#world childless week

[gpstudios]

Title: Observing World Childless Week: Understanding and Supporting a Diverse Path to Fulfillment

Introduction World Childless Week, held annually in the third week of September, is a global initiative aimed at raising awareness and fostering understanding about the experiences of those who are childless by circumstance or choice. This week is dedicated to acknowledging the diverse paths to fulfillment and offering support to individuals and couples navigating life without children. Explore…

[murderousink23]

09/16/2024 is National Guacamole Day 🌎, World Childless Week 🌎, Anne Bradstreet Day 🇺🇸, Mayflower Day 🇺🇸, National Cinnamon Raisin Bread Day 🇺🇸, World Play-Doh Day 🇺🇸, National Step-Family Day 🇺🇸, Trail of Tears Commemoration Day 🇺🇸, International Day for the Preserveration of the Ozone Layer 🇺🇳

[ayu-stuff]

"Ich liebe dich, Mama" (part 1)

A few years ago, traveling with your husband meant enjoying mojitos at the beach, having nice dinners while wearing your sexiest outfits and, of course, endless nights of loud hotel fucking. You'd traveled a lot, you two. Both in your 30s, both childless and having high-wage jobs, it was easy to discover the world. Both of you traveling from Maldives to Greece, from the Bahamas to Italy. That all changed, though, when he met Clara, the German intern at his office... Now your new Mommy. As bratty as any 21-year-old would be, she's made your whole last year a nightmare. A PEGI-3 nightmare, though: infantilizing diaper changes combined with mushy feedings and early bedtimes wearing thick fabric onesies. A dream come true. Or, at least, her dream come true.

And now she'd managed to make him pay for a week in Berlin for the three of you. Just like a little family! They'd been granted some holidays, and you, of course, had given up work on his command months ago. It was difficult losing your 150k salary in exchange for a lifelong sentence to diapers, but you wanted to make Daddy happy so much. And Clara was more than happy to take up the same position you gave up.

Last night, they'd made you drink a whole coffee cup before bed so that your risen anxiety levels forced you to remain awake. This was so you would hear the whole pounding your ex-husband gave her through the night. Now you're still awake, dying from the insomnia and sitting in a stupid baby travel crib the hotel staff had set up on Daddy's demand.

Yesterday, the German receptionist, who was probably in her late teens, nearly died from laughing her ass off when you three checked in. It was clear the childish crib was for the overgrown toddler who was strapped to the stroller, Clara's youngest cousin had just outgrown before the trip. The bulging diapers peeking out from your colorful leggings and your bright pink paci helped her understand the situation. She even gifted you a lollipop! How nice of her.

"Was für ein süßes Baby du bist! Ich bin mir sicher, dass Mama und Papa hier die bestmögliche Lösung für dich gefunden haben, indem sie uns um die schönste Wiege der Welt für ihr kleines Baby gebeten haben. So wirst du später die Erwachsenen nicht stören! [What a cute baby you are! I'm sure that Mommy and Daddy have found the best solution for you by asking us for the prettiest crib on Earth for their little baby. That way, you won't be bothering the grown-ups later!]" She'd told you, giggling while slightly squatting down to talk to you. It was clear to her and everyone else that you hadn't understood a thing. You wanted to cry.

"Awww. Du verstehst micht nicht, oder? [Awww. You can't understand me, right?]", she went on. "Nein, die kann kein Deutsch. Genauso wie jedes Neugeborenes, HAHAHA! [No, she doesn't speak German. Just like every newborn, HAHAHA!]", Clara helped you out. Or at least, you thought she was helping you out... "Die ist wirklich mega süß. Und hast du den Geruch gemerkt? Sie scheint, ein Boom-Boom gemacht zu haben... [She is really super cute. And have you noticed the smell? It seems she made a boom-boom...]", Mommy told her. You blushed so badly when you recognized the word Boom-boom. They were talking about your diapers! "Echt? Macht sie wirklich das? WOW. Wie alt ist sie aber? [No way! Does she really do that?. WOW. But how old is she?]". "Jawohl. Ein komplett geschissenes Baby. Unglaublich peinlich HAHAHA [Of course. A completely shitty baby. Incredibly pathetic HAHAHA]. And tell her, sweetie. She wants to know your age! The real one." Both girls couldn't stop cackling when you said 34. Daddy, who hadn't understood but this, smiled at the realization that they were bullying you in a foreign language, adding playfully that you're still learning to talk like a big girl.

Is any language not foreign for a stupid baby, though?

And that was just the beginning. The baby crib was, indeed, incredibly pathetic. Unglaublich peinlich. They forced you in straightaway for what they knew was the best discipline they could inflict on you: a poopy nap. God, you hated poopy naps. They made you feel just like a fucking newborn. Genauso wie jedes Neugeborenes... And so they left you rot in your mess while they had a romantic Berlin dinner. They told you they'd be so proud of their little baby if you humped your mess while in the crib, but you are a grown-up woman, for God's sake. You had never done that and would never do that!

They were back a few hours later. It was late already, and you were so fucking hungry... You had only been fed some mushed peas in the airport's nursing area, under the ruthless scrutiny of some teen moms who also needed to microwave their infants' bibs. "Unglaublich. Die sieht wie meine Mutter aus, muss aber gefüttert werden wie mein kleiner Jonas hier. [Incredible. This woman could be my mother, but she needs to be fed like my little Jonas here]", you heard one say to herself while taking a toddler to the bathroom. To which your Mommy chimed in, holding your bib: "Tja, ich weiß, es ist ein bisschen weird, guck mal aber ihr Lätzchen! Ist sie nicht die allerhübschte Prinzessin? Ich glaub' schon! Wie alt ist dein Kleiner? Er kann stolz darauf sein, schon potty-trained zu sein, nicht wie Missy hier [Yes, I know, it's somewhat weird... but look at her bib! Is she not the prettiest princess ever? I think so! And how old is your little one? He can be proud to be already potty-trained, not like Missy here...]". Clara was showing her the waistband of your pampers. You couldn't take it anymore. "HAHAHA sorry was??? Die trägt Windeln noch??? Das muss mega peinlich sein. Jonas hier ist 2 Jahre alt und weiß, dass nur Baby Wildeln trägen müssen! [HAHAHA sorry what??? She's still wearing diapers? That has to be utterly pathetic. Jonas here is 2 years old and knows that only babies wear diapers]". They were talking about that fucking tot. It was certain they were comparing both little babies with each other... Fuck off. And just when you tried to reply, she stuffed your mouth with your always so convenient pacifier. Their chat was going to take time, apparently. And it did. The mother shared tips with your mommy on all the ways she took care of her two year old... after all, you just weren't there yet.

Anyway, last night you were hungry as hell when they opened the room door. Both of them clearly love drunk, a little tipsy, and you saw a pack of condoms in his left hand. He was probably squeezing her butt cheek with the left one, but that you couldn't see from the silly crib. And you didn't dare to get up, which was perhaps the perfect proof you belonged there. You could see that she was holding a McDonald's bag along with a big cup of coffee, though.

And here comes your Daddy. "Well, sweetie, how was your afternoon? God, it stinks in here. We'll change you right away, don't worry. But tell us: don't you have a gift for us? We were talking about how delightful it would be to find a nice, big cummy in your poopy diapers. Will we find one? Were you a good girl while we were out? I'm sure you were". Your Mommy was radiant, snickering to your reaction. "W-what, Dada? I-I.... I didn't wantchu! I-I just... fowgot! I'm sowwy!!", you stuttered through your pacifier.

"Well, that's a shame. Guess we'll throw away this Big Mac, then. No grown-up food for stupid toddlers. We'll stick to changing you. Then it's bath time for you and back in your crib. This coffee will make your tummy all rumbly so you'll learn your lesson. Daddies are to be listened to."

You shouted. Kicked. Screamed. The travel crib creaked and Daddy had to lift you up in a rush. After a well deserved spanking and your change -you could feel the utterly humiliating diaper rash all over your butt cheeks-, you behaved like an angel during bath time. After, you didn't even complain when they made you guzzle a full baby bottle of black coffee for dinner. Perfect for your weak stomach.

Back in your childish crib, wearing only your diapers, you were so humbled you didn't even react to Daddy's remarks about your "baby fat". He used to go crazy for your big, juicy udders, whereas now he just sees them as two unenticing balls of fat. "In German, we call that 'Babyspeck', love. That's what she has hanging up there. She's just a big, chubby baby!!! Why would she need sexy tits, like mine?

But now it's beddy byes for you, sweetie. Das Baby braucht Schlaf, sonst wird sie mürrisch... [The baby needs sleep, or she'll get cranky...] Awww. Do you want to learn some German? You were soo cute today, all lost in the big world... Repeat after me. No, don't take out your paci, it'll be cuter this way.

Ich-li-e-be-dich-Ma-ma."

"Ischiebesish, Mamma". You thought at this point you couldn't blush anymore.

"Again. I am Mama, you know? It means 'I love you, Mommy'. And don't you love Mama?? Ich liebe dich, Mama!"

"Ich wiebe wich, Mama!"

"Awwwww", cooed both Mommy and Daddy. "Now try to get some sleep, kiddo. You'll need it".

The morning after...

"Good morning, sweetie. Awww. Still blushing?? Your Daddy really makes me moan, you know... Well, as if you hadn't heard us from down there...".

To be continued...

[simply-ivanka]

Why Do the Young Vote Left?

Socialist teachers lead them to think of government as a free-money tree.

It’s the gifts. The progressive vibe is that big government will take care of you. It knows what’s best for you. It will redistribute money how it pleases. You need to put a smile on your face while it takes away your laurels, guns and money. “We believe in the collective,” Ms. Harris declared, much like Hillary Clinton’s “it takes a village.” Equity in Schenectady. Handouts for all.

You want proof? Ms. Harris’s Senate voting record is leftward of socialist Bernie Sanders. Vice-presidential candidate Tim Walz fawns over China, saying “everyone is the same and everyone shares.” Viva la revolución and Che Guevara T-shirts for all.

This is antifreedom. Too many of today’s youth fall in line with progressives because they’re undereducated and overindoctrinated with someone else’s agenda. I watched in horror as local high-school biology classes spent weeks on the science of recycling centers and only a short afternoon on mitochondria and mitosis. Profit is a bad word. It’s gimme, gimme, whether it’s student loan forgiveness, free healthcare or tax credits.

Who’s to blame? Misguided capitalism-hating social-studies teachers to start, with Tim Walzian thinking: “One person’s socialism is another person’s neighborliness.” Who is he, Mr. Rogers? Add like-minded college professors. Work ethic and ambition are evaporating.

Worse, Pew Research notes almost a third of currently childless 18- to 34-year-olds aren’t sure if they ever want children. Why? The Harris campaign’s “climate engagement director,” Camila Thorndike, is among the hesitant, telling the Washington Post, “I want to protect them from suffering.” Perpetually pessimistic progressive prognostications induce fear. No wonder U.S. fertility rates are at historic lows.

OK, I know I’m asking for trouble. Every time I write about youth, I get a chorus of comments and tweets telling me I’m an old man screaming, “Hey you kids, get off my lawn.” Yeah, yeah. Very clever. I’m not that old. But in the Kamala collective—as California attempted—private “ornamental” lawns are out, and drought-resistant vegetation is in. Progressives literally want you off your own lawn.

My conversations with young folks who do exhibit some actual drive show their confusion: “I want to do a startup.” Great! To do what? “A sustainable something or other. To save the planet.” OK, is it productive? “What’s that?” Does it scale? “Huh?” Will it do more with less? “Not really, it needs lots of money to keep going and save more of the world.” Sounds like a nonprofit. (That usually invokes a smile.) Actually, wealth comes from delivering ever-cheaper stuff to millions of people, not handouts. “I don’t care about money.”

OK, I say, but progress and societal wealth happen when you delight customers and postpone consumption to reinvest profits into better products. The looks on their faces are as if I’m describing Chinese arithmetic.

Our youth aren’t lazy but lost. Progressives have strong opinions about society but no viable solution beyond handing out other people’s money—taken from the few who actually are productive, drive progress and generate wealth by fulfilling customer needs. It’s a downward spiral: When progressives tax—screaming “fair share!”—they cripple the productive few who actually create the real non-burger-flipping, get-out-of-your-parent’s-basement jobs.

To aggressive progressives, government is simply a magic money tree. Vote left and dollars appear. The gross incompetence of government—think billions for eight electric vehicle chargers—destroyed healthcare (thank you, ObamaCare) and education (assisted by Randi Weingarten’s teachers union) and is close to destroying energy (net zero), even while the Biden-Harris administration works hard to destroy Big Tech—one of the few productive industries. And I’ll never forgive progressive Hollywood for turning “Star Wars” into unwatchable wokey Wookiee drivel.

What industries will be left standing? Who cares, because the dreamy types think generative artificial intelligence will kill all jobs and government will provide universal basic income so they can Zyn, TikTok and play College Football 25 videogames all day. A naive youthful triumphalism.

This is a false endgame. There is so much more to be invented: drugs, immunotherapy, fusion, self-folding clothes, humanoid robotics, flying cars. Hard brain work plus quality recharging leisure time is the goal, not a nation of welfare queens.

I feel sorry for the youth that do care, do work hard, are productive and help push the boulder of progress up that steep slope, while essentially carrying all the others on their backs. It’s you against the collective, the village, which is always about being supported, pampered, living off someone else’s hard work and then complaining that the handouts aren’t big enough. So, yeah, get off my lawn, while lawns are still allowed.

[quitealotofsodapop]

Nez Ha probably didn't just appear on Pigsy's Noodles doorstep, but rather probably appeared before Wukong whilst he was out on a delivery or soemthing similar, mainly because he'd have known Wukong was incognito and didn't want to risk giving any unnecessary attention like

Wu: *sees cloaked child suddenky appear behind him* Sweet Nuwa! Nez Ha!? The heck happened to you!?

Nez Ha: I had nowhere else to go

Later on Wu introduces Nez Ha as his friend 'Nez,' a family friend of sorts who's parents kicked him out

truth.

General Li Jing basically disowned Nezha for almost "setting chaos upon the world" (again), and the arguement got so heated between the pair that Nezha lost his place among the celestial guards. And since Heaven long since confiscated most of his treasures, Nezha was left almost powerless on Earth.

Nezha, in his true form and a child for the first time in milennia, just runs to the first person he can think of.

Sun Wukong.

Someone living in secret among humans because of the fallout of the Harbringer's Comet.

Nezha isn't sure how to approach Wukong, but he ends up following the ugly pig tuk-tuk around for a while before just walking up to the monkey. The reaction from Wukong is one Nezha did not expect.

Wukong: "How long have you been out on your own?!" Nezha, not understanding the issue: "A week or more. Why?" Wukong: "Have you eaten anything or even slept?" Nezha, thinking: "..." Wukong: "That's it. I'm taking you home. Until we can figure... this out, your not spending another minute out on the street." Nezha: (*confused but touched*)

Pigsy was about to protest the sudden arrival of a whole child, but noticed that "Nez" seemed super down in the dumps. And he def wasn't lying about his dad kicking him out so...

Tang: "Aww. You softie." Pigsy: (*has fed, helped bathed, warmed, and tucked in the little guy into a spare futon*) Pigsy: "Shaddup."

Now a little pink demon lives at the noodle shop. A little pink demon who's definitely seen a lot of violence in his life and is desperate for the approval of a parental figure. And is weirdly good at rollerskating. This is Pigsy's life now. Another son-figure acquired.

The Queen Mother def blows up at Li Jing for exiling his son, but when she tries looking for Nezha; she finds him in the care of a monkey-demon couple with a baby on the way + a childless human/demon pair with endless love to give. She decides that he is safer on earth for now, learning how to reign in his power and being a child again. She blesses the couple's baby for good luck.

She knows who the demon couple are. She's not a snitch.

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

Euphemia and James - Writer's Notes

Earlier this year I wrote a fic titled "Euphemia and James," a story exploring Euphemia Potter and infertility. This is the most deeply personal story I've ever written, and it took a few weeks to write it because of the emotions it stirred up for me, but honestly, being able to write this took years of processing emotions. I decided to share some of my notes on this fic in this post, and it includes this lovely cover image from @livelaughlovetoread. This story is also unique in that it's written in second person POV. It wasn't intended to come out that way, but that's how it came out. See below the image for my notes:

Euphemia and James came from these lines from the extra-canonical writings on Pottermore/whatever they call it these days:

"[Fleamont] sold the company at a vast profit when he retired, but no amount of riches could compensate him or his wife Euphemia for their childlessness. They had quite given up hope of a son or daughter when, to their shock and surprise, Euphemia found that she was pregnant and their beloved boy, James, was born."

If you don't know anything about infertility, I envy you somewhat. Studies have shown that a diagnosis or experience of infertility is similar to receiving a cancer diagnosis or losing a close loved one. It took me a while to realize that a lot of the feelings I had surrounding infertility was actually grief and mourning.

So, I put it all into this fic. There are a few points I want to highlight, if you decide to read the fic or want to see some lines, and my feelings around it all:

"When you meet Fleamont Potter a year into your job at the apothecary, you have no intention of marrying him."

I more or less shamelessly wrote Euphemia and Fleamont's relationship to be similar to mine with Mr C. In fact, Mr C aka @rawr-gorg-smash read this work and we were both sobbing messes by the end of it.

"It will happen when it happens, they say. It will come when you least expect it, they say. That’s what everyone says, and you’re ready to punch the next person in the face who tells you to just “relax.”"

Infertile people will get advice like this frequently. It's meant to be helpful or sometimes soothing, I think, but all too often it's an empty hope. Sometimes, bodies just don't work right, no matter how much relaxing you do.

"It’s not polite to ask. Everyone knows where magical, adopted children come from. They are Muggleborn children who are delicately extracted from their birth homes and replaced with Squibs, or sometimes not replaced at all."

This part is world building by me - the idea of adoption in a magical world seemed odd to me. How would infertile magical couples adopt if they can't use potions or charms? I wouldn't put it past them to just take a Muggleborn child, modify memories, and go. I won't touch on real world adoption-there's a lot to unpack there-but this idea gave me some thoughts on magical adoption.

"It seems selfish to want more, when you already have so much. You question, for the first time in your life, if you really want a child."

I have heard people say things to this effect: it's so selfish to want your 'own' children or to want children and bring them into this world, or some variation of that. If this is what you believe, you and I are going to disagree and I'm not going to try to convince you otherwise. But it's something I and many other infertile people have considered. The thing is, people have had children and will continue to have children throughout terrible periods of time. Does it make sense? Not necessarily. Human actions don't always make sense. To me, though, it speaks of hope. Hope for a better tomorrow, for a world that we will build that will be better for the next generation.

"Now you wish for a living child. There are no longer any expectations on your baby or the kind of person they’ll be. You want a living, breathing baby in your arms you can dote on, educate, feed, and guide through life."

I'll say that one of the few silver linings of infertility for me has been re-grounding my expectations of what kind of child I might have. It once was wishing for a boy or girl, or a kid who likes to read, or a kid who won't be into extreme sports, but now it's just a kid I want. I want to love them because they exist. That's all.

"It’s a shame that you only got nineteen years with your son, the one you wished had been born twenty years prior, so you could treasure twice as long with him."

One of my fears for having children later in life is not having enough time with them. Then again, young parents die. Even children die. If nothing else, whatever time I do have, I hope I use it to love whatever family I have to the fullest.

That's all I have for now. If you made it this far, read the fic, commented on it, left kudos, or a bookmark, thank you very kindly for your time. Of all the things I've written, this felt most like putting a piece of my heart into the world.

[daisynik7]

Dirty Thirty

Pairing: Kishibe x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

cw: thigh riding, cunnilingus, fingering, spanking, spit play, vaginal sex (doggy, cowgirl), cockwarming, use of pet names (princess and Master)

Word Count: ~5.6k

Summary: An alluring stranger gives you a special treat on the night of your 30th birthday. 

Notes: Kishibe is in his mid 40s. Also, apparently he is 6’4”, so reader is shorter, below 6’. This is very self-indulgent considering my own 30th is in a few days (shout out to all my fellow Pisces babes)! Also, I started this after finishing Chainsaw Man a few weeks ago, so this is a result of heavy Kishibe brainrot.

Additional Note: Check out Part 2 here: After Last Night! Reblogs, likes, and/or comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading!

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

The bass of EDM music reverberates through the speakers at the DJ’s booth. This particular bar you frequent turns into a club at 11 PM. College kids from the university down the street congregate in this establishment on the weekends, like today. You and your friends have been here since an hour ago, drinking and chatting in a booth hidden away to the side of the dancefloor. After dinner, you stopped by for a quick drink. With the booze and vibes just right, you ended up staying. 

Tonight, you celebrate your birthday. It’s the end of an era, really. You’re officially thirty. You’ve been dreading this day for the past few months, sad to bid farewell to your twenties, which wasn’t all that anyways. The number of times your friends reassure you that your thirties are the new twenties only brings you mild comfort. Glancing at the crowd tearing up the dancefloor, you can’t help being envious of their youth. 

Maybe it’s your buzz talking. You’re not one to feel sorry for yourself, especially about something as inevitable as aging. Thirty is young. Who cares if you’re the only one in your inner circle who’s single, unmarried, or childless? There’s no shame in it. You’re sick of women being scrutinized each year they get older for not doing what society tells them they should do. Who the fuck cares if you don’t have a ring on your finger or haven’t popped a baby out your vagina yet? It isn’t on your radar, and that’s perfectly fine. Men don’t get this much shit for remaining bachelors well into their forties or fifties, why should you?

You fidget with the glittery Dirty 30! sash you wear over your little black dress. A shimmering tiara sparkles on top of your head to complete your ensemble. Your friend’s voice in your ear snaps you out of your thoughts. “Hey birthday girl, how’s it going?”

Smiling, you hold your half empty glass up towards the middle. “Good. Thanks so much for coming out to celebrate tonight!” You’re ready to chug the rest of your liquor so you can head to the dancefloor. The other three women in your group cheers, clinking their drinks with yours. 

You’re about to suggest dancing when your friend says, “Shall we call it a night?”

It catches you off guard. The music just started and it’s not even midnight yet. You’re not ready to go back to the real world; it’s your special day until you fall asleep, which you don’t plan to do for a few more hours. You’re silent though, listening as the other girls repeat a similar sentiment. 

“My husband is waiting for me at home, so yes.”

“And my babies have an early morning play date tomorrow!”

Your friend beside you turns to you and asks, “Ready to go?”

Contemplating for a moment, you respond, “I think I might stay, actually. Have another drink or two.”

They stare at you bewildered, surprised you want to be here alone, which is unusual for you. “Are you sure?” they clarify.

“Yeah! Go ahead, I’ll be fine! I’m a big girl now,” you joke, standing up to hug them. They kiss you on the cheek, greeting you one last happy birthday before leaving together to go home to their husbands and children. 

Craving another drink, you abandon your booth to approach the bar. You order your favorite: a vodka cranberry, your comfort cocktail throughout your 20s. A reminder that you’re still the same you despite moving up a decade. 

You close your tab, promising yourself this is your last, and go back to your table. It’s now occupied by an older man in a black coat, sipping on amber liquor. Annoyed, and slightly intrigued, you sit opposite of him in the same booth. He lifts his head up slowly, noticing you. 

“Hi there,” you greet him. Even in the dim light, the stitched scar on his left cheek stands out. The metal piercings on his ears glisten, the strobe lights reflecting off them from the dancefloor. 

“Can I help you?” His voice is low and raspy, either naturally or from the alcohol. 

“I was sitting here earlier. The other tables are all occupied, and I really don’t want to stand around on the dancefloor by myself. Can I sit here until I finish my drink? There’s plenty of room for the both of us.” You put on your most charming smile.

“Where are your friends? I’m sure you’d rather sit with them instead of with an old man like me.”

“They ditched me to go home. Besides, it looks like you could use the company.” You tip your cocktail into your mouth, keeping your gaze on him. 

He watches you, skeptical. “How old are you?”

You glance down at your sash, which is now twisted so that the answer to his question is on your back where he can’t see. You grin at him. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman her age?”

He hums, unamused. “I’m not keen on hanging out with girls in their 20s. Not really my style. Not tonight, anyways.”

“How old do you think I am?” 

Narrowing his eyes at your tiara, he responds, “You’re wearing a crown, drinking a cranberry vodka at a bar that plays this shit music. I’d say you’re 23.”

This amuses you, like getting asked for your ID does, which is becoming rarer nowadays. It’s flattering.

“Hey, you’re here too. The only difference is that you’re drinking a whiskey,” you tease him, pointing at his glass. 

“In my defense, I finished work nearby and this shitty cesspool was the closest bar I could find.” He takes a swig of his alcohol. “So, am I right?”

Sliding the sash to face him, you answer, “Nope. You’re wrong. Lucky for you, today is my birthday. And I just turned thirty.” 

He cracks a smile at this, giving you a flutter below your belly. You’re not typically into older men; however, this guy has piqued your interest. There’s something about him that is alluring. Exciting. 

“Happy birthday,” he says, swallowing the rest of his whiskey. “Get anything good?” 

“No. But the night’s not over yet.” You’re full-on flirting now, not at all ashamed of how brazen you’re acting. Fuck it. You only turn thirty once, right?

There’s distance between you, but the tension is so thick, you could smell the bold scent of liquor coating his lips. He leans closer, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Well, I guess it’s my responsibility now to give you something good.”

~~~

Minutes later, you’re in the back of the cab, riding towards an address he mutters to the driver. He holds you, interlocking his fingers with yours, peering out his window in silence. You focus on your entwined hands resting on the middle seat, the intimacy of it all distracting you from the fact that you’re about to hook up with this attractive stranger. 

The driver arrives to a swanky apartment complex. Once inside, Kishibe doesn’t give you enough time to marvel at the beautiful interior of the room. In an instant, his lips are on yours, both palms cupping your cheeks assertively. Breath hot and chalky from the mint you saw him savor earlier in the car. It barely masks the lingering taste of that cigarette you witnessed him drag waiting for your ride. He didn’t have the same type of smoker’s breath that you’re sick of from your coworkers. With him, you don’t mind it at all. 

His hand trails down your neck, thumb carefully brushing over a pulse point right below your chin. His skin is rough and calloused compared to yours. The scraggly facial hair scattered along his jaw is scratchy on your cheeks. 

He breaks the kiss, gazing at you while he removes his overcoat, hanging it on the rack in the corner, kicking his shoes off in the process. There’s a small bar cart in the kitchen, where he pours himself a whiskey. At the freezer, he reaches for the ice, dropping three cubes into the dark liquor with a plop. You stand still, observing him, nervous and thrilled about what this mysterious man will do to you tonight.

At the couch, he takes a seat, thighs spread wide, his wrist hanging low between them, gripping the top of the glass with his fingertips. “Come here,” he beckons. 

Removing your heels quickly and abandoning your purse, you step towards him, ready to sit beside him until he demands, “No. Not there.” He pats his thigh with his free hand. “Here.”

Your body trembles with lust as you straddle him, pussy pulsing against his muscular thigh. He studies you, from your hazy stare down to him between your legs, savoring his cold liquor all the while. You gulp loudly, obediently waiting for his next command. 

Gently removing the crown atop your head and tossing it aside, he asks, “What do you want from me, princess? It’s your birthday after all.” Hearing him call you princess gives you a rush you can no longer contain. You start moving on his thigh, riding it to feel the glorious sensations on your clit.

His chuckle vibrates through his chest as you grasp at his collar to hold you steady. “This is what you want? Okay. Take what you need. Come on my thigh. I’ll watch.” His gravelly voice in your ear makes you ride him harder, grinding against him until your creamy mess is soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. You clench his tie, loosening it around his neck. He continues to watch you, sipping on his booze, enjoying his own private show.

Once the glass is empty except for the melting ice, he sets it down on the coffee table, pulling you in closer, his hand behind your neck. Lightly blowing cool, whiskey breath along your lips. You lean forward to kiss him, his tongue slipping past to explore your needy mouth. The longing for his touch on every inch of your body grows stronger by the second as you moan into the kiss, bouncing on his leg. 

“Can you come by yourself? Or do you need my tongue on it? I can lick it up real good if you’ll let me.” His obscene suggestion surprises you, as if you weren’t already performing lewd acts on his lap. You tug at his tie to pull him into another fierce kiss before sitting next to him on the couch, lifting the hem of your dress up to reveal your wet undergarments. 

“I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. But I’m not calling you Daddy,” you tease, spreading wide for him. 

His voice is low in his throat, kneeling on the carpet, face positioned between your thighs. “Good, because I prefer to be called Master.”

You roll your eyes at him, to which he responds, “What? You don’t like that? I bet I’ll have you screaming it all night long.”

This has you speechless as he drifts towards you, staring at the wet spot soaking through your lingerie. “Look how fucking wet you are for me.” He hooks his fingers around the fabric, stretching it to the side to expose your sopping cunt. Leaning in closer, he flicks his tongue gently onto your clit, causing you to squirm above him. 

He’s testing the waters, starting slow to gauge your limit. It’s gentle at first, toying with your bud until it’s plump and sensitive. Until your wanton moans are bouncing off the walls of his big, fancy apartment. There’s no doubt that he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s obvious this man has years of experience beyond you. Having this stranger swirl his tongue on the most intimate parts of your body makes you weak in the knees. This is the first time all night that you’re thankful to be turning thirty. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in this apartment, getting wrecked and torn apart by him.

“I’ve always wanted a plaything I can ruin,” he breathes out, finally wrapping his lips around you. “Will you be my pretty plaything tonight?” He surrounds your clit, drawing an erotic whimper from your mouth. 

“Fuck, Kishibe. Yes. Use me as your plaything, fuck.”

He eats you out noisily, emphasizing every wet sound his mouth makes on your swollen bud. Several times, he spits on it, spreading his saliva up and down your pussy, plunging his tongue into your entrance to get it lubricated with his own drool.  

“You’re fucking drenched down here. When’s the last time you let a grown man eat you out like this? I bet you’ve never been with someone like me, huh?”

You shake your head, swiping through his hair, spreading yourself wider for him. “Never.”

“I can tell,” he says, slipping his middle and ring finger into your entrance. “So fucking wet for me. I love it.” He pumps into you, curling his digits just right, resonating all the way down to your toes. His lips latch onto your clit, drinking you up to quench his insatiable thirst. 

“Hold these for me,” he says, guiding your fingers to your panties. “Want to stroke my cock while I eat this gorgeous pussy out.” You hear the unbuckling of his belt, the sound of him shoving his fist into his slacks to jerk off. The vibrations from his moans tickle your skin as he nuzzles himself deeper into your arousal, practically drowning in it, flattening his tongue to smear his warm saliva all over. You whine in ecstasy, heedless of attracting any neighboring attention to your explicit blubbering. 

“Come on my face,” he muffles, too busy lapping up your clit to pull away, fingers pumping in and out of you, shiny and sleek with your slick.

It doesn’t take much longer for you to reach your orgasm, pleasure jolting through your body while he works you until you’re overstimulated, twitching from the euphoria. He laughs softly, face glistening with your essence, taking a seat beside you. You watch him in a daze as he sticks his cum-coated fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. “You want a taste, too?”

You nod, disoriented from your intense climax. He drags your bottom lip down using the pad of his thumb, mumbling, “Open.”

Obediently, you stick your tongue out for him, knowing fully well what he’s about to do. Your pussy throbs again, ready to be fucked for real by this provocative stranger you were so fortunate to meet tonight. 

He grazes your open tongue, then spits in your mouth. “Swallow,” he demands, voice husky with desire. You do, making sure to gulp loudly, incredibly aroused and needy for his cock. 

“Show me,” he whispers, opening his own mouth to mimic you. “Ah.”

You show him your tongue again, a dumb expression on your face while he inspects. Satisfied, he grunts, “Fuck, you’re bad. You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?” He reaches down to your soaked panties clinging to you. “Take these off.”

He slides out of his trousers, revealing briefs that barely conceal his obvious bulge. As you slip out of your underwear, he removes his, displaying his impressive cock. “You going to ride this cock now?”

Without a word, you nod. You’re already anticipating how fucking amazing he’s going to feel inside you. Your brain is jumbled with naughty thoughts of him taking you in all positions in every room of his apartment. 

There’s a hungry gleam in his eyes as he watches you mount him. You hoist your dress up, stripping it from your body. He unclasps your bra, baring your breasts to him while he still wears his dress shirt and tie. For some reason, you want him to keep it on. Get it nice and dirty with slick and sweat.

You reach behind you to position him at your entrance. Once aligned, you slowly sink onto his cock, allowing yourself a few seconds to adjust to his size. Given his stature, it’s not surprising how big he is, both in length and girth. When you bottom out, he lets out a raspy fuck, holding your ass to squeeze your plush cheeks. “I’m ready whenever you are, princess. Like I said, take what you need from me. Milk me dry. I know you want to.”

Spurred by his provocative encouragement, you ride him, rocking your hips back and forth onto his lap, gripping his cock tight with your wet cunt. Forehead pressed to his, lids closed, jaw hanging open, experiencing the best fuck of your life. With a brief glance, you catch him watching you, a similar dazed expression on his face. You bounce on him faster, his dick pounding into you over and over again, determined to feel every inch you possibly can. 

“Fuck, Kishibe, feels so fucking good,” you moan, directing his fingers down to your clit. “I want to come all over this cock. Make me come, Master.”

Bingo. His eyes widen as soon as it slips from your mouth. It’s the magic word. The trigger. 

Without hesitation, he brushes his thumb ruthlessly onto your swollen bud. “Say it again,” he demands, pressing it hard as he massages it, eyes wild with lust.

“Fuck, make me come, Master. Make me come.” You’re riding him so fucking good, couch creaking, clutching his shoulders tight, his carnal stare locked on your every movement. 

“Tell me when you’re close,” he growls.

“I’m close, I’m close!”

Suddenly, he pulls out, cock covered in your arousal, wet and stiff against his abdomen. Strings of slick cling to the hem of his dress shirt. You’re about ready to yell at him for teasing you. Before you can, he stands up, grabbing your wrist to lead you into the bedroom. His breathing is heavy as he points to the bed, hastily removing his clothes. “On your knees, ass up. I’m going to fuck you so good. Make you squirt all over my fucking sheets.”

The anger immediately subsides and you’re back to being eager again, knowing damn well that he means every fucking word he says. You do as he commands, wiggling your ass to entice him. He chuckles behind you. “I’m sorry for denying you earlier. I just really want to see this ass bounce on my cock like this.” He teases you with his tip, tapping your clit, sliding it along your pussy lips. 

“You’re not forgiven,” you pout, growing impatient. 

Placing a soft kiss on your lower back, he laughs again. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about this stranger you met mere hours ago, it’s that he is a man of his word. 

He guides his cock into you slowly, stretching you little by little until you’re squeezing him, his entire length inside you. “Look at you, sucking me in again like you were made for me.” He starts thrusting, holding you steady to penetrate you deeper. 

“So fucking good!” you cry out, fists bunched on his silky sheets, drool leaking from the corner of your mouth. 

“I know, princess. It’s amazing for me too.” His heavy balls slap your damp skin with every brutal thrust of his hips, fucking you hard, dipping into your sweet spot until you’re woozy with pleasure. “You take it so good. So fucking sexy.” He tightens his grip on you, increasing his pace. “So fucking beautiful.”

You throw your ass back, arching your spine to get the perfect angle. With your cheeks bouncing obscenely against his thighs, you beg, “Spank me, Master. Spank me like a bad girl.”

Not wasting a second, his rough palm connects with your ass, the loud smack ringing in your ears. He spanks you again and again, your pussy clenching him tighter while you continue to thrust back onto his cock. You’re about ready to burst, desperate to reach your second orgasm after being denied earlier. You play with your puffy clit, electricity rippling through your body upon contact. Whimpering, you rub your bud faster as he pounds into you, cursing under his breath. 

“Fuck,” he moans, staring at your ass jiggle after each fresh slap he delivers. “Come on my cock, princess. That’s it. Get it creamy. Just like that, fuck.”

Waves of pleasure sweep over you, the intensity of it causing you to tremble before him. In the midst of your climax, you plead for him to finish inside you, greedy for his cum. It doesn’t take long for him to fill you up, staying nestled deep in you as he releases his warm load, letting out a husky fuck.

He pulls out, his warm release leaking from your pussy, dripping onto his sheets. He ogles at the pornographic sight in front of him, pleased with himself.

“Like what you see?” you tease, lowering your torso and relaxing on the bed.

“You are a naughty, naughty girl,” he says, collapsing beside you. “Can’t believe I let you seduce me.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault? You were the one who offered to give me something good for my birthday.” 

He raises a brow at you. “Did I succeed?”

You gaze at him, properly examining his appearance. Scruffy facial hair, eyes that are perpetually tired, the striking scar aligned with his frown. You find yourself wondering what his story is; someone this fetching must have a story.  

“Considering the mess we made, I would say you exceeded my expectations.” You lay your palm on his firm chest, his now steady heartbeat lightly thumping against your fingertips.

“I’m glad to hear I wasn’t a disappointment.” He doesn’t take his gaze off you. Normally, you’d be intimidated by such intense eye contact. With him, it’s different. You feel safe. He places his hand on top of yours, rugged thumb gently caressing the skin of your knuckles. The two of you stay like this, enjoying each other’s presence in an easy silence. 

“We can’t do this again,” he mutters, finally looking away from you. He turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, your hand still snug under his.

“Why not?” The shift in energy surprises you. This is not the typical pillow talk you’re accustomed too. 

“I’ll keep wanting to see you if we keep this up,” he admits. Although it’s a sweet sentiment, he’s deciding to end it here and now, not even waiting until the morning like in a typical one-night-stand.

Matching his candid demeanor, you ask, “What’s wrong with wanting to see me again?” A strange feeling of unease swells in your chest, anxious for whatever truth he’s about to reveal. 

He takes a breath before explaining, “I’m a Devil Hunter. The best in the world. My job is very dangerous. A young woman like yourself shouldn’t get attached to me. My life is expendable.” He avoids you while he speaks, eyes laser focused on the ceiling, barely blinking. It’s as if he doesn’t want to say it; rather, it’s part of a script, forced to recite the lines like it’s standard procedure. How often has he had to deliver this sober spiel to his ex-lovers? You start to pity him, speculating how detached he must remain to the outside world strictly because of his risky profession. 

You continue to stare at him, letting the information sink it. The air is thick with a serious tension. It’s a sudden switch from the wild romp you just experienced. Choosing not to pester him further, you decide to lighten the mood. You scoot towards him, mouth skimming his ear, muttering, “Well, l didn’t really like you anyways.” The cold metal of his piercings contrast the soft warmth of your lips.

He turns to you again, the tension in his brows easing slowly as he gives you a small smirk. “Oh yeah?”

You nuzzle your nose against his. “Yeah.”

“Good. It’s better this way,” he says, planting a kiss on the forehead. 

Sighing, you ask, “Can I at least spend the night?” 

“Of course. I’ll even cook you breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean a cup of coffee with a splash of whiskey and a couple cigarettes,” you joke. 

He chuckles. “I’ll throw in some eggs for protein, does that work?”

“Sure. I’ll take whatever I can get, since this is the last time we’ll be seeing each other.” 

There’s a small smile on his lips as he gazes at you. A minute passes and he reaches for you, grazing your cheek delicately. You feel comfortable in bed with him. Protected. You snuggle into his chest, his arms wrapping you into a bear hug. Cozy in his embrace, you listen to his rhythmic breathing, lulling you to sleep.

~~~

In the morning, you wake up alone, tucked under the covers, clothed only in a dress shirt, barely buttoned. The bedroom door is wide open, the sound of a pan scraping on iron ringing in your ears and the inviting smell of food cooking wafting from the kitchen. 

You spot a pack of baby wipes on the drawer next to you, noticing that your body is fresh and clean, opposite the sticky mess you fell asleep to. Next to it is a brand-new toothbrush and toothpaste. With these items in hand, you tip-toe into the bathroom, appreciating his thoughtfulness.  

When you’re done, you study his bedroom for the first time, and probably last. There are no pictures hung anywhere, no personal touch to anything. Only small traces of a man whose entire existence is his job. Several ties scattered on his dresser next to a metal flask. A mini calendar on his nightstand with random scribblings of future work commitments. Hamper in the corner of the room, filled to the brim with white dress shirts, black slacks, and a couple of mismatched argyle socks. You’re slightly tempted to investigate some drawers to see the type of weapons a Devil Hunter of his caliber carries, but you don’t.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him in the kitchen. He’s in a plain white t-shirt with navy-blue pajama pants. As promised, he is cooking a batch of scrambled eggs over the stove, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, spatula in the other. Looking domestic and sexy as hell. His words replay in your mind. You shouldn’t get attached to someone like me. You almost regret sleeping with him, knowing you’ll miss him after you leave. 

Quietly, you stroll towards him until he notices you. When he does, he takes a sip of coffee and mutters, “Morning, princess.” 

Positioned behind him, you wrap your arms around his waist, raising your heels to place a gentle kiss on the back of his neck. It’s only now that you realize how much taller he is than you. “Good morning, handsome. This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I told you I’d cook you breakfast, didn’t I?” He cranes his neck to face you, smirking. 

“You did. I’m pleased to see you keep your promise,” you tell him, resting your cheek on his back. “You’re truly a man of your word. I think that deserves a reward.” You slide your thumbs under the waistband of his pajama bottoms, teasing him. 

“If you tempt me, you won’t be able to taste this delicious meal I prepared for you,” he comments, setting his coffee mug down the counter and turning off the burner. His hand covers yours, maneuvering it over the growing bulge in his pants. 

“Maybe I’m craving something else for breakfast.” You start palming his erection, suddenly hungry for him rather than the food. 

He turns to face you, looking at you up and down in his dress shirt, your legs clenched together to hide your arousal. Still smirking, he says, “You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.” He slowly pushes you against the counter, running his fingers up your inner thigh, spreading your legs to expose your wet cunt. 

You moan, anticipating another round of intense fucking, this time in his kitchen. It makes you want to christen every part of his apartment. 

“How are you this fucking wet for me already?” He whispers, rubbing his thumb on your throbbing clit. “You’re so sexy, it’s driving me insane.”

“Kishibe,” you breath out, struggling to steady yourself. “Fuck.”

“I got you. Get on the counter for me, princess. Spread those legs so I can lick that pussy clean.” 

With his hands on your waist guiding you, you hop up, opening wide for him. Knees bent and body folded forward, he starts licking your clit, palming his erection through his pants. You come within minutes, gushing over his tongue as it glides along your slit, nose digging firmly onto your swollen bud. 

“Fuck me, Kishibe. Want that big cock inside me. Want you to fill me up again with your cum.” You hop back down, turning around and lifting the hem of the dress shirt past your ass, ready to get railed right there on the countertop.

“Not like this,” he murmurs, kissing you on the cheek. “Wait for me in my room. We’re going to have breakfast in bed together.”

Minutes later, a tray with a plate full of eggs, toast, and bacon set on top is temporarily forgotten as the two of you fuck on the other side of the bed. Him sitting up, back pressed to the headboard, you riding him until he spills inside you, causing you to orgasm again all over him. 

You slump forward, resting your head on his shoulder, tired and satiated from another amazing fuck. Attempting to slide off him, he kisses you on the lips, his grip firm on your waist, unyielding. “Keep my cock inside you. Can you do that for me?” 

In your blissful state, all you can do is nod, getting comfortable on his lap. He reaches for a slice of bacon on the tray, letting you take the first bites before he finishes it, doing the same for a piece of buttered toast. He feeds you forkfuls of scrambled eggs, using the same utensil for himself. It’s pleasantly intimate for two people who just met. Playing the role of a long-term couple, indulging in simple delights together, like breakfast in bed.

Plate cleared, both your bellies full of nourishment, you stay in this position, kissing each other leisurely, no rush to separate. He whispers your name, fondling your breasts through the fabric of his dress shirt that you’ve made yours. He repeats it a few more times, relishing how it feels on his lips before he never has to utter it again. 

It’s bittersweet, knowing it’s ending as soon as it begun. You have no reason to be so smitten with him. You’re two people who hardly know each other. Still, you find yourself not wanting to say goodbye yet. Something’s there. A tiny spark flickering in the distance. Maybe you’re one of many women he’s done this with before. Maybe you’re nothing special. But in this fleeting moment, you let yourself believe it’s real.

The two of you reluctantly part after an especially long, passionate kiss. You dismount him, grabbing the wipes to clean up the mess that was made earlier. He gives you a smooch on the forehead before getting out of bed to exit the room, returning in less than a minute to hand you your outfit from last night. You briefly recall carelessly discarding it all over his living room floor right before you pounced on him. Is it too soon to consider that a fond memory? It hasn’t even been 24 hours and you’re reminiscing about him already. 

He leaves you alone in the bedroom to change. Before you undress, you bring the sleeves of the shirt to your nose and inhale deeply, memorizing his scent. You almost want to keep this shirt as proof that this happened. That Kishibe is real.

Back in your black dress, you sit at the edge of the bed, waiting for his return. When he walks in, he points at the sash and tiara next to you on the bed. “You’re not going to wear that?”

Shrugging, you respond, “It’s no longer my birthday, so it feels silly wearing it. Just toss it.”

You check your phone, estimating the time of arrival for the ride you requested. Any minute now, they’ll be here, ending your short-lived tryst. He offers to drop you off, but you refuse, not bothering to explain that doing that will result in you dragging him into your own apartment and keeping him a willing hostage for another few hours. It’ll only make it more difficult to not get attached. He doesn’t question it, probably understanding this himself. 

The ping from the app chimes through your phone. You stand up, smiling at him, swinging your purse over your shoulder. “That’s my ride.”

He walks you to the door, waiting for you to strap on your heels. Once they’re on, you smile. “I guess this is it. Thank you for a fun night.”

“Thank you too. This was fun.” It could be wishful thinking, but you hear a waver in his voice. Is he a little bit sad too?

You face the door, ready to turn the knob, when you feel his grip on your wrist. He spins you towards him, kissing you feverishly, his hand caressing your cheek, the other behind your neck. Yearning for one more moment of intimacy with you. He breaks away, resting his forehead against yours, eyes shut as he says goodbye with one last whisper of your name. You avoid his gaze as you exit, walking out of his life.

It’s better this way. 

[plum-pitt]

LU Age headcanons:

Heyo! Been a while since i rambled about my favorite silly elf boys but this just came on the brain so I thought i’d talk about it! But as a twist, i’m conceptualizing their ages through the lens of a persons development in modern society.

(Disclaimer, this is based purely on appearance and vibes, with just a little input from canon. Also sorry sky fans looking at that mf genuinely scares me because i feel like he could be anywhere from 17 to 25 or even older than time itself and i still wouldn’t know. that fucker just can’t register in my brain.)

Wind: This is fucking textbook 14 year old boy. You can’t tell me he doesn’t still jump up to smack the top of every doorframe he walks through, and pull up clothed head to toe in obnoxious highlighter yellow athletic wear every day.

Four: He’s definitely a 16 year old but like- the kind of 16 year old that’s the only one in the group who has a car, if that makes any sense. Like he IS squad soccer mom.

Hyrule: He’s 17, but that very specific brand where he’s got everyone in his life getting on his ass to figure out what he wants to do after highschool, and probably won’t even figure out if he wants to go to college or not until like a week before graduation.

Wild: This here a 19 year old, he’s moved out already, leaving his high pressure home life behind to live happily somewhere far away with his gf, exploring a whole new world of possibilities free of expectations, and probably also his gender identity.

Legend: This fucker is that one 20 year old you know that is already so burnt out and jaded by the idea of adulthood you’d think he’s getting close to retirement age. But nah he’s just THAT over it.

Warriors: Frat guy who just turned 21 and slowly having the dawning realization that drinking is a lot less fun when it’s legal for him to do it.

Twilight: This man 22 and has his whole fuckin life together, went straight into work after highschool and is probably the only guy in his friend group with a stable income. Really just took to adulthood like a fish to the river. Definitely has nieces and nephews he spoils and brags to his friends about all the time like they’re actually his kids.

Time: Haha look at this fuckin mortgage payer. Ok so i can’t guess his actual mental age, but physically he looks like a guy in his early 40s, fresh outta his midlife crisis, looking confident and very dilfy, despite the fact that he’s woefully childless. Don’t ask me how i arrived at this conclusion or why it matters but he definitely collects antique furniture with his wife.

[girlcrushart]

I've been fretting for a few weeks over Taylor's silence and the growing online frustration—even among Swifties! It has all been especially difficult as I fall deeper and deeper in love with The Tortured Poets Department, which I listen to daily and is most definitely my current musical happy place like a warm blanket that protects me from all the crap going on in the world. I was really starting to worry that my hero wasn't going to be properly heroic and then BOOM! She just knocked it out of the park. The debate was so painful to watch (because 2 hours of listening to that moron is not good for my soul), but Kamala did an amazing job, and then for it to wrap up with Taylor's endorsement was just wonderful. I watched the debate with my Dad, and it was actually him who showed me Taylor had endorsed her (I think he got a NYT alert about it on his phone!) and when I expressed how relieved I was, and how I felt it had come a little late, he cleverly pointed out that he thought the timing was perfect. Kamala has been riding the wave of excitement since Biden dropped out, and Taylor's endorsement is definitely something that can have an impact, so her saving it until a little later to give Harris a bit of a boost as the initial wave dies down was honestly perfect. She also used the opportunity to address the gross AI stuff Trump did a few weeks ago, promote responsible voting thru being informed, and remind young voters about getting registered. AND to top it all off she even used the Childless Cat Lady thing like a total boss. I'm gonna listen to TPD even more today! Today's girlcrushart guardian is Taylor Swift.

[yautjalover]

Sometimes I think about a Yautja raised by humans meeting another Yautja for the first time.

Like let's say in the 1950s a 20 year old couple found a baby Yautja and decided to raise them. Cause idk they're childless farmers in the middle of nowhere. I once saw somewhere it takes like 67 years for a Yautja to reach adulthood (I may be wrong).

So the year is 2024 and our farmer couple is in their 90s when their now adult alien child meets an injured yautja hunter.

(Also the human raised yautja would probably have human values and beliefs along with wearing human clothes. Plus we all know they'd have the most basic human name like Bobby, Tomas, Elijah, Judy, Martha, Tonya etc.)

The the sadness Yautja Judy would feel along with the misunderstandings that would happen when she meets another of her kind would be funny. Especially when they talk and both realize neither speaks eachothers language.

Judy isn't surprised cause she knows she's an alien and of course her race has its own language. (She is sad though cause they can't communicate) Meanwhile normal yautja (let's call him hunter) is confused and a little terrified cause why is she wearing ooman clothes and speaking perfect English.

Judy would definitely give Hunter uncanny valley like what do you mean you were raised on earth and think hunting oomans is wrong?! What do you mean eating raw meat is nasty, and the predator dogs are ugly?!

It's even worse when Hunter sees her now elderly foster parents and the farm. Cause why would you keep perfectly good prey locked up behind fences? There's no fun in hunting already trapped prey?! Also why are you letting that ooman TOUCH your dreads!?!?!? WTF is braiding?!?!?

Hunters like:

So after Hunter is all healed up he leaves without saying goodbye. Judy is left to believe she'll never see another Yautja again. (Not like she cares dude was always staring at her and hissing at her parents.)

Hunter actually went back to the clanship to get a better translator and told everyone about Judy. No one believes him though....Till he shows his mask recording and everyone's like:

Now everyone is trying to figure out whose Judy's real parents and how to deal with the situation.

Meanwhile weeks later Judy's living her best life never realizing that her real parents just entered earths orbit. And they want her back cause she's literally their ONLY child.

Also this is Judy's childhood always getting jumped on by the family cat. And wearing like 10 layers in fall and winter cause her human parents thought she'd freeze to death.

Ya know this is quite great, because I have a WIP fanfic about this exact scenario. It’s called Kira, that being the human-raised Yautja’s name. Her real name is K1RA, but eventually she was just called Kira.

She’s raised by a secretive arm of the US military and trained to be their defense when a predator visits Earth again. Their own Predator on their side. They of course have her participate in secretive missions for the military.

It’s got a meddlesome goddess, a grumpy Yautja raised by his own people, an adult coming of age and finding one’s place in the world, and finding love in all of that. Despite my life being hectic lately, I’m still working on the eighth chapter. ☺️

You should write that down as a fic! We need more unique Yautja like this. I’d definitely give it a read. 😁 There are so many opportunities for humor and awkward scenarios!

Link to my fic on Ao3 here.

You can also find it on WattPad here.

[murderousink23]

09/11/2023 is World Childless Week 🌎, Māori Language Week 🇳🇿, National Hot Cross Bun Day 🇺🇲, National Make Your Bed Day 🛏🇺🇲, Patriot Day and National Day of Service and Remembrance 🇺🇲, National Boss/Employee Exchange Day 🇺🇲, Emergency Number Day 🇺🇲

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 5: Bells Each Hour]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 5.7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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You’re waiting for Aemond under the hundred-year-old cedar tree at the edge of the forest, Alonzo’s most recent letter in your hands. Midnight is grazing not far away, dewy April grass trampled flat beneath her hooves, silky black tail swishing. She won’t tolerate a lead chain, so she travels the woods unimpeded; but you know she won’t run. She never does. The slender pink ivory wood box is open on the ground, your sword propped against the tree trunk. Weeks ago, you carved four dates there in Roman numerals, infinitesimal inscriptions that you periodically trace back over so they never fade. They’re the days when you lost your children. You were permitted to keep no remnants of them, no stained cloths or recorded names. They belonged less to you than to the kingdom, and you were never allowed to forget this. All you have left are these shallow marks on a cedar tree as the world wakes up again: blossoms unraveling in the palace gardens, sprigs of jade-colored herbs piercing through cool rich earth.

Mother is possessed by conspiracies, Alonzo writes, forever a touch hyperbolic; you can picture his familiar wry smile as you drink up his words like roots swallow rain. He’s your oldest brother and thus the Crown Prince of Navarre. He’s been married for six years to Ippolita of Ferrara, three healthy children so far, one a boy named for your father. She swears there is something wrong with the water there, or the air, or the wheat, the culprit changes by the day. She frets, you know. As she always has. She wonders if we should dispatch one of our own bishops to bless you, or if you should undertake a pilgrimage to some holy site to beg the Virgin Mary for healing. More than anything, I think, she misses you. Her other daughters have found happiness in their marriages, and so it is easier for her to let them go and imagine it was for the best, but you…it is a different circumstance entirely, don’t you agree? Even Father has begun reassessing the illustrious English alliance he was once so proud of. He mutters that if you are to be childless either way, you might as well be home with your family, not trapped in some far-off, gloomy, turbulent land with a degenerate husband. We’ve heard things about Prince Aegon. Father says he never would have sent you across the Bay of Biscay if he knew what waited for you there.

I suppose what I’m trying to ask is…if the Pope would grant an annulment…if Father could work out an arrangement with King Viserys and the Duke of Hightower for you to come home again…would you want to?

All my love (and plenty more from Lita and the children),

Alonzo

You shred his letter so no one else will find it, looking up at a turquoise sky cluttered with fleecy white clouds, the same sky that stretches eastward to Navarre and beyond. You can’t go home; it would be a surrender, it would mean giving up any hope of a grander future. And it would mean giving up Aemond too. He’s not yours, but you can’t lose him. You feel like you can’t breathe every time you think of it. And there’s another reason why you can’t consider trying to dissolve your marriage. Not yet, anyway.

You rest your palms on your belly, vulnerable flesh beneath emerald-green silk, still at least a month away from starting to show. It’s early, very early, but by now you know the signs as well as the sounds of horses, the feel of the hilt of a sword in your grasp. It is your fifth attempt in less than two years. You have no reason to believe that this time will be different, that it will end in joy and triumph instead of ruin. Still, you suppose that anything is possible. It would be traitorous not to hope, wouldn’t it?

At last Aemond and Vhagar appear, galloping across the field to meet you at the edge of the forest. He’s in the saddle with his hair flying like a white banner, the buckles on his tunic glinting in the sun. You smile until he is close enough for you to read his face: tension, vexation, thinly-veiled ire. He dismounts in one fluid motion and Vhagar moseys away to graze beside Midnight, her enormous hooves clomping, dandelions and clovers leveled like fields at harvest.

“When were you going to tell me?” Aemond demands. He comes so close he fills your vision, your air; your lungs draw in smoke and leather, work and skill, every thread of muscle fought for. “After everything, I had to overhear it from the gossip of servants?”

Oh. Oh. “I hadn’t decided how yet. I was trying not to hurt you.”

“I’m hurt that you kept it from me.”

“Aemond…” You hesitate. There’s no delicate way to say this. “I didn’t want you to have to think about that part.” His brother on top of you, inside of you, melding with you to create a new heartbeat.

“I already think about it,” Aemond replies, sharp and stabbing like thorns. “I think about it all the goddamn time.”

Now your voice is bitter too. “Well, soon it will be my turn to be so afflicted, right?”

He quiets and retreats a few steps, rubbing his face with his hands. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen him do that before. He looks genuinely rattled, pained, remorseful. Kunigunde, the lone surviving daughter of Frederick III, will arrive in London any day now. Sometimes you find yourself wishing that her ship would sink to the bottom of the ocean or that some last-minute diplomatic squabble would go unresolved and she would be returned untouched to the Continent…but to what avail? Aemond will have to marry somebody. You cannot seem to produce a son, Nico won’t even be able to start trying until her wedding in August. The Greens need more heirs, more allies. And no ally could be more beneficial to their cause than the Holy Roman Empire. You should recognize the momentous advantage in this match. Instead, all you can think about is Aemond lying with another woman and memorizing the secrets of her body until they begin showing up in his poems, hips and wrists and the bumps of her spine.

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says gently. “I don’t want to argue with you. You’re not at fault for any of this. You’re not who I’m really mad at.”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit tired, a bit nauseous. Nothing new.”

“Good. But that’s not what I meant.”

You look at him as you stand in the shade together under the vast cedar tree. “I don’t feel anything,” you confess, words you could not share with anyone else. They would think you were in need of an elixir or a prayer or an exorcism. “I don’t feel happy, I don’t feel anxious, I don’t feel excited or afraid or hopeful. I want to be hopeful, it is my obligation to be hopeful, but I’m not. I don’t feel anything anymore. This has happened too many times already. Or maybe I’m just broken in spirit as well as in body.”

“You aren’t broken at all.”

You smile bleakly. “That’s kind, but I don’t think it’s true.”

“Believe me, I’d know. Brokenness and I are well-acquainted.”

And you wonder before you can stop yourself: What does he look like under his eyepatch? How exactly did it happen? Does it still pain him, does it enrage him? Does it make his hands ache for vengeance?

He asks: “What can I do?”

You get your sword from where it’s propped against the tree and twirl it once. “Distract me.”

“Gladly.” Aemond glides his blade out of its scabbard and lunges. You parry and strike him lightly across the back. Then you swiftly retreat, waiting for his riposte, on guard.

“I always wanted children, you know,” you say. “Not just because it was required of me. I grew up in a castle that was loud and full of footsteps. My mother was eternally playing with us, reading to us, tending to us. I imagined the same for myself. I craved it.”

“You’ll have children,” Aemond insists, forever so sure of something that feels impossible.

“You should have been the heir. Maybe this is how it happens. I’ll remain childless and Aegon will drink himself to death, and then you and your sons with Kunigunde will inherit the throne.”

He swings and you block, his blade clashing with yours once, twice, again, driving you backwards until you are pinned against the cedar tree. “I don’t want it that way,” Aemond pants from the effort, your swords locked together above your heads. “Not if it requires your sacrifice.”

You gaze up at him as his eye rakes over you; you’re close enough to kiss if you dared to. But you want much more than that. You want his long hair knotted in your fists, you want his hands on your bare skin, you want his tongue and his heat and his moans. But you have to be careful, so very careful. To be discovered sparring would be bad, but to be branded as adulterers would be far, far worse. For Aemond it would likely mean banishment. For you it would mean death by beheading or burning; only the king could commute the sentence. Rhaenyra would not persuade him to have mercy. And hers is the only voice you are confident Viserys would hear.

“Ivy,” Aemond whispers, a name that only he will ever call you. For a second, and only one, his palm skates weightlessly down your belly. You hear the distant chimes of the Tower of London, bells each hour, and it’s strange how so much time can pass without changing the heart at all. “I wish everything was different. I wish it was mine and you were too.”

And then he retreats in several long strides and waits for you to collect yourself so you can thrust at him with your blade again.

An hour later, Aemond helps you to rebury your sword—you’ve taken to keeping the pink ivory box in a shallow grave under the cedar tree so no one spies you ferrying it to and from Westminster Palace—and then accompanies you back inside once the horses are returned to the royal stables. He is mindful not to appear too familiar within sight of the court, but there are small gestures that he cannot seem to purge himself of: a hand on the curve of your back as you ascend stairs, shoulders and elbows that push others away if they inadvertently jostle you, glances to decipher the mood of your face. He signals to a servant and they scuttle over to bring you a cup of apple cider, cool and crisp and sweet.

“Where in God’s name have you been?!” the Duke of Hightower scolds you from across the hall, departing from a conversation with the Montford patriarchs. They wear serene, confident smiles. They’ve named Joanna’s white-haired bastard Aegon—not very subtle—and are basking in their recent procurement of titles, land, and influence. Already you’ve overheard the idea proposed, more than once and by various nobles: your marriage could be annulled, Joanna wed to Prince Aegon in your place, her son retroactively legitimized. The plan is certainly not without its own obstacles, but the Duke seems to be intrigued by it. Your husband will not entertain putting you aside. When the notion surfaces in his presence—like a shimmering fish from the depths of a pond—Aegon walks right out of the room.

You reply, with practiced innocence: “Just outside strolling through the gardens, Your Grace. The weather is lovely—”

“You shouldn’t be strolling anywhere. Not inside, not outside, not even to the chapel to beg God for the long-overdue deliverance of a son. You should be in bed.”

“Grandsire,” Aemond says. “Surely she cannot be expected to live as a prisoner.”

“She will live in whatever manner gives us the greatest chance of an heir. She may not be a prisoner, but she is a princess and a wife, and sometimes the requirements of these stations are not as divergent as you might believe.”

Aemond’s face goes dark, goes defiant. “You cannot put it all on her shoulders.”

The Duke of Hightower grins arrogantly; he’s caught him in the perfect trap. “But it’s not all on her, Prince Aemond. Within a week you’ll be sharing that burden. Making it lighter, even.”

Aemond glares at the Duke and says nothing.

“You will be married as soon as Kunigunde arrives. Within two days, mark my words. You’ll begin trying for a son in April, Nico in August. Now we have no heirs. But by this time next year we could have three! Isn’t that a happy thought?” And he marches away to resume his scheming, still smiling about it.

Aemond walks you to your rooms and stays there with you. You embroider pillows as he reads to you—a book about Aegon I’s Conquest in 1066—in a voice that is soft and low and secretive. Nico and Daeron join you both for dinner, and then you and Aemond are alone again. It’s wonderous and yet excruciatingly painful, profoundly unwise and yet necessary. You never speak of the night when he touched you beneath your nightgown, but it’s always there between you, a ghost that flutters curtains and creaks open doors trying to get your attention. You’re playing Tric-Trac on the bearskin rug, the fire dying down, when your husband reels drunkenly into your bedchamber.

“Aegon?” you say, startled. Aemond immediately moves away from you, at first just withdrawing to the other end of the rug and then rising to his feet as his brother continues to approach. You aren’t sure what he could want; it is recommended that pregnant women not lie with their husbands, and you’ll gladly take any excuse available to you. He must have forgotten at some point during his fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth cup of wine. “While I’m with child, I can’t—”

“I know, I know. I remember.” Aegon falls down onto the bearskin rug and slings his arms around your waist, burrowing into you. He rests his head on your chest, white-blond hair unruly and tangled. After a moment—long enough to recover from the shock of it—you hold him, tolerantly and sympathetically, like a wife should. Aemond leaves the room, river-blue eye downcast. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice. He sighs contently as you run your fingers through his hair, as your palms trace his back over his plain white shirt. There are red splotches on it, some of them wine, some blood; there are tacky streaks of it around his nose. He’s never done this before. He’s never sought you out for contact that was pure like this, without directives, without prizes to be won.

“Aegon?” you ask after a while.

“Yes, wife?”

“What exactly happened to Aemond’s eye?”

“My fault,” he murmurs drowsily. “He and I were supposed to be practicing our sword fighting with Sir Criston. Aemond was in the courtyard, exactly where he was supposed to be, and I was hiding in a stairwell somewhere guzzling wine, trying to forget who I was. Sir Criston went looking for me and while he was gone, they found Aemond. Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena. Four against one. I don’t know much about math, but that doesn’t sound even to me. Aemond was a lot smaller then. He hadn’t gotten tough and mean yet. I’ve never been clear on who said what first, but eventually he was calling Rhaenyra’s sons bastards and they were calling him a worthless spare, unnecessary and unloved, at least in the king’s eyes. Neither of them were wrong, by the way. Aemond grabbed a rock. Luke had a knife. By the time Sir Criston returned with me in tow, it was over. I remember watching the physicians stitch up Aemond’s face, using tweezers and spoons to clean out the pieces of gelatinous flesh from his eye socket. Father did nothing about it. He cared more about Aemond calling Jace and Luke bastards than the fact that he was half-blinded for life. Aemond started wearing a sapphire in the socket once it finally healed. He still does, as far as I know, though I haven’t seen him without his eyepatch in years. It’s a reference to some folktale about a warrior with two sapphire eyes. Some metaphor I couldn’t appreciate. I think my tutors once tried to make me read that story and I never did.”

You are sickened by grief, revulsion, fury. He was just a boy. A boy who had been neglected and ignored and brutalized, and his own father couldn’t care less. A boy who learned to idolize fictional heroes in the absence of real ones. “Yes,” you reply weakly. “That sounds like something Aemond would do.”

“All my fault,” Aegon says again, clutching you tighter.

“I’m sure he knows you didn’t mean him any harm.”

“He’s disgusted by me. They all are. Because I’m not suited to be king and never will be.” His voice is clotted with wine, shame, self-loathing. “I never asked to be built of disappointments. I didn’t choose to be this way.”

“You’ll make a fine king, Aegon,” you tell him, because you’re supposed to.

“Do you think I’m the cause of our losses?” he asks suddenly, and you think: Our losses, not mine. He called them ours. “You conceive easily. I can have children with others. Neither of us seem to be defective in body. But perhaps I have inflicted great stress upon you with my indiscretions. My drinking, my sloth, my affairs. I did not think I was hurting you. I did not think of much beyond myself at all, to be perfectly honest. But it was horrible to see you that way. At Christmas. So bereft, so wounded. You’ve suffered so much here. You deserve the consolation that children would bring you.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, shorter than any other grown Targaryen’s; he doesn’t want their name, their legacy, their looming war. “I don’t think you had anything to do with the miscarriages. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“I want to be better this time,” he says, peering hazily up at you and placing one hand protectively over your belly. “A better husband, a better man. For both of you.”

You wish you could feel relief, feel joy, even a whisper of it. Instead, all you can think about is Aemond: his face, his voice, his hands. If I have to watch him touch another woman, I’ll never be able to get it out of my mind. If I have to watch him fall in love with her, it will kill me.

“Maybe it would have been different if we had met somewhere else,” Aegon says dreamily.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere very far away.”

His eyes dip shut and you stare into the dying embers of the fireplace: red like lust, like blood, like the flag of Navarre.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the next morning, and you’ve escaped as far as Nico’s rooms. She has what seems like hundreds of swatches of fabric strewn across a table, silk and velvet and linen.

“What do you think of this one?” she asks nervously, holding a scrap of butter-yellow silk to the bare skin of her upper chest. “It’s not really my best color. But the Duke of Hightower suggested I wear a yellow wedding dress. The flag of Milan has a great deal of yellow, you know. I don’t think he wants anyone to forget where I’m from. Or all the wealth and soldiers I’m bringing to his side.”

“How romantic,” you tease, smiling. “Doesn’t your flag also have a giant, murderous blue snake on it? Perhaps you could dress as one of those. We’ll sew you a nice long tail.”

Nico bursts out laughing, far too boisterously, as usual. “That would certainly get Daeron’s blood running hot, wouldn’t it?” Now she frowns down at the table fretfully. “I so want him to be pleased with me. I want him to remember how I looked that day for the rest of his life.”

How did you look on the day you married Aegon? Miserable, probably. Lonely. Empty. Nico will never have to feel that way. You’re happy for her; but it makes your own predicament louder somehow. “It’s your wedding day,” you tell her. “Wear what you like. What you feel most beautiful in. You can dress in yellow for Aemond’s wedding. The Emperor’s flag is yellow. I’m sure Kunigunde would appreciate that. You’ll make a marvelous first impression.”

“Brilliant!” Nico grins, assuaged. Then her eyes flick to the doorway. “Oh, hello there, Prince Aemond. Have you come to help with the wedding planning? We’re choosing flowers next.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much acumen in that realm. But do let me know when you begin discussing cakes.” He stares at you expectedly, arms crossed, lurking like a shadow. There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Go on,” Nico prompts you, tittering anxiously. “We can continue this later. I’m supposed to be meeting Daeron for lunch soon anyway.”

You bid some goodbye to Nico that you’re barely aware of. Then you meet Aemond in the doorway, feeling very much like someone caught in a mistake, a lie, a trap. He turns away without a word and you follow him through the winding halls, colored by aisles of midday light and the tolling of distant bells. “Aemond…?”

“I’m thrilled to hear how well you’re getting along with your husband. He stayed all night, from what I gather. The servants are buzzing with it. The Montfords are licking their wounds.”

“Are you delusional enough to believe that I have any say at all in where he spends his time—?”

“I saw you,” Aemond snaps viciously. “You weren’t just being civil. You comforted him, you had your hands all over him—”

You grab Aemond by the front of his tunic and yank him in close so you can hiss: “And where are your hands going to be once you marry the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter? I have a few ideas. Would you like to confirm them? And things besides your hands as well, I imagine.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he flings, ripping away from you. You dash after him through empty hallways; he’s headed to your rooms, to a place where you will have relative privacy.

“What do you want from me?!” you whisper fiercely, burying it in him like a knife. “You expect me to sabotage my entire life, to reject my husband and neglect my responsibilities so that you never have to be inconvenienced, so that you never have to experience any pain—!”

“Pain?! That’s a kind word for it, it’s agony, it’s fucking impossible—”

Aemond throws open the door to your rooms. Inside, a servant is fixing you a cup of apple cider…and sprinkling the contents of a tiny silk pouch into it. When he sees you and Aemond, he shoves the pouch into his shirt and scurries away.

“Wait!” Aemond commands. The servant starts sprinting. “Don’t drink that,” Aemond tells you, pointing at the cup, then takes off after the servant. He catches him in your bedchamber, hurls him against a wall, and snatches the pouch from inside his shirt. “What the hell is this?”

“Nothing, Your Royal Highness. Just spices from the kitchen.” But his words spill out in a stammer and sweat pours from his reddening face.

Keeping the servant pinned to the wall with one hand, Aemond pitches the silk pouch to you. A servant shouldn’t have anything silk at all; it’s too expensive, too rare. “Do you recognize that?” he asks you.

Inside is a fine, powdery dust of a dried herb, dotted with shriveled purple blossoms. It smells vaguely of mint. “I don’t.”

Aemond drags the servant out of your rooms and into the hallways. The man is openly struggling now, mewing and slapping at his jailer’s face and hands. Aemond takes no notice of this. He is calling for guards, for physicians. A pack of inquiring spectators materialize around him: Nico, Daeron, Alicent, Sir Criston Cole, many other supporters of the Greens. Aemond does not stop until he reaches the Great Hall, where King Viserys is holding an audience with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their children, bouncing little Visenya on his knee as she giggles. The violins screech to a halt when you and Aemond enter the room. He throws the servant violently to the floor.

“Good afternoon, Aemond,” the king says with moderate interest, still looking at Visenya.

The Duke of Hightower storms into the Great Hall. “What is going on in here?!” His steely eyes flit from Aemond to the servant sprawled on the floor to the king, back to Aemond. “What’s happened?”

“This man was putting something in the princess’s cider. An herb of some sort. I want it identified.”

“An herb?” King Viserys says blandly. “Have you asked the servant himself? Surely there is a logical explanation—”

“I want it identified,” Aemond repeats. “Now.”

There is chatter from the observers, which is exactly what Aemond needs. They serve as witnesses, as assurance that his accusations will be heard. You wonder where Aegon is; drunk and oblivious somewhere, probably.

“Very well,” the king relents, and waves to a guard. “Fetch a physician.” Then he barks at the crowd: “Out, vultures! All of you! Everyone except family!” The Green-affiliated courtiers reluctantly disperse; Nico goes to leave with them, but Daeron grasps her hand. Alicent clings to Sir Criston. Rhaenyra has Visenya, Viserys II, Aegon III, and Joffrey taken back to the nursery.

The Duke of Hightower glowers at the silk pouch. “Let me see.” You give it to him, and he opens it and sniffs. His forehead crinkles. “I can’t discern this.”

Daemon drifts close to you, clipping by like a comet. “Do you think wearing Green all the time now will miraculously make you one of them? Not until you’ve paid your debts, I think. And women have been known to die in childbirth. Just ask our dear Alicent over there. She owes all her…” His mouth twists cruelly around the word. “Fortune to the late Queen Aemma.”

“It is so wise of you to always dress for a funeral, Prince Daemon,” you say. “You’ll be prepared for your own when it imminently arrives.”

Daemon’s grin doesn’t disappear, but it turns harder, more jagged.

“This is terribly overblown, I’m sure,” the king says, then pauses to cough into his sleeve. He’s been nursing the same chill since January, one that ebbs and flows but never dies. “It’s all just a misunderstanding…”

Queen Alicent gestures to the pouch. “Might I see that, Father?” The Duke passes it to her. She opens the pouch and shakes some of its contents into her cupped palm.

“This is utter paranoia,” Rhaenyra complains, keeping Jace and Luke close to her; but she steals an uneasy glimpse of Daemon.

“They’re always so eager to cast themselves as victims, aren’t they, Mother?” Jace says.

Daeron shouts back: “And you’re always eager to cast yourselves as people who would happily stab someone’s eye out!”

“He slandered us!” Jace cries. “It was self-defense!”

“It was inches away from being murder!”

“And isn’t that the proper punishment for treason?” Baela says smugly. “To lose one’s life?”

“You’re about to lose your fucking life!” Daeron dives for her. Baela howls and scratches at him as Sir Criston leaps in to try to untangle them. Daemon grabs Daeron by the throat and lifts him off the ground; Daeron’s feet kick wildly, his face turning blue. Sir Criston draws his sword. Nico races into the melee, slamming both palms into Daemon’s chest with such force that she stuns him enough to drop Daeron, who falls gasping to the floor. Sir Criston drags him to safety. People are yelling, launching accusations and swears. The king is doubled over hacking.

“You bitch,” Daemon growls at Nico, and rips his sword from its scabbard as he towers over her.

Without thinking, you rush to defend Nico. Aemond’s arms close around you and pull you back. He murmurs through your hair as you battle him: “No, no, no, no.” And then you remember. The baby. I can’t do anything to hurt the baby. And you feel a sudden, overwhelming longing to protect this life, to meet this child, an attachment you didn’t think you were capable of experiencing again.

“I know what this is,” Alicent says softly, and everyone quiets and turns to her. Her face is dazed, appalled. Her hand holding the crumble of dried herbs is trembling. “It’s pennyroyal.”

No one moves, no one speaks. The silence is deafening. And it’s no wonder why none of the men could identify it in its medicinal state, why you couldn’t. You’ve never had need of a plant known to encourage a woman’s monthly blood. Since you’ve arrived in England, you’ve bled far too much. All those months of longing, hope, loss. All those taunts and whispers and rebukes and pieces of fruitless advice.

When the words finally tumble from your lips, they are faint and very small, almost childlike. “It wasn’t my fault?”

Aemond releases you and tears his sword free, holding it to the petrified servant’s throat. “I want him dead,” Aemond seethes, wrath like wildfire, like Plague. “I want him drawn and quartered, I want him awake when they disembowel him, I want him to feel everything. But first I want him racked until he reveals who paid him to commit this barbarism. I want to listen as his bones rip from their sockets.” He turns to Daemon, his blue eye blazing, manic. “And I suspect I know whose name he’ll scream at the end.”

“This is a baseless accusation!” Daemon snarls derisively.

“Dear God,” the Duke of Hightower says, gazing at you in guilt-laden horror. His hands come up to cover his gaping mouth.

“Do you have any proof that Daemon is responsible?” the king asks Aemond.

“Viserys,” the Duke says incredulously. “Prince Daemon has threatened her more times than I could ever count, he has incessantly abused and provoked her, he is her most notorious enemy—”

“There’s no proof,” Rhaenyra says, looking to the king. “You hear them, don’t you, Father? They have insults but no proof. They mean to use this treachery as an opportunity to destroy us.”

“He’s been paid by someone!” Aemond explodes, jabbing the tip of his blade against the whimpering man’s throat until he bleeds. “He’s been recruited! Why would a servant take it upon himself to poison a princess, to risk his livelihood, his life? Why would he have a pouch made of silk to carry his lethal herbs around in? He’s been roped into a conspiracy, and who else would have cause to murder her children in the womb, who else would dare?!”

“There’s no proof,” Daemon says again, and they all join him in a chorus, Rhaenyra, Jace, Luke, Baela, Rhaena: no proof, no proof, no proof.

The king shakes his head at Aemond. “Your lifelong hatred for Rhaenyra’s branch of the family has blinded you—”

“They could have killed her!” Aemond thunders, and there are tears of raw fury gleaming in his eyes. “Don’t you understand?! It wasn’t just the pregnancies, she could have hemorrhaged, she could have died, they risked her life to try to keep Aegon from the throne—”

“The throne will never be Aegon’s.”

“God Almighty, Viserys, that’s not the point,” the Duke says. “If this is true…it would be a most unforgiveable sin. It would be treason. It must be investigated.”

“I simply cannot see any proof being offered here.” The king dissolves into another coughing fit.

“You had no wrath when my eye was taken from me, Father,” Aemond says. “You felt no obligation to protect your son or your wife from the bloody consequences of Rhaenyra’s pride. All those years ago you let her believe she was invincible and now we are all forced to reap the aftermath. Surely you must feel outrage for the grandchildren this has cost you, for the inhuman crimes committed against the princess. She is your family, Father. Aegon is your family. I am your family. Don’t you recognize us at all?”

Daemon stalks towards him like a wolf, each step slow and calculated. “She’s your brother’s wife, Aemond. Not yours.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, haven’t you?” A hellish grin lights up Daemon’s face like the red flush of fever. “Tell me, how did it feel lying awake all those nights, staring up at the ceiling in your cold, lonely bed, knowing that your worthless brother was sinking himself into her again, and again, and again, and all that time he didn’t…even…appreciate it?”

Something breaks in Aemond, something cracks his atmosphere in two like lightning. He lunges at Daemon with his sword, roaring, swinging, stabbing. Their blades clang over and over again, shrieks of metal that echo through the Great Hall. The Duke of Hightower is bellowing, and Rhaenyra is screaming, and Alicent and Nico and all the children are too, everyone understanding that this could just as easily kill one as the other; Sir Criston is trying to help Aemond beat back Daemon, but the blows are so ferocious and swift that he has trouble keeping up with them. The Duke shouts for the guards and they flood in, a dozen men in full armor at last separating the two warriors like continents splitting apart. The king is rasping as he struggles to catch his breath. You are the only one who doesn’t make a sound. In your skull circles the same refrain like the ring of a full moon, like the cyclic chiming of bells: They did this to me. They did this to me. They did this to me.

In the midst of the chaos, the king lurches off his throne and collapses to the floor. Blacks and Greens alike descend upon him. Daemon cradles him in his arms, Alicent is sobbing, the Duke of Hightower is feeling the temperature of the king’s face and neck, Daeron is franticly trying to rouse him.

And even as he plummets into unconsciousness from which he will never recover, the king reaches only for Rhaenyra.

[talonabraxas]

The Myth of Surya: The Sun God in Hinduism

Introduction: The Sun God in Hinduism

In the vast pantheon of Hindu gods, Surya, the Sun God, holds a prominent position. He is revered as the source of life, energy, and knowledge. His radiant presence illuminates the world, dispelling darkness and ignorance. In Hindu mythology, Surya is a revered deity associated with vitality, radiance, and the cycle of time.

The Birth and Origins of Surya

The origins of Surya are shrouded in mystery and legend. According to one myth, he emerged from the cosmic ocean during the churning of the milky sea by the gods and demons. As the sea churned, fourteen precious objects emerged, including Surya, who rose as a blazing orb of light.

The Chariot of Surya: A Symbol of Radiance and Energy

Surya is often depicted riding a magnificent chariot drawn by seven majestic horses. The chariot represents the Sun's celestial journey across the sky. The horses symbolize the seven days of the week or the seven colors of the rainbow. Their hooves create thunder as they thunder across the heavens, illuminating the world below.

Surya and the Vedas: Hymn of Praise to the Sun

The Vedas, the ancient Hindu scriptures, contain numerous hymns dedicated to Surya. The most famous is the Gayatri Mantra, a sacred incantation recited by Hindus worldwide. The mantra invokes Surya as the remover of darkness and the bestower of knowledge and enlightenment.

The Importance of Surya in Vedic Rituals

In Vedic rituals, Surya is invoked as the witness of all actions and the guardian of truth. He is the deity who oversees oaths, promises, and contracts. His presence is believed to ensure honesty and integrity in human affairs. Surya's importance extends to the realm of astrology, where he is associated with the planet Sun and is considered a beneficent influence.

6. Surya in the Ramayana and Mahabharata

Surya plays a significant role in the two great Hindu epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. In the Ramayana, he is the father of Rama, the hero of the epic. He assists Rama in his battle against the evil demon king Ravana, providing him with guidance and protection. In the Mahabharata, Surya is the father of Karna, one of the most tragic heroes of the epic. Karna is a powerful warrior who fights valiantly but is ultimately defeated due to his tragic destiny.

7. The Myth of Surya and His Wives

Surya's wives are known as Samjna, Chhaya, and Ragyi. Samjna, the daughter of the celestial architect Vishwakarma, is the goddess of twilight. Unable to bear the intensity of Surya's radiance, she creates a shadow form, Chhaya, to take her place. However, Surya discovers the deception and curses Chhaya, causing her son Shani to be born with a malefic gaze. Ragyi, a horse-headed goddess, is the daughter of Hiranyakasipu, the demon king. Surya marries Ragyi out of compassion, but she remains childless.

8. The Symbolism of Surya: Light, Consciousness, and Knowledge

Surya is not only a physical representation of the Sun but also a symbol of light, consciousness, and knowledge. He illuminates the world both physically and spiritually. In Hindu philosophy, Surya represents the inner light of wisdom and knowledge that dispels ignorance and darkness. He is the embodiment of pure consciousness and the source of enlightenment.

9. Surya, the Healer and Protector

Surya is revered as a healer and protector in Hindu tradition. His rays are believed to have healing properties, and he is invoked to cure diseases and ailments. As the guardian of the world, Surya protects against evil forces and ensures the well-being of all living beings. He is often depicted holding a lotus flower, which symbolizes purity, fertility, and the power of creation and destruction.

10. Conclusion: The Enduring Legacy of Surya

The myth of Surya continues to inspire and fascinate people around the world. His story is a testament to the power of light and knowledge in overcoming darkness and ignorance. As the Sun God, Surya remains an eternal symbol of hope, renewal, and the enduring cycle of life. His legacy lives on through countless temples, festivals, and rituals dedicated to his worship in India and beyond.

Surya by Talon Abraxas

[mylifeisanexperiment]

Meeting Montana Boy

I am 41 calling him Montana boy haha. Here is the story.

It was 2021 and the world was starting to distance itself from the harsh Covid restrictions. The whole year I had been taking a trip or two a month. I was single and needed it for my mental health.

I went through a break up in 2018/2019. I chose to walk away from a relationship where he wasn't sure if he wanted children or I felt it was me because he would always say he wanted kids so i don't know. So I decided to walk away from a really chill relationship because I didn't want to resent him later for being childless. I felt if I didn't have children because I didn't have the opportunity to try because I was single or in menopause Id be okay with that vs not having kids because I was waiting on him and it was too late.

Covid hit shortly after so here I was newly single, depressed, and now living alone when the whole world shut down. I didn't do so well. In that time I started a podcast to keep myself busy and I bought a peloton so i could just work out at home.

As the world opened up I started traveling. I went to so many places. In November 2021, I went on a girls trip to Montana. The goal was to go to Yellowstone. Not going to lie this trip was inspired by the show. We had a full itinerary. We would only be there 5 days. We decided the first night we would just go out to dinner in Bozeman and check the city out. We had dinner and then went to a local dive bar.

Two guys approached us and one was very chatty and the other was not. The chatty boy was trying to get me to talk to the mute one haha. So because I had a few drinks I said why not here is my phone number. He text me later and asked if I could go have dinner with him while we were in town. I told him I couldn't because the girls and I had a set schedule. He told me he coincidently was moving to LA with his chatty friend who already lived here and would like to take me out then. I said sure why not thinking this would Never happen. We would text here and there and then the next month he text me he was in LA and would like to take me on that date. I said don't you want to wait a week or two to settle in and he said no. So we went out. He seemed cuter than I remembered. And so as dinner progressed i said to myself okay if he asks i can definitely see myself going out with him again. Lets just say we saw each other 5 times in a week. We hit it off.

Fast Forward to the present, I am a mommy to a sweet 4 1/2 month old boy. I don't know what the future holds for me and Montana Boy but I do know that my son is the best thing to ever happen to me. I never thought I would be a mom. I had accepted that I wasn't going to be one and was content. But I am so glad God allowed me the opportunity to meet my son.

[thee-horny-thicky]

Can we please get sanyu’s birth in fes? 🙏

Thank you!

Ask and you shall receive! I cross posted this on AO3, and that one has a NSFW beginning. Anyway, enjoy!

You seemed unable to have an easy labor. Jona arrived when Suguru was out of town, with only the twins to help you give birth to your baby. He’d come into this world silent and breathless, making you fear he’d been stillborn. That wasn’t the case, and now, you had a lively toddler on your hands. You hoped his sibling would be just as lively in a few years, that the inopportune moment of their birth wouldn’t impact their health. Unlike your first birth, Suguru was present, and you had a medical team he’d handpicked at your disposal, but Sanyu was still weeks too early.

A painful contraction had you screaming, and Suguru muttered a swear under his breath. He hadn’t left your side, and you swore you saw fear in his eyes. You were scared, too. The contractions were more agonizing than you expected, and the sight of blood intensified your worst fears. You’d lost track of time and desperately wanted the baby to be out of you.

“Do something,” he snapped at the midwife, who was running around preparing for Sanyu’s arrival and ensuring your comfort.

“I’m doing all that could be done,” she replied, exasperation creeping into her tone. “I can only do so much since she insisted on having a home birth.”

If you were in your right mind, you’d scoff at her statement. If it were up to you, you would’ve been childless until your 30s, with a doula at your side as you gave birth in a hospital. Instead, at 21, you were stuck in a home you never wanted, giving birth to your second child, and the adopted mother of two little girls who had a blind allegiance to your tormentor and a feud with your eldest.

“Don’t blame her for this shit,” Suguru hissed, his tone possessing a dangerous lilt that was all too familiar to you.

Before the situation became bloodier than it already was, you grabbed his hand and squeezed. Surprise flickered across his face, as you rarely initiated contact with him. However, it had the desired effect, and he quickly refocused on you,

“I’m here,” he said, something about his statement relieving you.

Shit.

Have you finally developed Stockholm Syndrome? That must be the crappiest push gift known to man. His gentleness must be throwing you off kilter. Yeah, that was it. It’s difficult to believe that the same man who made your life miserable these past few years could be so sweet and caring, and your tired mind couldn’t comprehend it.

The thought of liking Suguru made your anxiety spike. As you felt the beginnings of the umpteenth contraction, you began using your favorite breathing technique. Breathe in for four seconds, hold your breath for seven seconds, and exhale for eight. When you recovered from the latest round of torture, the midwife peered between your legs, spread wide open for easy viewing. After prodding, she nodded and straightened.

“You’re eleven centimeters dilated now,” she said, her tone gentler than the one she used with Suguru. “You’re ready to start pushing now.”

Joy.

******

An eternity later, any phantom feelings you felt for Suguru had disappeared. Push after push had you sweaty, exhausted, and aching. Bodily fluids soaked the towels and spare sheets beneath you, filling you with disgust and resentment. If your husband had kept his grubby hands off you or just allowed you to use birth control, you wouldn’t be in the situation, in agony and wracked with worry. Sanyu would be a preemie, born outside of a hospital. Even in your delirious state, you knew that was a dangerous combination. You could only pray a healer’s reversed cursed technique would address any health issues.

Suguru’s face contorted with worry as you panted through another contraction. When you looked into his eyes, you saw nothing but a reflection of your own fears. For all his faults, he wanted the baby to be born healthy, and for your birth to be easy. His form of affection was so twisted, you knew he didn’t care about you, and there was no guarantee he’d care about the baby. He cherished having control, but in that instant, he had no means to establish it. That was what scared him more than anything.

“How much longer?” he asked, pacing around the room with his hands clasped behind his back.

The midwife didn’t answer him, keeping her gaze trained on you. “The baby is crowning. Now’s the time”

A wave of relief washed over you, and you heard Suguru whispering, “Thank fuck”. Knowing Sanyu was almost here gave you the strength to push with all your might, though the pain was unbearable.

“A little more!” the midwife encouraged as another cry left your throat.

A little more. Just a little more, then you could meet your baby, and the torture you were going through would be over.

Suguru returned to your side, grasping your hands as he whispered words of encouragement. In the back of your mind, you wondered if he was being so doting to make up for missing Jona’s birth, for forcing a second baby into your womb. The thought disappeared as soon as another contraction surged through you. You bit back another cry. Your throat felt raw from all the screaming, and you weren’t sure your vocal cords would survive another yell. You grimaced, your nails digging into Suguru’s hand. 

A sob left when your pushing didn’t yield the child, the overwhelming sensation of pain allowing helplessness to take over. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“You can, baby. You have to. Just a little more,” he coaxed, his voice low and reassuring, so opposite of the man you knew.

His touch was gentler than ever before, and though you despised him, his presence was soothing. With Jona, only the twins were there to support and assist you. Now, your son and the girls were with Manami, while you had a medical professional and your husband by your side. It was an upgrade, no matter how much you hated to admit Suguru’s presence made anything better.

“C’mon, Yua,” he said, that commanding tone you were very acquainted with bleeding through.

You suppose his patience was wearing thin, which never boded well. You took a deep breath, then pushed once more.

“The head’s out!” the midwife announced, giving you the strength to continue.

Tears of relief flooded your eyes, and with every ounce of strength you had left, you pushed out the rest of your child. The piercing cry that filled the air was reassuring. The midwife caught the newborn and began checking over for any complications. You slumped against the pile of pillows that’d kept you propped up, your eyes struggling to stay open. The placenta had to be delivered, but the worst of it was behind you, letting you have a moment to relax.

“He seems healthy,” she announced, her booming voice jolting you awake.

Huh, you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep.

You watched through heavy-lidded eyes as she cleaned Sanyu of the blood and vernix caseosa, wrapped him in a blanket, and handed him to you.

“Hi, sweet boy,” you murmured, stroking back the patch of hair on his head, then guiding him to your nipple.

“He,” Suguru parroted, a grin on his face as he watched your son feed. “You gave me another son.”

You ignored him, too entranced with your baby boy, who was greedily sucking the milk meant to nurture him. Despite the lingering pain and exhaustion, the warmth of your son’s small body gave you peace. You forgot about the stress of his labor and the daily chaos of life, admiring his chubby fingers and toes, and his tranquil expression as he drank from you. It was impossible to harbor any animosity for Sanyu, despite the circumstances of his conception. His father may have been an asshole, but Sanyu was yours, your blood, your baby, innocent of Suguru’s many misgivings.

Everything faded into the background as you focused on the tiny life in your arms, a serene bubble enveloping the two of you. All you wanted to hear were Sanyu’s soft coos and his noisy suckling. The midwife continued her work as she prepped for the afterbirth, and you felt Suguru’s eyes on you. You ignored everything, unwilling to have the precious moment disturbed. Everything felt right in the world, and you’d cling to that feeling as long as possible.

After all, you knew it wouldn’t last long.

[sagescented]

Anna Katherina . It . 34 . Oklahoma 🌸 Liberal ⬩ Queer ⬩ Multi-Disabled + Multi-Neuroatypical ⬩ (Childless) NonTrad Homemaker ⬩ (Former) Civilian Conservationist ⬩ ᴼᴷᵣ₂ Master Gardner ⬩ (Informally Training) Rosarian ⬩ Lay Herbalist ⬩ (Aspiring) Perfumer & Incenser ⬩ (Hobbyist) Nature Photographer ⬩ (Retired) Author & Poet ⬩ Eco-JeWitch ⬩ Water Priestess ⬩ Shadow Worker ⬩ Ancestor Venerator

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🕯️ Trying my best in neverending cycles & constantly reminding myself that failure is Human 🕯️

My Ask Box is always open- Anon is not always on; I prefer Asks and Comments to Reblogs and DMs. I always enjoy being tagged in Tag Games, or things you think I'll enjoy; as a personal preference I force-unfollow new followers who haven't interacted with any of my personal posts after a week (this is a personal blog first and foremost, and all personal posts are non-rebloggable).

Be a better person in an increasingly cruel world:

Read things on the internet in good faith and don't automatically assume rudeness, malice, or other ill intent;

Listen when people speak- and listen to understand them, not just to respond to your interpretation of what they've said;

Acknowledge that sometimes context and intent do matter more than "impact"- especially when something's impact is out of alignment with its context and / or the intent due to emotional overreaction, assumptions, etc.

Remember that what you feel in the first 60 seconds is typically the confirmation of personal biases and prejudice. Learning to push past these is a requirement for better communication and better connection to all of our inherent Humanity.

Understand that everyone has different communication styles, and some may clash with yours without it inherently being negative conflict;

Instead of making assumptions, learn to ask people for clarification when you're confused or unsure of what they're saying, don't understand their tone, etc;

Stop creating echo chambers with the block button and allow yourself to exist in Humanity's inherently multifaceted diversity instead (this does not mean to let active harm into your space. It means to stop "curating" your spaces in ways that excludes people who are merely different than you);

Remember the Golden Rules: Treat others with the kind of energy you'd like to be treated with yourself — and that which is hateful to another, do not do to yourself; that which is hateful to you, do not do to another.