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flowerandblood · 7 months ago

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The Fall from the Heavens (28)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: mention of masturbation, public dirty talk, sexual tension, smut, angst, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Even though he had expected nothing else, his wife's reaction completely devastated him anyway − her words cut through him like daggers, showing him his own face in the light of the truth.

What should I do now?

Divorce you?

Not speak to you for eight years?

He didn't know what he should answer.

The realisation that he was constantly searching for fault in her because he felt guilty himself, that he was accusing her of betrayal because he had betrayed her himself, caused him to no longer know who he was anymore. He felt so lost and heartbroken that he had simply burst out crying in front of her like a child scolded by a parent.

He just wanted her to forgive him.

When she told him what Alys had seen in her dream and informed him of her conditions, even though he was dying at the thought of spending even one more day in this fortress, he sat down at her oak desk the next morning to write a letter to his brother-king.

My King, our half-sister has agreed to our terms, however, she makes her own demands. I have decided, in order to alleviate the situation, to travel with my wife to Dragonstone, where we are currently staying. We want to try to convince them to change their minds − one order from you is enough for me to return to King's Landing. Your loyal brother

His niece was furious with him − he had never seen her like this before and preferred not to address her at all when she spoke to him knowing that he would only make matters worse. He hoped that his conciliatory attitude and the fact that he had fulfilled her wish would make her calm down.

The thought that he wasn't her prisoner didn't comfort him, because he felt like one anyway.

Wherever he went he might encounter someone he didn't feel like looking at, so he preferred to stay in her chamber and bear it somehow.

As soon as she had left her quarters he rose from his chair and began to walk around her room, looking at the various objects on the shelves and bookcases − he looked through the books she was reading, finding with satisfaction that most of them were also in his possession in King's Landing.

He spotted her embroideries in one of the drawers, including those he remembered well from his childhood, and smiled involuntarily at the thought, wondering if she had kept them for the sake of memories.

He shuddered as the door to the chamber opened suddenly and he slid the drawer back in, turning with a rapidly beating heart − Daemon stood with his hands folded behind him, sighing heavily.

"− come, nephew − we must discuss many important matters −" He said with a kind of boredom, as if what he was speaking of was a duty he had no desire to perform at all.

"− I will not go anywhere with you, uncle − I am quite comfortable here −" He said lowly, looking away, frustrated.

Why did he always feel like a little child in his presence?

Daemon chuckled at his question.

"− it wasn't a request − come, let's have a walk −" He encouraged him in a ferocious, mocking tone from which he felt rage and a clench in his stomach.

He knew he couldn't refuse.

Daemon led him out of the fortress through one of the side entrances − he checked a few times before the sound of the sea surrounded them that the dagger he always carried with him was strapped to his belt.

They stepped out onto a gigantic white beach seeming to stretch on endlessly to him, with only the water to their left and high rising rocks and mountains to their right.

They were completely alone.

His uncle finally stopped and turned to him, looking at him for a moment without a word.

"− why did you suggest you spend the night in Dragonstone? −"

He licked his lips, feeling his heart stop at his question.

"− that was her wish −"

"− don't fucking lie to me or I will pierce your skull with my sword −"

He looked at him in disbelief, his jaw clenched so tight he felt like it was going to burst, his fingers involuntarily tightening into fists.

Silence fell again, the sound of the waves around them, their hair and tunics blowing in the wind.

It seemed to him that his uncle's gaze was piercing him to the core.

"− Larys Strong had his own plans for you − I couldn't let that happen −" He muttered at last.

"− does she know about this? −" He asked coldly.

He swallowed hard at the thought that he was referring to his wife.

"− yes −"

"− did you tell her before or after we came here? −"

He lowered his gaze already knowing what he was leading up to, he felt like his whole body was quivering.

"− after −"

Daemon snorted in annoyance, shaking his head as he looked out at the sea stretching before them.

"− you fucking cunt − I was supposed to personally deal with his rats overdue in the Eyrie, but you ruined my plan − though surely that's good for you −" He confessed looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

He felt a powerful, cold shiver run along his back at the thought that he knew everything.

He knew that they were about to be murdered.

And Rheanyra?

Seeing that he couldn't force out the question that was pressing on his lips his uncle laughed out loud.

"− the rider of the world's greatest dragon since Balerion's passing is unable to get a word out − shame has taken away your speech? − where is your pride that you always boasted so much? −" He continued, provoking him to explode, his heart pounding like mad.

What should he do?

How should he behave?

"− you are exactly as I assumed − you are still a boy who has lost an eye and who is waiting for his betrothed to come to comfort him − you are like a stone, unable to move on − my daughter has sacrificed everything for you, and you stand before me like some fool −"

"− what do you want from me, uncle? −"

"− no − what do YOU want − are you able to name it in your head, or are you like a child in a fog without your mother? −" He asked in a raised voice, frustrated, making him feel a hot wave of humiliation flowing through his body.

"− I want her to be safe −"

"− what happened in King's Landing? −"

"− I −"

"− fucking speak − and you'd better say the truth −"

"− your spies in the Red Keep didn't report it to you? −" He hissed, his uncle taking a step towards him, looking him straight in the eye.

"− you're trying my patience −"

He pressed his lips together feeling his heart rise to his throat, cold sweat running down his back.

"− my mother gave her moon tea without my knowledge − she wanted to be able to pact with you and give her to Lord Arryn's son −" He said dispassionately feeling, however, that his voice trembled. Daemon looked at him wordlessly.

"− and what have you done to punish those who wronged my daughter, and your wife? −"

He looked at him feeling his whole body freeze.

"− what would you have done to her if she had been the one to fail your trust? − if she tried to fight for her freedom, if she stood up to you and threatened your mother? −" He asked, stabbing his words into him like daggers.

He didn't know the answers to these questions.

He never wanted to ask himself them.

"− I did everything I could − she is my mother − you would expect the same from your daughter yourself −"

"− and yet she was the one who came to beg her own mother to surrender her claim to the crown when yours was encouraging your brother to steal the throne that never belonged to him − gods, Viserys has taught you nothing, has he? − you see nothing but your mother's skirt to which you have always been clung −" He muttered with some kind of disgust from which he felt a cold, unpleasant shiver and discomfort in his stomach.

"− I regret − I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow − I did not, though it was my duty −"

He looked at him in disbelief, feeling with horror the burning under his eyelids. He laughed and shook his head, wishing he could somehow control what was happening to him − he hid his hands behind his back feeling how much they were trembling.

"− are you remorseful, uncle? − do you see that you yourself also contributed to the division of our family into two separate parts? −" He asked with mockery and regret in his voice feeling that he was weak.

What had happened in the last few days had completely destroyed him.

"− I want to hear the truth and I will ask for the last time − what do you want? −" His uncle asked with emphasis on the last sentence.

He shuddered, realising that deep down he knew what the answer was.

He always knew.

"− I wish it was all over − I wish I could take her to Essos, as I promised her − I am tired, uncle − I have been tired all my life − I only rest when she is by my side −"

Daemon looked at him for a long moment and let out a loud breath, looking out to sea. They stood like that, not speaking to each other.

"− is there anything else you have hidden from her? −" He asked coldly, and he felt a squeeze in his throat at the memory of the Witch of Harrenhal's words.

You will betray her at the moment she trusts you the most.

You will achieve victory, but she will never let you touch herself again.

You will put your child inside me, your bastard son, who will rule Harrenhal after our death.

He raised his eyes to his uncle and met his gaze, proud and distrustful, his heart pounding like mad in his chest.

"− I −"

"− speak −"

"− there is − there is a woman in Harrenhal, called by some a witch − she came to me last morning and −"

"− did you take her to your bed? −"

His voice stuck in his throat at his question, so he shook his head quickly, horrified.

"− no, but she said − she prophesied to me that this would happen − that − that I would put my child inside her −" He muttered, feeling with what difficulty those words left his mouth. Daemon raised his eyebrows in disbelief and rolled his eyes.

"− and? − if she said so, now there's nothing left for you to do but put your cock inside her? − don't make me laugh −" He sneered, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"− she can predict the future − I −"

"− are you listening to me, or have you not only gone blind but deaf? − if she told you that you would run away with her to Essos and beget twenty children with her would you believe her too? − she told you exactly what she wanted to happen − she hopes to still use you in the future by doing so, and you reflecting on her words are doing exactly what she wants − I don't know any man who would put his cock into a woman by accident or by fate − pull yourself together −" He said impatiently, causing a warm wave of embarrassment to surge through him.

He thought he really was a fool.

How could he have believed her with such ease?

Though he didn't want to admit it to himself, his words brought him relief.

"− do you have anything else to convey to me? − this is your last chance −" He asked coldly, and he shook his head.

"− very well − I'm glad we've got it behind us − you may leave −" He said dryly; he pressed his lips together at his words and simply walked away, swallowing his dignity and pride.

As he stepped into his wife's chamber he noticed her seated figure out of the corner of his eye, but he did not say a word to her − he felt humiliated and tired and did not feel like making conversation.

He also recognised that she certainly still hadn't forgiven him, so they might as well keep quiet.

He therefore sat down with one of her books by the fire, trying to concentrate on what he saw before him and not on his uncle's words.

I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow.

Though some part of him did not want to admit it, he knew that subconsciously he had been waiting for those words, for any praise or appreciation from him, the Rouge Prince himself, the greatest warrior and dragon rider he had seen in his lifetime.

So why did he feel so bad about what he had said to him?

You are still a boy who has lost an eye and who is waiting for his betrothed to come to comfort him.

My daughter has sacrificed everything for you, and you stand before me like some fool.

He swallowed hard, knowing that there was partly truth in his words.

For some reason though he wanted to, he couldn't completely free himself from the past and move on.

"− Jace kissed me − on the lips −"

He lifted his gaze to her from his book thinking he had overheard himself. He felt a wave of anger and disbelief surge through his body when he noticed in her gaze that she wasn't mocking him.

She meant it.

"− he did WHAT? −" He growled, getting up from his seat, throwing his book on the table and leaving immediately thinking he was going to kill this fucking bastard with his own hands.

When he finally walked into the right chamber he breathed heavily and grinned, feeling as if all the frustration, the things that had been happening to him after his conversation with his wife and uncle were going to find release at this very moment.

Jace stood up from his chair, pale at the sight of him, clearly knowing exactly what awaited him.

"− haven't you learned yet not to take what's not yours? − hm? −" He murmured teasingly, feeling the presence of his niece beside him, the scent of vanilla filling his lungs again.

"− Aemond −"

"− your sister when we were children told me that she never desired you as a man − she knew even then that you were a cunt −" He sneered, cocking his head to the side, resting his weight on his right leg, watching curiously as his nephew turned all red with embarrassment.

"− Aemond, that's enough −"

"− how dare you? − you are a guest under our roof − get out −" Baela growled, his smile widening even more at the sight of her, her lips tightening into a thin line.

He thought he would love to hit her in the face again before he remembered that she was a woman.

What a pity.

His wife appeared suddenly in front of him, looking at him warningly.

"− we are leaving −"

He felt like laughing at her words.

Her brothers were getting away with far too many things.

"− no − I'm speaking with my nephew −" He said sweetly, looking his nephew straight in the eye thinking with amusement that this time would be different.

"− we are leaving, uncle, or I swear I will never return with you to King's Landing −"

"− so I'll stay here with you − Jace as ruler of Dragonstone will surely be delighted to host us, won't he? − he seems to have a weakness for you, sweet wife −" He muttered in a voice filled with challenge and poison seeing that Baela looked at her betrothed in disbelief.

Always pretending to be so righteous, so wronged.

He was nothing more than a pathetic brat who was once again reaching for what didn't belong to him.

"− Jace, say something at last! −" Baela thundered, clearly wanting Jace to stop being a scared cunt, which unfortunately he was unable to do.

He could feel his own heart pounding fast, his hands clenched into fists, his breathing quick and deep.

He was ready to attack him, he was ready to rip him to shreds.

Some part of him wanted to do it.

A fucking would-be King.

You'll never sit on the throne − he thought with satisfaction − and in my wife's eyes you were never a man she could desire.

"− I made a mistake − I shouldn't have done it, forgive me − I −" He mumbled in horror as he looked at his niece with pleading eyes.

Did he really think that he would let him hide behind her skirt like a coward?

That he would allow him to escape the consequences of his foolishness again?

"− you made a mistake? − I seem to be able to understand the feeling − I have made a similar one many times, as well as others, even worse ones −" He hissed grabbing her cheeks, heard her draw in a loud breath, shocked, as his lips pressed against hers in a hot, aggressive kiss − she moaned quietly as his slick tongue forced its way deep into her throat with his low sigh of delight.

He pulled away and met her simultaneously terrified, enraged and thirsty gaze − she only mewled when he turned her with a confident tug with her back against him and pressed her figure against his chest, gripping her neck with one hand, the other sliding down her lower abdomen.

He involuntarily licked his lower lip when he felt her fingers tighten on his wrist trying to stop him from doing what he wanted to do, her mouth parted in disbelief.

"− so beautiful, isn't she, nephew? − I couldn't help myself either − I can't count how many times I took her − how many times I have filled her with my seed − right here −" He breathed out, not really understanding himself what he was actually doing, focusing more on her than on them as he dug his fingertips into her womanhood lying beneath the material of her gown.

Her head was tilted back, her thighs clenched, her lips struggling to hold back the moan from which his erection slapped impatiently against her buttocks in his breeches.

He thought he will fuck her with his fingers in front of his eyes.

"− u-uncle − stop −"

In fact, he had to stop when Daemon walked into the chamber − the ashamed, horrified expression on Jace's face who couldn't even look at them and the accusing look his betrothed turned towards him was reward enough for him.

He wanted to watch his world, everything he desired burn and fall apart in his hands.

He wanted him to know what it felt like.

He knew his wife enough to know that her rage was mixed halfway with the desire and tension he himself felt. He wanted to respect her request not to take her and break it at the same time, feeling that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so he did something that stopped halfway between both, coming with a sigh of relief on the material of her nightgown when he heard her moans of sweet fulfilment.

He wanted nothing more after this than to lock her in his arms and fall asleep.

"− let me embrace you −" He muttered.

"− no −" Her frustrated, trembling voice answered him.

He huffed loudly, heartbroken, at the same time understanding her and longing to take refuge again in the warmth that the closeness of her body gave him. In a gesture of desperation, he simply pressed his face against her neck, taking in her scent.

"− move away, uncle −"

"− I inhale the wonderful scent of vanilla after having experienced fulfilment with my wife −"

"− your wife does not wish for this −"

"− sleep −"

He heard her sigh heavily, annoyed, but said nothing more. When he finally felt she had fallen asleep, his hand slowly touched her waist and slid to other side, taking its place on her warm lower abdomen.

"− no −" He heard her quiet, unclear mumble, her body stirring in his embrace.

"− shhh − let me −" He whispered in her ear, his lips placing a soft, warm kiss on her cheek.

"− mhm −" She muttered, twisting towards him immersed in a deep sleep − he sighed heavily as her body involuntarily clung to his, her face sinking into the hollow of his neck.

He swallowed hard, feeling the squeeze in his heart and the tears under his eyelids that, one by one, began to run down his cheeks as his hands wove through her hair and the material of her nightgown at her back, pressing her close to his body.

He thought that for some reason during the nights he spent with her he was most vulnerable and weak, her presence, the warmth of her flesh, her closeness made him feel as if something was melting inside him, not allowing him to pretend that Daemon's words had not hurt him.

Despite repeating to himself that his uncle's words meant nothing to him, as a child he had looked up to him, dreaming of being like him − fearless, ironic, intelligent, confident, proud of his family and his heritage.

I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow.

He pressed his lips together at that thought, at his words, which cut into his heart like a sword, because although he had tried to find his pattern of masculinity in his father, in his older brother, in his grandfather, in Ser Criston, it was his uncle that his gaze had always followed, it was his uncle's reaction that he looked at when he and his father watched them duel.

He never heard a single warm word from his lips.

The fact that he was his mother's son had crossed him out in his eyes, and he had no intention of apologising for anything.

So what was he to do with his words?

That he did not know − nor did he know what purpose the conversation had served or why he had told him about the Witch of Harrenhal. He thought with shame that guilt and fear had crushed him so much that he had to get it off his chest, and he had chosen the worst person to do so.

What if he uses this against him?

Poison his daughter's thoughts with words that her husband feared that he would betray her in the future, beget a bastard child with another woman?

He felt a cold shudder run through his body at the thought, but for some reason he had a feeling that this would not happen.

She told you exactly what she wanted to happen.

She hopes to still use you in the future by doing so, and you reflecting on her words are doing exactly what she wants.

He was right.

This woman, whoever she was, was playing with him and his wife.

He thought she was hoping to frighten them both and lead them to lose trust in each other.

That this was perhaps also part of Larys' plan.

He had no intention of killing his wife.

He wanted her to do it herself.

That thought, that realisation flashed through his body like a flame, his fingers clamped down on her flesh as he swallowed hard, feeling some kind of indescribable relief, finding meaning in it at last.

They knew that if his wife disappeared, he would join the war.

He sighed quietly, thinking with surprising calmness in his soul, stroking his wife's soft, dark curls with his fingers, that he would cut off the heads of all the vipers plotting against her, one by one.

He intended to personally inform his brother what their grandfather and Lord Strong were planning to do behind his back.

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leclsrc · 2 years ago

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sweet pea ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, dad charles/pregnancy au, fluff!, humor, super slight angst

word count: 4.6k

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,�� he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?” “Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm.”

Or: you finally reap what you sow after fooling around with your best friend. The reaping in question is a kid.

notes... some nsfw allusions, nothing too bad. if pregnancy isnt ur thing this is all about it so.

auds here... i hated this for a long time so i thought id never post it hahahah but i will now bec i just redid some scenes and its okay in my eyes... also this is a bit overdue. i hope u like it everyone! :) title from this

It’s an hour before the race and you’re absent from your usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, you’re leaned against the wall of the tiny motorhome bathroom, silently digging your toes into your sandals. Charles knocks twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. He beams when he sees you, goes, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He offers a hand, but you let your eyes shut, refusing to take it. You fail to even make eye contact, holding up the plastic stick that’d been in your clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s an omen, a portent, a cursed thing, casting your best friend into silence.

It’s cold and sterile in the bathroom—a stark contrast to where other families might find out they’re pregnant for the first time. You imagine a lemon yellow room bathed in noon sunlight and a happy balding doctor going “It’s positive, mama!” You picture a white family SUV in the parking lot, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness.

Instead, you get: “Do you have COVI—oh.”

“Yeah.” You say, pursing your lips. You swallow. “Oh.”

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?”

“Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm,” you counter, lifting yourself from the wall and bumping past Charles on your way out and into his room. He follows, brows knitted together, muttering something French under his breath.

“By that logic, that’d mean you’re an alien now, too. See, your kinks have finally met their match.”

You turn, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He almost collides with you, his eyes trained determinedly on the positive pregnancy test in his hand. You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Seriously. Jokes? Right now?”

“I mean—”

“Whatever,” you say, waving him off. “Just go and drive. We can talk about this later.”

“I’ll dedicate the race to the little alien.” He giggles, mimicking a champagne spray, waving the invisible bottle back and forth toward your still-not-showing stomach. His accent switches to a measly English one when he goes, “Oh my Gawd! And there goes the alien Leclerc! Wins in first! From pole!”

“Get out. Or so help me God this baby is growing up without you.”

He ends up winning. (“Should I dedicate every race to the ali—” “Stop calling it that.”)

—

This is nothing but a final culmination of your very layered relationship with Charles. For years, you two had comfortably gone by the “best friends” label, with a hidden “with benefits” clause. You’d grown up together, separated only when you went to university in New York. Your re-arrival in Monaco, coupled with the both of you having grown older and more independent, marked the start of the sex.

It works like clockwork. To relieve stress, to celebrate, to cure boredom. At some point, both of you just inwardly admitted there was a certain weakness to it. A glass of wine, a stick of tobacco, and you’d give in to the temptation easily. Then, in the morning—sometimes in Monaco, other times in foreign countries where your body feels like it’s still three a.m.—you come to a mutual agreement to never do it again.

But you always do, laughing in between kisses, mumbling whispered nothings between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or against the wall, or—that one time—on the balcony.) And now there’s proof of it. Well, barely any yet, you realize, staring at yourself in the mirror of Charles’ hotel room. You turn and flop yourself onto the bed, but face-up. You inch yourself toward the headboard and lean against it in a half-seated position.

“I can’t believe I’m…” You sigh. Finally, the jokes fizzle. This is the real talk.

Charles burrows himself next to you, shirtless and in a stupid pair of boxers with red hearts all over them. You’d gotten them as a Valentine’s Day gag two years ago, but now you’re thinking of the future, of telling this kid their dad has a pair of heart-decorated boxers. Momentarily, and temptingly so, you weigh the options of telling Charles you were joking and running away before sunup.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks. He’d learned the phrase from some obscure American rom-com, if you recall correctly. He uses it constantly, and for many years, improperly.

“I’ll give you them for free,” you say, breathless with worry. “We’re having a kid.”

A hand places itself on your knee. You almost jerk away, but you relax. “What do you want to do?”

“With?” You ask, emptily. There’s so much to do. “The baby?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but also us.”

“We’re not dating,” you say, a bit sharper than intended.

“We could.” He pauses. “For its sake.” He pokes your abdomen.

“I don’t—” You inhale, trying to reorganize all your thoughts. “I don’t want people thinking we’re suddenly dating and engaged and happy just because I’m about to pop a Charles Jr. out. I mean, what are you going to do with your racing? With a kid on the way, how’s travel going to work? My job? My masters?”

“I think… I think you and I are lucky enough,” he says slowly, “to be able to weigh all these options without losing too much time or resources. I will support you no matter what, and you know that. And really, who cares if people think we ‘date’ because of the baby? You and I have been ‘dating’ since we were eleven.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until your laugh is mixed with a sob. You don’t know if you’re sad, pissed, overwhelmed, loved—or all four. “Okay? So… let’s both think about it. More you than me. And tomorrow, we can weigh this all over again. Let’s sleep on it. Remember? La nuit—”

“—porte conseil,” you finish tearily. “Okay.”

—

It’s two weeks later. Charles gets stuck in the paddock doing something or other for Sunday, so you’re left to your own devices in the parking lot. Five minutes of waiting turns to fifteen, then a half hour. That’s the catalyst for your mid-evening freakout—suddenly you’re thinking about all the times you and this weird thing inside you might be alone, left for work, by an athlete dad.

“Are you okay?” A voice asks when you’re heaving out another dry, panic-induced sigh. You turn, finding it familiar, and see Seb behind you. He may have been Charles’ teammate, but he’s a friend to you, too, and you find he’s always the most grounded in heated discussions.

“Seb,” you croak, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” Your voice breaks on the ine, and suddenly fat tears roll quietly down your face.

You tell him eventually, when he asks you again if you’re okay, making him the second person to know; still, the telling doesn’t get easier. You didn’t even tell Charles, you think. You merely shoved a Clearblue stick in his face and waited for the goofy reaction that would undoubtedly meet your ears.

“A baby,” he says softly. Happily. “Congratulations. This is a big step… but you don’t sound excited.”

“I mean,” you say in between waves of tears, “I am? I am. But—it happened so fast—we’re not even officially together—and Charles is—”

“Do I need to talk some sense into Charles?” Seb asks suddenly, concerned.

“No. He’s—he’s being great. Really supportive.” You wipe the tears and fresh ones come. “He’s happy. You know him. I think I’m just overwhelmed. I mean I’m the one who’s toting this baby around.”

“Take it one step at a time,” he muses. “See a doctor, work out non-race schedules with Mattia, get everything in order. If I know you, this baby will be in the best hands. And that’s not even counting Charles.” He pulls you in for a hug that lasts ages, one that says thank you and I love you better than words. You inhale, find the tears have stopped. You realize what comes after this—it’s telling everyone else. Lily, your best friend. Carlos. Charles’ family. Your family. The fans, oh God you’d forgotten about the fans. The social media announcements.

Charles strolls into the parking lot—runs, more like, with apologies spouting out of him, just two minutes after Seb leaves. He presses a delicate, apologetic kiss to your forehead, a hand on your stomach. “Hey,” he says. Then, to your abdomen, covered by a sweatshirt, “Hey there, alien.” You wonder what this will be like in two months. In seven. In nine.

—

You tell your families over lunch on a lucky off day. There is little surprise—just tears from both your moms and Arthur teasingly asking you to recount the details of conception. You’re in a sundress serving crostini when Pascale pulls you aside to the back of the yard.

She presses a kiss to your cheek, one of conviction and faith. “I always knew,” she says. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

—

The drivers all find out one way or another, news trickling through the grapevine like honey. You share it to Lily first, and of course she tells Alex. You tell Lewis, too, over spring rolls that he claims will power up the baby when it’s born. Charles tells Pierre, who tells Yuki, and Carlos, who tells Lando. You tell Mick, who hugs you and says, “Oh my god! I already knew, Seb told me. I kept wanting to say congratulations.”

It’s a matter of two weeks before everybody knows. You know because you’ve barely taken a step into the dimly lit Ferrari motorhome when you halt and bolt back outside, harboring yourself a few metres away at a safe distance. Charles, who had been walking beside you, arm looped around your waist, turns, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“No. Nuh-uh. It smells in there.”

He sniffs the darkness, fumbles for the light switch. “No it doesn’t.”

“It smells like”—you grit your teeth, trying to identify the stench—“cheese. And champagne.”

“Why would it smell like che—”

He bangs the light open and illuminates a surprise party. The entire grid starts cheering, having unheard the entire conversation. There’s a huge banner that says CONGRATULATIONS PARENTS, and on a makeshift table in the centre, an assortment of cake slices, cheese, and flutes of champagne. Charles laughs with delight at the surprise, and then turns to find you squatting on the ground, trying to quell your stomach.

“Give me five,” you say, waving him off.

He returns after ten to find you still trying to calm the waves of nausea. You hear his footsteps and heave yourself up, standing to face him. “I asked Esteban and Max to evacuate the place of cheese and champagne. It’s just coffee and cake now. I even got three fans going.”

“Desolée,” you say, miserable. He wraps two big arms around you, nestling his chin atop your head. “I feel like a high-maintenance monster.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not the monster. The alien is.”

“I told you to stop calling it that,” you say, shutting your eyes and leaning into his touch. “Before it catches on.”

“Okay. E.T.? Spock? Open to suggestions.” Hand in yours, he walks you gently to the party, arising loud cheers again. In between sips of hot water, he says, “How about Chewy?”

—

The sense of smell proves to be useful in endeavours elsewhere.

“You never clean your car,” you say, lying horizontal on the leather seat and picking bits of dirt off. “I can smell month old Cheetos.”

Charles watches you obsessively nitpick at the detailing. “Last time you looked like this, I gave you a baby.”

“One more word,” you warn sharply.

“But seriously, be careful. The alien might get stressed.”

You brace yourself for the stupid words that will indubitably follow.

“Don’t worry. If it falls out I’ll plop it in a race car and it’ll be the next Hamilton. Imagine how light it’ll be.”

There it is.

—

Your first trip to the doctor’s is interesting. Charles insists on wearing a wig because he’s so easily recognized in Monaco, so now you look like you’re conceiving a baby with Weird Al Yankovic.

The doctor wheels in a cart with a monitor and all the necessary equipment, and even if it suddenly feels all too real, Charles squeezes your hand and you’re calm again. “I’m back,” she says, sliding into a wheely chair beside you and gelling your stomach.

“Hi, Back,” Charles responds in a crude, twangy Texan accent. The dad humor starts early, you suppose.

You grit your teeth to try and excuse his embarrassing behavior, but suddenly the monitor clicks open and there it is. It looks like the ones in movies, print-outs from friends, but at the same time it doesn’t. It looks different. Special. Yours. You zero in on it, breathless. That’s yours. The doctor says a couple minor things—nothing worrisome—and when you turn to relay it to Charles in case he’d zoned out, you find his face splotchy.

“Are you crying?”

“That’s ours,” he says, dipping down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s mine and Charles’, not mine and Bob Ross’,” you say, but you pull him closer anyway.

You order two printouts. The week next, you discover that Charles snuck back in to order an extra eight and has mailed them out to friends and drivers. You find out because Kylian Mbappe messages you “Due in April? Make me godfather!” on Instagram.

—

Gradually, you fall into a pattern of being queasy constantly. You get nitpicky with meals, and not irrationally—Charles had fed you a spicy hotdog and you’d gone half a bite before hurling it, and your breakfast, into the nearest toilet. You find solace in your cravings—all of which happen to be the same everyday.

Chinese takeout from just about any restaurant ends up being your best friend. You somehow can’t stomach anything but that specific cuisine, much to your own surprise. You find new ways to combine them with each other. Rice paper wrappers with chow mein. Hotpot with fried rice. If you’re not eating Chinese, you reduce your appetite to crackers or hot tea to avoid becoming too nauseated.

It’s poetic almost, the way he sets out the food carefully, in the order you like them. He always presses a kiss to your forehead after.

Around this time, you develop a crazy sex drive, waking Charles up at numerous points of the night, begging into his neck for something, anything. You last an hour before you’re asking again. This proves especially difficult before races, where Charles gives in a bit too easily and Carlos has to knock on the door, going “You have to finish somewhere else too, Charles!”

—

You insist Charles hold off on telling the fans, for a few months. It goes okay until your outfits on the paddock evolve into the variety of “Charles’ hoodies” to hide the increasingly evident bloat of pregnancy, and nosy fans start speculating all over Twitter. That’s when he sits you down and gently tells you he thinks it’s time you both announce it.

You’re sitting beside him in his hotel room, after two calls with his bosses, trying to formulate the proper announcement. You download PicsArt to make it pretty and clean and formatted—because the poor guy was about to post a Notes app screenshot—and then it’s on the Internet.

“She’s truly MOTHER,” one fan comments. Despite yourself, you press the heart icon beside it. It’s your bit of comfort when you catch sight of the nastier comments under the post.

—

You’re ironically gifted an ancient 80s aerobic exercise DVD for mums by Lily and Alex. You’re sure it’s older than you. Charles, though, in his valiant effort to connect with you and Chewy, does the routine everyday. You wake up to the electronic synthpop and Charles doing booty squats in the living room.

The permed instructor smiles through the scratchy 80s quality and goes, “You are rocking it, momma!”

“You hear that?!” Charles pants. “I am rocking it!”

—

Your first parenting fight ends up being one over the baby’s name. Yeah. Of all things. You don’t know why you’re so worked up about it, considering you don’t even know the gender of the baby yet. You arrive in Monaco to mark the first of five off days and Charles makes some random, offhand joke about naming the baby Daryl, and you suddenly start rambling on and on about how it’s too ugly, even if you’d never thought about names before now.

“It’s not going to be Daryl. It won’t be Daryl,” Charles says, hands on your shoulders. You heave another sob. “Please stop crying. You never cry. I’m a bit freaked out.”

“It’s—just—that,” you hiccup, “I—don’t—want to name a—our—baby—Daryl.”

“Yeah, yep,” he says, soothingly. “I got you. It’s not going to be Daryl. Never. We don’t need to decide anything. You gonna calm down for me?”

“I can’t—stop—crying,” you snivel desperately, burying your face in your hands.

He presses a firm kiss to the corner of your quivering lips, and you tug him in for a real one. You calm down when you pull away, exhaling. You gaze at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Blame the alien,” you sniff.

He kisses your stomach, which shows signs of pregnancy more and more as the days pass. “Hear that?” He whispers into the skin. “She’s blaming you, Chewy.”

—

Your next trip to the doctor’s is with your appointed private physician, Dr. Davies. Two minutes before the doctor walks in, you make a serious and compelling order for Charles to remove the Weird Al wig, which he does—but stores in your bag, “just in case.” It’s also his opporunity to play teacher’s pet and showcase how involved he is in your pregnancy, which, judging by the amount of weird cultish pregnancy books he’s burned through, is very much so.

“It’s gonna be a boy,” you declare while you’re being gelled up. You’re past the point of denial and bloat, now showing way too obviously. “Mom’s intuition.”

“Well, all the books say it’s a girl,” he says proudly.

“Yeah, they also say drinking lemon juice while trying to conceive gives you a girl. I’m sure scientific accuracy was their greatest objective.”

“Girl.”

“Boy,” you say dismissively.

“Girl.”

“Boy.”

“Girl.” It’s not Charles this time, it’s the physician, with a small smile on his face.

You squeeze Charles’ hand so hard you’re half sure it’s chipped off and fallen to the tiled floor. You’re having a girl. Normally Charles would turn and make some petty statement about he’d been right, but—you’re having a girl. A pretty baby girl. You almost can’t believe it. He totally can’t, pressing kisses to your hair and face.

You let him buy pink paint later that day.

—

You predict it, but it comes—fights and squabbles over nothing at all.

First it’s about work, then housing, then his job, then the danger of his job. It’s petty, and usually you storm off in an emotional cloud of irrationality, brought down after a talk, a play-by-play, compromise, reassurance. It’s hard when you’re carrying around a human being, you want to say. Try being in my shoes.

“Can we talk?” Charles says, in the thick of another fight. You’re on the balcony of your flat, mulling over nothing at all. Your stomach is heavy, you’re always exhausted, you never feel pretty anymore even if Charles is always unfailing at telling you you are.

“Okay,” you murmur, turning. You’ve already developed a habit of placing your hands on your bump always.

He inhales. “I’m scared.”

This is a first. And you realize—in these six months of being pregnant, Charles has been your rock, but has never expressed much fear until now. He’s always been good. Great. Supportive. “Of what?”

“Of—becoming a dad.” He pauses, as if to weigh his words. “I don’t have… a blueprint anymore.”

It dawns on you what he’s talking about. You accept the hug when it comes, holding the nape of his neck. He isn’t crying, but is close to it. His voice is shaky when he continues, whispers against your ear. “What if I don’t know what to do?”

“Baby,” you say, weakly. You push him gently so he’s looking into your eyes. “If the way you’ve taken care of me the past how many months is any indication of how you’ll treat this alien, I know she’s in good hands. You’ve got so much of your dad in you. You’re caring, sweet, you even got a headstart on the dad jokes.” He laughs. “I want this. And the only reason I ever did was because I knew you’d be with me, being an amazing dad, and an even better…”

“Boyfriend,” he says. His eyes hold hesitance—but you quell it with a nod.

“Boyfriend,” you echo. “For now.”

—

The nursery looks like a nursery in February. It was a storage room in Charles’ flat that had really, at some point, become yours, too. Full of boxes and old suits and memories, it’d taken weeks to properly store everything and make way for the furniture. Charles, of course, insists on painting it himself, with the shade of pink he purchased especially for the room.

He hits his head twice and touches the wet paint. There’s a handprint embossed above the bassinet. (Yours is next to it, at his insistence.)

—

You’re a yoga ball by mid-March, having trouble sleeping and dealing with everything being swollen. Charles helps you through it all, turning the heating up and down every time you get even a bit scratchy with the temperature in the flat or motorhome. Your cravings also morph again at this point, into rigatoni that Charles cooked sometime over winter; he requests Ferrari add an induction stove to every race weekend motorhome that you can make it to so he can cook it at your beck and call.

The season begins. Every race is dedicated to Chewy, and every race is won.

—

It’s early morning in late March when Dr. Davies sends you an email with a one-liner that sounds firm enough to set you and Charles in place after two races that involve you being flown around.

Absolutely NO more air and long car travel for Mommy.

“Can we manage?” You mope, rereading the email, genuinely distressed as you watch your boyfriend pack for Australia. It’s a long haul flight, with only one stopover in Zurich, and you’re filled with anxiety. There isn’t a compromise—until you’re popping the baby out, Charles needs to try and score the title.

“You know I can always drop out of races,” he says softly. “That’s what reserve drivers are for.”

“It’s not the same,” you argue. “I’m just worried.”

“You’re not due ’til the 12th,” he assures you. “I’ll be back then, even if it means dropping a race.”

He leans down and kisses you softly, rubbing your shoulders and ankles. “I’ll be back before you know it. Get some sleep first, okay?” He repeats the sentiment to your stomach, adding a kiss and a bye bye Chewy. You drift off to a sorrowful sleep when he departs, a slow ache in your lower back blooming that feels just like many of the other slow aches lately.

You’re up after a half hour with discomfort. You suppose something is just up with your sleep position, and readjust yourself. The discomfort sharpens, then melts. You sigh with relief, a long whistley exhale, and sleep again.

Bliss lasts about three hours, then you’re up again, groaning. You’re not due for a prenatal yoga class until four in the afternoon, and your body isn’t used to being awake. Hell, it’s not used to being this pained. You shift once, twice, trying to sleep with fruitless and exhausting attempts. It takes a while, but in between shifting positions and trying to make yourself yawn, it registers.

“Chewy.” You groan, cupping your gigantic bump. “Seriously?”

—

The first person you call is Charles, naturally. He should be in Zurich, but maybe signal is spotty or something, because none of your texts or calls ping. So you move down the list to the person you know will be in Monaco and not off racing, like everybody you know is—and it just so happens to be Dr. Davies.

You always thought Charles would be nowhere but beside you when you went into labor. But you’re here clutching the straps of your overnight bag being driven to the hospital, exhale, inhale, try Charles, try Carlos. Exhale, inhale. Try Charles. Try Carlos. Your contractions don’t quell; they only grow in intensity and you wince the whole ride through.

“Looks like it’s going to be a fast labor,” Dr. Davies says when he’s done checking you in and making sure everything is in order. You nod, breathless and flushed. You’ve called your mum here and she’s on the way with Charles’ but—Charles is the issue.

“I will weld myself shut if it means I’m giving birth without the dad,” you beg. “Without Charles.”

Charles, who picks up after forty-five minutes of radio silence. He’s in the jet. Give him an hour. “I will pilot this plane myself if I have to. Don’t do anything—don’t make any decisions without me.”

“Too fucking late.” You say, wheezy with labor. “I’m putting N/A on the certificate.”

“You carry Chewy around for nine months and I don’t get to meet her first?” He asks, in a last-ditch effort to cheer you up. You tear up, splotchy and red all over.

“We can’t call her Chewy. We never discussed names. And oh God it can’t be Daryl,” you say, whimpers turning into half-sobs of overwhelm and yearning. You’re scared. You need Charles, who’s been with you for every week, every milestone, every kick, every rigatoni craving. But he’s not here. You have Dr. Davies, and in five minutes you’ll have your mum and Pascale, but they are not Charles. You breathe heavy into the phone.

“I love you,” you say finally. “Please, I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says gently. “I love you. I’ll be there, okay? Just—just wait for me.”

—

Lil 3s ago

does it hurt?

i know it does but i’m trying to make u feel better

love from houston. i will call you ASAP.

You 1s ago

yeah it hurts so bad

apparently they don’t do epidurals

fuck europe

—

In between quiet periods and intense ones, you finally reach your peak. A nurse takes one glance and nods and your bed is disengaged and wheeling around again. Pascale squeezes your left hand, your mum the other. “Wait!” You pant, voice spent, totally tired, flustered.

The nurses exchange a look. “Ma’am—”

“No, you don’t understand. The dad, my—the dad—he’s out—and I don’t.” You pause, the onset of a cry coming on. Pascale takes the lead, firm, asking for a few more moments of patience.

“I can’t do this,” you say hopelessly, throwing your flushed head back. “No. Not without Charles.”

“I’m here,” Charles says, bounding through the door. He’s in official Ferrari gear and his hair is disheveled and he's clearly been crying. Had Chewy not been wedging her way out, you would’ve kissed him right then. You feel nothing but love.

“You’re a sneaky fucker,” you say instead, and the rest is a blur.

—

It’s an hour before the race and Charles is absent from his usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, he’s leaned against the wall of the motorhome, silently digging his toes into his shoes. You knock twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. You beam when you see him. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

His two girls.

Julia stretches out a chubby hand, but he smiles teasingly, refusing to take it. He holds eye contact, holding up the ring that’d been in his clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s a symbol, a sign, a blessed thing, casting his girlfriend into silence.

It’s a bit dark—a stark contrast to where other guys might propose for the first time. He imagines a Caribbean beach bathed in sunset. He pictures a Jeep in the sand, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness. He figures if you don’t like this, he’ll pay for that.

Instead, he gets: “You’re a doofus—oh.”

“Yeah.” He says, pursing his lips. He swallows, gives you the biggest smile of his life. “Oh.”

It’s perfect.

#f1 #leclsrc1000 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader

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amiascv · 9 months ago

Text

"My greatest enemy, scoring a date!"

Alastor × F!Reader —

tags: enemies to lovers, no established relationship yet. <more platonic than romantic>

content warning: includes swearing, ooc alastor, ooc everyone really, your regular hazbin hotel content.

series?: <i think?>

START!

. . . "Y/N! Alastor! Please could you put off your bantering for one moment. I really, like, really need to focus and I just can't with all the noise right now!" Charlie raged at the two overlords standing behind her as she was busy planning her next course of action to get the Hazbin Hotel to attract more sinners.

"Of course, sweetie! I wouldn't dare imagine causing you no good!" Y/N, the Library Demon, babied her princess. But not out of pure love, Heav- or more fittingly, Hell no! It was out of spite against the Radio Demon beside her.

However, why were they fighting in the first place? You see...

"Our little princess seems to be quite the hardworker lately! Isn't she, Ali?" Sing-songed Y/N, admiring the heir to the throne of Hell as she researched and scoured all the books gave to her on how to attract more sinners towards the Hotel. (courtesy of her, the Library Demon, obviously!)

"She certainly is, N/N! At this rate she'll gain more knowledge and power than ever before! Power which I can guide..." Voiced out Alastor as static soon took over most of his vocal cords in excitement. Excitement which didn't go unnoticed by his dear overlord buddy.

"Aha... aha... Say that part one more time for me?" She threated which caught his amusement. Y/N had a lot of powers, but controlling her temper when it comes to her possessions? Nope, no, nuh uh! Not one of her traits, that's for sure! But Alastor? He definitely took advantage of this weakness of hers every single chance he got. Like now, actually!

"Hmm? I do believe I've made myself clear, sweetheart, having ear trouble? I know a good otolaryngologist around these parts if you're interested, my dear!" He teased. Y/N wasn't really this easy to be shoved and pushed around, but why could he do it like it's his one true purpose in life? It infuriated the Librarian even more. So much that she'd even attack the little shit right here and now.

She didn't even need Charlie's power, she just wanted it out of boredom. So why was she so affected?

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU RADIO DEMON!"

Hours past after she apologized to Charlie, and now she was busy taking off her steam at Rosie's side of town. Cannibal town!

"And then he just laughs it off?! He laughs at the sight of ME?!" She rants, demon horns coming out of her head and scaring off other sinners and hell-born alike trying to approach Rosie. Her listener only laughs in amusement at her friend's retelling. It was certainly amusing when she knew both sides to the story. It's like trying to solve a puzzle knowing the end would be a masterpiece to remember!

Her giggles die down as she soon replies, "Deary me, have you tried telling our old friend to stop? Maybe he could if you ask!" She almost choked at her statement. Ask one of the scariest overlords? To stop messing with her? Fuck no! Y/N was prideful of her capabilities, but not too ignorant enough to ask Alastor to just stop.

"If you wanted me to get killed that badly, love, then say so!"

"Well I know for certain you could get something off of asking him!"

"Like what?"

"Maybe... a deal, darling?"

"A deal with the cannibal with shits for brains?"

"Uh-huh! Maybe he's pushing you to your limits so you can have a one on one talk!" She convinces her even further. She does know him better than her... so maybe, it wouldn't hurt to try.

"... If I'm dead by tomorrow you know why," And with that, pages flew around you, enveloping you in their magic and transporting you back to the hotel. Meanwhile with Rosie...

"Alastor, dear, better not blow this thing sideways with her!" She calls out to the shadow hiding behind her. Making his entrance, his smile not faltering, he brushes off the dust he's collected from listening on the two delightful women's conversation.

"Oh don't you worry, my lovely! I wouldn't dream of wasting your opportunity given to me!"

"You better not."

#alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #radio demon #alastor the radio demon #alastor x you #x reader #x you #imagine #how do i tag this

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fafnir19 · 3 months ago

Text

The Disease

Leo and Ali had been close since childhood, an unlikely pair united by a shared love for adventure and a disdain for boredom. Their friendship thrived under the watchful eye of Leo's family's housekeeper, Chi Chi, who treated them like her own grandchildren. She would often cook their favorite meals and listen to their wild stories, offering a warm smile and words of wisdom when needed. As the final exams loomed, a tension hung in the air between the two friends.

"Leo, wait up!" Ali called out, hurrying to catch up with his friend as they left school for the day. It had been a while since they had spent any time together, what with the upcoming final exams occupying most of their time. "Hey, Ali! What's up? Need a break from studying?" Leo asked, turning to face his friend with a smile. "You read my mind. I need some air and a change of scenery. Let's grab some lunch at your place. I could use a home-cooked meal," Ali replied, running a hand through his hair. "Sounds good. Chi Chi always makes enough for an army, so there's definitely food for an extra mouth," Leo laughed, referring to his family's longtime housekeeper and cook. Leo, with his blonde fade and blue eyes, looked every bit the upper-class pupil, while Ali, despite his near-east heritage, looked like a handsome Italian. As they walked towards Leo's house, the scent of Chi Chi's famous sweet and sour pork wafted towards them. It used to be one of Ali's favorites, but today, he hesitated as they entered the kitchen.

Leo leaned back in his chair, a forkful of tender meat poised mid-air as he glanced at Ali. “You’re going to love this, right? Chi Chi really outdid herself today.” Ali shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing as he pushed the plate away. “No, thanks. I can’t eat that. It’s haram.” A pause fell over the room. Chi Chi’s face tightened with concern. “But Ali, I made it just for you! You used to love it.” Ali’s brow furrowed. “I can’t. It’s haram!” “Haram?” Leo echoed, puzzled. “You never cared about that stuff before.” Chi Chi, bustling in the background, paused and frowned. “You eat, Ali. You need strength for your exams.” “No, Chi Chi. I can’t. I just can’t.” Ali’s voice was strained, almost desperate. Leo dropped his fork, the clatter echoing in the suddenly tense air.

Chi Chi shook her head, her worry deepening as she turned back to the stove. “Let me get you something else, dear. Just a moment.” As she bustled away, Leo leaned closer, lowering his voice. “What’s really going on with you, Ali? You’ve been acting kind of… different.” Ali shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s just finals. I’m stressed. I went to the mosque for some peace.” “Mosque?” Leo’s eyebrows shot up. “Since when do you go there?” “It felt right, okay? My parents—” “Your parents?” Leo interrupted, his tone incredulous. “They’re not even that religious.” “Right, but it’s part of my culture. I just wanted to connect.” Ali’s voice was rising, frustration bubbling over. “Whatever, man. Just eat something.” Leo threw a piece of pork onto his own plate, trying to lighten the mood. Chi Chi returned with a steaming bowl of rice. “Here, Ali! This is good for you. Just rice, no meat.” Ali accepted it silently, too distracted to respond. After lunch, Ali left the house, his shoulders hunched as he walked away. Chi Chi watched him go, her expression a mixture of concern and sadness. "Chi Chi, what's wrong?" Leo asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're usually all smiles and warmth after one of your feasts." The older woman turned to him, her face etched with worry. "That boy, he is very, very ill." Leo's eyes widened in shock. "What do you mean? He looks fine to me." Chi Chi shook her head, her dark eyes solemn. "In China, we know this illness well. It is a mental illness, a delusion that takes hold of the mind and twists it. We call it 'Islam'." "Islam... a mental illness?" Leo echoed, his brow furrowed. "But it's a religion, Chi Chi." "In China, we have different beliefs," she said, her tone firm. "This illness is infectious, Leo. You must be careful and try to avoid him." Leo's heart sank as he considered her words. “Watch him closely. The illness is contagious,” Chi Chi warned, her eyes narrowing. “It changes them. They forget who they are.”

The following days blurred together, and Leo found himself increasingly worried about Ali. Each time they met, Ali seemed more distant, his promises scattering like autumn leaves in the wind. He often promised Leo he would join him for hockey practice or study together, only to cancel last minute. “I swear I’ll come to the hockey game next week,” Ali declared one afternoon, his brown eyes wide with fervor. “You said that last time,” Leo replied, crossing his arms. “You didn’t show up.” “I promise, Leo! This time I will,” Ali insisted, his voice rising slightly. “I just need to—” “Do you even remember the last time we played? You were supposed to be there!” Leo’s frustration bubbled over. “Why are you making promises you can’t keep?” Ali shrugged, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “It’s different this time,” Ali insisted, his voice rising. “Just trust me.” “Trust you? You’ve been lying to me!” Leo shot back, exasperated. Chi Chi, overhearing their argument, took Leo by the side after Ali has left wiped her hands on her apron, her expression hardening. “It is the illness. He believes he must promise everything and nothing at all. They lie even to their own ‘god’.” A small laugh escaped her lips, but it held no mirth. “Pretending to fast, but after sunset, they eat like the swine.” Leo frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. How can he think that’s okay?” “Perhaps he thinks Allah cannot see in the night,” Chi Chi chuckled, her laughter a stark contrast to the tension in the room. “Their Allah seems rather powerless if he can’t see in the dark, don’t you agree?” Chi Chi said, shaking her head. “It's sad, really.” Leo leaned back in his chair, the wooden legs creaking against the tiled floor. “I just don’t get it. He was my best friend. Now he’s… different.” “Watch yourself, Leo,” Chi Chi said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He is changing. It is not just in behavior but in appearance as well.”

In the weeks that followed, Leo watched helplessly as Ali transformed, his appearance shifting with each lie. The once-handsome boy now bore a beard, his eyes dull and lifeless. “Look at him!” Chi Chi remarked one afternoon, shaking her head. “The illness is taking hold.”

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the suburban streets as Leo and Ali walked home from hockey practice. Leo adjusted his grip on his stick, glancing sideways at his childhood friend. Ali’s brow was furrowed, a depth of worry etched into his features that Leo hadn’t seen in years. “Hey, Ali, you okay?” Leo asked, shifting the weight of his hockey gear to his other shoulder. “I’ve been thinking,” Ali said, his voice tight. “You should come with me to the mosque this weekend. It’s... it’s important.” “Really?” Leo raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You’ve never mentioned it before.” Ali’s eyes sparkled with an intensity that felt foreign. “It’s a place of peace, Leo. You’ll see. You should hear the teachings. They can help you.” Leo hesitated, the unease creeping into his chest. “I don’t know, man. I mean, I’m not—” “Just come with me. It’s enlightening.” Ali’s tone was almost pleading, but there was an edge to it that made Leo take a step back. “Enlightening?” Leo raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his voice. “What’s enlightening about bowing down five times a day in the dust like a subdued slave?” Ali’s face flushed, and he gestured animatedly. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s not just about that. It’s about community, faith. You’d feel it if you just tried.” “Why are you so passionate about this all of a sudden?” Leo challenged, his voice rising slightly. “You used to be all about hockey and school!” Ali shrugged, a shadow crossing his face. “Things change. People change. You’ll understand if you just give it a chance.” Leo felt the weight of a thousand unspoken words hang in the air. “I just don’t want to lose you, Ali.” Ali’s laughter rang out, but it felt hollow. “You won’t lose me. You’ll find me.” As they reached Leo’s house, Ali paused at the gate. “You’ll come, right? I want to show you something.” “Let me think about it,” Leo replied, trying to keep his voice steady. Ali’s expression shifted, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “You can’t just think about it. This is a decision you need to make now.” Leo took a breath, the tension thick between them. “I’ll think about it,” he repeated, stepping back. “I need to go inside.”

“Fine,” Ali snapped, spinning around and storming off. His footsteps echoed off the pavement, a thud that resonated in Leo’s chest. Inside the house, Chi Chi was bustling in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour. “Ah, Leo! You’re home! Would you like some of my sweet and sour pork?” Leo’s stomach churned at the thought. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Chi Chi’s brow furrowed. “You look troubled. What is it, my boy?” “It’s Ali. He’s been acting weird. He wants me to go to the mosque with him, and I don’t know…” He trailed off, unsure how to express his concern. “Ah, Ali,” Chi Chi sighed, her hands pausing mid-stir. “In China, we know there are mental illnesses that can spread. You must be careful. If you are near him, you may catch this illness too.” Leo swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling in his chest. He had always trusted Chi Chi, her wisdom and experience serving as a guiding light in his life. “What should I do?” “Distance yourself. Observe. If he is ill, you must protect yourself.” Leo felt a chill run down his spine. “But he’s my friend!” “Friends can lead us astray,” Chi Chi said, her voice firm.

Days turned into weeks, and Ali’s transformation became more pronounced. Leo watched in disbelief as his friend’s features changed—his nose grew more pronounced, his eyes dulled, and his skin got a dirty tan. Gone was the handsome boy akin an Italian, replaced by the stereotypical ugly Arab. The laughter that once filled their conversations had turned to fervent promises of a better life following a superstition Leo scarcely understood.

It was in the summer holidays after his graduation from school as Leo strolled through the bustling city center, his hands filled with shopping bags from their latest excursion. Chi Chi walked beside him, her eyes scanning the crowd with a watchful gaze and admiring the fresh fruits on the market.

“Chi Chi, look!” Leo pointed toward a figure leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. It was Ali, his childhood friend, a shadow of the boy Leo once knew. Clad in a track suit, Ali’s face had morphed into something almost unrecognizable. His nose was now prominent and hook-like, his eyes dull and flickering with a strange light. “Let’s go say hi,” Leo said, a hopeful lilt in his voice. “Wait.” Chi Chi grasped his arm firmly. “Don’t. It’s too late. He is a Talahon now.” “What’s a Talahon?” Leo’s brow furrowed in confusion. “That’s what they call themselves. A Talahon is usually a dumb and aggressive Islamic boy, who most certainly has a knife and is dangerous! They are so dumb that many of them couldn’t even swim.” Chi Chi's voice was low but firm, a warning mingled with sadness. “That can’t be true,” Leo protested, shaking his head. “Ali was never like that.” “Look at him.” Chi Chi gestured toward Ali, who was now laughing raucously with a group of similarly dressed boys, their boisterous energy a stark contrast to the respect Leo had once known in Ali. “He thinks he’s superior now, living off the work of others.”

Some months later, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows on the busy street as Leo adjusted the strap of his backpack. He was just about to turn the corner when he spotted a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost. Ali. The last time Leo had seen him, they barely exchanged words. The distance between them had stretched like a rubber band, taut and unyielding. “Leo!” Ali called out, his voice dripping with a forced enthusiasm. “Hey, Ali,” Leo replied, trying to match his tone but failing. He could see Ali’s fuzzy beard glinting in the fading sunlight, and the once-handsome features were now marred by an unsettling transformation. “Where are you off to?” Ali asked, his eyes glinting with something Leo couldn’t quite place. “Just getting ready to leave for Israel tomorrow. Semester abroad,” Leo said, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Ah, the land of the oppressors, huh?” Ali laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Ali, that’s—” Leo hesitated, searching for the right words. “That’s not how it is.” “Isn’t it?” Ali stepped forward, his tone more aggressive.

“What are you doing out here?” Leo asked, trying to mask his discomfort. “Living the blessed life,” Ali replied, puffing out his chest. “While you’re off playing in the sand, I’m thriving. The white folks work for me now, like slaves, and Allah is on my side.” Leo’s heart sank. “That’s not true, Ali. You’re just—” “Just what? Superior?” Ali interrupted, his eyes gleaming with a strange fervor. “I’m living on my terms now. You’re the one who’s leaving. Who’s really winning here?” Leo clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You’re not winning if you’re living off welfare. That’s not a victory, Ali.” A mocking grin spread across Ali’s face. “You’ll see. Once you’re back, I’ll have my empire built.” “Good luck with that,” Leo replied, turning to leave. “You think you’re better than me?” Ali shouted after him, but Leo just shook his head, the distance between them now feeling insurmountable.

Leo, back from his semester abroad, leaned back in his chair, the warm afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window of his parental home, casting a golden hue over the newspaper spread out before him. He remembered the lingering excitement of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem — the vibrant nightlife, the laughter of friends, the music that pulsed through the streets. *What a life,*

he thought, flipping through the pages until a headline caught his eye. “Local tragedy: Young man drowns in river,” he read aloud, his brow furrowing. “They say the ambulance crew was attacked by a crowd of young men.” Chi Chi, busy folding fresh linens nearby, paused. “Oh, Leo, let me see that.” Her voice was soft, but the urgency in her tone made him turn the paper towards her. She glanced at the article, her expression shifting to one of sorrow. “The one who drowned was Ali,” she murmured, shaking her head. “He has become a dumb Talahon completely and unlearned how to swim.”

Leo’s stomach twisted. “What? No… it can’t be.” He stared at the headline again as if willing it to change. Chi Chi placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Leo, sometimes the ones we care for the most slip away. It is better for him now. At least, Ali doesn’t need to suffer under his mental illness anymore!” “Better?” Leo echoed, a bitter taste forming in his mouth. “He drowned, Chi Chi! He’s gone.” “Better than living in that state,” she insisted, her voice steady. “You must remember him as he was. Not as he became.” Leo nodded, tears brimming in his blue eyes. Chi Chi watched him, her expression softening. “You can light a candle for him, Leo. Every year at Christmas when the peace light is brought from Bethlehem, you can remember him. Hope he finds peace.” “Yeah,” he murmured, lost in thought. “I’ll do that. I’ll stand it on his grave.”

Tonight, he whispered a silent prayer, wishing Ali didn’t have to stay in hell for long despite his sins. Days turned into weeks, and as Leo resumed his studies, Chi Chi often walked through the city, her shopping bags swinging at her sides. Each time she spotted women adorned in headscarves, her heart ached. “Poor ill beings,” she would think, shaking her head. “Why doesn’t anyone care about them?”

#male tf #male transformation #personality change #arabization #islam is cancer #talahon #dumbification #arab superiority

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lady-phasma · 7 months ago

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18+ MDNI

Targaryen bloodline ask ✧︎ His general appeal ✧︎ Short Alys ask ✧︎ Book Aemond ✧︎ Really long ask about PTSD ✧︎ His sexuality (written Jan 2023) ✧︎ Ticklish headcanon ask ✧︎ Tie-in ask about c*ckwarming fic

Anon ask about his depiction in the series as "grey" character

Breeding k!nk ✧︎ Sex scenes opinion ask ✧︎ His biggest fears

His love interests ask ✧︎ Episode 4 ask - did he spare Rhaenyra?

Another Ep 4 ask ✧︎ Random hair ask ✧︎ Short hair ask ✧︎ And another

Ridiculous boredom ask ✧︎ Age ask ✧︎ Rhea Royce ask

Season 2 ask ✧︎ Dettles ask ✧︎ Petty Daemon ✧︎ Age ask (very short) ✧︎ Anons are interesting ✧︎ The same anon ✧︎ They chilled out a little but it still makes me laugh ✧︎ What is not to like? ask

Rhaenyra, Alicent, and Helaena after the cut

Copy of other characters ask ✧︎ Stages of Love ask ✧︎ I need you Uncle ask ✧︎ Would she have been happier with Harwin ask ✧︎ General marriage ask

Aromantic ask ✧︎ General opinion ask

Marriage to Jace ask ✧︎ Aemond's view of her "seer abilities" ask

I love it when anons want to learn! House Velaryon dragon ask

Bonus: Contextual Formalism as Film Theory

obviously I really like asks

Main masterlist

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skele-bunny · 3 months ago

Note

I've escaped containment again

Murder ghoul rainy pretty please? /Silly

By The Water. (CW) Rain/Swiss

CW - Death, Light Gore, Gore in Genitals, Vagina Dentata (Teeth Vagina)

Tags: Murder Ghouls, Sexual Content, Seduction for Death, Mute!Rain, Trans!Rain, Tentacle Dick, Rain has weird anatomy

Characters: Rain, Random Named Sibling of Sin, Swiss

(Divider by @ wrathofrats !)

When you have nothing better to do, the first thing the body tends to do is wander. Sibling Ali wasn't spared from that boredom. Looking down as they kicked a rock along the gravel path leading to the gardens, anger still festered from their previous punishment from earlier. Ignoring a summons led to detention, the sixth time this week for them. Ali's feet led them to their own accord, hands stuffed into their pockets and trying to ease themselves.

The path led three ways once exiting the garden. The graveyard, the forest, or the lake; Ali going to the lake as the kicking of rocks had suddenly become more interesting when water was involved. Leaning down, Ali had begun to skip rocks near the shoreline, no thoughts playing in their mind as they opted for their distraction. About the sixth rock in, Ali's attention had diverted as something on the other side surfaced, but only for a brief moment before dipping down again.

Curiosity had gotten the best of them, slowly walking around. It wasn't uncommon for water ghouls to be found lurking underneath, if anything, it was recommended to leave the moment one was spotted. Advised to never enter alone unless other ghouls or siblings were present as they were listed as silent killers. As Ali finally got to the other dock, that same flashed resurfaced fully to the wood above, a hand combing through dark hair. Ali was breathless as they admired fins down the ghouls back that practically reflected the light into their eyes. Their foot scraped the gravel again, making the ghoul to turn around instantly before covering their unmasked face.

"A-Ah! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to... Ya know... Walk over to you while you were— Uhm..." Ali trailed off, starting to slowly walk backwards only to stop as the ghoul slowly turned around again.

Hands still covered their face but an eye, full of confusion. This sibling wasn't... Scared? Ali got the question quickly, now rubbing their wrist with nervousness.

"No, I don't mind... If anything, I think it's stupid they make you all be masked twenty-four-seven." They shrugged. "Besides you're swimming so it wouldn't make sense to wear one."

They watched with a soft blush as the ghoul slowly lowered their hands, giving a small smile before turning fully. Their blush had quickly deepened and spread, staring at the ghoul presented before them. Their face was rounded yet still sharp, black and wavy hair reaching their shoulders, white scales littered underneath soft blue eyes that seemed to speak despite their lips never parting. Curious, just as much as Ali was.

The ghoul turned their shoulders, Ali clutching their pants leg tightly as the water ghoul's perked breasts came into view. They had sat in a way to purposely extenuate their chest, tail still in the water that swayed back and forth. Angelic was the only thing Ali could think to describe it.

A tap to the dock got Ali to look, seeing the ghoul patting the spot next to them. An invitation.

Once more, Ali's feet moved on their own accord, slowly taking off their shoes and socks once they got near—sitting on the edge and letting their feet graze the water below. The ghoul purred, smile still soft as they looked over the human with just as much admiration Ali had. They let out a small roll of their tongue, commonly known as a 'trill' Ali had been taught it was called.

"Sorry, I just..." They swallowed hard. "You're really pretty... I'm normally more put-together than this. I've never seen one of you beneath the masks before."

Shoulders bouncing, the ghoul began to silently laugh, and in return their chest bounced which caused Ali's eyes to flicker down before returning back up. The ghoul leaned over some, hand lifting to slowly caress down Ali's face, claw delicate as it tapped at a mole.

With their hand fully cupping Ali's cheek, they held eye contact with shaking breaths. They stared at one another before a gentle pull began, Ali leaning over until their breaths mixed and a gap was closed. Now, Ali knew ghouls were sexual creatures and it was perfectly fine to consummate with them, but it was still their first time even being alone with one. They pulled back, covering their lips and giggling nervously.

Once again there was that smile, Ali hesitantly giving one back before feeling a different type of pull—internal—to lean forwards again but not kiss. Just barely grazing. The ghoul was pressed against their arm, eyes going down to their chest again.

Ali admired what sat next to them, breasts moving in time with breathing, a belly button piercing just before skin turned to scales. There was even a small slit that opened some, a single drop of slick making it's way out and over the ghoul's side. Ali watched as their hand was grabbed and placed delicately on the slit, the ghoul making a rubbing motion before letting go—the sibling still making the motion and looking with awe as the slit opened more and their fingers sank inside.

Their other hand was grabbed and moved to the closest perked breast, groping as if it was second nature. The ghoul leaned into view again and their lips became intertwined, Ali working both their hands in almost a sync with their mouth. They could feel the ghoul's hands touch their waist, body shivering and slick protruding more from their slit.

Was this how water ghouls mated? A slit in their tails? Ali curled their fingers up and watched the ghoul tremble more, hands gripping tighter as their hips twitched upwards.

Tongue pushing in, Ali opened their mouth for the water they still didn't have the name of, feeling them laying down and Ali following—legs going over the ghoul's waist as a hand went down their pants as well. Wet fingers went over equally wet folds, Ali trembling beneath their touch and starting to rock their own hips downwards. The hand on their waist tightening as their tail hit against the water, showing their ever increasing excitement.

Circling Ali's twitching nub, the ghoul let out another trill as their tongue retracted, breathing heavier before lifting their head to kiss again. Ali quickened their fingers in the ghoul's slit, watching and feeling them become more slick and twitch further up. This was serenity and everything Ali could ever think of as the ghoul moved from their mouth to kiss down their neck. For a moment, Ali had wanted to laugh at the advisories.

Wanted to.

As the ghoul got to their jugular and trilled louder as they orgasmed, teeth had sank in immediately, and before Ali could even make a noise their bodies had rolled into the water right next to them. From above, clothes could be seen drifting to the surface along with red liquid staining against soft blue of the water.

It was only two hours since Rain had left out, Swiss waving over the couch as they heard the den door close and wet footsteps follow. The multi hummed, turning from his video game as Rain leaned over the side for a kiss. Instantly, Swiss' eyes contracted to slits, pulling back after a second to whistle.

"Well hello to you, too. Giving poor, little, helpless me some leftovers like a baby bird?" He teased, quickly glancing to pause his game before watching Rain come around the couch to sit on his lap.

His white button up was soaked, showing his chest and even a bruise forming on his stomach. He brought his hands up, "Maybe. Beelzebub knows you can't fish to save your life."

"Ohh, you're so mean to me!" Swiss laughed, leaning forwards for another kiss.

Rain purred, bringing his claws up to gently comb through Swiss' afro, sighing as his mouth went to his neck to lick in his gills. He held Swiss there as his body welcomed the true pleasure rather than the fake he had been giving all day.

"Bet they didn't touch you right, did they baby?" The multi mumbled between his sucks, hands reaching under to grope Rain's ass.

A groan came from the water, letting Swiss pull back so they could sign again—frustration showing.

"Out of all three of them, not one got my clit out. That's how terrible they are."

Swiss flopped the wet ghoul onto the couch, not caring as Mountain would whine at the soaked cushions since Rain hadn't dried off. "My poor princess... Gotta fix that, yeah?"

Rain nodded eagerly, letting Swiss unbutton his shorts and pull down, whistling again and starting to laugh. Besides being commando, Rain's teeth had made itself known while still closed tightly but a finger poked out, making him hum as he touched over the exposed bone. Swiss gently scratched at Rain's taint and watched the teeth slowly open, grabbing the finger out—admiring the pink nail polish he'd recommend to Sunshine later—and putting it in his own mouth. Rain rolled his eyes but face still flushed in embarrassment as he hadn't even noticed the part still inside him.

Once the teeth had completely covered back in, Swiss spread Rain's fold with his thumb, dragging up and rubbing at another tiny hole.

"See," Swiss adjusted the finger in his mouth before biting down to break the bone, talking with his mouth full. "They can't even get your clit out... But I can get our lovely lady out."

As if simply being mentioned was a summon, Rain's tentacle lifted out of the hole, wrapping around Swiss' hand and sucking on his palm. The multi looked up to see Rain's head tilted back, trying to catch his breath as the relief he desperately needed filled had finally started. Swiss stroked his tentacle, leaning down to suck at a nipple poking out from the shirt, feeling Rain's legs go around his hips and pull him close.

Popping up once more before he delved back down, Swiss groaned. "Don't you worry. I've got you, princess. Gonna put em' all to shame for you."

A loud trill came from the couch as Swiss squeezed his hand and closed his teeth around Rain's nipple.

#the band ghost #ghost band #rabrev writing #nsfwriting rambles #cw gore #cw death #rain ghoul #swiss ghoul #no beta we die like nihil

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translucent-at-best · 6 months ago

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Work boredom

#me #black tumblr #black women #locs #women with locs #SoundCloud #songs

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microcosme11 · 6 months ago

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The Emperor might pick up the book you're reading and throw it in the fire

[Translation by google and me]

At the Tuileries, in each room of the apartments there were valets and waiters. Among the latter were young people who had been at school. These young men, to pass the time and distract themselves from the boredom of hanging around the salon, amused themselves by reading. It sometimes happened that, when they least expected it, the Emperor appeared. The book was immediately put aside, but sometimes it was forgotten on an armchair or another piece of furniture. If the book fell under the eyes of the Emperor, he would take it and leaf through it. If it was a good book, he would put it back on the piece of furniture where he had found it, but if it was bad, he would show strong dissatisfaction that someone had permitted himself to read such books in his domicile. I don't know whether he didn't throw them into the fire. He didn't want to see anything in his apartments that would hurt anyone's eyes. So these young people were careful not to leave their books lying around, especially those that were contrary to good morals.

Souvenirs du mameluck Ali (Louise-Étienne Saint Denis) sur l'empereur Napoléon by Louis-Etienne Saint-Denis

#Mameluke Ali #memoirs #Napoleon liked throwing books into the fire #life at les Tuileries #he would fling books out of a carriage window imagine finding a book on the ground

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marytoppins · 2 years ago

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All of the book owners (so far) are the fictional authors of fictional fables and stories.

Mother Goose collection has Cinderella, Master cat or Puss in Boots, the sleeping beauty in the wood, little red riding hood, the fairy (all written for Louis the XIV in the 1690’s appx… the Grimm brothers are more relevant retelling sod the stories for an 1800’s Germany

Scherezade from 1001 Arabian nights started as one thousand nights and evolved to what is is now known as titular and story content wise. Having the ebony horse, the thief and the merchant, the adventures of Sinbad the sailor, and Aladdin and the lamp.

An interesting tidbit if the most famous stories from the collection (Aladdin and the Genie, Sinbad the sailor and Ali baba and the 40 thieves) they were either independent and added in later editions or added for the French publication in the 1830’s

And Aesops fables are from Ancient Greece and contain the basis for all fairy tales and fables such as the tortoise and the hare, the boy who cried wolf, the lion and the mouse, and others.

All of these story tellers also share things in common, all of them are either historically (Aesop) or designed to be (Mother Goose and Scherezade) people who are not wealthy, do not hold a position of power but wants to help the future.

Aesop was a Greek Slave who wanted to document the oral stories being told amongst the common folk and to also make commentary on the politics happening as well. With the commentary being seen as moral lessons for the children to grow and learn with.

Scherezade is the extremely learnéd daughter of the Vizier who agreed to me the next bride for the king to stop him from killing all the virgin wives he had. She constantly gets him to postpone her execution with the fables and changes his mind so he doesn’t assume all women will cheat immediately after sleeping with him. Giving the reader an idea of what knowledge can do.

Mother Goose is supposed to be a village woman who met a goose who laid golden eggs for her and eventually spun tales for the children of the village, entertaining and imparting lessons to them.

They all have some aspect of their stories that undermines their influence on change as well. For Aesop is is his state of slavery, for Scherezade it is volunteering to try and avoid death as long as humanly possible, and for Mother Goose it is the witch connotations that came about.

All of these coincidences and similarity paints a beautiful picture of humanity and imparting knowledge to the youth reading them but to have them all be relevant? WHY BRENNAN LEE MULLIGAN! WHY?!?!?!?!?!!?! WHY ARE ALL OF THESE SIMILARITIES APPARANT?!?!!? WHAT IS THE REASON?!?!!? WHAT IS THE IMPORTANCE?!?!!?

(Hi I am a Double Major in Psychology and History currently on a national scholarship research program, I just did a research paper on how popular media in each time reflects the politics of the time, meaning I did a LOT of digging into 1001 Arabian nights in terms of Orientalism, Mother Goose fables for the return of theatre (because of pantomime and an evolving comedia del arte) and Aesop was recent boredom research. Please message with questions if present!)

#dimension 20 #neverafter #dimension 20 neverafter #aesops fables #scheherazade #mother goose #mother timothy goose #brennan lee mulligan #ally beardsley #fairy tale #fables

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asimp4bee · 9 months ago

Note

🥴

We all know you simp for Bee but are there any other bots you simp for?

🥴 - Do you simp for any robots? | Ask Game

Not you calling me out for just simping on Bee 😭 /j

But yes! I do simp for other bots than just him. And those bots mainly would be:

-Megatron / MTMTE,LL, Earthspark

-Grimlock / TF:RiD2015, Earthspark

-Ultra Magnus / MTMTE,LL,TFP

-Arcee / TFP, Earthspark

-Elita 1 / Earthspark

-Rodimus Prime/Hot Rod / G1, MTMTE, LL

-Optimus Prime / TFP, RoTB, Bayverse

Anndd the list goes on lol

#maccadam #maccadams #transformers #ask game #ali's boredom

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lemonhemlock · 1 month ago

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the fact that as of right now, Alys’ role in the story is to be Daemon’s hype man 😭 I almost can’t get past it. The sanitization of Daemon as a character eats up both her and Helaena, because they have to function as beacons to prove Daemon is on the right path in supporting the right ruler. Which now means that like so many other characters, it is very unclear what Alys does next without him. How do you do her relationship with Aemond when she has spent a season fixing Daemon into a better person who understands the part he has to play (in ultimately killing Aemond???) You can repeat the visions and have them make him worse, but I almost don’t believe the show cares enough about Aemond to actually do that. It feels more likely she’s going to be blatantly playing him the entire time, which is the most boring option they could go with. A shame!

I really, really liked the Harrenhal sequences, because I thought its purpose was to be an interesting character study into what makes Daemon tick. But the ending felt so flat, ultimately pointless and very much disruptive to future plot points?

Daemon had a very fatalistic approach to his death in the books. The breakdown of his relationship with Rhaenyra was very much brought about by his own boredom / disillusionment with her, by his lack of conviction in her cause or even by disappointment or shock that she should overreact to Nettles in such a way. When he left to fight Aemond, he felt that there was not much else left for him. Which, again, betrays a very self-centered view, as he still had two daughters and a son left to raise, but that's Daemon for you. I think it's fair to say that he must have felt that taking Aemond and Vhagar out would prove advantageous to his remaining son, at the very least.

But, in any case, he was in a complicated state of mind that could have been interesting to explore on screen and one that was still true to the core of his character. Daemon is a trickster! He is never fully in or fully our of anything. He is unpredictable and considers himself the master of his own destiny. He is the last character to acquiesce to some notion of predestination. He is a schemer to the core and, while I do think he loved Rhaenyra in his own way, his marriage to her always retained a strategic element to it.

Having him unquestionably bend the knee to her is so bizarre. Why? That's his arc in S2? It also undoubtedly turns him heroic, because he has relinquished his egocentric pursuits (wanting the Iron Throne for himself) in favour of fulfilling a prophecy that basically gives indications on how to save the world in the future. So, now, fighting the greens is not a personal, petty vendetta, it's literally ordained by the gods, because otherwise the entire Westeros is doomed if his bloodline doesn't continue. For real? 😩

And, coming back to Alys and Helaena, of course that the women have to aid Daemon, because they know that the blacks are on the right side of history and they are ultimately peacemakers, one and all! 😭

I don't have a problem with Alys blatantly playing Aemond and leading him on, as I've always thought that it would make the most sense for her to be out for herself, but it's a ridiculous demonisation of the greens. And in service of Daemon, the least virtuous of all characters. This conflict is no longer petty squabble between nobles, it's literally occult shit at play now. And none of them even know about this stupid prophecy in the first place. Just anything and everything to make Alicent look bad, I guess.

#ask #anon #anti daemon targaryen #river witch

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shieldagentcoulson · 9 months ago

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“Never, in the history of boredom, has anyone been as bored as I am, right now.“ (from Ali)

"We can't have that, let's make up a game to pass the time until we get to... where's your next tour stop again, Vegas?"

@blackwidowandco

#blackwidowandco #//road trip?

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watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees · 4 months ago

Text

Appetite

An early timeline piece for Aly, back at the old house before they moved

taglist: @risk606

masterlist

TW: implied kidnapping, starvation, sleep deprivation, emeto mention (doesn't happen), carewhumper, intimate whumper, defiant/stoic whumpee, captivity

It must have been over a week, no way to say it accurately though. Alyssa tried her best to keep up with the sunsets and sunups, as much as it was possible through the little window just below the ceiling. It was facing north, she knew that much, there was never any direct light coming through it, and she saw trees above.

The branches were almost completely stripped of leaves by then, they looked like horribly burnt skeleton hands reaching towards the sky. They were mostly still, eerie, the soft autumn breeze wasn’t strong enough to move them without the foliage to reign in the gently moving wind.

The basement was mostly dark. Although it seemed to never have been finished, the space must have been constructed as a secondary living quarter, or at least it was her best guess. All the way to the left side of the room, the monotony of the brick and concrete of the wall and the floor was broken up by exactly 178 white tiles, surrounding what was supposed to serve as a bathroom. The toilet and sink were mostly decent, the shower looked dark and grimy, not that she could get a close enough look to decide if it was simply dirt or long-dried blood. It was unfinished, there were clear lines on the floor indicating where a wall should have been pulled up.

The first few days Alyssa found herself barely sleeping, just trying to take the space in. Memorise every detail, so that she can report it when she gets out. She took note of every feature of the two guys whenever they went downstairs to check on her.

It happened less and less, or time stretched out, as the boredom started to set in. Both of them worked during the day, and whenever the door opened and she heard the stairs creak, she steeled herself to withstand whatever they would throw at her. It wasn’t much. Luke slapped her around for not speaking the first day, but it got old quickly so he gave up, resigned. From then on his visits were brief and uncomfortable at best. He spoke to her, asked questions, and when she didn’t answer he left.

Alyssa thought if she was boring enough they’d let her leave. Cole told her she was there for entertainment after all. If she could hang on long enough not serving that purpose, they’d surely have no reason to keep her.

Her own boredom was killing her. She started counting the bricks of the wall, after she was sure of the tiles, but the numbers got harder and harder to keep track of. Not sleeping or being fed started getting to her more than she would have liked to admit.

There was no relief to be found on the merciless concrete floor and in metal cuffs around her wrists and ankles. She was getting colder and colder, and she was still wearing her dress - now dirty and ripped up - from the night of the party, it did nothing to warm her body. When Luke caught her curled up and shivering he asked if she’d like a blanket. All she had to do was ask. Alyssa glared at him, miserable and non-threatening, but it was a glare nonetheless. He found it amusing.

He told her if she wanted to eat she could. He would hand feed her, and she didn’t even have to ask. She wanted to throw up at the thought, retching when she thought about it for more than a fleeting moment, but nothing came out, other than some faint bitterness of her stomach acid.

There was no way in hell she would ever demean herself like that, Alyssa would rather starve. But she needed to consider it, especially when she slumped from her sitting on the floor unable to keep herself upright for a second longer.

“Would you look at that!” She couldn’t lift her head to look up at him. She didn’t have to see his face to know he was gloating over her misery. “I don’t want to starve you to death, you know…” He nudged her ribs with the tip of his shoe, when she didn’t respond. It wasn’t meant to hurt, still she whined, wrecked by the constant ache that radiated through every cell of her body.

“I brought you this” he placed a box next to her head on the floor. She couldn’t help but lock her eyes on it. It smelled heavenly and familiar. He took off the lid and the scent got stronger. “I stopped by that one Chinese place next to your house”

“...you-” Tears collected quickly in her eyes, she gave up. Her throat hurt. “You s-said we- we’re in a different city” The last part of the sentence was only a whisper.

“We are” he pushed the box closer to her. She still couldn’t move, and even if she could, the chain on her hand would not let her reach it. “You’re worth those extra few miles”

“Fuck you” she whispered. There was a steady stream of tears running across the bridge of her nose and down on the floor. She pulled weakly at the chains.

“This stubbornness gets you nowhere” he sighed and actually sat down next to her. He lifted her upper body in his lap, so she was at least halfway sitting up. It hurt so bad where he grabbed her arms, she was convinced it would bruise.

He took a piece of meat and pressed in against her lips. It was sticky, covered in a honey flavoured, slightly spicy sauce, and it hurt so bad.

“Come on. Eat” She took a bite. And then another one. She didn’t care anymore that his fingers brushed over her lips, or that his other hand snaked across her torso pulling her up even closer flush against him. His body was warm and soft, and the food was delicious. He grabbed a spoon for the rice and fed her.

“Say thank you” The words got to her slower than usual. His voice was faint, barely audible.

Alyssa weighed her options. She could resort to silence again, to become boring, now that she had the energy to do so. His proximity and her body against his only started to register. His warmth was like knives stabbing her skin.

“Thank me, I don’t like to repeat myself” His hold got tighter around her abdomen. Her stomach was uncomfortably full, if he pressed his hand down even just a little more…

“It would be a shame if that meal went to waste” Luke knew it too. His free hand wrapped around her throat.

“Thank you” barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re so welcome” He let go of her and lowered her back on the floor. She was cold again.

Luke wiped the tears away from her face, smudging some dirt around, it rubbed at her face painfully.

“I’ll get you a blanket, if you want one” he taunted with a smile that didn’t fade even when Alyssa steeled herself once again and shook her head.

#danse macabre original story #oc whump #whump writing #whump #carewhumper #intimate whumper #defiant whumpee #stoic whumpee #implied kidnapping #tw starvation #tw sleep deprivation #tw captivity #emeto mention

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