#less than a month until it’s been a year

[oceanicwriting]

hey, bro!

summary: where mattheo riddle is obsessed with his best friend sister, and for the first time, he can fuck her without protection and now he doesn't give a fuck about who knows what. not even his best friend.

pairing(s): non-wizard mattheo riddle x non-wizard female!reader

a/n: i'm so sooooorry this took me a while to post... but here it is! i'm still doing my road trip and i have no idea when i'll be back, but i have some good ideas if you are patient with me hehe.

+18 smut, unprotected sex, missionary, praising

ㅤㅤㅤ —mattheo, —you moan as you feel his lips descend to the neckline of your shirt—. mattheo, wait.

ㅤㅤㅤ you thought he would ignore your voice because he easily lifts you up to sit on the counter, standing between your legs ready to receive him. although he continues to caress you with his large palms, he seems attentive to listen to what you have to say.

ㅤㅤㅤ —we can’t do this, —you whisper, looking him straight into his soft puppy brown eyes—. theodore could catch us, and we both know that would be fatal.

ㅤㅤㅤ —i can handle it, —he says, smiling and leaning in to kiss you again—. where does all this guilt come from, baby? i don't remember these words when we did it at my house, my car, the beach, the closet, the bathroom...

ㅤㅤㅤ you roll your eyes at his tone. funny but ironic.

ㅤㅤㅤ —get to the point.

ㅤㅤㅤ mattheo caresses your face with one of his hands, moving his thumb delicately over your cheekbone lit up red. his other hand travels to your back, where the neckline of the shirt allows him to feel your warm skin against the tip of his fingers. a shiver runs through your body, as weak as ever to his cold touch.

ㅤㅤㅤ —i don't think all the other times you cared so much. —you hated that his gaze enjoys so much seeing even the slightest reaction of your body to his presence—. theodore is drunk and, minutes ago, he went with my cousin to his room. why is that not illegal?

ㅤㅤㅤ you laugh, playing with the collar of his black t-shirt.

ㅤㅤㅤ —besides, it's my fault that his sister is so fucking hot? —he questions, letting out a soft laugh.

ㅤㅤㅤ you give him a punch on the shoulder as he tries to lean in to kiss you again. lately, he didn’t seem to care if theodore, your brother, found out about you two, and it was driving you a little crazy. mattheo growls at your action and raises his eyebrows in confusion.

ㅤㅤㅤ —not here. go to my room in five. —you jump off the furniture, pushing mattheo against the wall.

ㅤㅤㅤ —there’s my girl.

ㅤㅤㅤ mattheo riddle and theodore nott have been friends since they were five. when they met, after your family moved to his neighborhood, you had just turned three. over time, the brunette became a constant figure at home. now the two great friends shared an apartment near the university in the busy streets of london.

ㅤㅤㅤ your story with mattheo is somewhat different. sure, you knew each other since you were little, but theodore became an overprotective brother by the time. no one could ever get close to his little sister, much less his friends who he knew so well. everything turned upside down when you turned thirteen, and your parents sent you to a boarding school for girls in the outskirts of the country. you didn't see mattheo again until a year ago, where all kinds of things started to go wrong.

ㅤㅤㅤ the first time you two had a run-in was eight months ago. theodore, after having insisted for hours, took you to a party with the strict condition of not being near his friends. the big problem started when your brother drank so much that he was unable to drive the car, and mattheo was the only sane one to take you home. if your brother hadn't drank more than he should have, you wouldn't have had the slightest intention of getting close to them, and everything that's happening with mattheo would never have blossomed.

ㅤㅤㅤ from that time on, mattheo started looking for you, and even if you insisted that it was forbidden, nothing could stop the desire of your eager bodies.

ㅤㅤㅤ and that's how you've ended up, once again, whimpering under his sticky body. you're not fully aware of how many times you've cum under the brunette's caresses, but you're sure you've enjoyed each one of them. the labored breathing, aroma of the room, and condoms thrown on the floor were proof of that.

ㅤㅤㅤ —shit, —he whispers, coming out of you to throw away the condom that was squeezing his cock—. so perfect. and just for me.

ㅤㅤㅤ you barely smile because you're still a little lost from the explosion of sensations you'd experienced seconds ago. mattheo, until now, had tested your pussy until exhaustion. he had bitten, licked, and sucked every corner of your naked body with the need to mark you until the last day of your life. of course, as fascinating as everything he'd done before, burying himself in you over and over again wasn't going to be left out of the long night.

ㅤㅤㅤ —how i love to see your face after the orgasm —he whispers, caressing your legs, standing between them—. so beautiful and bright.

ㅤㅤㅤ seeing him naked and stained by soft pink marks can only awaken a new wave of need that intoxicates you. it is an unrecognizable force of desire that generates all kinds of thoughts loaded with lust. then, motivated by instinct, you hug his waist with your legs and pull his arm.

ㅤㅤㅤ —what is this? —he questions, resting one of his hands on the bed so as not to crush you—. seconds ago, you were screaming that you couldn't take it anymore.

ㅤㅤㅤ there is a hint of concern in his voice for taking you to an unknown limit, but also a certain mockery that does not go unnoticed motivating you to rub your pussy against his slowly hardening crotch. it was as clear as the day that mattheo riddle could never resist you.

ㅤㅤㅤ —mattheo. —the guttural moan that escapes your lips is enough to make him lose his mind a little—. i need you to fuck me again. i need to feel every inch of you, please.

ㅤㅤㅤ —baby, i don't...

ㅤㅤㅤ knowing exactly what he was going to say and taking the initiative you speak—. i don’t want you to use a condom. please, mattheo, i need to feel it all inside me.

ㅤㅤㅤ how could he think straight when you’re rubbing yourself shamelessly, his lip marks glistening on your chest, and you’re smiling like the devil himself has possessed you?

ㅤㅤㅤ mattheo’s lips tangle with yours in a messy, exhausted, needy kiss. it was such a strange mix that your heart skips a beat against your chest. he settles against your pussy, finding your entrance and gently pushing himself inside you. he didn’t want to go fast because mattheo wanted to remember every corner of your insides with agony.

ㅤㅤㅤ —you feel so good.

ㅤㅤㅤ when his member is completely inside you, you feel his warm skin throbbing and stretching your muscles to the limit. the feeling of that connection drove you completely crazy because being with mattheo was already dangerous territory, and having him inside you without any barriers was even more exciting.

ㅤㅤㅤ —do it slowly —you ask, moving your hips to let him know that he could move.

ㅤㅤㅤ just as you had asked, mattheo does not rush. his entries and exits are smooth, enjoying the exquisiteness of your hot interior. he was fascinated by the way your muscles embraced him, sliding without problem against your walls that could have made him cum from the first moment.

ㅤㅤㅤ soft moans begin to escape from mattheo's lips, forcing you to pay attention to those sounds that you had rarely heard. they were loud, husky, and shameless, perfectly matching the clash of their bodies and your own moans.

ㅤㅤㅤ —shit, i could get addicted to this. feeling you like never before, —he whispers, kissing your chest and speeding up the movement of his hips—. but i can’t take it anymore.

ㅤㅤㅤ a soft cry escapes your mouth at the speed that tickles the inside of your body. mattheo separates his chest from yours, raising your hips held by his hands and burying himself deeper this time. you try to keep your composure, but it’s impossible not to whimper and shudder.

ㅤㅤㅤ —mattheo, i can’t... —a stream of tears escapes down your reddened face—. i need to cum.

ㅤㅤㅤ he doesn't respond, dropping your body back against the bed and stimulating your clit with one of his fingers. the simple contact makes you arch your back in unrecognizable pleasure, clouding your gaze.

ㅤㅤㅤ —so stupidly cute, —he whispers, admiring the way his cock comes in and out of you to discover every corner of your interior—. you're going to look so gorgeous after this. come on, baby, cum for me.

ㅤㅤㅤ you close your eyes tightly, moaning loudly at the amount of sensations that whip through your entire body. then, you feel it, a relieving heat that runs through your entire body accompanied by a soft pop. mattheo has just left your interior to cum in your abdomen, while a soft convulsion releases your own orgasm.

ㅤㅤㅤ you can’t open your eyes because you’re too tired, irritated, and relieved to do so. mattheo takes the liberty of cleaning you up, tidying the room soon after.

ㅤㅤㅤ —you can’t fall asleep, —you whisper, feeling the heaviness of his arm around you—. mattheo?

ㅤㅤㅤ —i know, baby. i know.

ㅤㅤㅤ and the truth is, you should have found the strength to get him out of the room, but you didn’t, waking up the next morning with his arm still squeezing you.

ㅤㅤㅤ —mattheo!? —it's a little scream that you have to stifle with your own hand, getting out of bed and watching him wake up lazily—. shit! mattheo, wake up. you have to go. now.

ㅤㅤㅤ —five minutes...

ㅤㅤㅤ —what? —you climb onto the bed, pushing him towards the edge as best you can—. shit. come on, please, mattheo...

ㅤㅤㅤ and the silly smile that appears on his face at your useless efforts doesn't help the panic growing in your chest. then he pulls your arm, making you fall on top of his bare chest.

ㅤㅤㅤ —do you know that you're wearing my shirt? i can't leave without it.

ㅤㅤㅤ the truth is that you hadn't realized that until he mentions it. mattheo, in an attempt to kiss your lips, approaches your face with impulse.

ㅤㅤㅤ —if that's what you need to get out of the fucking bed.

ㅤㅤㅤ and mattheo shines at the idea of ​​seeing your tits. however, the second you try to take off the garment over your head, your door bursts open. theodore nott, your brother, is now part of the equation.

ㅤㅤㅤ —what the fuck am i looking at? —at each word he pauses a little, exchanging his gaze between you and his best friend.

ㅤㅤㅤ mattheo has jumped out of bed, and the obviousness, given his semi-nakedness, is comical.

ㅤㅤㅤ —god! —you approach your brother, determined to push him out of your room—. why the hell are you coming in without knocking?

ㅤㅤㅤ —hey, bro!

ㅤㅤㅤ if it weren't for the fact that you know that's the worst thing he could say, you would have considered that goofy smile one of the cutest you've ever seen on his face.

ㅤㅤㅤ —shut the fuck up! —theodore bellows, pulling his best friend closer to pull his arm with your failed attempts at stopping him—. i'll talk to you later. walk, motherfucker.

ㅤㅤㅤ —theodore, wait!

ㅤㅤㅤ mattheo doesn't seem to have the best face in the world, but he doesn't seem sorry or afraid either. what the hell is wrong with him today?

ㅤㅤㅤ —see you soon, baby.

ㅤㅤㅤ and you can hear mattheo receive a blow, followed by your brother's voice saying—: you're not going to see her anytime soon, shit face. what the hell do you think you're doing...?

[femmeinvelvet]

I've got the Stone Butch Blues Blues

By Raven Gildea, 2003, originally published on playbutch.com

Leslie Feinberg set me up.

Not set me up as in "set me up with a hot date." Set me up as in Catch 22, as in "any way you play, you lose," set me up.

It all started in 1993, when I first read Stone Butch Blues. Don't get me wrong, great book, I loved it. It meant a lot to me. I'd come of age as a queer in the early '80s, in a college edjumacated feminist-lesbian world where sex and power were evil tools of the patriarchy and butch sexual power simply didn't exist. Really, you had to be there to believe it. We were the Incredible Invisible Butches - but nobody ever used that word. We were so invisible we couldn't even see each other - or ourselves. Ten years of that, and Stone Butch Blues felt like a lightening bolt illuminating the landscape in which I'd been travelling blind. "Hey look, I'm a butch! Wow, that really explains a lot...."

Discovering a piece of butch history didn't just give me a new sense of identity. It also gave me permission to be stone. I mean hell, I thought I just didn't like sex. But once I realized that I could be a top and didn't have to roll over for reciprocation, I liked sex just fine. I liked it a lot. I gladly claimed my stone butch self.

There was just one problem. Other people read the book, too. People I was dating. And what struck them wasn't how stone was a perfectly valid way to be. What struck them was this: a true butch is stone, and anyone less than stone is less than butch. A stone butch will melt in the presence of true love and intimacy. Catch 22 — Feinberg set me up.

Feinberg's focus was butch/femme relationships, but it's not just femmes who got invested in the "I Can Heal Your Wounds" syndrome. True, many femmes who had survived the gender and sexuality vacuum of the '70s and '80s had epiphanies similar to mine when we dykes collectively rediscovered gender. And a lot of us took Feinberg's word as gospel in defining What is a Femme. But I've found that queers of all stripes hold the deeply cherished conviction that butches are broken and need to be fixed. Especially those of us who are stone. After all, we're reclaiming sex here. Isn't being stone proof that something is wrong?

The idea that butches are broken leads us to the idea that all stone butches really want is to find The One - the one who can feel our pain, heal our wounds, and make us whole. This sets up our lovers as well as us: they've got to either be The One, or be failures, and we've got to demonstrate that they aren't failures by ceasing to be stone. The subtext is: "Once I know I can trust my lover, I won't need to be stone, so of course I won't be." Which means, of course, that as long as I am stone, I'm demonstrating that I don't trust my lover. Not a good relationship dynamic if I happen to like being stone, if I choose to be stone, if I find it personally empowering, if that's how I feel sexy. Even less good if I can't be a True Butch in the eyes of my community without being stone, and I can't be a True Lover unless I melt.

It also means, if the one I'm with is The One, I must have been stone with everyone who came before. That might work just fine if you're monogamous. My observation is that someone who's monogamous and a romantic - and I think Feinberg's character Jess qualifies on both counts - can rationalize meeting The One at least four times without having any trouble sleeping at night. But me, I'm a slut. A non-monogamous slut at that, and let me tell you, overlapping saves all kinds of time. I've dated approximately three people a year for the last twenty years. Even if you don't count the relationships that lasted less than six months, it's pretty clear that they can't all be The One.

Oh, but they all wanted to be. Feinberg set them up, too. During seven years as a stone top, I dated only two people who weren't invested in hearing that I'd been 100 percent stone 100 percent of the time until I met them. I dated only two people who didn't want me to roll over and spread my legs to prove it.

Now, let's be real, this is not entirely Feinberg's fault. After all, Stone Butch Blues is a novel. We were the ones who decided it was the word from on high. But who could blame us, really? A long line of butch mentoring had been broken, and those of us who had somehow turned out butch in spite of being maligned, reviled, and rendered invisible were hungry for someone to tell us how it's done. All we'd heard so far was "Butch is an oppressive reproduction of heterosexist patriarchal roles. Shape up and start acting like a girl. Oh, but could you fuck me first? Don't tell my friends, okay?"

It's no wonder that we took the only burning bush in that desert and invested it with the power of gospel. We youngsters were creating a culture based on something we'd never seen before. We failed to notice that there were a lot of different ways of being butch. We took the only blueprint we had, and engraved it in, well, stone.

And the blueprint said: "Thou shalt be stone until you find the one who heals your wounds and makes you whole." But even if you are the coupling type — and let's face it, many of us are not - what if you like being stone?

I'm not stone because I'm damaged. I'm stone because most of the time I like fucking other people a lot more than I like getting fucked. I have more fun that way. Having permission to be stone allowed me to finally really enjoy having sex, and I'm not going let anyone take that away from me. I don't want someone to heal my wounds. I want lovers who can give me room in bed to be sexy, and fully present, and fully myself, all at the same time. It was being stone that made me whole.

For a while I thought that the solution was to date pillow queens. I've heard a lot of talk in the past few years about pillow queens. It's never said like it's a good thing to be. After years of being pressured to flip, I had to wonder: what's wrong with a pillow queen? Hell, bedding someone who doesn't expect me to do things I don't want to do sounds delightful to me. But being stone doesn't mean I don't have needs. It took me a while to figure out that there is a difference between a pillow-munching bottom and a pillow queen. The difference is the word "queen," as in entitlement. A bottom is invested in making sure the top has a good time. A pillow queen is convinced that if she's having a good time, everyone else in the room must be, too.

The girl who expected me to go down on her all night, but wouldn't suck my dick? Pillow queen. The boi who, after I'd spent hours on my knees with my fist in his cunt, wanted me to give him a backrub? Pillow queen.

It's not that I think my lovers should be dripping with gratitude because I deigned to fuck them. I'm just saying that there are a lot of different kinds of reciprocation. I may not want to receive the same things I give my partners - after all, I tend to be a top, and they tend to be bottoms - but I do want my relationships to be equitable. No, I don't want to lie on my back with my legs in the air, and yes, I can have a completely satisfying sexual experience without ever taking off my pants. But I do have needs. I do want my output of energy to be met. I don't want a relationship that's a one-way valve, sucking me dry. But my needs are my needs, and I want them met on my terms. I don't want my partner, guided by some book about someone else's experience, to define them for me.

The narrative of stone butch mystique says that in exchange for sexual pleasure, my lover is responsible for creating a safe space for me to experience my pain. Hold it right there. What if I don't want to experience my pain? What if I don't want to process my emotions? Being expected to give it up emotionally can be as big a problem as enforced sexual reciprocation. Let's face it folks, there are emotional pillow queens as well as sexual ones.

I'm not saying that I'm never vulnerable. I sure as hell am, even though some would take away my butch card for admitting it. But I get the safety to show my vulnerability through lack of expectation. No expectation to be invulnerable, tough, baddass. No expectation to break down and cry just so someone else can be assured that they're being adequately supportive. I don't want to make myself vulnerable on demand just because it's on someone else's agenda. If I'm not feeling vulnerable, or if I'm feeling too vulnerable to show it, it's not a dysfunction. Nor is it an indictment of my partner. In fact, could be it's not about my partner at all. Remember, we are talking about my needs here. If this is about doing something for me, it needs to include things I actually want.

And speaking of needs, I'm pretty damn tired of hearing that stone butches need to be fucked, but we just don't know it. I call this one the myth of rebirth. You know, the idea that once we're properly fucked we'll be suddenly re-born as the penetration-hungry sluts we were always meant to be. Excuse me, but last time I checked, biology was still not destiny. Possession of my very own cunt does not obligate me to put things into it, and the words "I know what you need" are just as insulting when dykes say them as they are when men do.

Actually, I know perfectly well when I want to be fucked. But if and when I want it, it's on my terms, when the time is right, when I'm ready. I can enjoy and appreciate being fucked without wanting to do it very often. Getting fucked can feel good, and it might even make me come. But it doesn't make me feel powerful. It doesn't make me feel sexy. It doesn't make me feel that I'm fully inhabiting my body. Usually it makes me feel terrified. Mind you, I'm a perv. I know that on occasion, abject terror can be a good thing. But only if it's freely chosen and carefully negotiated. If I go there, it won't be on demand, and it won't be to prove my love. When I say in a clear and direct way that stone is working just fine for me, it's a boundary — not a challenge.

Of course, not all butches are tops, and not all butch tops are stone. Nor does stone have to mean all the time, every time, eternally. Far be it from me to say that no bottom should ever offer to flip a butch top, or that a bottom whose offer is declined should never ask again. Desire is slippery and malleable, and I'd like to think we are entitled to a little complexity. But if a butch top does flip, it might not be an earth-shattering revelation of trust and intimacy. It might not mean anything, other than "I want you to fuck me now."

Butch tops who aren't stone got set up, too. I've heard plenty of butches complain: "I told my girlfriend 'no' once, and she never tried again." Well c'mon, guys - let's not let our butch mystery prevent us from getting what we want in bed. Isn't that what it's for? It would be great if our lovers could read our minds - some of the time — but until that day comes, we're just going to have to talk to them. When I want someone to fuck me — and I have done my share of time on my hands and knees with my ass in the air — I let them know what I want in a clear, direct way. Like, for instance, "I want you to fuck me now." Try it, it's very effective.

Effective, but not necessarily easy. Being up front about our desire can be difficult when the common belief is that anyone less than stone is less than butch. Butches who want to be fucked shouldn't lose butch credibility because of it. No, wait: no one who wants to be fucked should lose credibility because of it.

Let's not waste any more time tearing each other down over what we want, in or out of bed. There are plenty of people willing to do that for us. For me, butch pride has been hard-won. Every day I've got someone trying to give me girl lessons. Because I also identify as trans and genderqueer, I often have dykes trying to give me lesbian lessons, and FTMs trying to tell me why and how I should be a man. And then there's the competition between us butches: our favorite game seems to be "Who is the Real Butch?" Not a Real Butch, the Real Butch. After all, it is universally acknowledged that there can be only one Real Butch in any room, virtual or otherwise. Our queer culture's Pavlovian response to butchness seems to be whipping out our yardsticks to see who measures up. Doesn't leave a whole lot of room for mentoring, does it?

Somewhere along the line, butch has become one of the most fenced in, closely guarded identities in the fenced in, closely guarded world of identity politics. I can hear the litany now: "Real butches only date femmes. Real butches are tops. Real butches are stone. Real butches don't cook, sew, cry, read, talk, feel...." Apparently the only two things a real butch can do are fuck femmes and work on engines. Oh, and drink. Let's not forget that one. Butch has become so narrowly defined that it's a wonder anyone claims the identity at all. The liberation I once felt at being given permission to be myself has somehow transformed into a dangerous high-wire act. Step out of line once, and SPLAT! Your reputation is ruined for good.

We've got a set-up that hurts us all, but it's not too late to change it. I want us to stop thinking of being stone as either a requirement for being butch, or some sort of pathology. I want us to stop seeing getting fucked as either a requirement for intimacy, or some sort of breakthrough. I want allies who aren't invested in telling me what I need and how to get it. I'm able to identify and willing to state what I need, and I want some credit and respect when I do. I want allies who will read Stone Butch Blues not as a rulebook, but as a starting place. I want allies who aren't invested in telling me how to be butch. I want allies who will stand beside me while I'm doing what butches have always done — saying, "To hell with the rules, I'm gonna be myself."

[visenyav]

The Brothel

TW:

Brothel Setting Humiliation, Degradation, Implied Sex: Dub-con, Underage Sex(Underage by our Standards, Of Age by Westerosi Standards)

Don't like, Don't read.

------

The next few weeks were awkward in Visenya’s transition from being a princess to becoming a bastard in a brothel. Mysaria, in truth, was not as debased as others in her craft, and was not one to keep girls who had not yet flowered in her establishment, much less children. However, the Lord Hand had commanded she keep the girl with her, and who was she to disobey?

“Girl,” Visenya’s eyes snapped to the woman, “Do you have any… talents? Do you sing? Dance? Play an instrument?”

Visenya’s eyes brightened, “I love to sing, and can play the lute as well as the harp!” Her eyes then turned downcast, “But my Septa said it is unbecoming for a lady of my station to play for other than her family and her Lord Husband,”

Mysaria’s lips twisted into a humorless smile, “You are no longer of such station,” Her voice turned mocking, “My lady.” When she saw the small smile drop from the girl’s face and she seemed to retreat inward once more, a twinge of pity crossed the elder woman’s face, soon replaced with a mask of stone. The girl had to learn sooner or later.

Sooner or later she learned indeed. Until she flowered, Mysaria had the girl play and sing for the men in the evening. Whatever worries anyone might of had regarding the perverse nature of the men disappeared, as no one wanted to debase Visenya. How could they? She was the jewel of the Keep and her kindness and general good-will in her childhood reached even the streets of silk. And it did help that the majority of those who went to Mysaria’s brothel were of noble blood, and their memories of the girl were even more vivid. 

And so the years passed with Visenya living in the brothel under Mysaria’s tutlege. She got a different type of education from Mysaria than before, but by the time of her first moonblood came, the girl was more woman than child.

“Am I dying?” She asked the older woman fearfully when she was helping her clean up the blood, “It hurts so bad, surely I am?

Mysaria chuckled, “No, girl. It was what we discussed, remember? You are now a woman in all ways that matter.” She looked away, eyes sad, “Your mother should be here to help you. But alas she is not.” She helped Visenya change into a new shift and brushed her hair. “Remember what I’ve taught you?” She nodded, “Once you stop bleeding you will serve. You are of age now. You will serve."

And so, when her blood ended, she was prepared. With dresses more revealing that what she was used to, and hair that would entice even the strongest willed of men. Mysaria had led her through the necessary lessons—how to move, how to speak in soft, seductive tones, how to use her body to her advantage.

The door creaked open, and Mysaria stepped inside, her eyes scanning Visenya with a mixture of approval and something else that might have been pity. "You are ready," Mysaria said, her tone unwavering.

And so, she was. For the first few months, she did nothing but serve drinks. For the truth was, everyone was too scared to touch Visenya, too honor bound. For she was the most gracious and kindest of all the souls in King’s Landing as a child, who would touch her then?

Aegon

 She served drinks and food, often moving from one room to the next with the practiced, unfeeling grace that was expected of her. Her dark hair had grown longer, cascading down her back in thick waves, and she had learned to hold her head high, no matter how low her heart sank. The men who came to the brothel saw her only as something to be looked at and not touched, and for that she was grateful.

However, one evening, Visenya was carrying a tray of wine, and entered one of the private rooms, to the noises of  clinking glasses and the murmur of laughter. It was a typical night, and she played her part well, serve, smile, leave.

However, as she moved across the room, her eyes briefly flicked to the far corner, where a lean figure leaned against the wall. His face was obscured by shadow, but something about the way he held himself made Visenya’s pulse quicken. She froze for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. Aegon. Her heart hammered as she set the tray down on the low table and stepped back, her hands trembling slightly. She had not seen him in years, not since she had been disowned, forgotten, and cast aside. But there was no mistaking the pale golden hair, the sharp features, and the deep-set eyes that now fixed on her with an unsettling intensity. Aegon, his expression lazy but curious, studied her for a moment before a slow smirk curled on his lips. The years that had passed since they last met hadn’t softened the cruelty in his gaze. He pushed himself off the wall and took a step toward her, his movements deliberate and predatory.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" His voice was drenched in mockery and contempt. There was no warmth in Aegon’s gaze, as it swept over her, lingering on the low-cut dress and the way it clung to her figure.  "You've certainly grown, Niece" he murmured, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "Though I must say, I never expected to see you in a place like this."

“My prince,” Visenya bowed, swallowing hard keeping her gaze on the floor in an effort to retain some dignity, as his eyes drilled into her form

Aegon reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek as he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. His touch was cold, cruel—just like everything about him. "Who’d known you’d become so much like your mother?," he said, his voice low, mocking. "But I wonder… does your mother know what you've become? Or perhaps it’s for the best that she doesn’t."

Her voice breath hitched with the mention of her mother. Oh, how she wanted to slap his hand away, to scream at him that she hadn’t chosen this life. But the words never left her throat as Aegon’s fingers trailed down her neck, getting closer than custom demanded. But this was a brothel, she reminded herself, custom was damned. "Tell me, Princess" he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, "How is this punishment of yours going? Perhaps you enjoy it? Is it in your bastard nature?"

Visenya’s pulse raced, as she said her practiced lines "I’m no princess, my prince" she said quietly, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "Not anymore."

Aegon chuckled darkly, his grip tightening around her wrist. "No, you're not." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, "But I’ll make sure to remind you what you are now.” Her body stiffened, and her heart raced as his hands wandered where they should have never. His friends, more like lackey’s, in the room, their eyes glinting with the same cruel amusement that flickered in Aegon’s. She could feel their lust, their hunger, but she wasn’t sure which terrified her more—Aegon’s hands on her, or the way he had come to claim her like a piece of property.

She held his gaze for a moment longer, her mind racing for a way out. She had survived worse than this, and she would survive him. But for now, she had no choice but to endure. “Please get your hands off of me, Aegon" she finally said, her voice pleading

The moment Aegon’s eyes locked with hers, Visenya felt her blood run cold. She froze, tray in hand, as he scrutinized her with amusement. “The bastard pleads,” His voice dripping with mockery, “Come, boys. The Princess has given an order, and we must obey,” The look on her face made him burst into laughter before continuing his pursuit. 

— — — —

Compared to the years before, the next few months passed slowly. As the seasons passed, it became harder to keep track of time, to remember happy days of her childhood, the warmth and love of her family, it was a distant memory. One that Aegon tainted every time as his visits became more frequent, always bringing his companions with him as well. Laughing at her discomfort, taking their turns in her company, making her do humiliating tasks. For, it felt as if her body no longer belonged to her. She missed the days of when she was made to be looked at and never touched, for now not only in mind, but in body, she belonged to the brothel, to them, to their whims and desires. But there was one thing Aegon was adamant about: No one would take her maidenhead.

His voice, often laden in dark humor and a need for pleasure, was often focused and cold in this demand, with a fervor that made her skin crawl, "She stays a maiden," his eyes lingering on her in a way that made her stomach twist with dread. "She remains untouched.” The others protested, made lewd suggestions, but Aegon was firm. "You can do whatever else you wish with her," he would say with a shrug, "but no one has her in that way. Not yet."

For Viseyna, this was no protection. No, it was a cruel reminder of what her life had become, a noose just waiting for the drop. It was simply another form of his cruelty, of control, a reminder of her sentence. It was as if she was a doll, living, but trapped in a perpetual state of submission. Owned and preserved for the pleasures of the flesh of men.

And every night, when she was finally alone in her room, the pain of her situation would resettle in her bones, her flesh, and her soul. There was no escape, no one would come for her, none would free her from this life. Her and abandonment were old friends, first her family, then the gods, then hope itself. Now, nothing but a broken shell of her former self, Visenya would retreat into herself when the moon was high. She would curl up in the bed, the covers too thin to provide comfort, and tried to remember her old life. A cherished daughter, sister, granddaughter, niece, and above all, Princess. She held onto those fragments as if they were lifelines, even though she knew they were slipping through her fingers, just like everything else.

Sometimes, when she was alone, she would whisper to herself, a prayer, a plea, to anyone who might hear: “I am still here. I am still Visenya. This will not be my end.” But the days wore on, and the darkness grew, as did despair. The silence between the moments of abuse became unbearable, each day another reminder that she was forgotten by the world, that her body and soul were no longer hers to command.

– – – – – 

One day Mysaria had entered Visenya’s room with a parcel and a pitying look. “A specific patron has requested your presence tonight, girl. They’ve also provided you a dress,” She placed the parcel on the bed and left without a word. 

Inside was a dress as blue as the sea, with a silvery glow. When she wore it, it particularly accentuated her figure with a plunging neckline and a long silver chain to pair. Leaving truly nothing to the imagination, she left and headed to the patron’s room. Nervous, she started pouring wine to the glasses until the door was unexpectedly opened. The nervousness turned to a pit of fear in her stomach when Aegon entered, perhaps he had come to claim what he always wanted. “My prince,” But the fear turned into terror when another figure entered the room. Longer silver hair, scarred face and an eyepatch. “Aemond?” The man in question met her eye with the same shock,

“Visenya?” 

“See, I told you, brother,” Aegon made is way over to her, fingers trailing down her neck and chest, “Visenya Velaryon, no Strong, no Waters,” He said in mock thought, laughing cruelly, “Is alive and well, in a brothel,” He smirked, pleased with himself, “You may have your retribution. That bastard took your eye,” Aemond’s jaw locked at that, “And you may have his bastard sister’s maidenhead.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder, and headed for the door, “I even had her all dolled up for you. Happy ten and six name day, brother.” With that Aegon had left the room, and the door closed with a quiet finality. Visenya’s body still trembled from the way Aemond had approached her, Aegon’s words lingering in the air like a dark fog. She had expected cruelty, punishment—she had braced herself for the worst. But what came next caught her completely off guard.

Visenya expected a cold, calculated feeling, but when Aemond reached out to cup her face, his touch was tender, reverent almost. "Visenya," his voice was soft, the bitterness she expected gone. "You must know, I never wanted this. Not for you, not for me." His gaze, now one-eyed, was full of something unexpected—regret, remorse, perhaps even fear. "I remember us. The little girl who would follow me around the castle with your wild questions and your fire. I remember the way you laughed." He paused, his thumb lightly brushing her cheek, barely touching her lips. Visenya’s mind struggled to keep up with this interaction. Aemond was not the same boy she had known in her youth. This Aemond was someone else entirely. "You don’t have to be afraid of me," he murmured, his voice breaking the silence between them. "I... I never wanted this life for you. I swear, I never thought it would come to this." Her heart felt heavy and painful in her chest. His soft words, tender touches, it all confused her. It was a sharp contrast to Aegon’s cruelty, the harshness of the brothel setting. She wondered, was this a game? Was he pretending to care, so he could further wound her? Were these emotions his words carried, truly real? She opened her mouth, but words failed her. 

 Aemond let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of their shared history finally dawned on him. "Aegon was wrong," he admitted, his gaze filled with sorrow. "He thought that if I could make you suffer, it would heal my wound... but it wasn’t you. It was never you." His voice cracked, and Visenya felt a pang of sympathy despite everything she had endured.

Despite her own pain, whether or not this was necessarily good, she was still the open-hearted girl from her youth. This wasn’t just about her. It was about him. His torment, his pain, his regrets. Aemond’s hand lingered on her cheek, his eyes searching her face as if looking for any sign of recognition, any trace of the girl he had known. "Do you remember me, Visenya? The boy, despite being our family, our relation, who once took you under his wing when you were lost in the Red Keep?" She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words. She had wanted to believe that the boy she once knew still existed under the surface of the man who stood before her. But she had learned so much since then—learned the cruelty of the world, the price of loyalty and betrayal. She wanted to remember him, the one who had held her hand when she was afraid, truly she did, but it felt so distant now.

Aemond stepped back, his expression unreadable as he searched her face for any response. "You may never forgive me," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "but I can’t undo the past. I just need you to know that, at least, in some small way... I still care for you.” He stood before Visenya, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed her trembling. His gaze softened, the cruel mockery that usually clouded Aegon’s features replaced by Aemond’s, one that held an undeniable sense of remorse. 

"You don’t have to be afraid of me," Aemond said quietly, his voice low. The calmness in his voice was somehow worse, like the calm before the storm. Visenya's heart raced, her thoughts a whirlwind as she processed the situation. Subjected to much cruelty, from the world, her family, Aegon, but now it was Aemond. He was not foreign to her, he was familiar, a familiarity that was painful but also soothing, "I never wanted it to be like this," Aemond continued, his hand reaching for her. "But I am what I am. And you... you are my retribution." Her body stiffened, but she made no move to resist. She had long ago learned that resistance brought only worse suffering. Aemond’s hand gently cupped her chin, his fingers warm and strangely tender, contrasting with the harshness of his words. He tilted her head up, his gaze focused on hers with an intensity she couldn’t avoid.

"I remember you," he whispered, his thumb brushing the tear from her cheek. "I remember when we were just children. I remember how you would follow me around, pestering me with questions, asking me things no child should know. But we both know the truth, you were never meant to be part of this world—our world. Not like this." The words stung, but they didn’t hurt as much as they should have. Perhaps, because of what she experienced, she knew that Aemond, for all his faults, was as much a victim of the game as she was. He was as trapped in this world as she was.

"I’m sorry," he said softly. "For everything." But, they both knew that warmth in his voice that could never make her forget what had been done to her in his name, what she had suffered in his absence. But she saw something in him—a vulnerability— perhaps it was guilt. Perhaps it was the guilt of what they were about to do. He was still the boy in who’s name she was wronged, yet now he was offering something she didn’t understand: kindness, but not forgiveness. 

Aemond slowly moved closer, brushing his lips against her forehead with an almost reverential softness. Then, his voice low, he murmured, “I won’t hurt you. I will make it... I will make it easier than you think.” Visenya’s breath hitched, her body tense as Aemond moved behind her, guiding her gently to the bed. She understood what he was doing, trying to soften the inevitable cruelty of the situation. Almost as if he was trying to redeem himself, not just for the years of cruelty, but also for the future, for this one act, this one moment. Visenya, too numb to protest, closed her eyes, the past and present merging into something she couldn’t fully comprehend. When he touched her, it was with an almost painful gentleness. His hands moved with precision, as though he were trying to undo the damage his family and his actions had caused. It wasn’t an act of kindness—she knew that—but the tenderness he offered felt like something more than mere punishment.

Aemond spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I will make this easier for you, Visenya. I never wanted you to be caught in this. But I can’t undo the past." The words were hollow, yet Visenya felt something stir inside her—a mixture of pity, anger, and sadness. This was not the moment she had imagined for herself, and certainly not the moment she had ever wanted to experience with Aemond. But it was happening, and it would shape her, just as much as it would shape him. She couldn’t resist—wouldn’t resist—and so, in the silence of the room, the act proceeded.

Afterwards, Aemond held her close, his touch soft against her skin, as if he were afraid to let go. The tenderness was there, but it was fleeting, overshadowed by the weight of what had just happened. It felt like a twisted form of atonement, but whether it would bring peace to either of them was uncertain. "I’m sorry," Aemond said again, this time with genuine sorrow in his voice. Visenya said nothing, the words lost in the fog of her own confusion and pain. She could feel the weight of his body beside her, the quietness of the room pressing in around them. She had been forced to endure much in her life, but this—this moment, this betrayal wrapped in kindness—was something she would never forget.

As the night stretched on, the emotions between them were left unsaid, and the future, uncertain. Aemond had left, and Visenya took that as a sign she could too. Visenya's body ached as she left the room, her mind swirling after what had just happened. She moved through the hallways of the brothel like a ghost, each step heavy with the weight of what had been done to her. The night had been dark, and the air felt colder than it ever had before. The tenderness in Aemond’s touch—however fleeting—was drowned by the overwhelming sense of betrayal that gnawed at her.

She returned to her room, the door creaking as she pushed it open. The flickering light of the candle illuminated the space, and she sank down onto the bed, her hands trembling. The silence in the room pressed in on her, suffocating her. 

She felt the blood. It was strange, the feeling of it—how something so deeply intimate could now be the marker of her loss. Her maidenhood had been taken, but it wasn’t just the physical act that cut deep. It was everything surrounding it—the circumstances, the history, the cruelty, and the complexity of the people who had brought her to this point.

Visenya gingerly touched her thighs, the blood staining her fingers. The reminder was sharp, painful, and inescapable. She closed her eyes and let out a breath that trembled through her chest. It wasn’t just the blood—it was the realization of what had happened. She had been a child when they first met. She had been innocent once. And now, that innocence was gone forever, consumed by the darkness of the Targaryen family, by the very people she had once loved.

The tears that came were not loud or violent—they were quiet, just as her sobs were subdued. The emotional weight of everything she had endured pressed down on her, and she allowed herself the release, her breath hitching as she wiped away the blood from her fingers. She had been used, broken, but somehow, she could never bring herself to feel regret for what had happened. It was just another part of the world that had shaped her.

Her body hurt, but there was something more painful in the depth of her soul. Aemond’s tenderness hadn’t been enough to erase the bitter taste of everything that had come before. She couldn’t reconcile the boy she remembered with the man he had become. The room felt small, oppressive, as though it were closing in on her. Visenya pulled the blanket around her, clutching it tightly as if it could shield her from the world outside, from the blood on her body, from the scars on her soul.

She knew she couldn’t stay here forever. The brothel had become a place of suffocating memories, a place where she had been reshaped and torn apart. But where would she go? What would be left for her, after everything? The thought of facing her past, her family, her brothers, seemed almost impossible now. They had left her, abandoned her. Visenya let her mind wander through the fragments of her memories—her childhood in the Keep, her family, the hopes she had once harbored. But those memories, too, felt distant and blurred now. Aemond had taken her maidenhead, but in many ways, she had already been taken long ago. Any hope she had of a future outside of the brothel were taken, for, even if she did catch a noble’s eye, her maidenhood was taken, and her aspirations of leaving this station through marriage were dashed.

Visenya barely moved as she lay on the bed, her body still aching from the night’s events. It wasn’t just the physical pain, but the suffocating weight of everything that had happened—her body violated, her trust shattered, and her innocence stolen in a way that would never be returned.

The door to her room creaked open quietly, and in walked Mysaria. Her expression was always unreadable, but there was a softness to her gaze that Visenya recognized. Mysaria had always been someone who understood the weight of pain, someone who had experienced cruelty herself. "Visenya," Mysaria's voice was gentle, yet firm, as she approached the bed. "Let me help you."

Visenya didn’t respond at first. Her chest felt tight, as if she couldn't bring herself to speak. The tears had dried, but the hurt remained in every part of her being. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge what had happened, but it was all too real now. Mysaria sat next to her on the bed, her hands warm and steady as she gently lifted Visenya’s dress. "We need to clean you up," she said softly, her voice a calm anchor in the storm of Visenya’s thoughts. She reached for a cloth, soaked it in water, and carefully began to clean the blood from Visenya's thighs, her movements tender and practiced. Visenya flinched at the touch, but Mysaria was patient. She didn’t rush. She simply cleaned her, making sure to be as gentle as possible. The older woman said nothing, but her presence was a quiet comfort amidst the chaos Visenya felt inside. When the worst of the blood had been cleaned away, Mysaria reached for the small vial of moon tea she had brought with her. "This will help you," she murmured, pouring the liquid into a small cup. "It will prevent any… unwanted consequences" Visenya’s eyes widened as she took the cup. Not wanting anything more than necessary of the night to stay with her.

She had known what the moon tea was, and a part of her didn’t want to believe she’d ever need it, she also knew it was now what she needed. Without saying anything, she drank it slowly, the bitter taste settling in her throat as she tried not to think of what had happened.

Mysaria watched her carefully, her eyes soft with understanding. "You are strong, Visenya," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You will survive this." Visenya closed her eyes, leaning back against the bed. Her mind swirled with too many thoughts to untangle, but for the first time since it had all begun, she allowed herself a small measure of comfort. She didn’t have to face this alone. Not yet. Mysaria remained by her side for a while, offering her quiet company as she drifted in and out of sleep. And though Visenya couldn't say it aloud, she knew that Mysaria was the only one who hadn’t abandoned her, and for that, she was grateful. In this cold, dark world she now found herself in, there was still a sliver of kindness. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to help her survive whatever came next.

[thymehaspassed]

I passed the beginning of the end (the sixteenth) without even realizing it. Huh

[druidshollow]

ugly baby rivers is gonna be in my brain forever

its not his fault..... newborns are just ugly

(i did some rambling in the tags if u wanna look at it lol)

[arealtrashact]

-California Dreamin' intensifies-

[ofthemorningstars]

vent post

I have the flu while on day 8 of a high dose course of prednisone (which lowers your immune system) for a hip injury/condition and im kinda scared bc i also happen to have asthma and chronic bronchitis and like

I hate feeling like i just get on here and whine every single time I talk about anything irl but I am not having a good time bro

[muirmarie]

.

[sonknuxadow]

^ guy who has to draw funny hedgehogs or else they will die

[sarcastic-clapping]

not drinking on new years is so alien to me. there is just so much time to fill on new year’s eve when you aren’t like. constantly pausing to do shots of tequila or taking 20+ minute bathroom breaks at random intervals to throw up/have a breakdown/question your existence/compose yourself, repeat cycle. at one point i just started baking so id have something to do with my hands.

[monty-glasses-roxy]

Hi.

If you're wondering where I've been, I've been in withdrawal hell for the last week or so thanks to being given the runaround at every posible point since November.

I'm about to make this their problem. I'm going to pester the fucking shit out of them until they do the job they should have done (literally send ONE email) in November.

This may take all day so any good vibes in the inbox would be greatly appreciated. Wish me luck lads

[carsickcrow]

being normal about turning 18 i’m gonna like. stay up til midnight and count down like its new years

[ghostzzy]

like i understand that this is how jobs work and at basically any moment anybody’s employment can be terminated with no promise of severance (especially in florida) but it is kind of nuts to be like. “yeah so you have 2 weeks to figure out what you’re gonna do about the fact that you now make half as much money as you did before. teehee”

[newtness532]

im so annoyed with everything today, i think i need some tasty food and a million hours of sleep and then I'll be back to normal

[lordsardine]

.

[stillfruit]

i love not knowing if i'll ever be healthy again i love all of the time i've used to move my body become nothing i love spending my adulthood wasting away year after year for various reasons baby!