#this is the most horrifying event of my lifetime

[sail-not-drift]

.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (3)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, smut, angst, incest, obsession, violence, swearing, humiliation, chauvinism, mention of injury ]

[ 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.

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

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When he learned of the death of Daemon's wife, he knew it was a sign from the gods that his time had come − Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragoness in the world, was left without a rider.

He thought that at last he would make his father proud, that he would take his niece to Essos as he had promised her.

It seemed to him that the heavens were finally smiling on him, that everything made sense and was slowly beginning to come together, that he could see above the mist that surrounded him his destiny.

As he fled from the fortress in the middle of the night he thought only of the fact that he might die and hoped that if he did, his betrothed would mourn him greatly and never marry any other man.

Her sign of love and loyalty, of respect for his sacrifice for her and their future family.

Vhagar was frightening and huge, like a giant, dark, moving mountain, with her every movement the earth shook around her; he couldn't believe it when she obeyed his command, his body trembled as he climbed the ropes to the great saddle on her back, he screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him into the skies.

He was like Visenya, like Aegon the Conqueror, and his future wife was like sweet Rhaenys.

Everything was as it should be.

He ran through the underground caverns to wake her and tell her everything, to kiss her, to spend the night in her embrace and listen to her assurances that he was fearless, that he was brave and that she was proud to become the wife of the man who had become the rider of the most powerful dragon flying in the skies in their lifetime.

It was then that he came upon them.

He thought he would never let them humiliate himself again, that bastards or weak, quivering little girls who couldn't even tame a dragon would never stand in his way again.

All that mattered was her, and though he knew she would be upset, he felt that she would forgive him, that she would understand that this was revenge for all the years of humiliation he had suffered from them.

And then Luke cut his face with his blade − he suddenly heard his own loud, squeaky, almost girlish scream and grabbed his left eye where he had lost his sight completly.

He was given poppy milk to ease his pain and a stick was put in his mouth that he was told to clamp his teeth on; his mother cried out loud, horrified when she saw what had happened to him, the maester said the eye could not be saved and would have to be taken out.

That he would be a cripple.

He wailed and screamed, feeling the cut of the heated blade on his skin, struggling and writhing like an animal, tied to a chair, and then he stopped feeling anything, staring dully ahead, his mother and Aegon unable to look at it.

He saw her as if in a dream, and though she always smiled at the sight of him, this time she screamed loudly, terror and fear in her eyes.

She covered her mouth with her hand trying to hold back the sounds that came from her throat.

Then he understood.

So what if he had claimed a dragon, if she would never desire him again?

How would she force herself to marry someone who was from now on supposed to look like him?

He returned to King's Landing with the thought that all was lost and he didn't want to see anyone, much less her.

He didn't want her tears of sympathy, her assurances that she still loved him, her pity, the fact that in order not to offend him she would refrain from showing how disgusted she now was by his face.

He was no fool.

Her letter only angered him − he tore it into little pieces clenching his lips, thinking she was an idiot, giving him books now that he had lost one eye, reminding him that he would never see well again, that he would always be defective, that he would have to learn everything from the beginning.

However, as soon as he did so he immediately regretted it and burst out crying, looking at the pieces of parchment lying on his sheets, thinking of how he wished he could read it again because it was her handwriting, her words to him.

His conviction of his ugliness and the fact that what had happened crossed him out in her eyes as a man she could desire deepened his state into complete withdrawal, sinking into the darkness of his thoughts, fears and desires.

He needed someone to loathe, to throw all his ill emotions at, and he had chosen Luke as such a person, however it was the thoughts and dreams of her that kept him awake at night.

Waiting for her letters was his obsession.

She sent one every two months, always on the same day, for many years. At first they were short and full of uncertainty, but then it seemed to him that she had the impression that he didn't read them anyway, so she began to write and confide in someone who no longer existed, revealing to him the darkness and suffering of her own heart.

He was embarrassed by his own reactions, that whenever he saw a sealed message from her lying on his table, he would take it reverently and sit down on a chair by the fire, as if in some kind of ceremony pulling off the lac and unrolling it slowly, feeling his heart beat fast.

Dragonstone appears to me like a prison, like a black coffin, the sky above me full of clouds. I can't remember the last time light dawned in my heart − when I wake up I wonder for a moment about the meaning of it all, only to realise that thinking about it is pointless, it only sinks me further into the darkness.

It seems that the more I move away from what surrounds me, the greater the silence that settles in my head.

After what happened something inside me died.

Not in the aspect of my body, but in the sense of a conviction that something is missing, like when you look in a mirror reassembled from hundreds of pieces and, even though it is whole again, you can clearly see its cracks.

I wonder, are you sleeping well, uncle? Are you having nightmares again? I often return in my dreams to that night. I see you and although I want to say something, I can't get anything out, just as I did then. I wake up with the conviction that I am still a child.

I pray a lot, although I don't know myself to which gods anymore. I guess to any of who would be willing to listen to me. They don't answer me, just like you.

He repeated to himself in his mind that he would read her despairing, feminine ramblings to mock her, but in fact he was immersed in her thoughts, in her world, trying to imagine her, analysing each word with pietism, returning to the sentences that had taken the most root in his heart and would not leave him afterwards for days.

He read her letters for hours, treating such evenings like a sacred day, running his thumb over his lower lip, staring dully ahead in the light of the blazing fire, thinking of her words.

Although he pretended that what she wrote meant nothing to him, once in a while, usually when he was waiting for her next message, he would take all her letters and read them one by one, analysing how her handwriting had changed, now much prettier and assured, how her choice of words had evolved, rich and full of metaphors.

He knew that, like him, she read a lot.

She never brought up the matter of his or her family, the details of their conflict, their betrothal and the fact that his mother had insisted that he marry one of Lord Baratheon's daughters.

When he learned that Rhaenyra planned to marry his niece to her cousin of House Arryn he grabbed all her letters she had sent him over the years, which he kept locked in his wooden drawer, and almost threw them into the fire, hesitating at the last moment, squeezing them in his hand, panting with rage.

Although he kept repeating to himself that it was a good thing he wouldn't have to take a bastard wife, immediately his mind went into a fury at the thought that she might have become someone else's mistress, borne children to other man, and he found himself sinking into her letters again, as if re-appropriating her in this way.

He feared nothing more than that one day she would stop writing to him.

He dreaded what he would do then.

The days when Aegon could mess with him were long gone. His older brother the drunkard knew he was no match for him in hand-to-hand combat, he was taller, smarter and stronger than he was.

Yet it was Aegon who was to inherit everything that would not fall to Rheanyra as future queen.

He wanted to be his opposite in every sense of the word; his appearance made him even more isolated from the opposite sex and he didn not look at women at all, spending long hours in the Great Sept with his mother praying at her request.

If it had been up to him, he would have prayed to the gods of Old Valyria, but he saw her loneliness and loss, and wanted to be a support for her, a son she would be proud of.

Despite what he tried to tell himself, the tension he felt as a man grew stronger within him, even more so in the evenings when he leaned over her letters again, when he thought of her scent, of her hand holding the quill.

He wondered involuntarily what she looked like now, what he would notice if he undressed her, if he exposed her bare breasts to him.

Would they fit in his hand, would they be soft and warm?

Would she moan sweetly if he touched her there?

He tilted his head back, trying to read further, settling himself more comfortably in the chair, his free hand slipping under his breeches, gripping his already half-hard, throbbing manhood.

He imagined that it wasn't his hand but hers that was touching him, that she wasn't disgusted by him, that just like before her hands were stroking his cheeks, her lips were finding his in a sweet, warm kisses.

A murmur escaped his throat at the thought, a wave of heat surged over him and he quickened, fucking himself with his own hand until he came with a low sigh of relief, imagining that she was sitting on top of him, that he had just filled her with his seed, that she was begging him not to stop.

However, when he regained his sanity he felt rage and shame.

He hid her letters in a drawer and did not take them out for weeks, as if offended that it was their fault he had to pray again and beg the gods for forgiveness.

He promised himself that this would not happen again, however, it always ended the same way.

The knowledge that he could not forget her enraged and calmed him at the same time, as if this state was natural, the parallel hatred and desire for her became one and the same in his eyes.

He hated her because he desired her, desired her because he could not have her, could not have her because he hated her.

He locked himself in this circle, not allowing anyone to see what was poisoning his mind and heart.

If in the poems women appeared innocent and bright, she was to him the symbol of his downfall, his flame of his eternal suffering, which burned him every day, but which he did not dare to extinguish knowing that complete darkness would then prevail inside him.

When it became known that Vaemond Velaryon had challenged Luke's claim to the throne of Driftmark he laughed out loud at the Small Council meeting, amused, embarrassing his mother and grandfather.

He thought the gods were cruel but fair.

The grin disappeared from his face, replaced by a strong heartbeat when their Queen conveyed that Rhaenyra, along with her entire family, would appear in King's Landing in a few days to settle the matter.

With her entire family.

He sat by the fireplace that evening, running his thumb over his lips, feeling that there was complete panic in his mind, hundreds of thoughts running through his head.

He wasn't ready for this.

He didn't want to see her.

He wanted nothing more than to see her again.

He was disgusted by her and her brothers, by the fact that he would be sitting at the same table with her.

Would she touch him with her soft hand? Did she still smell of vanilla? Would she whisper that she missed him?

What was he to answer if she did?

Mock her, tell her that she should retain the remnants of her dignity.

Tear off her gown, press his lips to her soft, bare body, saying that he would sooner kill her than let her marry someone else.

He let out a loud shuddering breath, burying his face in his hand, feeling like his head was about to explode, his heart pounding like mad.

He had the feeling that he was losing his mind, that he was descending into madness.

When he saw Jace and Luke among the crowds, when he saw how small and skinny they were compared to him, when he saw their mouths wide open in shock as they realised who they were looking at, he thought he had never felt more satisfied in his life.

"Nephews. Have you come to train?" He asked in a deep, teasing voice feigning concern as he played with the hilt of his sword in his hand, flipping it between his fingers.

He wanted nothing more than to humiliate them in public.

His musings and wild excitement were interrupted by Vaemond's entrance into the courtyard − he grinned broadly at the sight of him, feeling a sense of satisfaction, sighing quietly, thinking of how the gods had rewarded his patience.

He turned impatiently, extending his hand to his servant, willing him to hand him another wooden shield and froze in half-step, out of the corner of his eye noticing a silhouette looking at him from the cloisters.

It seemed to him that his heart knew who was standing there even before it reached his mind, for it began to pound like mad, his breath stopped in his throat.

He forced himself to look there again and that's when he saw her − he couldn't believe how much she had changed.

Although he could see the obvious features and similarities by which he recognised her immediately, her eyes, her eyelashes, the shade of her hair, the shape of her nose and face, it seemed to him that if she had been a bud when she left the Red Keep, she was now a flower that had blossomed, a ripe fruit that begged to be plucked, to bite into its flesh.

He imagined his swollen lips brushing the hollow of her bare neck, the soft skin of her shoulders, the scent of vanilla he would smell and he shuddered, ashamed and horrified at how hard his manhood throbbed in his breeches.

This sight, so clear, blunt, final, completely shocked him, and though it lasted only a moment, he managed to remember the shape of her breasts and hips, the shape of her parted mouth, her terrified gaze full of longing.

He turned away from her, furious, thrusting his sword at Criston, their blades clashing in the air with a loud clang of steel.

That evening he felt that something hung in the air. He felt her presence in the keep and had the impression that if he turned he would see her silhouette behind him.

He played between his fingers with his dagger and looked at it, wondering if he would feel relief if he killed her, if he would then regain control of his body and mind again.

Maybe it was the right path.

Maybe it was because of her that he was unable to move on.

He shuddered and tensed all over when he heard a quiet knock on the door to his chamber − he felt a cold sweat on the back of his neck, knowing that it was her, that destiny had reached him.

He felt it in his bones.

He wanted to remain silent, he wanted to show her that she no longer had access to his world, that he recognised years ago that there was no way for them that they could walk together.

I pray a lot, although I don't know myself to which gods anymore. I guess to any of who would be willing to listen to me. They don't answer me, just like you.

He closed his eye, feeling a squeeze in his throat at the thought of those three sentences that echoed through his mind and heart like a bell, that undeniable desire on her part to be reunited with him that he pretended not to share.

"Come in." He said coldly, feeling the thrill of excitement, his heart pounding so hard that he felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

The door opened with a quiet creak of wood, and she appeared in it, surrounded by the glow of candlelight, looking like a saint, like a ghost, like an innocent, sweet maiden who was lost in the black maze that had always been meant to lead her to him.

He resigned himself to the fact that there was no escape from it.

She closed the door behind her and turned to look at him; he wasn't sure if it was the flames that was trembling or if it was her body that was quivering all over with fear, in her big eyes terror, desire, suffering, everything she had written to him about.

Only after a moment did he realise that his jaw was clenched, that he was involuntarily still playing with his dagger in his hand as he looked at the indistinct silhouette of her naked body peeking through from under her nightgown, her long dark hair loose, its curls falling freely over her back.

He felt his length throbbing hard at the thought of her coming to him dressed as a lover, as if she were his.

He licked his lower lip with his tongue, catching himself breathing loudly.

Gods, how long he had waited for this.

"Did you received my letters?" She asked quietly, as usual without any further pleasantries, her voice trembled slightly betraying her fear.

He shuddered to hear that she no longer sounded like a child, the way she spoke was melodious and pleasant, soft, warm.

"Yes." He replied in a low, deep voice, sounding like an echo in an endless, dark bottomless well.

He saw that she blinked rapidly, as if she hadn't expected such an answer; she pressed her lips together and swallowed loudly, gathering the courage to say more.

She knew she had ventured into the dragon's cave and might never leave it again.

He knew, he felt that she was aware of what was on his mind, that she saw it in his gaze.

"Have you read them?" She asked at last, there was something final in her question.

He parted his lips slightly, lifting his chin in a defiant gesture, stretching comfortably in his chair, wondering if he should humiliate her with words that he had burned them all.

To let her know that she no longer meant anything to him.

He wanted to say it, but he couldn't.

"Yes, my Lady Strong. I have read them all. Many times, here, in this chair." He hummed, running the blade of his dagger across the armrest, making a deep, chiseled line on it.

Go on, he thought, ask me why I didn't write back, what I thought of your tendentious, weepy musings, what I thought of your feminine, touching guilt, of your weakness, of your coming to me now like a dog to beg forgiveness.

She, however, asked nothing.

He shuddered and threw her a surprised glance as she suddenly moved ahead with a grave expression on her face, as if she had lost interest in the subject, making him feel discomfort.

"Does your mother-whore know you're here?" He asked dryly, wanting to take away her confidence, to embarrass her, to strike at her dignity, reminding her that she herself had come to a grown man in such a shameless negligee.

She, however, merely threw him a surprised glance as she approached his bookshelves, the small one he had been given as a child replaced by three new ones, made of oak wood, high to the ceiling, filled to the brim.

She reached for one of the volumes and he felt a squeeze in his throat when he saw that she had taken out The Reflections on the Dignity of the Ancient Philosopher Areon.

"My, as you put it, mother-whore, never knew when I visited you, uncle. I was very determined not to be caught." She said calmly, but with an air of regret and weariness, as if the situation between them was tiring her, as if she believed that facing him like a ghost from the past would allow her to move on.

He thought they both could have done it, but he wasn't sure if the blade he held in his hand wouldn't have cut her neck then.

He snorted, turning his gaze to the flames, involuntarily turning his dagger in his hand − he grinned despite being tense and bitter.

"Do you often visit men like this?" He asked reluctantly, though inside he was dying to prove to himself that surely she had already slept with her guards or other men who would give her pleasure, that the sweet, innocent girl he remembered was long gone.

He heard her footsteps and felt her presence; he lifted his eye to her, surprised, and noticed that her gaze was cloudy, her brow furrowed.

She looked as if she had been exceptionally offended by those very words.

"Have you no shame?" She asked him in a cool, trembling voice; he could feel the pain in the way she asked the question, his lips tightened into a thin line.

He was struck by how direct the question was.

He wasn't used to being spoken to like that.

But before he had time to respond with anything, to finally stab her in the back with words that were like poison, she began to speak, as if a dam had suddenly burst inside her and her thoughts poured out at him.

"I don't know who you are, the man who sits now before me, but if there is even a fragment of the boy I was meant to marry in you, let that boy know that he was and will be the only one in my heart. He was my beloved friend and I failed him. It is hard to live with the thought that someone you loved so deeply has died in a way, but there is neither a grave to pray over nor any hope of peace for his soul. What I fear is that the boy I knew has disappeared among the darkness and is dying in it every day."

He was ashamed that he felt a squeeze in his throat, that he felt a burning under his eyelids, that his heart was pounding like mad, that he froze completely in disbelief and shock as he stared at her wide-eyed.

She bursted into sobs in front of him, as if she was really mourning someone's death, and he didn't know what to do – even if he wanted to humiliate her, tell her to leave, he couldn't get anything out of himself.

He drew in air loudly and his whole body stiffened, the dagger fell out of his hand with loud clatter when she surprised him completely by sitting down on his lap, snuggling into him like a little child.

He had the feeling that she was not embracing him in the here and now, but a figure from the past that she missed so much.

"– forgive me – forgive me – forgive me –" She whined in a desperate, trembling, quivering voice.

He felt he was struggling to catch his breath, his nostrils filled with her scent, the smell of vanilla, her familiar warmth, his manhood hidden beneath his breeches swelled in response to this sudden, unexpected closeness, hitting her stomach.

She shuddered feeling it and looked up at him, her face flooded with tears, terrified and ashamed, her gaze asking him what she had just felt underneath her.

He began to breathe through his mouth, feeling the panic rising inside him because of the heat and tingling he felt in his lower abdomen.

There were drops of her tears on her eyelashes, her eyes big, her gaze hot, tender, terrified, her cheeks flushed with emotion, her lips puffy and plump, slightly parted in an accelerated breath.

"– can I kiss you? –"

He wasn't sure if he really heard it, it seemed to have only resounded in his head as his memory of that sunny day, but involuntarily he leaned lower.

He sighed as if relieved when her arms suddenly embraced his neck, her plump breasts snuggled into his tunic, and her wonderfully wet, soft lips pressed against his in a sticky, loud kiss.

They both moaned into each other's mouths as they felt his erection throb under her again, harder this time − he wasn't sure if it was his will that guided the movements of his hands as one clamped down on her hip and the other on the back of her neck, holding her in place, not allowing her lips to pull away from his as he slid his tongue deep into her throat.

They both trembled as he tentatively began to rock his hips, rubbing against her from below, teasing her palate with the tip of his tongue, overwhelmed by her familiar closeness and scent, her so-needed, gentle hands stroking his hair and cheeks, her thumb running over his scar under his eye patch.

The sight of her body, her sweetly parted lips, her hot gaze in which everything lurked, and her scent, the smell of fucking vanilla filled his entire mind.

He rubbed his already hard cock against the place between her thighs again and again, panting heavily, sliding his free hand under the material of her nightgown, placing it on her naked, hot hip, digging his fingertips into her wonderfully soft skin.

He saw the blush on her sweet, innocent face, her hips in a slow, smooth motion began to move back and forth, pressing what was underneath her; he shuddered all over feeling it and they both sighed quietly as her fingers ran over his jaw.

"− uncle −" She whispered softly into his mouth, exactly like in his dreams, like when he touched himself between his thighs with his hand.

With longing and desire.

He was unable to remember when she pressed her sweet-tasting lips to his again, hugging her soft breasts into the fabric of his tunic, what the reason for their disagreement was, it seemed to him to be completely trivial and unfounded.

He thought it was obvious that the lovers had argued with each other and then reconciled.

That was all he thought about as he undid the ties of her nightgown, sucking and caressing her fleshy, moist mouth, her jaw, her neck, her shoulders with his swollen lips, leaving wet, hot marks on her skin – his hands slid it slowly off her arms, revealing her bare body, her lovely breasts, unashamedly before him.

He delighted in this sight, almost mythological, noble, for breasts were the joy of husbands and the source of milk for their offspring, something beautiful, admirable.

He could feel her trembling all over in his hands, terrified by her negligee; he was sure now that no one had ever seen her naked before him and this thought spread like a wonderful, hot wave through his body.

"− easy − your uncle will treat your body with proper respect −" He murmured in a deep voice trembling with arousal, his large hand grasped one of her breast and squeezed it tentatively; he sighed feeling how warm and soft it was.

She moaned innocently in front of him, making his long erection press against her lower abdomen again.

He grasped her cheeks in his hand, with a brutal, sudden movement drawing her face closer to his, his fingers ran over her soft, wet, full lips.

"− please −" She mumbled, her gaze warm and hazy, her little body trembling in his embrance.

He decided to take pity on her, sliding his tongue deep inside her throat, stifling her loud mewl.

His thumb began to tease and play with her nipple, making her whole body shivered; he felt her hands tighten in his hair, her lips melt into his in a quick, hot dance of saliva and teeth.

"− uh − it tickles − here –" She muttered, rubbing against his swollen erection with her hips, as if she really didn't know what was happening to her, as if she wanted him to help her understand what her body was trying to tell her, however he, hearing this, lost his temper.

Despite the material of his breeches separating them where their bodies met, he could feel her moisture.

She was wet.

She wanted him inside her.

"− it's understandable − you missed your uncle − hm? −" He murmured into her mouth with a kind of tenderness and understanding that surprised him, as if it had been obvious that this was how it would end.

She nodded quickly like a child who agreed with his teacher, who wanted to be guided, to be shown what was right.

She squealed as he stood up with her, holding her in his arms, just thinking about the fact that he hadn't felt this calm for years, the sight of her, the smell of her made his head spin.

He couldn't even remember why he was mad at her, why he hadn't written her back, why he wanted to kill her.

How could he ever hurt her, his sweet little wife?

"− lie on your back − yes, just like that −" He murmured with delight, looking at her partially exposed body; her lips was pink and puffy from his caresses, her breath heavy as she looked at him dreamily, watching as he began to undo the fastenings of his tunic, getting rid of it, leaving only his shirt and breeches.

He climbed onto the bed with a loud creak of wood, not quite sure what he should do, sensing subconsciously, however, that this was the day of their reunion, their reconciliation after years of separation, the figures of Lord Baratheon's daughters and Lord Arryn's son seemed to him nothing more than a joke.

He knew that he couldn't take her maidenhood, deprive her of her virtue even it was the only thing he desired now and, desperate, he reminded himself about what his brother said to him one day.

Then he was embarrassed by his words, but now he thought that he could make use of them.

Aegon spoke to him of how wonderful it was to taste the woman between their thighs, that they quivered with delight when he licked them there, and since he would devour her whole if he could, he decided to try.

She was horrified and distraught when she saw his face between her thighs; he thought, lifting the material of her nightgown above her hips, that her womanhood reminded him of a flesh of a fruit, pink, moist and fleshy.

She tried to push him away, asking him fearfully what he was going to do as he leaned down, but she only tilted her head back as his tongue ran over her leaking, throbbing, hot slit, the sound she made surprised even him.

"− o-oh, gods −" She whimpered as he licked devotedly what spilled out of her, the taste and flesh of his future wife, her proof that she didn't despise him, that she still wanted him, that her little cunt was waiting for him and for his caresses.

"− have you touched yourself here? −" He gasped between one lick of his tongue and the next, her thighs trembling in his hands, her fingers clenched in his hair, trying to rub against his face.

He grinned involuntarily sensing her desperation, seeing that she nodded and ran the tip of his nose over the puffy bud hidden between her folds, making her moaned loudly.

Encouraged, he grasped it in his mouth and began to suck on it, licking it with his tongue; her whole body arched, uncontrollable whines erupted from her mouth. He tried to cover her lips with his hand, fearing that someone would eventually hear it, but she clamped her hands on his wrist, blocking his movements.

"− please, uncle, too much − too much −" She whimpered, trying to escape; he stopped, seeing that her body was shaking in convulsions, surprised how sensitive the female body was and how many secrets it hid.

He thought he now understood why it was Rhaenys that Aegon the Conqueror wanted in his bed.

In the art of the body, one could not be aggressive and brutal as on the battlefield.

What they were doing was some sort of a feast, tasting and satisfying their desires, full of moistures and hot embraces.

He hummed as he leaned down again, intrigued, and slowly slipped his tongue deep inside her, feeling how rough and wet her fleshy walls were, groaning quietly as her wonderful taste spread across his palate.

"− uncle − mghmm −" She mumbled, breathing hard, with each flick of his tongue inside her drifting away more and more, he could feel her insides pulsing all over around nothing.

"− it'll be wonderful to feel it clench around my fat cock one day − don't you think, sweet niece? −" He asked, pressing his face closer to her body, licking and rubbing her walls in place that when he touched it with the tip of his tongue she trembled the most, moaning helplessly, her hips coming up to meet his face, her breathing getting louder and louder.

"− oh g-gods, Aemond − oh gods,oh gods,oh gods −" She mewled, startling him as she raised herself up on her elbow, tilting her head back, bliss and delight painted on her face, her plump, glossy lips parted in sweet moans as if in disbelief that something so wonderfully pleasurable had shaken her body.

It was the first time he had ever seen female fulfilment and it was a stunning, wonderful sight.

He groaned low as he felt how much moisture flowed out of her, kissing her hot, throbbing entrance devotedly, slowly licking everything off, not wanting to waste a drop, even though she begged him to stop.

Everything he drank from her was for him, the wonderful nectar of his sweet wife.

He rose on his knees, wiping his face with his hand, looking at her in disbelief, panting loudly; she lay as if without strength, with her hands spread on either side of her head, her plump, puffy lips slightly parted in ragged breath.

His niece.

"Touch me." He demanded, slipping off his breeches, taking her hand in his, with a desperate, sudden movement clamping her fingers on his swollen, twitching erection, leaking from his own wetness. They both moaned helplessly when, with movements of his hand, he showed her how she was to touch him.

She looked up at him in shame, squeezing his long, swollen manhood with sure up and down strokes, feeling it throb all over in her grasp; he rocked his hips involuntarily, sensing that he was embarrassingly close to fulfillment.

"− fuck − fuck, come here −" He gasped, grabbing her by her hair, forcing her to rise up and kiss him − their lips collided in a sticky, messy kiss, the combination of their tongues and their saliva, the smell of her, the sight of her bare body, the scent of her sex, her moisture around them, proof of what they were doing.

Against their gods, against their family.

He didn't care what happened next.

"− don't fucking stop − faster − fuck-fuck-fuck −" He hissed and groaned low, surprised at the helpless sound that came from his throat, coming with a sigh of relief onto her nightgown, his translucent, pearly spend spurting out onto her, startling her; he hushed her with his kisses, whispering to her between the sticky brushes of their lips.

"− easy, it's just me − shhh −" He whispered, letting go of her hand, allowing her to release her grip, her fingers all sticky with his seed.

"− lick it off − don't waste a drop −" He growled, wrinkling his eyebrows.

She swallowed loudly, all red with shame at his lewd words, obediently licking her finger after finger, looking him straight in the eye. He watched her with satisfaction, grinning, thinking of how obedient and good a wife she would indeed be.

"− you are going to spend the night with me −"

______

From the author: In Stay and love, leave and die oneshot Aemond would not allow her to enter his chamber, he would remain silent - in his opinion, she had forgotten about him and suddenly wanted to regain his favor, which he found pathetic and irritating, not worth his attention. None of her letters reached him through the years, having been intercepted and burned by Otto. The next day, he informed his mother that either she would leave the Red Keep or he would, and she decided to return to Dragonstone so as not to escalate the conflict. In that universe, they actually speak to each other only in Strom's End.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

[odyssean-flower]

the winding path of fate chapter 13 sneak peak

(this is the second half of the first part. I want to rewrite the first half. tbh i'm thinking of posting the first part of chapter 13 since it is relatively long. ngl i feel like i put too many events in a single chapter sometimes. will put up a poll tomorrow when i finish the rewrites.)

With the new day and the cozy safety of your room, the events of last night seemed like they happened a lifetime ago. The fear had mostly subsided, leaving mortification and regret in its wake, especially as everyone was acting so considerate towards you. Looking back, you had no idea what you were thinking, and you realized once again just how lucky you had been.

Your ankle’s swelling had gone down considerably the next day, but it still hurt whenever you put even the slightest bit of pressure on it, so you spent most of the day in bed, reading books, drawing, or staring out the window at the gray sky. Your knee didn’t hurt quite as much either, but you still had to change the dressing regularly. You weren’t without company, though, as Marie sat with you in your room often, bringing you food and helping you put away your newly bought clothes in your closet. She had been horrified when you came home last night, injured. “Oh, Madame, you should have asked someone to get me!” she had lamented. “The streets at night are no place for a young lady to walk by herself!”

Marie wasn’t the only visitor to your room. The Melusines, including those who hadn’t gone shopping with you, also came to see you throughout the day. You supposed that Neuvillette told them about you, for they all brought you cakes and other desserts as get-well presents (you also suspected that they also reported back to Neuvillette about your condition, for when you mentioned to one Melusine how you would like to drink some Fonta, your wish was granted by the next Melusine who visited. However, she also heartily recommended that you drink water from Snezhnaya instead, which held a coolness that was good against swelling, and if you wished, you could ask Marie to fetch a bottle of it for you from Monsieur Neuvillette’s personal stash. She also added that you need not hesitate to ask, as he had more than one bottle. Perhaps all Melusines shared his specific tastes in water, but you didn’t quite believe that was the case).

Rhemia and the other Melusines who had been with you yesterday had been the most distressed upon seeing you bedridden. “I’ll stick to you like glue from now on, Madame! No criminal will escape my sights!” Rhemia had declared, and her sisters nodded vigorously in agreement.

“There really is no need for that,” you tried to decline her offer. Privately, you thought that there wasn’t much a Melusine could do against muggers anyways. “The whole incident only happened because I was careless and in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll be much more careful next time, so I doubt it will happen again. Just because I’m Neuvillette’s wife, it doesn’t mean that I deserve special treatment or anything of the sort. And if he put you up to this, then—”

Rhemia blinked at you in confusion. “But this has nothing to do with Monsieur Neuvillette. Not entirely, anyways.”

“It doesn’t?” Now you were confused.

“Nope! I’d do this for all the people important to me! Oh, but I guess you’re more than that, since you’re married to Monsieur Neuvillette! That would make you our mother, I suppose.”

“Um…” There was the m-word again. You considered correcting Rhemia, but she continued on, seemingly not noticing your discomfort.

“You’re always so kind and patient with us, just like Monsieur Neuvillette. You greet us whenever you see us, and you always ask us about our days and listen to our troubles. Oh, and Madame, you’re such a good teacher too! I’ve gotten so much better at drawing humans thanks to your lessons!” Rhemia turned to her friends. “Am I right?”

Her friends nodded enthusiastically. They began recounting all the times you’ve spent with them.

“I’m glad to hear that you all think of me as your friend,” you said after they finished, a little embarrassed but also pleased. You hadn’t expected them to remember so much about you. But you felt a little guilty as well. At first, you decided to become friendly with the Melusines because everyone knew that Neuvillette treasured them greatly and you wanted to be in his good graces so that he wouldn’t have any reason to kick you out. They had always been the ones to come up to you first, especially in the first few weeks after your marriage, and while you didn’t consider yourself to be a particularly friendly and warm person, even you weren’t heartless enough to be cold to such a cheerful race of creatures.

“It’s not just us! I’m sure all the Melusines in the Court of Fontaine feel the same way. You’re just as important to us as Monsieur Neuvillette.”

“Oh…” Looking at their bright, earnest faces, you didn’t know what to say. Your eyes suddenly became misty. Before this marriage, you hadn’t really given much mind to Melusines. They were just the public servants you would occasionally pass by on the street. But now that you were connected to them through Neuvillette, you were belatedly learning just how wonderful they were.

“Thank you,” you said at last, patting each of them on the head. Your hand still stung a little from last night, but you ignored it. “It means a lot to me that you think so highly of me. Truly. Still, you don’t need to follow me around. If I ever need help, I promise that I will come straight to you. And…I hope that you would all come to the sunflower viewing party we’re holding here next month.”

“Of course, Madame! We wouldn’t miss it for anything!” the Melusines chirped in unison.

By evening, the deluge of visitors had finally ended. You sank into your pillows, feeling exhausted. You weren’t used to having so many people fuss over you. It was unfamiliar territory, one that you weren’t quite sure how to navigate.

Still, as you gazed at the teetering pile of confectionary boxes covered in Melusine stickers on your bedside table and remembered all the get-well wishes you received, a rush of warmth flooded your heart. How did I get so lucky? You wondered. Perhaps even after I leave Neuvillette, we can still be friends…

As you were lost in your thoughts, Marie came into your room again.

“Oh, Madame, I completely forgot to give you this because of everything that happened yesterday. It appears to be from your family.”

Marie handed you an envelope made of thick, creamy paper. You recognized the stationery as the kind used by your father for formal correspondences, and the address written in familiar, flowery cursive on the front was indeed that of your family’s house.

“Ah, that would be from my sister,” you said, tearing the envelope open and taking out the contents. The enveloped contained two cards made of similarly thick paper. They both had an elaborately drawn border of Lumidouce Bells and Rainbow Roses and had an invitation written in the center. This was new.

You are cordially invited

To a celebration

Honoring

Justine’s nineteenth birthday

Semi-formal attire requested (Floral themed outfits are preferred)

P.S. Sister, please tell me if Monsieur Neuvillette has any allergies or requires any accommodations!

“Ugh…” you groaned, putting your palm over your face. “I still haven’t gotten her a present yet!”

That had been the cause of this trouble in the first place, and yet you hadn’t even accomplished your goal in the end.

While we’re on this topic, shouldn’t she have sent the invitations much earlier if she wanted people to RSVP? It’s just like her to do things last minute! And why is she acting like it’s already decided that Neuvillette’s coming?

“Marie, could you please fetch me my pen and paper?” you asked the housekeeper. After you received them, you began to write a reply to tell Justine that while you were coming, Neuvillette definitely wasn’t. But just as you got to that last part, you paused. The idea of the Chief Justice attending a teenage girl’s birthday party all the way out in the countryside was absurd, of course. You tried to picture him sitting at your family’s worn dining table, singing “Happy Birthday” eating the butterscotch cake your housekeeper always made for birthdays, all the while fending off the barrage of questions from your family and friends. I can’t imagine it! It’s just too ridiculous!

It would be better if he didn’t have too much contact with your family, in order to avoid them asking too many questions, and to make the eventual divorce go smoothly.

He rarely even attended the far more glamorous functions of high society, so something like this would be out of the question. His answer would go without asking.

Or would it?

You didn’t really know why you were entertaining the idea. Perhaps being with Neuvillette these past few months had greatly inflated your sense of self-importance—but then again, you thought that the two of you had gotten close enough where asking him wouldn’t be so preposterous. You were friends, and wouldn’t it be ruder to not at least extend an invitation to a friend? Wasn’t the act of asking in itself greatly appreciated?

And…there was a little part of you that would like to show him around your hometown. It was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and all you could see for miles around were fields of wildflowers and mountains—a common sight in Fontaine—but there were a few spots that you had fond memories of. Since Neuvillette showed you his favorite places, it was only right to repay the favor, even if none of your favorite spots were as exciting as the giant willow tree or Merusea Village.

Recent events, including the latest incident, had taught you the folly of making assumptions, even for seemingly inconsequential things like this. Just because you thought

The worst thing he could say is no, you reasoned to yourself. And it’s not the end of the world if he does. Sure, Justine will be disappointed, but everyone knows how busy and reclusive Neuvillette is, so she’ll understand if he declines.

As if on cue, you heard the front door open downstairs. Neuvillette had returned home. After a brief conversation with Marie, the sound of his heels briskly ascending the stairs and heading in the direction of your room until it stopped in front of your door. There was a soft knock.

“Madame, may I come in?”

“Yes,” you called out, and Neuvillette opened the door and stepped inside your room. He was about to close the door behind him, but then he looked at you. A thought seemed to cross his mind, and he left the door ajar.

Um, why is he just standing there? You stared at him, confused when he didn’t take a seat right away. He simply stared at you, his gaze a mix of worry, uncertainty, and something else. For a second, you wondered if he was that caught off guard by your dishevelled appearance that was a result of staying in bed all day. It took you a minute to realize that he was waiting for you to ask him to sit down. Really, this man… I thought we’re past such formalities.

“You can pull up a chair,” you said, nodding towards the cushioned chairs in the center of the room. He complied, clasping his hands in his lap after settling in his seat and leaning towards you slightly. He stared at you intently, as if afraid that you would disappear before his eyes. You squirmed uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were wearing only your rumpled nightgown and that you were lying in bed. You surreptitiously pulled your covers up to your chest.

Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve ever had a man who isn’t my father in my room, you mused, though you were also aware that this wasn’t really the occasion to think about such things. Well, I guess it technically isn’t the first time, since he carried me back here when I fell asleep in his study that one time. First time that I was conscious, then.

Thankfully, Neuvillette broke the silence and (once again) prevented your thoughts from going in strange directions.

“The robbers will be tried in court shortly,” he said. “It will be a short, simple trial, considering the number of witnesses at the scene. I will not be presiding over it, however.”

“I see,” you nodded. “I’m very glad to hear that.”

Despite that, his brow remained creased with worry. “How are you feeling, Madame? Should I take you to the hospital after all?” he asked.

“No, that really won’t be necessary,” you shook your head vigorously. “It’s only a bad sprain. I’ll probably be able to walk again tomorrow.”

“It is highly unwise to rush your recovery. What will happen if you worsen your injury? The meeting with Furina can be postponed—”

“Don’t postpone it,” you said, leaning over to grab his sleeve and stared into his eyes. “The sooner we get this over with, the better. I’ll drag myself up the steps of the Palais if I have to.”

Neuvillette looked like he wanted to argue, but he swallowed back whatever he was going to say. “There’s no need to exert yourself in such a way,” he said at last. “I would be happy to carry you into my office, if you should ask.”

“Carry me into your office, huh?” you leaned back against your pillow with a smile. You sometimes wondered if Neuvillette realized how unintentionally funny he could be. “Wouldn’t that give people the wrong idea?”

“You do have a point. Then, I propose that we arrive at my office early in the morning, before the Palais employees come into work.”

“How about instead of carrying me, I borrow your cane?”

Neuvillette seemed to be pondering your words seriously. “But that would also run into the problem of rousing people’s suspicions. Someone might wonder why my cane is in your possession.”

You turned your head away to smother your laugh.

“It seems that the Melusines have made their visits,” Neuvillette said, looking at the tower of boxes on your bedside table.

“Yes, they were all very sweet. Although, I’m not sure how they expect me to eat all these…” You liked dessert and all, but not to this extent. Perhaps you could bring some of them back home with you to share with your family and friends.

“Clorinde also asked me to pass on her well wishes to you. She was very sorry to hear what happened.”

“I see. Please thank her for me, and tell her not to blame herself for my foolishness.”

“I will do that,” Neuvillette nodded, then was silent for a moment. His solemn gaze as he looked at you made it seem like you were diagnosed with some terminal illness rather than merely spraining your ankle badly and hitting your knee against the ground.

“Neuvillette?” you called out his name in hopes of getting rid of that grave look in his eyes. It made your chest feel heavy.

“Ah, by the way, I consulted with a friend of mine about your injury. She made this drink for you,” Neuvillette brandished a green, ridiculously adorable cup from out of nowhere. It reminded of you of the cups toddlers drank juice out of. “She says that it will help your body recover quicker.”

“A friend of yours?” you repeated, your interest piqued. While Neuvillette would happily talk to you about the Melusines for hours on end and occasionally talk about his (human) acquaintances, you had never heard him call anyone his friend before.

“Yes. She is the head nurse the Fortress of Meropide’s infirmary, and one of the kindest and considerate people I know. I hope the two of you can meet one day.”

“That’s high praise coming from you,” you said, making a mental note of this mysterious friend. “Why don’t we invite her to the sunflower viewing as well?”

“What a wonderful idea. I shall do just that,” he said, then held out the cup to you. “Now, Madame, you should drink this.”

“Alright,” you took a sip of the drink and nearly spat it out. “Bleakness” was the only way to describe the taste. It almost made you want to get out of bed and walk so that the pain could distract you from the torture of your tastebuds. For a heartbeat, you wondered if Neuvillette was trying to poison you. “A-Are you sure this is h-healthy?”

“Of course,” Neuvillette said, looking baffled by your question. “I’ve drank it on numerous occasions, and I’ve always found myself quite refreshed and invigorated afterwards. I asked Sigewinne to make it taste more palatable for you, as I’m aware that her concoctions are not for everyone. She truly hopes it makes you feel better.”

This is palatable? You thought. Did I do something to this Sigewinne person? Whoever she was, she shared the same incomprehensible sense of taste as Neuvillette.

Speaking of Neuvillette, he was looking at you expectantly. Oh Archons, is he expecting me to finish it in front of him? Just as you were trying to come up with an excuse to not drink it, those efforts were dashed by his next words. “Is it not to your liking?” he said quietly. You were vaguely aware that it had started raining outside.

“I…um…” you didn’t know what to say or where to look. You suddenly had the impression that a large puppy was at your bedside, staring at you with sad eyes. Gah, he must be doing this on purpose! Either that, or he must really be fond of that friend of his. “Well, when it comes to medicine, it’s not really a matter of liking it or not liking it, right? A-And since you’ve gone to the trouble of asking your friend to make this for me, it would be rude of me to not drink it, right?” You sounded like you were trying to convince yourself.

“If you do not like it, then you do not need to force yourself—”

“No, no, I mean, I’ve taken plenty of bitter medicine when I was little, and I survived. This will be no different,” you brought the straw up to your mouth and held your breath. Let’s just get this over quickly, you thought, then emptied the cup in one go. Fortunately, there wasn’t much to drink. However, the lumpy texture was still a struggle to swallow. You felt as though you had just eaten concrete.

“That was…certainly something I’ve never drank before,” you managed, flopping back onto your pillows to recover. You opened a box of lemon tarts and shoved one into your mouth to get rid of the taste. Honestly, you wanted to drink some Fonta instead, but decided that it might be a bit uncouth. Of course, some might say that it was unladylike to eat cake in bed in the first place, but you doubted those people ever had the misfortune of having to drink that so-called “healthy drink.” “Please thank your friend for me.”

Neuvillette nodded, watching you as you ate a second, then a third tart. Lemon wasn’t your favorite flavor, but anything would do right now. YYou offered one to him, but he politely declined. His gaze dropped to the papers in your lap. “…Were you writing a letter to someone?” he asked.

“Oh!” you had almost forgotten about that. “My sister Justine sent us invitations to her birthday party. It’s a bit short notice, but it’s in a few days.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard you mention it before,” Neuvillette took a pause, as if he had only just taken in the entirety of your words. “Did you say ‘invitations’?”

“Yes,” you nodded. Your hands suddenly felt sweaty. What were you so nervous about? “Since we’re, you know, husband and wife, it’s only natural that invitations would be sent to the both of us. Funny thing is, Justine thinks you’re already coming and has asked me if you require any accommodations, but of course you haven’t given any answer as to whether or not you’ll be attending the party. I-I know that you usually don’t attend public functions, but birthdays parties in our party don’t tend to be very extravagant affairs. It’s usually just a small gathering of close friends and relatives. We can even make everyone sign a contract of confidentiality, if you want. You don’t have to bring any gifts either. I think your presence will be a gift in itself for my sister, haha…”

Oh no, I’m rambling again…why do I keep doing this in front of him? You toyed with the edge of your comforter, suddenly too nervous to look at his expression. Would there be a look of disgust there? Why would there be? Your brain argued back. You haven’t asked anything offensive!

Finally, you dared to sneak a peek. He was staring at your face, as though scrutinizing it for answers to a difficult question.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you said, thinking that he must be trying to find a way to let you down gently.

“…Do you want me to attend?” he said at last.

You hadn’t expected that question. “What do you mean?” you frowned.

“What I mean is…would it please you—would it make you happy if I attended your sister’s party?”

Ah, so the answer is no, then, you thought. That was expected.

“Well, it’s not my party, so my opinion doesn’t matter,” you said slowly. “Justine would like for you to come, but there is no obligation on your part to say yes. If you like, I can make up some excuse about your absence to tell everyone.”

“But your opinion does matter quite a lot to me,” Neuvillette said. He was oddly insistent about this. “I would like to hear what you think.”

“As I said, it’s not my party. It will not affect me one way or another should you choose to come or not,” Realizing that you might be sounding too harsh, you softened your next words. “It’s okay to say no. I’m sure everyone will understand if you can’t come.”

Neuvillette stared at you for a long while, his eyes unreadable. You could hear the rain pounding against your window, and you turned your head to it. The sky was a dark, leaden gray. It’s been raining pretty frequently these days, hasn’t it? You thought distantly.

“Unfortunately, I have a trial to oversee on that day,” he said. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him clench and unclench his fists. You wondered why he didn’t mention the trial earlier. “I do not think it would be wise for me to attend, in any case. It would be a needless distraction.”

“Alright then. I’ll tell my sister you can’t attend,” you said lightly, then turned your attention to your unfinished letter. You picked up your pen and began to write. Focusing your mind on producing the words helped distract from the tumult of emotions within you—emotions that you didn’t know quite what to make of. Was it relief you felt, or disappointment? Relief for what? Disappointment about what? You couldn’t tell at all.

In any case, it’s over and done with, you told yourself firmly, signing the letter with a flourish. Maybe too big of a flourish. I’ll post this first thing in the morning—that is, if I can walk by then.

You glanced up to see Neuvillette still sitting there. He was drinking from his cup, but he was watching you over the rim. You had long gotten used to him studying you like you were some kind of strange specimen, but it was still awkward, especially in this silence. Your room, which had always felt needlessly spacious to you, suddenly felt very small.

Just as you were debating whether or not to fake a sleepy yawn and ask him to leave, he spoke again.

“You haven’t yet bought a birthday present for your sister, yes?”

“That’s right,” you replied, wondering what he was getting at.

“I won’t have any time tomorrow, but I do have an hour or two to spare after our meeting with Furina. We shall go pick out a present together then.”

You gaped at him. “Are you serious?”

“Why would I not be? It is customary for married couples to give presents as a pair, is it not?”

“I…suppose so,” you said. Neuvillette was so hard to grasp sometimes. Sometimes, he was clear as a fresh water spring. Other times, like now, you had the sense that you were staring into the sea, unable to see all the way to its bottom.

“Then it is settled,” he said with a note of satisfaction in his voice, then leaned forward and cupped your cheek. It happened so quickly that you didn’t even have a chance to react. “W-Wha…” was all you could manage to stammer out. There was only a millimeter of space between your faces. Your heart sped up a little when his gaze moved to your lips. His thumb moved to the corner of your lip and brushed against it. It took you a moment to realize that he had flicked off a cake crumb.

“I still have some work to finish, so I’m afraid I’ll have to take my leave now,” he informed you, removing his hand from your cheek. Despite that, you could still feel the smooth silk of his glove and the latent strength in his long fingers. “Please rest and get well soon, Madame.”

You could only nod as you gazed up at him. He stared into your eyes for a moment longer before turning on his heel and leaving your room. It was only when you heard his footsteps recede to the other side of the house that you realized that it was no longer raining.

[milosometimeswrites]

Writeblr - ReIntroduction

Howdy howdy! I figured I'd type one of these out again because I'm trying to be more active on here, and also pushing myself to indulge in my passion for writing again... this helped last time, so I may as well give it another shot.

My name is Milo (he/xe) and I'm an aspiring author. I've always loved writing, and there's never been a point in my life where I didn't want to write in some capacity. It's easy for me to succumb to writer's block, but writing makes me happy and I want to be able to share what I create.

About Me

I'm a 22 year old (very gay) transman from Canada, and I want so badly to be able to travel to other parts of the world one day.

I'm a D&D nerd. When I struggle with a writing project, I often fall back on expanding my D&D worlds/characters. It's my safety net.

My career is in film. I work in the Art Department, mainly in props, and am working towards maybe becoming a Production Designer one day. Film work is a competing passion of mine, and you'll definitely find posts of me talking about work.

Like most other authors, I love weird shit, and you'll find a lot of weird stuff in my writing. Weird Fantasy is my favourite kind of genre.

In my writing you'll find themes of 2SLGTBQIA+, found family, fighting destiny, struggling under mega-corps/capitalism, nature vs nurture, self-discovery, different kinds of love, slightly unsettling surroundings, and weird lil monsters/freaky dudes.

My Current Projects

I have two writing projects going on right now. One I had to put on the backburner because I had written myself into a corner. The story wasn't progressing or flowing the way I had envisioned/planned, and I ended up getting more stressed than excited to write it. The other is one more laid-back for me to write. (Keep in mind, these short descriptions may be subject to change in the future)

The Strings of Willis Manor: Thistle Willis is sick. Her condition leaves her confined to the property of Willis Manor; a sprawling estate with lush gardens, dusty corridors, and horrifying secrets. At her attendance is Clementine (an automaton handmaid), Andromeda Marrow (Thistle's childhood best friend) and her ever-energetic little sister Tourmaline. When Father doesn't return from a business trip to the South, Thistle begins to fear the worst. Mama – the Mistress of the manor – hires an unknown Healer from an unknown land to find a cure for Thistle. But this cloaked Healer isn't who they say they are, and Thistle begins to uncover what really may be going on in the house she thought she could call home.

(Backburner) - Beneath Tattered Flesh: In the hissing, polluted, Magic, and bronze city of Ritec, Caesar Dampton is trying to move forward. He's trying to get over a bad break-up, make ends meet, and help his best friend - Emersyn Riley - find her place in the world. Between running away from his ex, and trying to figure out what he wants to do with his life, Caesar is stuck in a downward spiral. Newt Gourdeau got the chance of a lifetime; a full scholarship to Verne Cobb University. Leaving their small town behind, they carved out a life for themself in the city of opportunities. They're trying to bury their problems in mystery novels, university studies, and attempting to find a scientific reason as to why some people in this world have Magic, while others don't. Their obsessions leave them in solitude for days. But when the unlikely pair see similar tragic events happen at the same time, but in different parts of the city, they stumble into each other's lives. Manipulation and death follow the two at every step, but they're both determined to get to the bottom of a gruesome mystery unfolding in the city... or die trying.

What I'm Looking For

As you could probably already tell, I'm not awesome at keeping myself "on schedule", which is code for "I sometimes let my life/anxiety/career/whatever eat away at my passion for writing and I'll abandon it for several months a time". Having a place to post updates, or even just little rambles, really helps me out.

So in all honesty, if you're interested in what you see, then feel free to stick around! I'd love to chat, do fun word tags, and just be in a community of like-minded people.

Thanks for reading!

[justanotherhornycatgirl]

.

y'know, it's hard being someone who is chronically good at surviving

there's a running joke, one that has continued through almost every friend group ive ever had, about how im the least lucky person in the world

even when i dont bring it up, people tend to notice that the dice never roll in my favor

i actually learned how to cheat a coin flip just so i could actually win 50% of the time

the same with counting cards

but outside of games, i think the reason people tend to notice is just how often things in my real life go wrong

a semi regular event for me is witnessing a friend's face turn sad/horrified/concerned when i simply describe the events of my life

and I'm almost never trying to complain, there's just no way talk about my past without it sounding like an anthology of disaster

and part of me wonders if i am so unlucky as the price i pay for avoiding death so frequently

but that wouldnt make sense, all of the times where by all accounts i Should Have died wouldnt have happened in the first place if i wasn't so unlucky

but whatever the case may be, it means ive survived way more than i ever should have

ive had far too many people comment onnthe fact that i am seemingly unnaturally optimistic, confident, and happy despite my misfortune

way, way, way too many doctors and therapists praising how determined and self-aware and strong i am just for still being friendly and affable despite the few things i wouldve mentioned about my life to them

hell, just a year ago now i had a nurse in the emergency room comment on how "shockingly cheerful" i am despite the reasons i was under overnight observation

and to some degree, this is intentional

a deliberate effort to cling to joy and hope despite a lifetime of reasons to let both go

but also, i think it's to some degree a subconscious process

i think at a young age i learned that if i let myself feel the proper emotions for the way my life has gone, that no one would wish to be around the girl who was endlessly sad/angry/scared, even if she had every good reason to feel those ways

and i work on it these days, i try to let myself feel these things and express them to my loved ones

but it's hard

and i worry for the people around me

my ocd is doing okay enough right now for me to recognize that my loved ones' misfortunes and struggles are not due to proximity to me

the actual explanation for why all my loved ones are so often struggling is obviously that i gravitate towards people who are already struggling when i meet them

but i worry about the fact that i dont have a fix for theur struggles besides time

im too good at surviving, and throughout my life most of the problems ive dealt with could only be solved through sheer endurance

but so often the people around me wouldn't be as good at surviving

and id lose them

and id move on

find somewhere new

survive until i can make things good in this new place

and ive done this cycle too many times now

and i really like this place

and once again the only solution to the things hurting everyone is time

and im so terrified that once again no one else will have the endurance and that once again ill be the last standing

and i think, if that happens again, that it'll actually give up this time

because this is the best, the most secure, it's ever been, and if this place cant survive then i dont think anywhere with me in it can

but for now all i can do is hope it'll work out

idk, it's 5 am, maybe im just going insane again

either way, if youre reading this, apologies for literally all of that

[coburnjasper]

My government voted against a ceasefire for gaza today.

I'm angry, disgusted and horrified but, I don't know why I'm surprised. Our government is currently the most hateful bunch of spineless oligarchs I've ever seen in my lifetime and it's "opposing" party (labour) are the same just in red.

May they all rot in hell for this decision, and good on the PM's who rebelled against their parties for their leaders actions.

If your from outside the UK, be wary BBC. It has a reputation for reliable facts and being impartial but it hasn't been impartial since Tony Blair took power. The last few years the BBC has gotten into trouble for unverified facts and miss-reporting events. They're a mouthpiece, like all the major news outlets in UK

[rabbitsonthemoon]

Alright time to scream loudly into the void. I just anonymously donated 20$ across GoFundMe and the PCRF to help families who need urgent evacuation from Gaza. It's barely a drop of water. It's all I can afford to give. There's so many. I have never had the courage to donate to any causes. But the news about those students who protested? Their courage fucking reached me. Bravery is contagious and it's time to get down with the sickness.

The people who are killing them would kill me, kill you, if they were allowed to. People who are decent do not gleefully commit genocide. That terrifies me. The apathy towards that fucking terrifies me.

I'm spreading the word. It's reached this little corner of the void. I'm just some loser with a Tumblr who could only pitch in twenty dollars to what feels like the most horrifying event that's unfolded in my lifetime so far. And that's only because I know about it, because of the pleas I've read and the people reaching for a line to safety and the bravery of some university students/faculty in the US.

Please help them if you can. Please don't give in to despair if you can't. Please keep talking about it and raising awareness about what's happening in our world, to our human beings. There's power in numbers, there's power in acts of kindness and acts of courage. The Internet is amazing in the way it can bring the best of humanity together.

Like I said, I'm just some loser. My life's been pretty shit, actually. But I'm a human, too. I can be brave, too. I can stand for what I believe in, too. I can give 20$ more than they'd otherwise have, and this loud scream into the void, too.

[perecreate]

Inside Chernobyl’s Exclusion Zone: the City of Pripyat

One of the most disastrous human failures occurred on a day of 1986–a radiation explosion that was expected before its coming took place in Chernobyl, Ukraine (at the time part of the Soviet Union. Thousands of lives and numerous cities were significantly influenced due to Soviet Union authorities' problematic control of radioactive substances. People died, not knowing they have ingested contaminated air, those who lived suffered permanent damage for the rest of their lifetime. Directed by Volodrmyr Rybas, who is well known for the documentary film, Azure Dust guides its audience to the long desolated exclusion zone of Chernobyl, as it is no longer inhabited, frozen in its own time.

Pripyat, a city in Ukraine two kilometers away from the radiation explosion power plant, was the dream city where young Soviet Union people pursued to take residence in. Carnivals often took place and the neighborhood was friendly, crowded, and eventful. On April 26, 1986, as reactor 4 of the power plant safety drill was misconducted, an enormous amount of radioactive materials exploded into the air, carried by the wind, and into cities including Pripyat (the radioactive material later covered most of Europe as well). After 36 hours of the explosion, Pripyat residents were evacuated without a specific explanation from the Soviet Union Authorities; they were informed to leave the city for just three days to a week for the government to fix the situation. Most people packed little personal belongings, left their pets some food and water, thinking that they’ll be back to their home in a short amount of time. Many began to show fatal sick symptoms after a week, due to the radioactive waste they breathed in during those 36 hours, the living ones weren't in better condition, either. Aside from covering the fact of radioactive material leak, the Soviet Union Authority carried out forced abortion on pregnant women that came into contact with the toxic substances. One of the survivors from Pripyat, Maryna was interviewed in Azure Dust to talk about her experiences with the forced abortion. She replied that she received IV (intravenous injection) that she thought was used to reduce the radioactive waste existing in her belly, however made her five month old baby at the time reacting very strongly. Maryna was later informed that she will be aborting her child with no choice. She decided to leave the hospital immediately with her husband. The next day she found herself wanted by the Soviet Union Authorities. According to The Journal of Nuclear Medicine, “an estimated 100,000-200,000 wanted pregnancies were aborted in Western Europe.”

The Journal of Nuclear Medicine article: https://jnm.snmjournals.org/content/jnumed/28/6/933.full.pdf

The tragedies never happened enough, broken families, declining health, irresponsible measures taken by the Soviet Union government, those who lived the days in the nuclear wastes have either vanished, or have no choice but live under the shadow of the traumas and sickeness. Volodymyr Rybas’s Azure Dust depicts the horrifying history of Chernobyl, and the sorrows of victims. Pripyat now lives as a ghost city, the insides of buildings under the accumulated dust and deteriorating ceilings. It is an honor seeing Volodymyr Rybas and his team bringing us the sight of Pripyat today. And that, someday, cities like Pripyat would be able to restore the same joy it once owned forty years ago.

Feel free to check out my film review blog site: perecreate3.wordpress.com

[dreamofmourning]

i really owe a lot to that one essay i posted about mrs. dalloway because the cluster of books i think about most often are ones that "set up [a character]'s mind as the central dilemma of the novel" and that's a really clarifying way of phrasing it. and the plot is whatever it is, but the plot is really the various ways in which he fails to be apprehended, or actively rebuffs the possibility (difficult friend). i give you fair warning before you attempt me further, i am not what you supposed, but far different. i also of course love books that span one lifetime and there's a lot of overlap there, like my other post, it takes a lifetime to try to understand him and you still fail after all that time, or his lifetime specifically is too short (the fantasy is that if he lived longer it would have even been possible), or the time in which you knew him/had him was too brief (you were willing to like me and i did something and blew it, and your liking me would have saved me, and my liking you would have saved you). but i was thinking the other day about the e-reader feature that tells you what percentage through a book you are and to some extent the ao3 word count feature, which for some reason both feel so different than having access to the page number of a physical novel, esp when the book spans some large majority of one life. there's something horrifying about having it in numbers like that, like i don't want to know that this beautiful event that could have been a nice ending is happening only 29% of the way through this character's life. i don't want to know that he takes 35,000 words to be explained, and is still misunderstood. i saw this crazy bookmark the other day that was saying how she loves how the fic it was abt "accounts for everything and turns it over then puts it back into place, exactly the same but the context is different, except that it's really not—and by everything i of course mean john" like. yes. he who must be accounted for. he for whom 35,000 words only exist to take account of. he who must be revisited. and it takes a long time (mainly, too long)

[ghuroor]

i don’t how i’m supposed to sleep, how i’m supposed to eat, how i’m supposed to go to work, how i’m supposed to live while living through the most horrifying & barbaric events of my lifetime, watching people be completely indifferent to utter inhumanity .. i smile and go on when i want to scream and shout and ask how can you? how can you just pretend that everything is okay? how can you act like everything is normal? how can you complain about the rain or talk about taking your kid to ballet LIKE HOW ARE WE PRETENDING WHY ARE WE PRETENDING

[beardedmrbean]

NEW YORK — Colinford Mattis’ trajectory from a working-class upbringing in East New York to the Ivy League and corporate law abruptly ended at about 1 a.m. May 30, 2020, when a Molotov cocktail ignited the center console of an empty police car during a Black Lives Matter protest.

On Thursday afternoon, Judge Brian Cogan of U.S. District Court in Brooklyn sentenced Mattis, one of two young lawyers who burned the vehicle during the protests days after the murder of George Floyd, to 12 months and a day in prison and a year of post-release supervision.

Mattis, 35, has lost his law license, having pleaded guilty to conspiracy to commit arson and having acknowledged he had broken the law he had sworn to uphold. Now he may lose much more: the guardianship and planned adoption of three foster children. The oldest is 14.

On Thursday evening, the Brooklyn courtroom was crowded with Mattis’ friends and family.

“I’m deeply sorry and embarrassed about the things I did and said in May 2020,” Mattis told the judge. He said he recently reread his text messages from that day. “I am more than horrified at the words I used,” he said.

“I am sorry that I hurt my three children that my mother had entrusted to me,” he added.

The judge told Mattis that the country needed attorneys to bolster faith in the rule of law and to reassure Americans that the legal system would hold Floyd’s killers to account. He told Mattis that his hard work had changed his station in life.

“You’re not one of the oppressed,” Cogan said. “You’re one of the privileged.”

Spectators in the gallery gasped at the judge’s words. “To make that comment, you’re not seeing the same things that I’m seeing,” said Taaj Reeves, a friend of Mattis’, after the hearing.

In November, the judge had sentenced Urooj Rahman, Mattis’ friend and a fellow lawyer, to 15 months in prison and two years of supervised release for the same crime. She was the primary caretaker of her aging mother. Cogan called the sentence one of the most difficult he ever had to impose. After a lifetime of hard work and conscientiousness, he said, Rahman’s conduct was a violent aberration.

“You are a remarkable person who did a terrible thing on one night,” the judge told her.

Cogan said Thursday that Mattis got a lighter punishment because he had not been the main instigator of the attack.

The sentences close a case that stunned the city, devastated two families and exposed deep fissures between the police and the community. They reflect a long negotiation with the U.S. attorney’s office in Brooklyn, which at first sought steep charges and had pushed to deny bail to Rahman and Mattis, both first-time offenders.

Rahman and Mattis had been high achievers, children of immigrant families who were raised in New York. Rahman pursued public interest law, co-authoring a paper on police reform in 2014 and working at Bronx Legal Services. Mattis followed a more lucrative corporate path. But he was already teetering in his career and personal life when the protests occurred.

The events that led to their downfall began in an unsettled spring.

Mattis had been furloughed in March from his job as an associate at the law firm Pryor Cashman, and the pandemic had cut him off from outside support as he took care of the children, his lawyer wrote.

Then, on May 25, video of Floyd, a 46-year-old Black man who died in Minneapolis after his neck was pinned to the ground by Derek Chauvin, a white police officer, ignited protests. There were demonstrations in at least 140 cities across the United States.

In New York, peaceful protests turned into confrontations with police. Throughout the weekend, demonstrators clashed with officers in Union Square in Manhattan and outside the Barclays Center in Brooklyn, resulting in injuries and hundreds of arrests.

On May 29, according to court documents, Mattis had been drinking throughout the day as he exchanged despairing messages over the murder of Floyd with friends, including Rahman, who were mobilizing to join a protest. That evening, Rahman, who was 31 at the time, met Mattis after he made stops to buy supplies, including gasoline, and joined a swell of protesters in Brooklyn.

Shortly after midnight, with Mattis at the wheel, according to court filings, they drove in a tan minivan to a police precinct in Clinton Hill. After trying to persuade a bystander to throw a bottle that she was holding, Rahman got out of the van herself, walked toward an empty police patrol car that had already been damaged by protesters and threw the Molotov cocktail through its broken window before fleeing.

She and Mattis were arrested shortly afterward and held in jail for several days before they were released to home confinement.

It was a politically fraught moment after New York police officers had arrested hundreds of people during the protests, many on charges of disorderly conduct, resisting arrest and unlawful assembly. District attorneys said they would not prosecute many of the nonviolent cases.

Brooklyn federal prosecutors, then part of the Trump Justice Department, appealed twice to keep them behind bars, saying that the two lawyers had tried to incite others to similar attacks. But more than 50 former federal prosecutors signed a public letter urging the appeals court to reject the U.S. attorney’s office’s argument for detention, saying it contradicted settled bail law.

In June 2020, a grand jury returned an indictment against Mattis and Rahman that included seven counts, including arson, use of explosives and civil disorder.

In November 2021, after President Joe Biden had taken office and new leadership had taken over in the Department of Justice, Rahman and Mattis each pleaded guilty to one count of possessing and making an incendiary device. Last June, those charges were dismissed as part of a deal with prosecutors, and both pleaded guilty to a count of conspiracy to commit arson.

At Rahman’s sentencing, she faced up to five years under federal guidelines, and the government had asked for 18 months to two years. Her lawyer, Peter Baldwin, asked the court to impose only supervised release, saying his client had experienced “a dangerous and reprehensible lapse of judgment.”

“Urooj’s emotions — her anger, her despair, her rage — got the better of her,” he told the judge. Since the incident, Rahman had been in therapy and Alcoholics Anonymous, Baldwin said.

Rahman was born in Pakistan and grew up in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn; she graduated from Fordham Law School and had always been drawn to public interest work, a commitment for which Cogan praised her.

When she addressed the court, Rahman cried as she spoke about her mother’s grief. “I don’t think there are enough words to express my sorrow and regret,” she told the court. “My sole intention was to lend my voice to other New Yorkers in the pursuit of justice. I completely lost my way in the emotions of the night.”

She is to report to federal prison in Connecticut on Tuesday.

Mattis has already spent nearly a month in jail, has taken a leadership role in his Alcoholics Anonymous chapter and is at no risk of reoffending, his lawyers said in the memorandum to the judge.

Sabrina Shroff, his defense attorney, told Cogan in a presentencing letter how Mattis, the son of immigrants from Jamaica and St. Vincent, grew up in a chaotic home. Although early on he struggled academically, he went on to graduate from boarding school, then attended Princeton University and New York University’s law school.

When he was in his second year of law school, his father, Kingcolinford Mattis, was stabbed to death during a robbery in St. Vincent. His son used alcohol to dull his pain, Shroff wrote.

After law school, when he took a job at a law firm in 2016, he was often late or absent, court documents said. His yearslong dependency on alcohol worsened. He was asked to leave the firm just as his mother was diagnosed with uterine cancer, and he became her primary caregiver until her death in 2019, even as he worked at another firm.

After she died, Mattis took over her role as the foster parent for the three children he is now in the process of trying to adopt. He is also the primary caretaker for his 15-year-old nephew.

Shortly after the pandemic hit in March 2020 and Mattis was furloughed, his drinking increased, according to court filings.

On May 29, 2020, hours before he joined the protests, Mattis watched the video of Floyd’s murder for the first time and began to cry.

Within hours, court records said, Mattis was driving the minivan quickly away from the burning police sedan with open bottles of Bud Light, a funnel, a half-full red gas can and rolls of toilet paper.

[bonetickler]

Some information I’ve built up while doing research and figuring things out for my beloved child, most characters mentioned, aside from Asher, Rat, and Mouse are from buddies in a discord I’m part of. MVPD is a multiverse police force thing.

Diving into Schizophrenia and how it is affecting my son Asher. :^

It can be triggered but there are times when it can just *happen*. Being spurred on by stressful events or just something that occurs over time, starting small and just getting worse until he hits a full break. Something that can build up with him being unaware even. Psychoses would be something that he would be quite common buddies with. Episodes tend to be more online with 'know' than a 'think' mentality, there isn't a 'I think they want to kill me.' It's a 'I know they're going to kill me.' The fact that they can just start without any real reasoning can leave it to feel senseless like your dread being triggered before you even knew it was being set up.

The problem is that he sees primarily, he doesn't feel it that big a deal he sees or hears things, but the times he would get violent if it's just that bad would irk him, not always bound to happen but in a case where his flight or flight happen to trigger towards the latter he's naturally inclined instinctually to 'defend' himself. (Growing Violent in episodes is not common in most cases, but again, he has been ingrained with acting violently during stress. Makes him much more lenient towards trying to stay out of things when he can too, hence his preference to stay antisocial yet that only goes to make things worse, separating yourself by choice or not leaves only you as a witness to those events, no one to listen to what is really digging into your mental and just going to leave him worse off. Yet still he's adamant on keeping that as a thing he'd rather not talk about, rather not have anyone be around for that. It's been practically ingrained in him that it's embarrassing, that it's abhorrent.

Even then, it can be something quiet, like a silent little breakdown, no outward panic, no shouting, no muttering. It can just be a full shutdown. Quiet and zoned in on his own world. Or it acts like a sudden burst of energy, like you're on top of the world, something that would be dubbed as why he did, and will do, the dangerous things he has. Being so reckless with things because he's dead convinced he's literally on top of it all, it's manic.

There are many varying types, and not everyone with it will experience all of them, one person can experience only 'quiet' episodes and that's it, other's can end up more manic. It's dependent on the person from what I can gather.

Episodes can *last* typically span from a few days to weeks, or in worse cases can end up lasting for months. In most cases they don't even tend to be common either, one or two in a person's lifetime, but the severity is dependent on circumstances. Considering factors of Asher's drug and alcohol use, his line of work, anxiety, previous living circumstances, and obviously trauma as always, *can never escape that*, just only go to make it crushing. I do fear him having an episode would be more common than he likes. Not as bad as before, Rat and Mouse only went to feed into that problem, pushing him into those episodes and then leaving him on his own for days before they decided to go and find him, something that was easy, they tended to leave him in the vault and he wouldn't leave it most of the time, outside was already horrifying as is when he was in a clear head. There was no 'coming down' from those episodes, no education on *what* was happening and there being no real care for it, they only went into feeding into what he 'knew' was happening, accidentally to start but considering they held no real patience to try and figure how to deal with it just ended up to them feeding it on purpose. Feeding into it and just leaving. Coming down was just him being so physically worn out that his body couldn't keep up with it, how most of his episodes even beyond that would end.

Understanding it more so only gives way to looking at things and just setting the possibility for his behavior and set feelings on certain people as a result to have occurred because of it, namely the MVPD stuff. He's never been imprisoned before, not like that, he was already freaking out to start, but then he's being restrained and it's no longer his panic being caused by the fact that he's been caught, but that they're going to kill him. Being how sporadic he's acted beforehand and the lack of actual training there ever is, by EMS or any actual force, it just leaves him to seem like a lunatic, and being presented at face value as a drug addict high on something leaves it to seem like its more on a substance level rather than mental. Overall it was a horrible experience he kept trying to claw his way out of, he couldn't trust any of those people there, and he didn't feel like he could outside of that, the experience was set and god does it stick.

Before meeting Cricket, they were a lot more common, at the start of the odd run-in situation they were, but eventually, he found himself able to stabilize himself more. He had someone he could trust and gods he does. Something that made sleeping at night easier, the occurrences where he woke up to eyes boring into him and hearing *it* becoming less common, he didn’t sleep just because he couldn’t keep up anymore, he was genuinely able just to lie down.

It leans into his preference to sleep around people even if it’s a platonic situation, he clings to being able to have that with the people he does.

[ascinfocus]

Sexual assault victim describes her complicated healing process

A 23-year-old victim of sexual assault speaks to In Focus' Catherine Frasier about the incredibly complex process of healing from her trauma

Story by Catherine Frasier Produced by Amanda Palmer & Holly Mitchell

According to the 2015 National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey or NISVS, nearly 44 percent of women in the United States have experienced sexual violence during their lifetime. Many survivors do not report their experience to authorities, going silent about it for years, even decades after it happened. The stigma is still prevalent in today's society—they asked for it, they were drunk, they were unconscious and were left with no choice. Oftentimes, victims think they are to be blamed for what happened. Others don't recognize the severity of being sexually assaulted. But when somebody’s agency is taken away, how does one come to terms with the fact years after it happened? One such victim gave us a glimpse to find out.

Ellie: The last time it happened, I was in my brother's room, wearing this Barbie sundress that I've had since I was twelve and just an underwear, watching TV. Then my father came in, got on top of me, pinned me down. I tried to fight back, I screamed, but I was having a hard time getting out. Then I heard footsteps, loud footsteps, and there was my mom, staring at us horrified.

Ellie was a teenager when she was sexually assaulted by her father. She requested us to hide her identity for fear of reprisals.

Catherine Frasier: And how did you feel about that?

Ellie: I don't know. I don't remember. I think I just laid there frozen.

Ellie thought it would be a fun exercise to describe her own assault for an assignment on a major subject. She never thought that it would change her life forever.

Ellie: I think it was such a reckless decision on my part. But when I asked my professor if he'd be fine with it and he reacted with so much grace about it, I felt like it would be fine to finally go into detail about it.

Frasier: That was the first time you ever told everything?Ellie: Correct.

Frasier: Were you able to tell it in the article, that what happened was an assault?

Ellie: I couldn’t really grasp the difference between sexual harassment, sexual abuse and sexual assault. I think it was only after consulting a therapist that things finally became clear to me.

Before she decided to consult a therapist, Ellie suffered from two panic attacks: one in her next class, and the other during her midterm exams, her worst one yet.

Ellie: My steps just felt heavy coming into our building, and I've forgotten the things I reviewed for that exam. I just felt like I was in this quest for survival. It was so hard, seeing myself so distressed. I couldn't ask for help, or to even get out because I was sitting in the very back of the room.

Ellie decided to seek answers for her questions. She was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Frasier: When that diagnosis first came to you, how did you feel?

Ellie: Like I finally have answers to my questions.

Frasier: Did it end there?

Ellie: I think it was the first time that I ever had to confront what… you know, what really happened.

Frasier: What do you mean?

Ellie: I think I’ve repressed that… that memory in my head.

Frasier: And when you wrote that article, it brought back everything for you?

Ellie: Correct.

Paula Davis: Most victims of sexual assault that come to us really have a hard time processing what happened to them. They’re afraid that people would not believe them, or question their version of events.

Paula Davis is a psychologist at Liberty Mercy Hospital in Brooklyn. She specializes in trauma-informed care and somatic therapy.

Frasier: Does it depend on the experience or the person you’re talking to?

Davis: It’s a case-to-case basis, really.

For the past fifteen years, Davis has been seeing victims of traumatic experiences, most of them sexual assault and rape victims.

Frasier: What is the most common thing you see with these people?

Davis: They would often have flashbacks, nightmares, anxiety, intense feelings of anger, sadness, guilt. Some of them have a hard time processing things, so they would withdraw. They question who they are as a person. I don’t think there is an umbrella for what they feel coming into my office.

Frasier: What was the biggest challenge you faced coming to terms with your experience?

Ellie: The guilt.

Frasier: Why is that?

Ellie: It’s just… it feels wrong, you know?

Frasier: Why do you feel wrong?

Ellie: I don’t know. I wish I could’ve… done better, you know? I mean, I know that I shouldn’t feel this way. People will tell me that I don’t deserve any of this, that it’s not my fault.

Frasier: But it never goes away.

Ellie: It never does. If it did, it would be a million times easier.Ellie’s struggle can be sensed throughout our interview—her fidgeting hands, uneasy body language, and especially the disguise she decided to don—a hoodie and cap that tries to hide that internal conflict that comes with being a victim of sexual assault.

Frasier: Do you consider yourself a survivor of sexual assault?

Ellie: I don't know, I think I've always identified myself as a victim of sexual assault, rather than a survivor. Although I did survive it, but I just feel like the word victim is... It's just so definitive to me, like, something ended, you know? It doesn’t register to me at all.

Frasier: Is there something about that word that feels too distant or hard to connect with for you right now?

Ellie: I just feel like there's a disconnect. Like, how did I survive? Maybe it’s just some kind of a self-sabotage tactic, but I just feel disconnected to it, you know? It happened so many times that I couldn't even register it at the time, even though I already knew what it means, but, like, having experienced it myself, like, why couldn't I apply the things that I learned? Watching all these people get interviewed about their experiences, and I couldn't apply them to myself? It’s the irony of knowing about it and just not being able to apply it, you know.

Frasier: Is that why you’re so apprehensive about coming forward?

Ellie: Yeah, I think part of it is... is because of the emotion, like, surrounding such an experience. Like, I don't think it qualifies me... to be a person that could speak up about this issue, you know. And I'm still scared, like... sure, I don't feel as much about it. It's just... Like, just the fear of judgment, of the fact that I wouldn’t be believed because I don't feel... much emotion when I talk about it. It's just very, you know, like... I'm just really afraid that... people would come after me for not feeling so strongly about this whole situation. It makes me feel so guilty, and ashamed of what happened.

Victims of sexual assault may also have a hard time disclosing if the perpetrator is known to them. The closer the relationship is between the victim and perpetrator, the less likely somebody reports that they have been sexually assaulted or raped. Familial relationships with the assailant can also contribute to what research calls a delayed disclosure, like in Ellie’s case.

Davis: I’ve personally seen patients that had family members assault them, or someone they know. They don’t understand the reasons why these people would do something so traumatizing, and at times, it makes things harder for the person to lay things bare.

Frasier: How long do you think it takes for someone to disclose that they have been sexually assaulted?

Davis: A long time.

Frasier: And why does it take so long for that disclosure to happen?

Davis: There is still a heavy stigma surrounding these cases. These people are already facing the preconceived notions that they should’ve fought back, or like they must’ve enjoyed what happened to them. Some are propagated by external factors, like threats or blackmailing. And it’s never easy to address every form of sexual assault.

Most victims of sexual assault do not disclose their experience to somebody, or if they do, it takes them until adulthood, as is the case for victims of childhood sexual abuse or CSA. Research shows that over 70% of victims do not disclose within five years after the abuse happened. Some never do it at all.

Frasier: How do you think you would feel if someone did acknowledge your experience directly?

Ellie: I would honestly see it a little bit better if they acknowledged that. Because, you know, like, something so tragic happens to you and no one acknowledges that. I already know how it feels that no one believes what happened to me. I just want to be… seen, you know. Because this whole thing makes you feel invisible and isolated.

Frasier: Do you think that the time would come where you finally feel comfortable putting your name out there?

Ellie: I don’t know, honestly. I've always wanted to hide from like the rest of the world. I don't want people to know what happened to me, but at the same time I want to let people know what happened to me. But I just don't want the experience to be attributed to me. You know, like, I just feel like if I talk about it, I don't want to put my face out there, put my name out there. Maybe someday, I would. It’s such a complicated process, all of this. do think that the day would come where I would feel ready to come forward, you know, and reclaim that story myself. But I don't think I would probably be ready for that. I just find it hard to embrace this journey. It's such a confusing feeling to have. I am still coming to terms with things, and I just hope that the day would come and I would feel better talking about it, and, you know, people would believe my story a little more.

[karama9]

Scars and potions

BOTW / TOTK Link is famously covered in scars even before the calamity. It highlights that he’s reckless, and that he’s led a life full of combat and danger even prior to the events of the game.

In other Zelda games, we have something that’s absent from BOTW: cure all potions. You get life back with food but it’s not a magic potion.

Anyway my headcanon is that most Links have no scar because potion heals them without leaving any. The Hero of Time losing an eye at some point notwithstanding, he might not have had access to it for some reason or it was self punishment.

So, crossover idea, BOTW Link somehow meets one who has potion and that one is horrified at the idea of injuries having to HEAL. The slow way. I got an OC that can meet other lifetimes, so the idea just lives in my head rent free.

Meanwhile BOTW!Link would probably refuse to drink potion because he wouldn’t want to lose his scars. Silly reason why: he’s proud of them. Emotional reason: sometimes they trigger memories and he doesn’t want to lose the chance of remembering more of his past.

[flootzavut]

Talking to American friends in their twenties is horrifying to me, realising that y'all grew up during a time when gun violence, particularly in schools, is just... accepted as a risk of schooling.

What it reminds me of most is something that I got the very tail end of as a child, which was the nuclear threat; I remember my dad used to say if we knew nuclear bombs were coming, we'd just drive towards GCHQ (intelligence asset we lived like twenty or so minutes from) because we'd go quick and get a good visual before we died. In retrospect, it's not even that I don't agree with him, I'd rather go quick than die slowly from radiation poisoning, but as a kid, the whole thing was terrifying. I also am old enough to clearly remember Chernobyl and the aftermath.

I didn't actually realise how much that had fucked me up till last year and Russia's invasion of Ukraine, and the speculation about how it could turn nuclear. I had severe insomnia (often to the point of getting literally no sleep whatsoever) for the about two months. I didn't realise how much that vague threat in my childhood had laid down patterns of fear and stress, and how much they'd lingered. I was a mess tbqh.

And that's from a threat that was not actually that current even when I was young and I think it was basically considered nonexistent by the time I hit hit my teens or maybe earlier; also while there are examples of nuclear weapons being used in anger, it's not something that's happened in my lifetime. The fear was very real, but the threat was largely not, and became less of a threat and less of a possibility as time went on.

Americans who've grown up in the last 20-30 years? The fear of gun violence has got worse, the reality is that most people have had something like this happen to them way too close for comfort, or in a way that affected friends/family, and it's happening alllll the time. There are people who've been through multiple mass shooting events. This isn't a nebulous threat, it's something that's happened almost every day this year. It hasn't died down, it's got worse.

I just. It's fucking heartbreaking. It has fucked up a whole generation and is now fucking up younger generations. It's just so fucking sad. I'm so sorry that this has been allowed to happen. None of you deserve to have this hanging over you, none of you deserve this trauma. I'm so very sorry that so many people have failed you.

[asgardianangel]

Sugar Life- The realistion

                                                                  

Warnings: 18+ smut, daddy kink, oral, (fem receiving) breeding kink, (if you squint) Lalo being a psycho sugar daddy, choking, and minor mentions of murder.

Everything felt like a dream but a horrifying nightmare at the same time. You didn’t know what to do.

It has been four months since the infamous Lalo Salamanca brought you into the life of luxury and cleared away your financial problems with a click of his fingers. First meeting him at a little bar in Alburquerque you were serving in. At that time, you were working two jobs trying keep up with rising bills and student debt. It was exhausting. There was Lalo who greeted you with a charming smile and phone number in hand.

You thought it was once in a lifetime opportunity to finally get back up your feet and continue your education in law while having the most handsome older man you ever seen taking you out to fancy restaurants and weekend getaways. Little did you know it would be one of the worst decisions you have ever made.

At the start everything was running smoothly Lalo handing you the weekly allowance of $3000 just for being the doll on his arm at grand events. At one of these events, you met his associates who you could only describe them as ‘odd’ especially a man called Gustavo Fring, he told you to call him ‘Gus’ for short. A strange feeling alerted when he was around at some encounters you notice his sudden change of demeanour. Warm and friendly to cold and calculating.

You once brought it up to Lalo on night in bed but he brushed it off and said ‘Oh the chicken man is always acting like that maybe because I make more money than he would ever have’ with a playful wink. Lalo owned a chain of popular restaurants so did Gus you always sense the competition and almost rivalry between them. But it didn’t bother you that much since Lalo was lavishing you with gifts. Keeping you his pampered pet.

It was at his home in Chihuahua Mexico that the rose-tinted glasses came off and you started to see things how they really were. Lalo Salamanca was an infamous drug cartel owner not a simple restaurant owner it was a cover up for what he was really doing.

Cosying in bed after some late-night shenanigans you forgot you nightly glass of water and proceeded downstairs to Lalo’s kitchen. You knew he was still up after all it was known he only gets two hours of sleep a night. ‘Bebita (baby girl) it’s the only time of the day I can think clearly don’t worry your pretty little head about it.’ He would say.

The back door to the large garden was slightly ajar allowing you to heard an alarming conversation. It was between Lalo and his right-hand man Ignacio but he likes to be called ‘Nacho’.

“You really didn’t have to kill that travel wire guy.” A sudden chill ran down your spin as Nacho spoke. Lalo was no murderer, was he?

“He wasn’t cooperating I wanted to know where that bald gringo Michael was heading anyway, he was a nobody.” Lalo replied. The lack of remorse in that comment made your stomach hurl. You heard about that murder on radio earlier today no wonder why Lalo chuckled a little listening to it. You thought he was a little tipsy and not thinking straight. Either way it creeped you out

“How long are you going be spying Fring’s men?” Nacho asked confusion hit your hard this all felt like a weird dream. Was this why Gus was so cold? Did he know about Lalo’s spying on him

“When I eventually find out his big secret, he’s up to something even my princess has noticed something off about him.” Lalo said. This point everyone was keeping a big secret and you needed to get out now.

“You got anything stronger?” Nacho asked making you gasp he was coming your way.

“Now you are talking in the bar bottom shelf decanter that’s the good stuff.” Your heart almost stopped beating at this point you quickly crouched down and hide behind the kitchen island in the dark. Hearing footsteps in front of you and the clinking of a bottle Nacho went around the island towards the glass cupboard as you crawled quietly to the other side towards the hallway door.

As his back was turned you got up silently and started tip toeing to the staircase.

“Y/N you, okay?” You were frozen to the spot but you had to play it cool.

“Yeah, I’m okay just coming down for some water” You walked back in the kitchen feeling like a terrible actor

“Oh here” He grabbed another glass and filled it up handing it to you

“Thanks Nacho goodnight” You smiled trying to hide your nerves by the lamp lights.

“Goodnight.” He replied as you walked upstairs

Taking a deep breathe returning to the bedroom placing down the glass on the dresser you paced back and forwards nervously thinking about what to do. You couldn’t just leave Lalo had guards everywhere on the property. The best thing to do was pretend just until the morning until you get back to Albuquerque.

The sound of heavy footsteps coming towards the door alerted you making you dart back into bed. You lay there fake sleeping as the dark figure walked into the room you immediately knew it was Lalo from his large frame reflecting on the mirror in the corner.

“I know your awake querida (dear).” A chill ran down your spine

“Mm hey you coming to bed?” You turned to him and asked hoping the answer will be no.

 I will lie with you for bit if you don’t mind need my princess’s touch ya know?” You couldn’t make out his expressions in the dark.

You agreed after all you couldn’t deny him that would cause suspicion. You laid back facing towards the mirrored wardrobe watching Lalo as he sat on the bed and took off his shoes and started to unbutton his crisp white shirt. The thought of lying next to him now itched you no longer feeling comfortable.

Lalo laid down and turned to you “I want to cuddle my doll” wrapping his arms around your waist resting his chin a top of your head.

You pushed away the feelings of dread and closed your eyes when suddenly his hand moved down your body finding its way up your short nightgown and between your thighs you always took off your panties when with him it was his orders.

“I thought you just wanted to cuddle” You asked shifting a little to look at him you could just about make out that sly grin.

“Well, I’ve changed my mind” he said kissing you softly touching your heat. You couldn’t help but be aroused he knew your body well messaging the right places and seeing you tick. You lay on your back and he continued touching you this time fondling your breasts and sloppily kissing your collarbone. Moaning softly Lalo pushed down the straps of your gown pushing it down to your waist. You placed both hands to his chest stopping him from rolling it down completely.

“Lalo not to-” He cut you by placing a finger to your lips. “What’s my name Bebita?” He asked staring down at you in the dark.

“Daddy.” You murmured Lalo smirked “Good girl””

You were scared out of your mind about this man but melted at his touch. Repeating ‘get yourself together’ in your thoughts. Lalo reached over to the lamp on the bedside table switching it on. Now seeing the lustful look in his eyes as he admired your body. “Now I can see how perfect you are.”

Your nipples perked up as his tongue was giving them equal attention grinding his crotch against your leg “These are the most beautiful tits I have ever seen in my life” He murmured. You shouldn’t feel this way he was a monster he murdered an innocent man you burst out the momently bliss. You feel his hardness form wanting you. "Daddy please not now.” You whine but he didn’t listen instead he moved further down to your heat still looking in your eyes. His tongue darted out again tasting you moaning like a starved man. You tried squirming out his grasp but he held both of your legs locking you there making you feel what he was doing to you. Sucking viciously at your clit you wanted to scream at the sensation of his well-groomed moustache brushing against it

You couldn’t do nothing expect grip the cream sheets Lalo was an expert in eating you out licking strips from your quivering hole to your sensitive clit. He could tell you were close to cumming already and went even rougher. You couldn’t think anymore so you just let it happen. “Daddy I’m gonna-” you panted loudly feeling relief.

It took you a second to come down from your high to realise he was taking the rest of his clothes off while gazing at the bliss on your face and going into to kiss you once again your hands ran through his hair.

“Are you going to leave me?” He asked amongst the pleasure you felt worried at that question.

You let out a moan looking up at him “No daddy why would you ask that?”

“I know what you heard you can get very curious sometimes bebita.” He chuckled playing with your oversensitive pussy

“Ooh I don’t know what you're talking about daddy” You plead feeling his fingers dip inside you stretching you out. He

Lalo gave the most menacing look you have ever seen and suddenly held onto your throat squeezing it little while the other stayed between your thighs

“Don’t LIE to me.” The sudden anger made you jump His grip was harder making you gasp and hold onto his wrist trying to make him stop

“Yes! I’m sorry daddy please I was frightened please” You plead harder

“I know baby I know you think Ignacio wouldn’t notice the glass of water you made before he walked in the kitchen, I saw your little shadow ducking down” You felt pathetic but he let go of your throat and rubbed your cheek in a loving manner. But it didn’t feel that way at all.

“I’m sorry daddy please don’t hurt me” Tears ran down your face he looked almost shocked.

“Why would I hurt my baby?”

“I’ve heard too much haven’t I?” You asked

“Listen to me I would never hurt you” he said stroking your hair kissing your head. Lalo slowly took your hand placing it on his stiff cock moving it up and down.

“mierda (fuck) you feel what you do to me baby?” He groaned as precum began to leak.

“I fucking need you” He panted. While you thinking of a way to escape from this man there might be one if you, please him now. He might just fall asleep even if it was just for an hour that’s still time to do something.

Your thoughts were cut short when you felt him enter you slowly inching his size. It always took your breath away his thick girth stretching you out perfectly.

“Daddy” You cried

“I’m here” He shushed you as he pushed the entirety of his length.

He started at a slow gentle pace like he usual did but this time it felt so different he admired the expressions you made the moans and groans you emitted. Then he quickened his pace slapping into you roughly while grabbing your face for a passionate kiss.

 The bed slammed against the wall with force you hoped no one around to hear it. Lalo groaned more feeling your nails dig into his back as his flesh slapped with yours. You were so full of him it was almost too much to handle. The tell tail signs of him twitching inside you meant that he was going cum very soon. Rutting inside you he brought his rough hand down rubbing your clit in circles wanting you cum with him.

Then you both finally hit your peak you clutched onto him tightly making him spurt his load deep inside you. Groaning you both were sweaty and out of breath. There are some things you are going to miss about him when you finally get out of his clutches. Lalo rolled onto his side his hair messy sticking to his forehead watching you pant with a smirk. You felt his essence drip out of you

He got up naked and went to the bathroom retrieving a wet cloth a man of aftercare he went over to you gently cleaning between your legs as you lay there completely exhausted. You needed the energy to escaped but he fucked it out of you.

Lalo smiled as you softly closed your eyes drifting off to sleep kissing your head, he redressed himself and turned off the lamp before leaving the room.

You were never going to leave him he will made sure of it even if it meant getting you pregnant or killing someone with his bare hands. Might have to do both he thought to himself with a sadistic grin.