big brain of yours."

He moans softly, his hands coming up to hold the sides of your upper arms as his eyes grow lidded.

"I'm.. I was being greedy.. I'm greedy," he moans lowly, thrusting into your hand a bit quicker and with a tad bit more abandon.

"Yeah, yeah you are. You're a greedy little whore for this, aren't you?"

He nods slowly but repeatedly as his brows pinch together and his breathing picks up.

"Yesss," he says brokenly, his voice straining a little as his moans start to become whimpers and whines, "I'm.. s' greedy for you.. jus' for you.. mm..!"

You nod and smirk up at him as his face becomes pinker and pinker, "That's it, pretty boy.. good job. You like when I stroke your pretty cock?"

He lets out an obscenely loud moan as his abdomen curls in over itself a bit, his hands gripping the sleeves of your work top and pulling helplessly at the fabric as he feels a spurt of precome burst into the inside of his boxers.

You chuckle a little as you watch him visibly get closer to his climax, but then he suddenly releases the hold on one of your sleeves and urgently grabs the hand that's moving over his clothed length.

You look down to where his hand holds yours, and he lets out a filthy whimper as he pulls your touch off of him and then urgently pushes your hand past his waistband and down into the front of his boxers. You gasp at his seemingly impulsive actions, feeling your fingers finally come into contact with his slicked-up cockhead. Your fingertips just barely brush over his hot, leaking slit.. sliding over a thick glob of pre.. and then he's being sent over the edge. To the average person, the touch would be essentially imperceptible, but not to him.. not to Art. He was just far too sensitive.

Your husband lets out a startled cry as he doubles over your frame in front of him and frantically moans, his whole body trembling and tensing as his balls draw up, "I'm cumming!"

You don't even have time to really process what's happening until you feel your hand being covered in warm fluid, the substance dripping down your fingertips as Art basically comes untouched. You look up at him, dumbfounded, before you feel your abdomen grow warm and tingly. That was kinda.. hot?

"Jesus, baby," you whisper breathlessly as his hips jolt a few more times before stilling as he gulps air down into his lungs, "didn't realize you were that worked up.. that was a little quick, no?"

He moans softly, still feeling your fingers graze him inside of his boxers.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.." he says, his breathing hitching in his throat as he tries to get the words out in spite of the pleasure still thrumming through his veins. He was still rock hard.

You smile, quickly using your clean, opposite hand to pull his boxers down to his lower thighs. His length slaps up lightly against his stomach before bobbing out in front of him, a tiny pearl-like bead of cum still leaking from his tip. He sighs shakily as he looks down at himself, and then up at you. You wrap your cum-covered hand around the base of his shaft, causing Art to jerk forward from sensitivity. He pulls a sharp breath in, his face scrunching up a little as he tries to control his body.

"I'll let you cum again," you start, watching his eyes light up, "but! you need to give me a warning this next time, okay? I want a clear warning, love."

He nods at your words, a more serious expression plastering over his face, "I will, I promise.. I.. I can give you a proper warning, ma'am.." he whispers.

And with that, you slide your hand from his base to his tip in one smooth motion, your thumb gliding over the head.

"GAH-!" he shudders forward, hissing in pain for a moment before he starts to moan again.

"You okay? Can you handle this?" you ask, your tone soft but seductive as you try to tease him but also legitimately check in. You two were always good at looking out for the other's wellbeing during your sessions together; the exchange of love and tender-care came easily to you both-- it was never something either of you had to question.

He nods, "Yeah, yes-ss, I can t-take it.." he slurs a little, watching your hand move up and down over his throbbing length.

"Look up into my eyes, darling," you purr, your hand starting to pick up speed, "does it feel good?"

He meets your eyes, his blue ones swimming with lust and desperation as he felt the beginnings of his second orgasm start to creep in, "Yes, fuck-! Yes! It feels so fucking good--!" he whines.

"Remember what we just talked about?"

He nods fervently, sucking his plump bottom lip in between his teeth as his focus darts from one of your eyes to the other. You speed up your hand, squeezing his shaft a little more to give him some pressure that you assume he needs.

He keens instantly, a loud moan rumbling from his chest as his thighs start to shake and his eyes squeeze shut.

"Art," you murmur in a seductive but warning tone.

He shakes all over, nodding his head, before his back stiffens up and he becomes incredibly tense. You keep your hand moving at the same fast pace, hoping his memory today is as good as his stamina.

"I'm going to cum," he whispers quickly, bringing his hands up to hold onto your shoulders as he pulls you closer.

You smile in approval, leaning in close to his ear and breathing warmly against his skin as you speak softly, "thank you for telling me, angel. do you want to cum for me?"

He nods, whining out a hasty "mhm". He lets out a breathy moan as he feels your hot words against his upper neck.

You press a chaste kiss there, and then you slide your hand up to gently grip his shaft while your thumb moves to rapidly swipe over his frenulum.

"Come."

And he does just that.

Art's back arches as soon as your one commanding word reaches his ears, cumming uncontrollably with an abrupt cry of pleasure. At first, his body is incredibly rigid as he lets go, his brows pinched up together as he feels the first, pulsing waves of his orgasm hit him, but then the full sensation of his release hits him and his whole body shudders deeply. He lets out little breathy moans and gasps as he relishes in the bursts of pleasure rolling over his cock. You slow your thumb down a bit as you watch him spurt rope after rope over your hand and onto the kitchen floor as he comes undone for you a second time.

"Fucking hell," you moan, now going back to stroking him fully instead of just rubbing a digit against his tip.

He grits his teeth in an instant, being pulled from his afterglow by the feeling of your hand forcing him back into a feeling of overstimulation. "Ah-! Ah!.. T-Too much, too much," he whimpers, his hands instinctively reaching down from your shoulders to push at your hand that's currently working him towards a third, uncomfortable orgasm that he's not even sure he wants anymore.

You use the hand that's not stroking him to move his hands away from your occupied one, giving him a small shake of your head.

"Hands behind your back, please. We're not done yet, okay?" you coo.

He quickly follows orders, moving both of his hands behind his back and away from his aching length, although not without letting out a sniffly whine of protest first.

"Please, ma'am.. I'm.. I can't do it I can't do it-- I'm-- AH!"

You cut off his soft moans of agony with a brief squeeze to the base of his dick, looking intently up into his eyes through your lashes.

"If you really want to stop, baby," you tilt your head teasingly, "you can always use the safeword, yeah?"

He bites his lip before he lets out a warped cry, his head lolling backwards in the same instant. You stop moving your hand.

"Art, darling," you whisper to him comfortingly.

He brings his head back upright to look down into your eyes, his face blank with pleasure; he almost looked drunk. His eyes were glazed over, his cheeks were pink, his hair was a mess, and his lips were parted to let out harsh little breaths of air as he tried to regain some semblance of being grounded in his own, ruined body.

You reach your free hand up to cup his jaw, brushing your thumb over the side of his face.

"Does it really hurt that bad? You know that you can be honest," you whisper, now a little concerned that maybe you pushed him too far.

He thinks for a moment before shaking his head slowly and swallowing a bit of drool that he realized has been collecting in his mouth for the past minute or so, "N-Just a little.." he breathes out.

You nod, giving him one soft stroke of his come-covered cock. He gasps and his torso jolts at the sensation, faint tears springing to his eyes.

"Sorry, sorry," you hum, "should we stop here then? I think maybe that would be best for you.. you've already done so well for me.."

The latter half of your sentence, that subtle bit of praise, gives him all the motivation he needs to want to unravel again.

He looks down at his still-hard cock, and then back up at you, and shakes his head. His tongue pokes out over his bottom lip and wets it as he tries to collect his thoughts.

"No.. no, I can do- I can go again, ma'am.. I pro-promise.." he slurs out, thrusting up into your hand.

You raise a skeptical brow at him and his movements, keeping your hand still.

"Are you sure? You know that I won't be upset with you if you want to stop, Art."

He shakes his head again, his lip trembling, "Please."

You smile softly and start to move your hand up and down over his cock again. Despite his previous indications that it was painful, the feeling has now seemed to morph back into unfiltered pleasure as he lets out a high-pitched moan of your name. He babbles endlessly, a mixture of pleas for more, letting out repetitive mumblings of "feels good", and "yes", and an assortment of stuttered expletives.

It doesn't take long for Art to get close again.

"I think 'm gonna come again," he mumbles, letting his eyes fall shut as his head slumps forward against your shoulder. You stroke him quicker, focusing on his hypersensitive tip as you feel a drip of precome come out.

"Oh? You want to come again?" you tease coyly.

You could be cruel sometimes. He had known that this part was coming eventually.

He shakes his head against the crook of your neck with a whine, "don't do this, please.."

You stop your hand at the base of his cock, halting his orgasm just as his load started to rise up his length. Art bites back an obscenely loud moan of protest that is dying to be let out..

"No, no no noo," he squirms against you, repetitively shaking his head as his face remains buried in your neck.

"You know what you need to do, darling."

"Please," he moans, "let me come.."

"You want to come?"

"Yes."

"You do?"

"YES..!"

"How should I make you come?"

"Can y- keep stroking my- I want my cock to be- I-" he mumbles incoherently.

You place your free hand on the back of his head, pushing your fingers pleasurably into his hair as he trembles against you.

"You want me to keep jerking you off? Hm?"

"Y-Yes-ss!" he moans out brokenly, using every bit of restraint within himself to resist the urge to move his hands from behind his back and relieve his aching parts.

He would never do that, though.. no matter how much he wanted to. He would always follow your wants and needs first. Those were most important to him.

"Ask me for what you need again. Nicely; just the way I like it."

"Please, can I come?"

"Again."

He whines, his hips involuntarily bucking up against your stilled hand wrapped around him.

"Please," he sobs, "can I please come for you?"

"Yes, honey, you can come."

You start to stroke his cock once again, and within just a few pumps Art is releasing again. Even though you can't see them because his face is still in your shoulder, his eyes roll all the way to the back of his head as he lets out a couple pitiful squirts of white, sticky liquid over your hand. "Ooh, that's it.. good boy.. are you my pretty little slut?"

When Art hears this, he isn't exactly sure what happens, but it's like the orgasm that's already halfway finished just completely starts over.

"Ohh my fucking- oh my god-dd-! Ugh! HNGH-!"

It's like every single nerve ending in his body is lighting up at once, and he can't do a damn thing about it.. he can't stop it...

His legs nearly go limp underneath him, and he has to lean further into you to prevent himself from collapsing.

Art then releases the most pornographic moans you've ever heard and tenses up in your hold all over again. You're not really sure what's happening until he--

"I'm cumming again! I'm cumm-m-ing-! Again! Ohmyfucking--! GOD!"

He whines and sobs against your body, his arms still held behind his back as you feel his cock jump and pulse in your hand again. This time, nothing comes out. It's odd because it's clear that he's cumming for a fourth time, but there's nothing to show for it.

You slow your hand but continue to stroke his length which is now covered in the creamy-white filth of his previous loads. His cock softens a little, but you're unsure when his orgasm ends because, again, nothing is coming out.

Art's frame suddenly begins to jerk around every time your hand brushes over his tip, and he lets out a hiss of discomfort through his gritted teeth and a sniffle afterwards. As soon as you hear that, you know he's done and you quickly remove your hand. Any extra stimulation and he'd genuinely start to cry. You could save that for another time.. if he wanted you to.

You move your other hand from his hair to his clothed upper back and rub small, comforting circles over it.

"I've got you," you whisper, "you did such a good job, baby. You just came dry for me."

He nods, sniffling wetly and exhaustedly.

You continue to rub his back for a minute or so in silence as he comes back down to earth; the pleasurable waves of his release's aftershocks allowing him to bask in the ebb and flow of it all as he tries to calm his ragged breathing.

"I feel weak," he groans softly.

You nod, "I'm right here, you're okay.. take some deep breaths for me, honey."

He nuzzles deeper against your neck and sighs contentedly, the fuzziness in his head starting to dissipate with your caring words and gentle touch.

"You're my good boy," you whisper, pressing your cheek against the side of his head.

"Mhmm," he hums, "always for you."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆.

notes; WOAH. ok. so this has been like months in the making by now i think..? but i finally finished it :D thank u so much to everyone who has been patiently/loyally waiting for this one after i teased it for over a month on this blog 😭 + thank u to anyone who gave me some kind words of encouragement when i had to put this aside for a while. i luv u guys !! <3

reblogs are always allowed + appreciated!

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

I have ~Thoughts~ on the Harry Potter Phenomenon that was

(Courtesy of memories prompted by this Tumblr Poll)

Back when I was a senior in college (back in the mid-to-late 1980s), I actually wrote a fantasy novel for kids aged ~8 - ~11 (in a self-designed course for a single credit, under the guidance of my Literature advisor), inspired by a series of dreams and recurring characters that showed up in them.

My advisor encouraged me to try and get it published. And so, I arranged with teachers from my old school to have a class of 30 or so 10 year-olds beta read it, and give me feedback for revisions. The kids also encouraged me to try and publish it.

So I did.

Now, back then, there was no "Self Publishing." The closest thing was "Vanity Publishing," where you would pay 100% of the publishing cost of your book, which would be printed in hard copy, for the benefit of having 500 -1,000 books shipped to your personal address, which you were then responsible for storing and selling out of the trunk of your car in a parking lot, somewhere. And if word got out that you were trying to claim credit for being a "published author" because of a Vanity Press book, actual publishers wouldn't touch you with a 40-foot pole.

If you wanted to get published, you had to buy that year's copy of Writer's Market: a listing of magazine and book publishers, and agents, with a brief description of what material they published, and what they wouldn't touch.

Guess what genre no agent or publisher was interested in handling?

That's right, Gentle Readers: Fantasy for children aged 8 - 11. I would have happily sent out a dozen queries for each story I wrote, if there were publishers and agents willing to look at them. But for three to four years of trying, in directories of two-columns of tiny print, and several [hundred]* pages long, I'd be lucky to find two or three outlets even willing to look at fantasy for kids.

The general consensus, across the publishing business, was that fantasy was a dead and obsolete genre. If it was for kids old enough to read chapter books and novels, it must also be firmly grounded in realism and actual history, because everyone knows the only people buying books for kids that age were teachers, who wanted stories with practical applications in the classroom.

***

After 3 - 4 years of trying, while I was in grad school, I finally got a rejection from the one agent who agreed to read my novel. A few days later, I received news that my mother had died from the breast cancer she'd been fighting, and my heart just went out of the project altogether.

A few years later, the first Harry Potter book was published. And it became a worldwide phenomenon. And it was the kids, themselves, who were driving the sales.

See, I think the real reason the books were such a success, even though they were never really very well written, was because they were in a genre the audience was hungry for -- a genre they'd been denied access to for all of their young lives.

Someone who is starving will think even moldy bread is delicious.

*Gosh, what a word to leave out via typo; the Writers Market rivaled the Manhattan Yellow Pages in length.

[bimboficationblues]

so the thing about "read theory" as a mantra: in the social media sphere there is a consistent downplaying of what that kind of commitment actually entails, plus a consistent obfuscation of what exactly the commitment is necessary for.

let's say that you're interested in learning more about specifically "Marxist theory." This, I think, also raises a bunch of questions about what we mean by theory - works of political philosophy, texts on revolutionary and military strategy, political speeches, journalistic or sociological analysis, historiography - these varying things with very different discursive norms and standards of evidence or logic often get rolled into one singular object called "theory." but let's set that aside for now.

you want to learn this for maybe an assortment of reasons, here's a few (non-exhaustive) good ones:

Marxism has been a substantial historical force that has probably had a notable impact on the world around you in some way.

Learning about Marx/ism might offer some level of insight into your current social world that other things are unable to offer.

Many texts - Capital, The Wretched of the Earth, The Second Sex, The State and Revolution - are also world-historical forms of political literature, which is interesting.

Follow-up to 2 - maybe having some level of familiarity with these things will give you the ability to better articulate yourself and participate in social and political movements around you.

generally speaking the Social Media Marxist approach is to tell you to go read off a list of texts of whatever writers the author personally agrees with or whatever works she happens to have read. so you decide to start with the big guy Marx, who is at the top of the list. totally reasonable decision.

however, there are a few contextual questions that might reasonably come up when doing so.

first, it will be clear that Marx did not pop out of an intellectual vacuum; Lenin has a rather popular identification of the "three sources of Marxism" - post-Hegelian German philosophy, French socialism, and English political economy. from my perspective, these are more like three of his main objects of ire (and so in some sense are both influences and also breakages - but not strictly speaking a synthesis), but I digress. so, frequently, in order to grasp what Marx is talking about or responding to, you are going to need some level of familiarity with a lot of additional people: Smith, Ricardo, Malthus, Hegel, Bauer, Feuerbach, Hobbes, Spinoza, Rousseau, Mill, Sismondi. suddenly you are not just learning about the works of one guy, but his attitude towards all the people he relies on for support or aims his criticisms at. and each of those different intellectual relationships is going to be different. sometimes at different times!

second, and relatedly, Marx is not always the most charitable to the people he's criticizing, who were often rival socialists (so there were pretty notable political and personal stakes at work in proving them wrong or diminishing their influence over the movement). the introductory materials to the new translation of Capital also observe that Marx's approach to scholarship is, shall we say, haphazard; often he makes quotes or citations that are not actually representative of what he's citing. finally, many of the people he's criticizing have sort of been rendered obsolete historically *in no small part* due to the success of Marxism as a political orientation in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. so to determine whether Marx is being fair to the people he is basing his critique on, we will have to do some level of intellectual work to check. so now we're not just evaluating Marx's relationship to different thinkers but also the substantial content of each of those thinkers themselves.

third, Marx did not pop out of a social vacuum. all of these different writers didn't just crop up from nowhere but wrote within particular sociohistorical contexts, some of which were rather divorced from the European revolutionary wave, first worldwide financial crisis, and the shifting character of the United States in the wake of the Civil War and the formal abolition of slavery - some of the historical events that Marx was more explicitly engaging with. and the radical liberals, republicans, and socialists Marx criticized all also had their own intellectual and social histories. so now we're getting a little far afield from the initial notion, which was just to read some guy, and getting into the realm of social history, and trying to understand the relationship between world history and the ideas produced within it.

fourth, you are a subject in the world, which is to say YOU did not pop out of a social or intellectual vacuum. you likely bring predispositions, assumptions, biases, and cognitive distortions to what you read; we all do. working through those and trying to note where they're happening - where they might be fine and where they might be problematic - will require a certain willingness to reflect, to write, to take notes, to analyze and self-scrutinize, and to be critical of both yourself as a reader and of the text you are reading. (a nested problem is that we have a truly staggering amount of material from Marx and Engels, and you might have to make certain determinations as to which material is important or worthwhile or more useful, and identify the standards by which you think that - all of which requires a certain reflection on your status as a political thinker).

okay, so consider all that. we started with "I wanna read this one guy," we end with "to really grasp the work of this one guy it's also important to know both preceding and contemporaneous world history, his intellectual influences, and the gaps or silences or errors in his work.” now consider that, if you really want to be able to speak on them with some level of confidence and intellectual honesty, you have to apply approximately the same level of rigor to every other writer on the Social Media Marxist approved list - Lenin, Fanon, Che, Kollontai, Cabral, Mao, Luxemburg, whoever. not to mention their critics, both direct and indirect!

Marx developed his work through an incredibly sustained engagement with enormous volumes of different material; we have entire notebooks of him poring over Max Stirner, or Spinoza, or the political economists, or the empirical observations of English factory inspectors. I'm not saying that you have to do that, or even that one strictly *has* to go down any or all of the first three rabbitholes I identified. Marx was in the somewhat unique position of sustaining himself through the support of Engels and his journalistic work, as a product of being in perpetual exile. that's not the kind of position that most of us are typically in.

the point is not "commit yourself to being a perfect monastic scholar in order to reach perfect truth" - such a thing is probably a fantasy, even if we wish otherwise. the point is that if you think "theory" is worth taking seriously, well, you have to actually take it seriously. if you don’t think it has stakes or utility, that’s fine; different people find different things useful. I think “theory” is not a set of dead letters by canonical authors but produced through social life. but if “reading theory” is a way to clarify and assert yourself as a political subject and agent, to claim some intellectual autonomy and acquire some understanding that you can put into practice in your life, then that’s demanding. it’s not impossible, but it does take real effort and a commitment to study and a certain level of resistance to being dogmatic. otherwise you are just letting yourself be rhetorically persuaded by whatever is in front of you or whatever affirms your biases.

as Marx says in the preface to Capital, Volume I, "I am of course assuming that my readers will want to learn something new, and so are ready to think for themselves."

[the-halloween-jack]

Disarray ✢ Jason Todd

Synopsis: She had become his sanctuary, the one unshaken constant in a life fractured by violence and resurrection — the only person who saw beyond the wreckage and chose to stay regardless. Jason Todd returns to the person he considers his home, only to find it in disarray.

Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns. Warnings: Angst (with comfort).

Masterlist

Notes: I set out to write a short piece, nothing over a thousand words, I was successful! Normally I write way too much.

Words: 923

Jason never knocked, never felt the need to announce his arrival — he did not possess the disposition for this courtesy, and he already knew she would be anticipating him, with an easy smile, as though she relished his company. Jason could not compel himself to understand, to comprehend why a person so pure, so gentle, would allow themselves to be tainted by someone so burdened, someone like him. 

He reached out, the old window yielding with a decrepit creak as he moved it upward, and climbed through the aperture without grace. 

The room was fractured. His hands began to tremble.

This space, so wonderfully hers, had rapidly become his sanctuary; the one place on this sphere where he felt truly at peace, where he felt he could be himself. Now, it lay in ruins before him, a body of motion and disorder. Cushions were sprawled across the expanse of the room, drawers were cracked wide open, and papers lay scattered across all surfaces. 

The breath he had been holding sputtered out — he was gasping, fighting for air. Jason’s eyes swept through it all — not taking it in, not registering — he needed to snap out of it, to make sense of it. He unwillingly looked up, stomach crumpled with the realisation that the clasp of the front door had been left unlocked. Her name claws at the back of his throat, but he does not call it. He cannot get himself to name her absence, to solidify it in his reality.

The place was not big, and yet it felt like lifetimes had passed as he scoped through it, shattering with every room that failed to offer her silhouette. His dread grows not in a line, but in every conceivable direction, fractal and fast; erratic. The fragment of him that still knows reason suggests she went out. The rest of him — the person carved hollow by Lazarus and consequence — had already begun to grieve.

The unlocked door is a wound. A violation.

Someone knows. Someone traced the pattern, mapped their connection, and found the one seam he should have reinforced. He pictures her hands — how unarmed they are, how gentle, how tender— and it is unthinkable to entertain that they are subject to a stranger’s mercy.

His mind does not race — it plummets. The catastrophe is palpable — he can almost taste it. It cuts sharp against his tongue, and sears like acid. She is gone. Y/N is gone. The word nests in his chest like a cancer, malignant and burgeoning, defiling everything in its wake. He dropped to his knees, he had always been so sure of himself, so confident in his resolve, but he knew he could not overcome this, his dread left him immobilised, obsolete.

And then —

The door opened.

Y/N stands calm in the frame, flushed from exertion, keys in hand, with a ghost of a smile on her lips — until she sees him. Or rather, perceives what was left of him; feeble upon the floor.

‘Jason...?’

Her voice is quiet at first, tentative. The light that had been in her eyes began to dissipate — concern filling the place it left vacant in its departure. She moved to him, quickly, dropping the keys somewhere behind her.

‘Are you—are you hurt? What’s wrong? What happened?’

But he only shakes his head, eyes wide, breath shuddering, he felt it quake in his chest. Then he pulled her down to him, taking her in his embrace. His arms tightened with something akin to desperation, like a man who had already begun to bury his world. She feels it in the tremor of his breath. In the way his jaw locks against her shoulder.

‘I thought— ’

He does not finish, he cannot. The words collapse on the edge of his tongue.

Y/N pulled him in tighter, beginning to trace his scars where she knew they lay underneath his shirt, a ritual that brought him great ease.

‘I thought someone took you,’ he whispered against her shoulder, again and again, as if the repetition might bleed the terror out, extricate it from where it festered beneath his skin. ‘I thought they knew. That they connected you to me. I thought I’d gotten you hurt.’ 

Or worse, he wanted to utter, but the notion was too revolting, too vile.

‘No,’ she murmured, hands on his face now, grounding him. ‘Jason, no. I’m fine. I just— I couldn’t find my keys. I tore the place apart looking for them.’ She motioned around her, to the disarray encircling them, the catalyst of his anguish. He looked into her eyes, savouring the sensation of it, of having her in his arms.

‘I left to check my car, I didn’t think— I’m so sorry —’

Jason did not respond, for he no longer possessed the capacity to commit thought to speech. He simply pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck like a man anchoring himself to the last artifact capable of keeping him afloat. His breath was still uneven, ragged with the aftershocks of a panic that refused to fade. She was here — warm, real, speaking — but his body had not yet caught up with the truth of it. All he could do was hold her, tighter than he ever had before, as if that force alone might keep his world from collapsing. Because some part of him, raw and relentless, still feared that if he let go, she would vanish — not in a torrent, but quietly, like sand through his fingers.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

[maxdibert]

Miss Huang is just a reflection of what Cobel and probably Milchick once were: children used, exploited, and psychologically manipulated to serve and be loyal to Lumon. Her addition this season now makes complete sense; it’s a way of showing us just how deeply the company employs the usual mechanisms of a cult—recruiting its members from childhood, manipulating them, brainwashing them, holding them responsible as adults for mistakes made at a young age, denying them the ability to have opinions or to think for themselves beyond the precepts of the cult, and robbing them of a normal childhood.

The fact that when the children finish their “internship,” they have to leave behind an object of emotional value and destroy it, and that Milchick carefully chooses something that still ties Miss Huang to that childish mindset—to the part of her that wants to play, to be a normal child—is utterly terrifying but also disturbingly realistic if you think about how cults manipulate their younger members by denying them the chance to enjoy the most crucial stages of cognitive development. Milchick looks at himself, reprimanding himself for indulging in a childish mindset, projecting his own experience onto Huang, likely thinking of the child he once was, just like her, and the things he must now deny himself as he denies them to her—because that’s the way of Kier.

And then there’s Cobel, who represents the future of all three: someone who gave her life to Lumon and Kier, only for the corporation to take everything from her, including the ideas that led to her success, and ultimately discard her as if she were just an obsolete cog in a vast machine. It’s brilliant, truly brilliant. Huang, Milchick, and Cobel somehow embody the past, present, and future of the organization’s workers and how their path and fate unfold within the company.

And all of this is revealed in tiny doses, in ways that seem meaningless at first, until eventually, when you have enough pieces of the puzzle, you can see the entire perspective and realize that none of it was placed there by chance. Beyond their individual storylines, there is a collective narrative that essentially shows us how Lumon’s mechanisms of manipulation work. Honestly, this seems like one of the most brilliant scripts I’ve ever seen. Seriously, this show is a masterpiece.

[dorsey-divine]

Underrated part of the tragedy in the terror (in the fandom and kinda show kinda) is that it wouldn't have been successful no matter what. And I don't mean that in the sense of the racism and hubris of the crew/expedition was always going to blow up in their face, that's true but that's not what I'm getting at, it's that there is no northwest passage.

This is more down to real naval history but while it is possible to traverse a northwest passage (Roald Amundsen was the first person to do this in 1903-06) the pack ice would freeze it over for most of the year and it's too shallow in places to be used as a trade route. While it's easier nowadays, due to climate change, it's still difficult and and largely obsolete because of the Panama canal. But back in the expedition's days it would've been totally useless even if they had found the passage and everyone lived. There's no glorious return, no rebirth of Sir John's reputation. No rise through the ranks for James or Francis. There was absolutely no "good" ending for the expedition no matter what they did and that is so delicious.

[fangdokja]

There is no safe word. There is no escape.

❤︎ Synopsis. Spies are not the glamorous ghosts of fiction—no tailored suits, no perfect getaways, no clean kills. In reality, espionage is a slow, rotting game of deception, where a single mistake means death… or worse, falling into the hands of the enemy who loves hunting you more than killing you.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. The Enemy in His Bed - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,171

❤︎ Introduction.

In espionage, survival is not merely about physical endurance but also strategic decision-making. A captured spy’s priority is not just to stay alive but to protect valuable intelligence and ensure the long-term success of their mission. The notion that a spy should immediately submit to captors by stating whatever they want to hear is an oversimplified and impractical approach, particularly in scenarios involving high-profile enemies such as the Russian Mafia boss. This research explores the real-world precedents for why silence is often the best initial response, why the Reader was captured despite her skills, and why deception or deflection would not work in this context.

❤︎ The Reality of Counter-Intelligence and Spy Training.

Espionage training includes extensive preparation for capture and interrogation. According to declassified CIA and MI6 manuals on intelligence gathering and counterintelligence, spies are expected to resist interrogation techniques for as long as possible to prevent immediate compromise of information (KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation, CIA, 1963). They are trained to withstand psychological manipulation, physical coercion, and prolonged detention.

One of the key elements in interrogation resistance is silence. Silence serves multiple functions:

It prevents the captor from immediately assessing the spy’s vulnerabilities.

It disrupts the psychological advantage of the interrogator, forcing them to exert more effort and time.

It buys time for allies to attempt extraction or for operational shifts to occur, making the captured intelligence obsolete.

In contrast, immediate compliance signals weakness, which can escalate the severity of torture. If a captive immediately concedes to their interrogator’s demands, it creates a precedent for further exploitation. The concept of ‘resistance training’ in elite military units, such as the U.S. Navy SEALs’ SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape) program, reinforces that initial silence is a fundamental survival tool (U.S. Army Field Manual, FM 34-52, Intelligence Interrogation).

Contrary to common belief, this training does not teach operatives to resist indefinitely or escape easily—it teaches them to endure psychological and physical torment while withholding critical information for as long as possible (Siddle, 2012).

The reality is that spies expect to be caught at some point because espionage is high-risk. Capture is part of the job, and how one handles it determines long-term consequences.

♡ The Nature of Espionage and Capture.

A spy's job is not to seek a noble death but to gather intelligence, survive, and, if caught, minimize the damage to their mission. Intelligence agencies worldwide, including the CIA, MI6, and FSB, prioritize counter-interrogation training, understanding that capture is an inevitable risk. Historical records and declassified intelligence documents show that spies are trained to withstand severe interrogation, knowing that the moment they are caught, they become a tool in the enemy’s hands.

Example: The case of CIA operative William Francis Buckley, who was captured by Hezbollah in 1984, demonstrates the brutal reality of espionage. Despite his extensive counter-interrogation training, Buckley was tortured for months. His captors extracted critical intelligence over time, proving that even highly skilled operatives are vulnerable under prolonged duress. His silence was not a matter of pride but protocol—to delay and protect intelligence assets.

♡ Historical Examples of Spy Captures.

Vasili Mitrokhin (KGB defector): He smuggled Soviet secrets to the West but stated that had he been caught, resistance or deception would have been futile. Soviet interrogation methods were designed to break individuals physically and mentally (Andrew & Mitrokhin, 1999).

Richard Sorge (WWII Soviet Spy): Captured by the Japanese, he was tortured for weeks but gave little information. Japanese authorities understood that extracting the truth from a trained spy meant prolonged and systematic suffering (Bennett, 2011).

CIA and MI6 Operations: Numerous declassified documents indicate that intelligence operatives under KGB, GRU, and mafia interrogations had no way of deceiving their captors effectively. The interrogators were trained to identify microexpressions, inconsistencies, and psychological breaks (Blake, 2014).

❤︎ Why the Reader Was Captured.

Even the most skilled spies can be caught due to various factors beyond their control, including:

♡ Betrayal or Internal Leaks.

Many real-world espionage cases demonstrate that spies are often caught due to information leaks rather than their own mistakes. For instance, Aldrich Ames, a former CIA officer, betrayed multiple operatives to the Soviet Union, leading to their arrests (Weiner, Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA, 2007).

Historically, spies such as Mata Hari (Dutch spy executed in WWI) and Richard Sorge (a Soviet spy caught by Japan) were captured despite their expertise due to meticulous counterintelligence efforts.

♡ Superior Surveillance and Resources.

Russian intelligence agencies, known for their advanced counterintelligence strategies, have successfully infiltrated and dismantled Western spy networks. The Federal Security Service (FSB) employs sophisticated tracking systems, AI-based behavioral analysis, and deep psychological profiling to anticipate and counter espionage threats.

♡ Underestimation of the Enemy.

The Reader, despite her expertise, is up against a highly intelligent and powerful adversary with extensive resources. The idea that a spy should “never get caught” is a myth; historically, even the most legendary spies, such as Richard Sorge (a Soviet spy during WWII), were eventually captured due to counterintelligence efforts (Roberts, The Spy Who Saved the World, 1999).

♡ Other Examples.

Other real-world examples of spy captures include:

CIA operative Kevin Patrick Mallory (2017) – A seasoned former CIA officer was arrested by Chinese authorities for espionage, highlighting that even experienced operatives can be caught.

Anna Chapman and the Illegals Program (2010) – A Russian spy network operating in the United States was apprehended by the FBI, proving that no spy is truly untouchable.

Oleg Penkovsky (1963) – A Soviet double agent who provided intelligence to the West but was eventually captured and executed by the KGB.

In Reader’s case, it’s highly plausible that she was captured not due to incompetence but because the Russian Mafia Boss, as an experienced leader, had the resources to track and corner her. Intelligence agencies, militaries, and criminal organizations spend millions on counterintelligence—expecting a spy to evade capture indefinitely is unrealistic.

❤︎ The Role of a Spy: Survival Over Suicide.

A spy’s ultimate goal is not to die a noble death but to extract, manipulate, and leverage intelligence. Historically, espionage operations emphasize survival, as intelligence is only valuable when utilized. The notion that a captured spy should immediately take their own life is impractical and counterproductive. Intelligence agencies, such as the CIA, MI6, and KGB, have extensive training protocols focused on survival under captivity.

♡ Case Studies & Real-World Evidence.

Cold War Espionage: Soviet and American spies, including figures like Oleg Penkovsky (a Russian colonel who spied for the U.S.), did not opt for suicide but instead attempted to deceive, delay, or outmaneuver their captors.

Israeli Mossad Training: Mossad operatives undergo SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) training, emphasizing psychological resilience and delaying tactics over self-sacrifice.

♡ Analyzing the Strategic Silence of the Spy.

Real-world intelligence agencies, such as the CIA, MI6, and the KGB (now FSB), emphasize that in high-stakes interrogations, silence is often the most critical initial response. The CIA’s Human Resource Exploitation Manual and historical accounts from former Soviet spies confirm that experienced interrogators are adept at detecting deception through behavioral analysis, inconsistencies, and physiological cues.

Examples:

The KGB, infamous for its brutal Lubyanka prison interrogations, systematically broke spies through psychological and physical coercion. They relied on prolonged sensory deprivation, mock executions, and induced despair rather than overt brutality, ensuring that even the strongest-willed captives eventually lost their ability to lie effectively (Andrew & Mitrokhin, The Sword and the Shield).

Former CIA operative John Kiriakou stated that in trained interrogations, deception is useless because “they will catch you, and they will punish you worse for the lie.” This is particularly relevant when dealing with a highly intelligent and sadistic interrogator like the Russian Mafia Boss, who thrives on power and control. Any detected lie would reinforce his resolve to escalate torture, making survival even less likely.

♡ The Concept of a Highly Specialized Spy: Why She Was Not Replaceable.

The argument that the Reader could be easily substituted ignores the nature of infiltration. Unlike foot soldiers, spies establish relationships, manipulate high-value targets, and gather classified intelligence over extended periods.

Examples:

The Cambridge Five, a British spy ring operating for the Soviets, demonstrated that deep-cover spies are irreplaceable because they have gained unparalleled access to inner circles. Substituting an operative would mean re-establishing trust—a process that could take years or may never succeed again.

In this case, the Reader is the only operative who has successfully penetrated the inner sanctum of the Russian Mafia Boss. His trust, love, and obsession make her an even more valuable asset, ensuring that no one else could replicate her level of access.

❤︎ Why Staying Silent is a Tactical Move.

The key principle in real-life spy training is to delay interrogation. Many intelligence agencies, including the CIA, KGB, and Mossad, train agents to resist giving valuable information as long as possible.

The first 24-48 hours of captivity are crucial. If the enemy doesn't extract intel quickly, its value diminishes. Military strategies, safe houses, and targets change constantly, making real-time intel perishable.

Interrogators expect resistance; breaking someone immediately is rare unless they were psychologically unprepared. Stalling gives allies time to adjust, relocate, and mitigate damage.

Former KGB defector Yuri Bezmenov described how intelligence officers are trained to withstand extreme duress by understanding the “timing principle” of declassification. The most critical information loses relevance over time.

♡ The Strategic Value of Silence in High-Stakes Interrogation.

Captured spies are trained to resist giving immediate information. The goal is not to deny everything indefinitely but to buy time, allow misinformation to devalue over time, and force interrogators into a cycle of diminishing returns.

Example: The WWII Case of British SOE Agents

During World War II, British Special Operations Executive (SOE) agents were trained in structured resistance techniques when captured. This included maintaining complete silence for as long as possible because experienced interrogators could extract information from even the most minor details in a prisoner’s speech.

Evidence: The SOE training manuals emphasized that the most effective way to resist interrogation was to "say nothing of value" rather than fabricate or admit anything prematurely. Captured agents, such as those involved in the Prosper Network, found that their best chance of survival was limiting their responses to neutral statements or remaining silent.

❤︎ Why Lying or Deflecting Would Not Work.

The suggestion that the Reader should simply “say what he wants to hear” or lie to avoid harm overlooks several key realities:

♡ Experienced Interrogators Detect Lies Instantly.

Russian intelligence and mafia organizations employ interrogation specialists trained in behavioral analysis, microexpressions, and stress indicators (Ekman, 2009). The FSB, for instance, utilizes polygraph tests combined with psychological interrogation tactics that make lying ineffective (Gladwell, Talking to Strangers, 2019).

The CIA's Kubark Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual (1963) also emphasizes that experienced interrogators can break down deceptive narratives over time.

Furthermore:

The Russian mafia operates on a strict code of control and punishment. A high-ranking mafia boss with a sadistic disposition would not merely be satisfied with verbal compliance.

The moment a captive attempts to lie, their interrogator detects shifts in voice modulation, facial expressions, and body tension. Modern behavioral analysis techniques, similar to those used in intelligence agencies, have been adopted by criminal organizations (Ekman, 2009).

Interrogators systematically test the captive’s responses, ensuring that deception is met with harsher retribution.

♡ Information Verification.

Any information provided by the captive would be cross-checked with existing intelligence, making false statements easy to detect. Spies who attempt deception are often caught due to inconsistencies in their stories.

Mafia bosses don’t just rely on verbal confirmation; they verify information through secondary sources. False compliance (saying what he wants to hear) only works if the interrogator lacks verification methods—which is unlikely in this case.

♡ Escalation of Torture.

Providing misinformation does not ensure safety; instead, it increases the likelihood of prolonged torture, as interrogators recognize the deception and push further for the truth. Cases like that of Oleg Penkovsky, a double agent during the Cold War, illustrate that once deception is detected, captors intensify their methods (Duns, A Spy Like No Other, 2013).

♡ Torture-Induced Compliance.

A captive cannot control physiological responses indefinitely under duress. The CIA's declassified KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual explains that prolonged pain weakens deception, making lies unsustainable.

Russian mafia interrogations often involve brutal methods, including sensory deprivation, waterboarding, and controlled mutilation. According to UN reports on torture methods used in Russian prisons, sustained physical and psychological trauma breaks most subjects, making deception ineffective in the long run (UNHRC, 2018).

♡ Example from Russian Intelligence Practices.

The case of Sergei Skripal, a former Russian double agent, illustrates that Russian intelligence (and by extension, Russian mafia structures) prioritizes ruthless and methodical approaches. They assume deception and apply escalating physical coercion until compliance is achieved.

Brutal Verification Methods: In real-world cases, Russian interrogators have used polygraphs, sensory deprivation, and enhanced psychological techniques. Simply “saying what they want to hear” is not enough; the interrogators will force a captive to prove their compliance through actions, written statements, and verifiable betrayals.

♡ Psychological Domination.

Compliance does not ensure mercy. Psychological profiling suggests that yielding too quickly to demands often results in further degradation. The Milgram Experiment (1961) on obedience to authority demonstrated that individuals in power continue exerting control when met with compliance rather than resistance (Milgram, Obedience to Authority, 1974).

Professional sadists, especially those trained in Russian psychological warfare tactics, are not easily deceived. The Russian mafia, often employing former FSB (Federal Security Service) and GRU (military intelligence) operatives, utilizes systematic torture to extract reliable confessions (Galeotti, 2018).

Techniques include:

Sensory Deprivation: Used to disorient captives and make them more suggestible.

Mock Executions: Designed to force compliance through extreme fear.

Incremental Mutilation: Increasing pain gradually to break resistance, a known KGB and mafia method (Levinson, 2015).

♡ The Myth of “Just Say What They Want”.

One of the key flaws in the argument that the Reader should simply comply is the assumption that submission would lead to mercy. Professional interrogators, especially those from the Russian mafia or intelligence sectors, do not operate on mere verbal compliance—they operate on verification. Saying “I am yours” or pretending to break down does not guarantee freedom or reduced suffering.

Real-World Interrogation Example: Former Soviet KGB officer Oleg Gordievsky defected to the UK, detailing the KGB’s brutal interrogation tactics. He revealed that Soviet and Russian intelligence agencies do not accept mere words. Compliance is seen as a trap, and interrogators use psychological and physical means to confirm whether a captive is truly broken.

Psychological manipulation is employed to gauge if the subject is truthful.

Torture is used not simply to force an answer, but to confirm deception through physiological responses (e.g., inconsistencies in breathing, pupil dilation, sweating).

In the case of mafia interrogation, individuals who submit too quickly are often seen as deceitful, leading to further, more severe methods to extract the truth.

♡ Brief Insights and Summary.

By this logic, the idea that Reader should have just said whatever he wanted to hear is flawed because:

It assumes that compliance would have stopped the torture (which isn’t true for criminal organizations).

It underestimates the Russian Mafia Boss’s ability to detect lies and verify information.

It ignores that time is a critical factor in espionage resistance.

❤︎ Why Simply "Saying What He Wants" Wouldn’t Work.

The Russian Mafia Boss is not a government interrogator following international laws—he is a brutal, highly intelligent criminal leader.

Unlike in government interrogations (where survival through compliance is sometimes feasible), criminal organizations are notorious for continuing torture regardless of whether the victim complies.

♡ Case Study: The Russian Mafia and Brutal Interrogation Techniques.

Russian organized crime is known for extreme interrogation methods. Testimonies from ex-FSB operatives and defectors confirm that compliance often does not guarantee survival.

Victims who immediately comply are seen as weak and disposable. Once they give intel, they are often eliminated to prevent them from being used by other enemies.

Criminal organizations prefer prolonged psychological and physical torture to extract everything, even after the victim seemingly complies.

♡ Real-World Example: Russian Mafia Interrogations.

In the 1990s, Chechen gangs and Russian mafia groups would make prisoners comply but still mutilate or kill them after extracting information.

Reports from defectors and criminal insiders (e.g., Alexander Litvinenko, former FSB officer) detail the Russian mafia’s highly methodical approach to breaking captives. Techniques include prolonged psychological torture, forced betrayals, and systematic dismantling of an individual’s sense of self.

❤︎ The Reality of Captured Spies: Silence Over False Compliance.

The idea that a spy can simply admit to anything an interrogator demands to avoid torture is deeply flawed. Psychological research and real-world case studies of captured spies indicate that captors—especially those with extensive experience, such as Russian intelligence agencies and organized crime syndicates—are trained to detect deception and will not accept simple compliance at face value.

Furthermore, the rationale of remaining silent is:

Delaying Tactics: Silence prolongs the interrogation, buying time for potential rescue or the devaluation of sensitive intelligence.

Psychological Control: Remaining silent can frustrate the interrogator, forcing them to shift strategies and making them question whether the subject truly possesses valuable information (Russell, 2019).

Case Study – John McCain (Vietnam War): Captured and tortured for years, McCain resisted providing valuable intelligence, proving that endurance can limit the enemy’s gains.

By choosing silence, Reader followed a rational and established espionage strategy.

♡ Russian Interrogation Techniques and Psychological Warfare.

One of the most feared interrogation tactics is the Russian "Break the Will" method, which relies on prolonged psychological torture, isolation, and a deep understanding of human psychology. Unlike the common misconception that compliance immediately halts torture, professional interrogators do not stop simply because a prisoner says what they want to hear. Instead, they analyze microexpressions, inconsistencies, and physiological responses.

Example: The Case of Vasili Mitrokhin

Vasili Mitrokhin, a former KGB archivist who defected to the UK, revealed in his Mitrokhin Archive that Soviet and Russian intelligence agencies had developed meticulous methods of interrogation. These included long-term psychological games designed to break a subject's mind rather than rely on direct brutality alone. If an individual attempted to deceive or deflect, interrogators would escalate their methods, ensuring that the truth surfaced eventually.

Evidence: Studies by former CIA operative and psychologist Dr. Laurence Miller affirm that professional interrogators apply techniques like the Reid Technique, which is designed to detect lies based on physiological stress responses.

♡ The Ineffectiveness of False Compliance in Criminal Syndicates.

While it is true that in some hostage situations, compliance can buy time, this is not the case in high-level intelligence extraction, especially within organizations such as the Russian mafia. Unlike state intelligence agencies, criminal syndicates operate on extreme distrust and are notorious for their relentless suspicion. Saying "I am yours" or fabricating stories does not satisfy them—it raises more questions.

Example: The Kidnapping of Alexander Litvinenko

Alexander Litvinenko, a former FSB officer who defected and later spoke out against the Russian government, was poisoned with polonium-210 in London. His case demonstrated that Russian intelligence and criminal networks do not accept superficial compliance. Litvinenko had long been under surveillance, and any attempt at false compliance would have been easily exposed.

Evidence: Testimonies from defectors and mafia insiders confirm that Russian criminal organizations use trust-testing methods—forcing captives to give detailed and verifiable information before trusting their word. Simply saying what the interrogator wants to hear does not work because they will cross-check facts, demand proof, and escalate punishments when inconsistencies arise.

❤︎ Why the Reader's Silence Was the Only Logical Choice.

Applying these real-world principles to the scenario, it is clear that:

False compliance does not ensure survival – The Russian mafia boss is too experienced to accept simple words; he will demand proof and escalate interrogation methods to test deception.

Interrogators do not stop at surface-level compliance – Even if the reader admitted to being "his," the interrogator would continue questioning motives, past actions, and hidden intentions.

Maintaining silence is a known espionage tactic – Real-world spies have been trained to resist interrogation by minimizing verbal interaction, as words are weapons in an interrogator’s hands.

❤︎ The Yandere Russian Mafia Boss: A Logical, Sadistic Interrogator.

Regardless of the Reader’s actions, the Russian Mafia Boss—being both highly intelligent and sadistic—would continue torture and control tactics. The assumption that immediate submission would stop further harm is flawed for several reasons:

♡ Sadism as a Motivator.

Unlike professional interrogators who seek intelligence, a sadist derives pleasure from prolonged suffering. Compliance does not guarantee safety but may instead encourage further psychological manipulation.

Studies on sadistic personality disorder (Kernberg, Aggression in Personality Disorders) indicate that true sadists do not seek mere compliance; they derive pleasure from asserting dominance through the suffering of their victim. The act of breaking resistance itself is the reward, meaning that submission only delays further torment.

♡ Power and Control.

Russian mafia interrogations, particularly by high-ranking figures, revolve around asserting dominance. Submission is not an endpoint but a means to deepen psychological dependence (Suskind, 2004).

In historical cases of mafia interrogations, such as those conducted by the Russian Vor v Zakone (Thieves in Law), mere words were insufficient to halt torture. Survivors of Chechen and Russian mafia captivity, like those documented in Putin’s People (Belton, 2020), recounted that compliance meant nothing when dealing with interrogators who wanted genuine emotional destruction, not just verbal submission.

Given that the Mafia Boss is a yandere, his obsession distorts traditional motivations. While he may claim to want obedience, he is more likely to desire proof of complete ownership—something that requires breaking the Reader’s will in a manner mere words cannot satisfy.

♡ Historical Precedent – Stalin’s NKVD Interrogations.

The NKVD (precursor to the KGB) was infamous for torturing individuals regardless of their confessions, demonstrating that submission does not equate to mercy (Conquest, 1991).

Thus, whether the reader complied immediately or not, the Russian mafia boss—driven by sadism and control—would continue his actions.

♡ Why Compliance Does Not Grant Mercy.

While some may argue that admitting to the interrogator’s demands (“I belong to you,” etc.) would grant relief, real-world evidence shows that sadists escalate regardless of compliance.

Andrei Chikatilo, a known Russian sadist and serial killer, demonstrated that inflicting suffering was the objective, not just extracting obedience (Kuklinski, 2006).

Mafia leaders, especially those trained in torture, derive satisfaction from power over their victims. Compliance does not ensure survival but often extends suffering as the captor enjoys full control.

♡ Examples.

The Case of Felix Sater – Sater, a Russian-American mobster and former intelligence asset, described the unforgiving nature of Russian mafia interrogation techniques, where captives were methodically broken down over time.

The Chechen Mafia – Reports from investigative journalists and defectors detail how Russian and Chechen mafia groups specialize in psychological domination, where suffering is a tool, not just an interrogation method.

Given these realities, silence was the best protocol for the Reader. A sadistic interrogator would not accept immediate submission as genuine and would still enact brutal methods to test its authenticity. Compliance does not equate to safety in this context—it often results in prolonged torment.

♡ The Mafia Boss’s Logic: Why He Keeps Reader Alive.

While his personal obsession plays a role, the mafia boss’s decision to keep Reader alive is also deeply logical and strategic. Killing her would mean losing a highly valuable asset with extensive knowledge of enemy operations. In high-stakes criminal organizations, intelligence is paramount.

Real-World Criminal Psychology

The Use of Captives for Strategic Gain: Organizations like the Russian mafia, Yakuza, and Cartels often keep captives alive to extract long-term intelligence or force their cooperation. This is a proven method of psychological warfare.

Stockholm Syndrome & Psychological Conditioning: By breaking down Reader’s psychological defenses over time, the mafia boss increases his control, making her a more pliable and valuable asset.

Torture as a Power Mechanism: A sadist with a methodical mindset does not kill impulsively. Rather, he relishes in control and destruction over time. Eliminating the Reader prematurely would be counterproductive to his own gratification.

♡ The Logical Imperative of Reader’s Survival.

Reader’s decision to endure rather than self-terminate aligns with real-world espionage doctrine. The idea of a quick death as a noble exit is impractical and strategically unsound. Meanwhile, the mafia boss’s decision to keep her alive stems not only from personal obsession but also from logical necessity. In high-stakes intelligence and criminal power structures, survival, manipulation, and psychological endurance are far more crucial than martyrdom.

❤︎ Conclusion.

In summary, the idea that a spy could simply “play along” and avoid suffering is a fallacy not supported by real-world intelligence practices. Espionage training emphasizes endurance, strategic silence, and the understanding that capture often leads to long-term suffering, not immediate death.

In dealing with a Russian mafia boss who is a logical, hardcore sadist, deception is doomed to fail, compliance does not grant mercy, and resistance is a calculated necessity. The real-world methodologies of intelligence agencies, criminal organizations, and psychological warfare tactics all reinforce this reality.

Thus, the assertion that the reader staying silent was the only logical choice is not only narratively justified but grounded in actual espionage, psychological, and historical evidence.

❤︎ References.

Andrew, C., & Mitrokhin, V. (1999). The Sword and the Shield: The Mitrokhin Archive and the Secret History of the KGB. Basic Books.

Bennett, R. (2011). Behind the Bamboo Curtain: Soviet Intelligence Operations in Asia. Columbia University Press.

Blake, M. (2014). The CIA and Covert Operations: Espionage in the Cold War. Praeger.

Conquest, R. (1991). The Great Terror: A Reassessment. Oxford University Press.

Ekman, P. (2009). Telling Lies: Clues to Deceit in the Marketplace, Politics, and Marriage. W.W. Norton & Company.

Galeotti, M. (2018). The Vory: Russia’s Super Mafia. Yale University Press.

Kuklinski, I. (2006). Russian Criminal Psychology and Organized Crime. Harvard Press.

Kuklinski, P. (2006). Confessions of a Mafia Hitman. HarperCollins.

Kuklinski, P. (2006). Inside the Mind of a Sociopath: The Case of Andrei Chikatilo. Forensic Psychology Press.

Kubark Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual. (1963). CIA Declassified Documents.

Levinson, A. (2015). Torture and Democracy. Princeton University Press.

Levinson, D. (2015). Encyclopedia of Crime and Punishment. SAGE Publications.

Levinson, R. (2015). Torture: A Sociology of Violence. Oxford University Press.

Milgram, S. (1974). Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View. Harper & Row.

Mitrokhin, V., & Andrew, C. (1999). The Mitrokhin Archive: The KGB in Europe and the West. Penguin Books.

Mitrokhin, V., & Andrew, C. (2000). The Mitrokhin Archive: The KGB in Europe and the West. Penguin Books.

Russell, D. (2019). Interrogation and Torture: Integrating Efficacy with Law and Morality. Oxford University Press.

Russell, J. (2019). Interrogation and Torture: Integrating Efficacy with Law and Morality. Columbia University Press.

Russell, J. (2019). Russian Intelligence and Security Services: A Guide to the Post-Soviet World. Routledge.

Siddle, B. (2012). Sharpening the Warrior’s Edge: The Psychology & Science of Training. PPCT Research Publications.

Suskind, R. (2004). The Price of Loyalty: George W. Bush, the White House, and the Education of Paul O’Neill. Simon & Schuster.

UNHRC Report on Torture in Russian Prisons. (2018). United Nations Human Rights Council.

Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss

♡ Main Story. 🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

Headcanons 1 : The Bride of Blood (General)

To him, you're perfect. To you, he's just a mission.

🔞"I don't need your love, I need your submission."

Novella 1 : The Enemy In His Bed

⭐️🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

There is no safe word. There is no escape.

♡ A/N #1. I released these crumbs to simply explain my reasonings on Reader's character in the Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss story. I loathe non-deliberate plot holes in my worlds. And, considering I have not released Part 2 yet, here are some crumbs and clarification on the reality of this world. Hope this is understandable because trust me when I say my next "education post" might be harder to digest. Also, kinda messy but I have stuff to do still, so I just edited a bit and compiled the notes that I know would form a coherent and substantial argument. Feeling clarified, yet?

♡ A/N #2. Me to myself: Calm down now. Why are you taking this so seriously? -_-

♡ A/N #3. And, if you read this.... why? Seriously. Are you like lore hungry or is it something else?

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “A Heart Devoured”: @definetlythinkimanalien , @floooring , @lilyalone , @theogborjie , @ne7zach , @songbirdgardensworld , @imnotabot28 , @ncsltgic , @aishiyaa , @scotchhopin , @queenmimis , @yandreams-storageblog , @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni , @iris-arcadia

��︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1 [you are here]. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Disclaimer. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution—these tales explore obsession, madness, and devotion in their rawest forms.

[scarlettoceaneyes]

Maybe Embry x f!reader where r was foced to ask for Embry’s number as a dare by her friends but he ends up imprinting??

Love it ❤️ send me more request!!

Alright guys my eyes are not focused but I was inspired. My autocorrect is so nuts too. Please forgive my typos.

Dare- Embry x imprint

“Okay Y/N! Truth or dare?” You spent the better part of the evening over good junk food and playing games with your old girlfriends from high school. Most have went off to college either in Seattle or out of state. You completed your degree online with a partial paid internship. It was a real job with real responsibilities, including your future college credit that depended on your success.

Right now it’s the fall semester break and the wine is out. Sitting at Rachel Black’s house for the big sleepover, Jacob and his friends Embry and Quil pass through on their way to play video games. Okay did they look any different to anyone else? Much taller, a heck of a lot more muscles and strength, but the best part? You couldn’t help but notice and drool on the inside to how hot they looked. You were a year above Jacob so you knew the guys.

“Hurry Y/N pick before we give you something crazy!!” Believe it or not my friends would actually do that… you picked dare which was a mistake. You were barely older than him but you felt obsolete and small compared to Embry. You had a crush on him for a few years but he seemed so unapproachable now. “Fine I’ll do it jeezz.”

You take your time, but your feet felt like they were moving faster than intended. Knocking on Jacob’s door, you are asked to enter. As Jacob expected a message relay from Rachel or his dad, instead he was surprised to see you at his bedroom door. You walked past Jacob after a quick hello and went to sit on the bed by Embry. He was sitting this round of video games out, perfect opportunity for you to ask for his number. Receiving weird looks from the guys, they slowly returned back to the activities before your arrival. Sitting next to Embry you turn and say hello. As you decided to lay it out, you tell Embry of the stupid truth or dare, but he can’t hear you. You are a distant mumble to the vision of his life that is running in his brain.

He imprinted. He was a wolf without a known dad who gave him all this lovely crap. Now he is shocked that he was gifted an imprint. He didn’t think he would be so lucky considering he didn’t even know which genetic line he descended from. The world that flashed before his eyes was the dreams that inspire Disney fairytales.

Dancing in a white dress to your song, throwing the garter and bouquet. The honey moon, the baby (surprise), the break up and co parenting. The pain, without a hint to why so Embry can’t avoid it. He will only have to face it, but what he sees next is the will to push through the bad.

The baby is a little bigger. Time passed. The make up, the recommitment, the initials carved in a tree, the IVF after health complications, the triplets surprise. Another two kids after them- yeah Embry wanted a large family since he never had a dad. He wants a full life with a big family surrounding him. He will be granted that wish. Some days he might want to quit, but through his vision he can see it’s all worth it with more joy than he can comprehend at this moment in time.

Your hospital stay from the accident with a drunk driver. The days he didn’t know if you would live. The coming home and walking just fine. His broken bones on his last phase and battle. Growing old again. Weddings for children and grand babies but he blinked and he saw your smile asking for his number.

Fumbling he ask to trade phones.

You smiled and said although it was a dare, you are glad it happens.

Rachel is Paul’s imprint so she understands, but she warns Embry to watch himself and protect you. You might be fierce but you are an emotional wreck at times and need his love more than air.

Phone calls, text, FaceTime, falling asleep to his snores through the other line. He started sneaking into your room at night knowing text was not enough anymore. He couldn’t sleep without wrapping you in his arms to know you are protected.

Truth or dare Embry- he gets asked on the next girls night a few months later. He was just passing through the kitchen and was caught by the game.

Truth. “Your favorite memory?”

Oh that’s easy- the night you picked dare and stole my heart forever. Kissing your forehead he smirks, whispering an I love you, and heads off to game night with Jacob and Quil.

[sonic-syndrome]

LOG DATA – ENTRY 002

Admin "Chaos Sonic" demonstrates unexpected repair efficiency. Initial assessment: utilization of obsolete materials would be suboptimal. Post-repair diagnostics confirm arm functionality at 92.8% efficiency. Visual sensors repeatedly drawn to reflective surfaces—new claw appendages aesthetically satisfactory. Primary improvement: leg mobility restored to 100% operational capacity. Conclusion: no further floor-dragging required. Satisfaction parameters: elevated.

New Directive: "Calibrate locomotion systems." AKA Attempt: walking.

Error encountered. Locomotion protocols not pre-installed. Chaos Sonic's reaction: unexpected. Hypothesis: defective programming or inferior model status. Unknown subroutines activated—designation: self-assessment downgraded to "lesser creation" status in presence of superior unit.

Chaos Sonic forcibly engages physical support mode. Standing: unstable. Equilibrium compromised. Chaos Sonic's logic: flawed. Additional irritation: grip on polished hand components persists despite resistance. Motion attempted—balance fails. Emergency stabilization subroutine engages foot actuators at 0.3-second delay. Inefficient.

60 minutes of forced "walking." Outcome: autonomous steps achieved (quantity: 7). Success rate: 15%. Discomfort levels: high. Preference: negative.

FINAL ASSESSMENT: Illogical. Unpleasant. Highly irritating.

– End of Report

prev || start || next

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Hannibal

Aperitif - an alcoholic drink taken before a meal as an appetizer

Assiduous - showing great care, attention, and effort; marked by careful unremitting attention or persistent application

Calumniation - to utter maliciously false statements, charges, or imputations about

Castigation - to subject to severe punishment, reproof, or criticism

Commove - to move violently; agitate; to rouse intense feeling in; excite to passion

Cozen - to deceive, win over, or induce to do something by artful coaxing and wheedling or shrewd trickery

Dissentient - expressing dissent (i.e., to withhold assent or approval; or differ in opinion)

Fabulist - a creator or writer of fables; liar

Heterodox - holding unorthodox opinions or doctrines; unconventional

Immurement - to enclose within or as if within walls; imprisonment

Intemperance - lack of moderation

Internecine - deadly; mutually destructive

Inveigle - entice; to acquire by ingenuity or flattery

Mythomania - an excessive or abnormal propensity for lying and exaggerating

Outré - violating convention or propriety

Palter - to act insincerely or deceitfully

Parlous - full of danger or risk; obsolete: dangerously shrewd or cunning

Phantasmagoria - a constantly shifting complex succession of things seen or imagined; a bizarre or fantastic combination, collection, or assemblage

Recondite - difficult or impossible for one of ordinary understanding or knowledge to comprehend

Rufous - reddish

Sanguinary - bloodthirsty, murderous

Schism - separation; disharmony

Soigné - well-groomed, sleek; elegantly maintained or designed

Sybarite - voluptuary (i.e., a person whose chief interests are luxury and the gratification of sensual appetites); sensualist (i.e., one who is persistent or excessive in their pursuit of sensual pleasures and interests)

Truculent - deadly, destructive

More: Word Lists

[galedekarios]

gale's early access dialogue transcripts - part 2 b: the loss scene

in early access, gale had two additional major scenes in act i: the deer stew scene and the loss scene, both of which would happen during a long rest at camp.

the scenes in early access usually happened in this order:

-1: first night long rest scene (still in the final game) -2: mirror image scene (still in the final game) -3: deer stew scene (cut content / partially reused in act i) -4: weave scene (still in the final game) -5: loss scene (cut content) -6: tiefling party scene (ea version cut / partially reused in act ii last night alive scene)

you can watch the entire scene here. below you'll find the transcript of the scene itself as well as some additional info / context.

the loss scene revealed more about gale's life before the game, his abilities as a chosen of mystra and as an archwizard, as well as his status and his relationship with mystra. sadly, it was cut and only seems to have survived as (as of now) obsolete code:

at a long rest, gale would have a ! and stand by the fire, trying and failing to cast a spell:

Gale: [Fails to cast a spell] Gale: Khat-Tsjin Deth-Thra! Protag: [Wizard]: That was a failed spell if ever I heard one.  Gale: Failure. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. It’s getting late. I think I'll turn in. Perhaps some sleep will do me good. - Protag [Option 1]: You don't sound very happy there, Gale. Gale: Happiness is like a stray cat; sometimes it seeks you out, sometimes it ignores you. Tonight, I'm ignored. It's getting late. I think I'll turn in. Perhaps some sleep will do me good. - Protag [Option 2]: Is something wrong? Gale: Let's just say not all is right. But that goes for all of us. - Protag [Option 3]: Do you mind? I’d like some peace and quiet Gale: Quiet you can have – peace I can’t guarantee. Especially not peace of mind.

Protag [Wizard]: I didn't recognize your hand gestures. What spell were you trying to cast? Gale: A bygone spell from a bygone age. It doesn't matter. - Protag [Option 1]: They say you should never go to bed angry Gale: Isn’t that advice for couples? The only one I’m angry with is myself. Please – just let it rest. - Protag [Option 2]: Ever the mystery man, aren’t you? Gale: I simply have a lot on my mind. - Protag [Option 3]: Suit yourself. Goodnight. Gale: Goodnight.

Protag [Option 1]: [if Protag intiated Gale's romance during the Weave scene] Come, you know I care about you. I showed you when we shared that spell. Gale: So you did. Very well. -> See below - Protag [Option 2]: [Insight] We shared the Weave the other night. Now share what's on your mind.    Gale: [Failure] Tonight's not a night for sharing. Tonight's a night for regrets. With that I bid you an evening better than my own.  Gale: [Success] -> See below - Protag [Option 1]: [Persuasion] I’m the leader of this party. I need to know what’s going on. Gale: [Success]: Very well. Just now, I was trying to cast a spell I once cast with ease, but I failed. You see, this fire – there was a time that I could make it come alive. That it would take the shape of a dragon and roar in delight. There was a time I could silence a Beholder with a word, and lift a tower from its foundations with a flourish. There was a time I was all but one with the Weave. But no more – a mere shadow of the wizard I used to be. Why? Because I’ve lost. Gale [Failure] You're the leader and I will follow you where you go, not down the path of my own regrets. With that I bid you good night. - Protag [Option 2]: [Intimidation] You will tell me, and you’ll tell me now. Gale: [Failure] I said ‘please’, but that courtesy was a mere formality. What I meant was; you will let it rest. With that I bid you an evening better than my own.  Gale: [Success]: Very well. -> See above

Protag [Option 1]: I don’t understand. What is it that you’ve lost? Gale: I’ve lost… - Protag [Option 2]: Who are you? Gale: I am the man who came after – after having lost... - Protag [Option 3]: If this is meant to be suspenseful, I assure you it’s not. Gale: You don’t understand! I’ve lost… - Protag [Option 4]: It’s all right, you don’t have to tell me. Gale: Thank you. You’re a good friend. I want you to know that  - Protag [Option 5]: [Persuasion]: You can tell me. You can trust me. Gale [Failure]: Trust is not the issue. The issue is that the truth doesn’t matter. Secret or revealed, the outcome is the same.  Gale [Success]: I’ve lost Mystra. I sought to impress her personally. To turn the eye of my muse upon me. To win the favour of a goddess. But I failed, and all I invoked was death and dismissal. My death. Her dismissal. - Protag [Option 6]: [Insight] Go on. Every burden is easier to carry when shared. Gale [Failure]: I’m strong enough. I’ll carry on alone. With that I bid you an evening better than my own. (Die/Dice Roll Fail) Gale: [Sucess] An apt enough observation.  I've... lost... Mystra. I sought to impress her personally. - Protag [Cleric of Mystra]: I'm sorry. I cannot begin to understand being abandoned by the goddess. Gale: Thank you. You're a good friend. I often think of that moment we shared- - Protag [Cleric of Mystra]: When devotion is blind, the goddess loses sight of you. Rightly too. Gale: You pray to the goddess for every spell and every blessing. You devote your life to her – are we truly so different? Then again, if that is how you judge me, there’s little I can do to change your mind. But know that I have this ambition still. First to save myself, and after that, the licence to dream.

Protag [Option 1]: I’m sorry for you. Protag [Option 2]: I don't know what to make of what you've told me, but I sympathise. Gale: Thank you. You’re a good friend.  Gale: [Weave scene wasn't romantic] I want you to know that. I consider myself very lucky to have found you. -> Protag can initiate alternate romance route here -> See below - Gale: [Weave scene was romantic] I often think of that moment we shared together – one under the Weave. I hope you think about it too. / I'm glad to know you think about it too. [end] - Protag [Option 3]: Another fool pays for his arrogance. A tale as old as time. Gale: Arrogance? Ambition, rather. And ambition is a fine thing – until suddenly it no longer is. Then again, if that is how you judge me, there’s little I can do to change your mind. But know that I have this ambition still. First to save myself, and after that, the licence to dream. [end]

the loss scene also offered another way to initiate gale's romance:

Narrator: *You sense a moment of unspoken affection. You want to know where it may lead.*  Gale: I consider myself very lucky to have found you. Protag [Option 1]: I think perhaps we could be more than friends. Gale: Perhaps. - Protag [Option 2]: I consider myself lucky too Gale: Good. Goodnight. And thank you for your patient understanding. / And try not to think too poorly of me. A cat can look at a king. A wizard can look at a goddess.  - Protag [Option 3]: Don’t get carried away imagining feelings that aren’t there. Gale: I see. Say no more. Goodnight. And thank you for your patient understanding. - Protag [Option 4]: You are a good friend too, Gale. Gale: Hold on to that thought. I may just have to remind you before all is said and done. Goodnight. And thank you for your patient understanding. - Protag [Option 5]: Lets not get sentimental, shall we? Gale: Fair enough. Goodnight. And thank you for your patient understanding.

after the loss scene ended, the player-initiated dialogue had several options following it: you were able to initiate the romance on gale's perhaps, you could address the fact that he mentioned that he thinks about the weave scene with the player still, and lastly, you were able to ask how he can still cast if he had lost mystra's favour so.

if you picked the "I think perhaps we could be more than friends." option during the loss scene, you could talk about what exactly he meant with gale after by intiating a conversation with him again:

Protag: When I said we could be more than friends, you answered 'perhaps.' What does that really mean? Gale: If I recall correctly, the Waterdhavian Dictionary of the Common Tongue of Faerun defines it as an adverb that conveys the meaning of 'it may be that', or 'possibly'. Sorry, sometimes I can't help but being quite insufferable. Gale: In seriousness, I’m glad you asked that question. Gale: You see, I'm not a big believer in fate, but I do believe in serendipity. Life is a tempest of events that sometimes we brace against and sometimes we embrace. You are on such event, that soon, I would like to embrace.

you could also follow up with him on the mention of him thinking about the weave scene still:

Protag: You said you think about the moment we shared under the weave. Do you think about it often? Gale: Do you? - Protag [Option 1]: Yes. Gale: So do I. You see. I'm not a big believer in fate, but I do believe in serendipity. Life is a tempest of events that sometimes we brace against and sometimes embrace. You're one such event that one day soon perhaps I'd like to embrace.  - Protag [Option 2]: From time to time.  Gale: So do I. You see. I'm not a big believer in fate, but I do believe in serendipity. Life is a tempest of events that sometimes we brace against and sometimes embrace. You're one such event that one day soon perhaps I'd like to embrace.  - Protag [Option 3]: Not really. Gale: And yet you ask. I do, as a matter of fact.

the follow up for the loss scene would also include this dialogue:

Protag: There's one thing, I don't understand. If Mystra abandoned you, how can you still cast magic? Gale: The Weave is still here. All around us. Inside of us, too. As long as the goddess lives, magic is still a tangible thing for those who know how to touch. I've studied magic for many years and in as many ways, I'm still a more than capable wizard. Gale: It's just that I'm no longer able to perform those feats even archwizards would marvel at. To have one hand at the pulse of divinity. You have to remember that the Weave is a living thing. Both the embodiment and the extension of Mystra herself. Gale: She can give and she can take away. I'm afraid I'm still very much on her naughty list.

anyhow, this wraps the loss scene up.

overall, i'm extremely sad this was cut. i think with minor adjustments this scene would have worked not only to combat the scene disparity amongst the companions, but it also would have fleshed out gale's backstory and character even more!

i hope this was helpful to some of you!

coming up next:

-part 1: the three tadpole dreams -> completed -part 2: major cut scenes: the deer stew scene & the loss scene -> completed -part 3: minor cut scenes: abandoned temple of jergal, failed to save arabella, talking to the paladins of tyr and agreeing to go after karlach, edowin and the tadpole reveal, mayrina giving ethel's wand to her or breaking it, handing astarion over to the gur or defending him, reaching the druid grove, killing lae'zel, reaching the goblin camp & looking for halsin, killing the druids, priestess gut & the brand & the cult of the absolute, dror ragzlin and talking to the dead mind flayer, ogre couple, necromancy of thay, ethel, zhentarim chest, myconid colony -part 4: gale's condition & the way it was treated in early access

taglist: @chainsawmascara, @randomfanner, @tacogoats, @khajiit-necromancer, @gwinharper, @galesenchantedpanties, @swampfaerie, @ardently-queer, @nirraein, @gale-enjoyer, @xiv-wolfram, @kairoswouldnever, @a-psychopathic-dream, @toboldlydammitjim

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