#who claims she had affairs with women

[thewritingpossum]

Currently writing something about Elizabeth Báthory and finding accurate and somehow neutral informations about her is like trying to find a decent career in this current market, it's just not realistic

[susansontag]

I sort of feel like the fact the woman in anatomy of a fall fits certain stereotypes typically exploited in court and in public perception for negative effect / to make us mistrust her is one of the reasons why I don't actually think she killed her husband (though the film does leave the truth deliberately ambiguous). by this I mean she's a bisexual woman in a tense and crumbling marriage who has had affairs, she's quite straightforward and 'cold' in her manner as opposed to overly people pleasing and forthcoming emotionally, she will defend herself in argument with her husband without qualm or an attempt to claim blame for things she doesn't believe she's culpable for, etc etc.

her husband calls her icy and uncaring, the prosecution accuse her of seduction of an attractive female journalist, and she continues to not let up in court and to fight her corner. and after having conversations with people, including men, after watching, I wonder how many people in the audience, especially men, realise that these are common tropes used against women in the legal system to incriminate them. women are punished much more for being promiscuous and straightforward than men are in comparable situations, and this is why these tropes are played up as being so indicative of guilt in the first place. but interestingly it's the inclusion of all of these stereotypes that make me think we're probably supposed to believe that she is innocent, or at least that makes me think so, in spite of the use of tropes made to suggest she's incapable of loving her husband properly or feeling the correct amount of sorrow over his death.

but anyway, that's just my two cents. I'm actually really interesting in hearing from others whether they think she killed him or not!

[leftistfeminista]

Palestinian coed tortured during her period, just for joining a Leftist student org.

From the Israeli Newspaper Haaretz

Mays Abu Ghosh, who I featured here before, because of her brutal and humiliating torture of being tied in the banana position, while on her menstrual period, and denied menstrual products and underwear. Endured all that torture on the flimsiest of pretenses, even according to the Israeli media.

"Now Mays is in prison and, according to her lawyers and other sources, she has been tortured during her interrogations. The five counts of the indictment against her sound serious and terrifying, but are for the most part revealed as ridiculous when the details are known.

The “unlawful association” that Mays, a fourth-year student in the media department at Bir Zeit University, is accused of belonging to is the left-wing students’ organization, Qutub. Israeli authorities claim that Qutub is affiliated with the outlawed Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, but the student group denies any such connection."

In this article attacking the "Palestine Writes” literary festival at the University of Pennsylvania, she is the 1st "dangerous terrorist" listed, all because she was convicted in an Israeli kangaroo court, even by the standards of the Israeli media, simply for belonging to a leftist student organization. They focus media attention on the Islamists, but this is how leftists and socialists are treated. Intentionally exasperating our natural menstrual pains to intensify our torture is such a depraved level of hatred of women, down to our very biology. And then after all they did to her, they make it as if she victimized Israel.

This is how Mays was tied for 3 days, without sleep, while on her menstrual period, denied tampons or underwear. This is the infamous banana stress position.

“The most severe thing was three days in a row without being allowed to sleep,” Mays, 23, said. “I had to stay in a chair and if I closed my eyes, a soldier would come over and shout at me. I was slapped in the face continuously.”

Mays was forced to stand and bend her knees, with soldiers pressing hard on her shoulders. She had to remain in such painful positions for long stretches of time.

Mays Abu Ghosh seized by Israeli occupation forces

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Marilyn Monroe (How to Marry a Millionaire, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Some Like It Hot)— Ngl I thought you all were lying about sexual attraction until I saw Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

Shelley Winters (A Patch of Blue, A Place in the Sun)— She was originally set up to be like a classic bombshell, but ‘got tired’ of those roles and instead went for more interesting, complex characters. And she’s sooooooo good, her performance really makes A Place in the Sun for me, she brings such a quiet dignity to a character that could so easily have otherwise been this unkind caricature. Other fun facts: she was Jewish! She claimed that her ‘chutzpah’ was the reason she had so many affairs (including w notable hot men burt lancaster, william holden, and marlon brando)!

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Marilyn Monroe:

She's amazing!!! A classic bombshell, as well as a strong women who overcame so many obstacles. She also advocated for others, like Ella Fitzgerald.

That fucking saxophone that cuts in whenever she appears on screen in Some Like it Hot

I mean, it's Marilyn Monroe. She's adorable. She's gorgeous. She funny. She's the total package

She's the original American sex symbol, an iconic beautiful woman with eyes you could get lost in, legs for days, gorgeous hair, and a cute tummy. Her voice! Just listen to her voice!!!!!

She is considered one of THE sex symbols of the 1960s and one of the greatest actresses of all time! She HAS to be on this list!

no vintage movie woman is more iconically hot

People are most familiar with pictures of her in the white dress or the Happy Birthday Mr President one, but imo she is at her most beautiful and looks most comfortable when she is photographed by women like Eve Arnold

It’s Marilyn Monroe. If Aphrodite was an actual person, she’d be Marilyn. Do I really need to say more?

What can I say that hasn't been said? Marilyn's legacy is so much bigger than she was in life. She's a defining symbol of 50s and 60s Hollywood sex and it's obvious why. She was absolutely stunning and the camera loved her.

Shelley Winters:

started her career as more of a glamorous bombshell type and gradually transitioned to more of a (milfy as hell) character actress type but consistently slayed no matter what she was doing

[flying-ham]

Names in The Hunger Games series obviously hold a lot of symbolic meaning. Whether it be a particularly on the nose name for characters like Peeta or the complete absence of one for characters like Mrs Everdeen, Suzanne Collins puts a lot of thought and care into names. One that I haven’t seen people talk about so far is Livia Cardew.

Livia Cardew is a rude, cruel classmate that Snow despises. When we are introduced to her character, Snow thinks that she, "had always been prone to gloating," (tbosas). She is assigned Facet, a strong boy from District 1 with a good chance of winning the games, and Snow hates that she acts, "As if the plum assignment was solely a reflection on her, and not on her mother running the largest bank in the Capitol," (tbosas).

The character Livia Cardew is named after Livia Drusilla, wife of the first Roman Emperor Augustus and mother of the Emperor Tiberius. Livia Drusilla came from a powerful Patrician family in Rome, with her father inheriting a substantial fortune around the time of her birth. She was married prior to her marriage with Augustus, giving birth to two sons before her divorce and subsequent remarriage to Augustus. Although he believed these sons to be proof of her high fertility, Livia was only able to give Augustus one stillborn child during their marriage. Livia Cardew reflects the early life of her namesake Livia Drusilla, in that she comes from an influential banking family that helps her get ahead in society. The advantage she has being assigned the District 1 boy only widens the gap, making her a frontrunner to win the scholarship. However, just as Livia Drusilla loses her child with Augustus, Livia Cardew's tribute dies before the games even begin, removing her from the competition entirely. Moreover, Livia attempts to "steal" Clemensia's tribute while she is ill, "demanding new tributes be brought from the districts, or at least that she be given Reaper, the boy assigned to Clemensia, who everyone thought had been hospitalized with the flu," (tbosas). Similarly, Livia Drusilla campaigned with her husband to make her son Tiberius his heir after she failed to give him a son, though she was only successful after the death of his nephew Marcellus and disgrace of his daughter Julia.

Further connecting Livia Cardew to her historical namesake, it is implied that Snow marries her after the events of tbosas. In the epilogue, Snow thinks, "If he ever married, he’d choose someone incapable of swaying his heart. Someone he hated, even, so they could never manipulate him the way Lucy Gray had. Never make him feel jealous. Or weak. Livia Cardew would be perfect. He imagined the two of them, the president and his first lady, presiding over the Hunger Games a few years from now," (tbosas). Just as Livia Drusilla became Empress of Rome, Livia Cardew would become the First Lady of Panem. Livia Drusilla was seen as the ideal matron in the early Roman Empire, as a steadfast and supportive wife who oversaw domestic affairs like the home and children. In the same way, Livia Cardew is Snow's ideal wife, a girl with an advantageous family name and no emotional ties to get in Snow's way.

Finally, Livia Drusilla was often villainized by Roman authors the same way Snow villainizes Livia Cardew. Annals by the author Tacitus portrays Livia as a murderous, evil woman in cahoots with her son Tiberius to steal the Empire after Augustus' death. Over and over he reveals his own prejudice against women in ancient Rome, inserting his personal opinions into a work he claims is unbiased truth.  He often uses negative language to describe Livia Drusilla, saying that, “There was also [Tiberius’] mother with her female unruliness,” (Tac. Ann., chap. 1).  Tacitus’ choice to specify that Livia’s shortcoming relates to her gender highlights his lack of respect for women, and his expectation that all Roman women fit a specific mold. In the same way, Snow constantly thinks the worst about Livia Cardew, thinking things like, "Unlike Livia, Clemensia received news of her good fortune with tact," (tbosas). Livia Drusilla was often associated with poison (a "woman's weapon"). There were many rumors about her killing enemies of herself or Augustus using the very method Snow adopted as his own by the events of the original trilogy.

tl:dr Livia Cardew is based on Livia Drusilla, wife of the first Roman Emperor and holds a lot of similarities to the historical figure

[dwellordream]

female adultery in ASOIAF and why it's not akin to modern day cheating

frequently fans insist on treating adultery within the world of ASOIAF as it it were the same as modern day infidelity. this, of course, ignores the fact that most marriages among the nobility of Westeros are arranged.

this does not mean every marriage is miserable, of course, but there is significantly less emotional attachment between the couple beforehand, unless they have known one another since childhood.

with that said, fans quite often do use this argument in defense of adultery- not for wives, but for husbands. a frequent claim put out is that men like Rhaegar, for example, don't owe their wives any loyalty because the marriage was not their choice. while technically, yes, no one is mandated to love their spouse or to respect an inherently broken marriage system, this ignores the fact that a woman like Elia is not free to carry on an affair the way her husband would be. women's bodies and sexualities are far more policed than men's in Westeros.

even with her husband's permission to take a lover on the side, most women would face extreme social ostracization and scorn if they were found out to be having affairs. and especially for the wives of princes and kings, this carries the weight of treason, because it puts into question the parentage of any royal heirs. Elia could have been outright killed if she was found to have a lover, regardless of Rhaegar's personal feelings on the matter.

the vague exception to this rule would be in the case of a woman like Genna Lannister, who is considered to have been forced to marry 'beneath her station', to a Frey, and thus, the jokes and insinuations that she may be cheating on Emmon do not carry quite the same weight. yet even so, I doubt Genna Lannister would ever openly announce she had a lover or directly discuss having an affair with her husband.

to go back to my original point, I am far more interested in female adultery than male. this is primarily because one of the few ways most Westerosi noblewomen can fight back against a forced or arranged match, or against an abusive or neglectful husband, is to secretly pursue their own pleasure and ambitions with a lover.

that is not to say that I think cheating is moral in these situations, but it is certainly not the same as a modern day woman having a fling while her husband is oblivious. a woman like Cersei, for example, did not choose to marry Robert. she was initially happy to become queen, but she quickly became disillusioned with her marriage, and Robert proved an extremely abusive and contemptuous husband.

Cersei cannot divorce or leave Robert, and even if she attempted to, would likely lose all contact with her children. nor does her family support the idea of her ending her marriage. given these parameters, Cersei cheating on Robert is simply not the same as it would be in a modern AU.

similarly, Rhaenyra is often bashed by the fandom for likely carrying on an affair with Harwin Strong during her marriage to Laenor. while there is zero indication in F&B or HOTD that Laenor was ever abusive or cruel to Rhaenyra, we know she did not freely choose to marry him. while HOTD presents the match as something Rhaenyra accepts and tries to use to her advantage, in F&B, Rhaenyra initially strongly protests the marriage until her father threatens to disown her if she does not accept Laenor as a husband.

in F&B, Laenor and Rhaenyra's marriage is depicted as stable but distant. the couple does not spend much time together and while Laenor appears to have tolerated Rhaenyra's relationship with Harwin, and to have had his own lovers, he obviously expected Rhaenyra to still have children who would be publicly presented as his offspring.

outside of any arguments over Rhaenyra's actions during the Dance or her time as reigning Queen, was Rhaenyra wrong to pursue a relationship outside her marriage, and to claim the children from that relationship as legitimate? I don't think so. 'legitimacy' is a construct of the feudal system in ASOIAF. while this doesn't mean it doesn't cause real trauma and pain, both to children raised knowing they are bastards, children who are accused of being bastards, and women who are expected to silently tolerate their husbands potentially pitting their own children against one another, it is not, actually 'real'.

Rhaenyra's sons are still her sons. her sexuality and personal autonomy shouldn't, outside of the context of the story, actually be something she is judged on. so it is strange to me when people insist that Rhaenyra having an affair or claiming her sons as legitimate is openly tyrannical or malevolent. there is plenty to criticize her character on- much as there is plenty to criticize Cersei on- but choosing to defy the institutions around her is not one of those critiques that should be valid.

[loulouwrites]

CIRCUMSTANCE . ALFIE SOLOMONS

summary: alfie solomons always swore he was not suited to be any woman's husband - but a terrible circumstance has him questioning that. warnings: pregnancy, angst, mention of abotion, unsafe abortion, swearing (obviously), unedited word count: 2.9k A/N: this is a prequel to home but it can be read as a standalone :)

The first day she had been sick, she assumed she was still hungover from her birthday the night before. She had celebrated with all of her friends, who had taken advantage of the bill being footed by her 'secret lover', ordering enough gin to make even the hardest drinker queasy the next day.

The second day she had been sick, a pit formed in her stomach, a small, but haunting, realisation creeping into her mind - but she tried not to ponder on it.

She continued her week as normal. She continued to go to work, getting up from her desk every few minutes to sneakily be sick in the alley outside. She would go home and smile through her queasiness, insisting to her mother that she was just wasn't too hungry lately.

When following week came around, and she was being sick every morning, and her menstrual cycle was over one month late, she had to acknowledge that seed of doubt in her mind - she was pregnant.

It was a terrible thing to discover. An unmarried woman, pregnant with a child that belonged to a man that most agreed was terrible, was not how she had envisioned her life would turn out. She had always imagined the moment she discovered she was with child would be a joyous experience - she would be married, living in a large house with a foyer and garden with roses - she wasn't getting any of that now. Not with Alfie Solomons' child growing inside of her.

She would be lying if she had never envisioned a nice life with the gangster. It was a silly thing to think about, and she only allowed to imagine it in the dark of night, when her thoughts were only her own. She would often wonder if he felt anything for her, or if she was just a convenience for him.

He had hired her as his secretary about one year ago, but they had known each other for longer. More women were entering the workforce and he thought it would be beneficial to have one in the 'bakery', claiming women had a better attention to detail than any of the men he worked with. It hadn't taken long for him to push her against his desk and lift up her skirt, and she had been more than happy to let him.

That's all it was, really. She had never seen him outside of work, she had never been to his house, nor had he been to hers, their little affair only existed in the small confines in his office, when everybody else had gone home, and she had been perfectly content with their arrangement.

But now, she was pregnant.

And he was going to fucking kill her.

Her mother breathed a sigh of disappointment as she leaned against the kitchen bench in the small, dull kitchen, watching her daughter with a look of disgust as she heaved into the kitchen sink. It had been over a week of her daughter skipping meals and trying to quietly throw up in the bathroom, and it did not take a genius to figure out what was going on - she had been through it herself, after all.

"I hope he's planning on marrying you," she said with her arms crossed against her chest.

"Excuse me?" Her daughter said through deep breaths, lifting her head from the sink to frown at her mother.

"I'm no fool, and neither are you, we both know what's going on here," the older woman walked to stand beside her daughter. "Who's the father?"

The younger woman froze.

Of course her mother knew.

She knew everything.

"I haven't told him yet."

"That's not what I asked."

Her daughter sighed, and lifted herself completely from the sink, the sickness seemingly disappearing in that moment. Tears pooled in her eyes as she looked at her mother.

It had been just the two of them supporting her and her siblings for so long. Her father had passed suddenly when she was a younger, and her mother had began working as a seamstress to make ends meet, and as the oldest daughter, she had started working as soon as she was old enough to help support the family.

She couldn't help but feel guilty. Her mum had sacrificed so much, all for her daughter to grow up and get pregnant to a man who she was certain didn't care if she lived or died.

"I'm sorry, mum," she breathed out, the tears now freely dripping onto her puffy cheeks.

The woman sighed heavily, making no move to comfort her distressed daughter. "You will tell whoever it is, and he will marry you," she turned to leave the kitchen, "and if he doesn't - don't bother coming back here.

The bakery was buzzing with life the next day, there didn't seem to be spare moment to even take a breath. Workers approached her desk almost constantly, asking about their pay, and threatening strike action 'if Solomons didn't pay what he owed'. This wasn't rare, her workday was always busy, but every interaction was making her want to break down in tears.

She hadn't seen Alfie. He had been in his office when she arrived and hadn't left all day, despite it nearing six o'clock in the evening. She noticed Ollie giving her concerned looks whenever he passed by, but she would avoid his gaze, her eyes trained on her typewriter or the various documents spread across her desk.

A feeling of dread curdled in her stomach as more people left the building, throwing down their aprons on their way out. She would usually look forward to this time, when everybody else would clear out, and Alfie would call her into his office but this day it did nothing but cause panic to envelop her.

"Are you okay?" She looked up to see Ollie stood at her desk, his apron gone and his black coat held in the crook of his elbow. She muttered something nonsensical, that she was fine, just not feeling well, but the look the man offered told her he didn't believe it. "You don't have to stay, you know?" She just gave him a confused look, and he sighed as he continued. "Alfie isn't going to sack you or anything...if you...say no, you know?"

She scoffed at his words, his misplaced concern endearing him even more to her. "Thanks, Ollie. I know that."

He didn't say anything else, knocking his fist on her desk gently before heading for the exit.

And then there was two.

She could have sworn he was watching Ollie leave, because as soon as the sound of the heavy door slamming shut rang through the now empty building, he was calling her name.

Every step to his office felt heavy. It was as if her body was telling her to just turn around and run.

Run away.

You'll get another job, just leave now.

But she ignored the protests of her body, and the screaming thoughts in her brain, slowly opening the heavy door and stepping to his dimly lit office.

"Y'alright, love?" He said as soon as the door shut behind her. He was sat on his chair, his legs up on the desk - so nonchalant, so unaware.

Bastard, she thought.

She walked to his desk, but rather than approaching him as she usually would, she sat down in one of the chairs on the other side, instead, placing her shaking hands on her lap.

He raised a brow at her actions, swinging his feet down onto the floor and leaning forward, his forearms resting on the desk, his hands clasped together as he studied her.

A sheen of sweat formed on her forehead as she sat under his gaze, her eyes darting everywhere in the room in order to avoid his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it, summoning every bit of courage she still held.

"Have you ever thought of marriage?"

Her question caused him to sit up a bit straighter in his seat, his head cocking to the side and a smirk playing on his lips.

"You proposing, love?" He joked, his smiled fading when she shot him an unimpressed look, her lips pressed into a thin line. "No," he cleared his throat, "ain't for me, all that."

She nodded in response, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

"So you never want that?" He just shrugged. "Under no circumstances?"

"There is not a circumstance in the world that would get me to do that, love, no."

An uncomfortable silence filled the office. She had returned to looking at everything but the man sat across from her, and he continued to stare at her with a frown on his face.

She felt her chest tightening, her breaths coming out shorter as his words replayed in her head.

Not a circumstance in the world.

He called her name, rousing her from her thoughts and she stood up from her seat.

"Are you okay? You don't look well," he said in a tone that she would consider caring if it had come from anyone but him.

"I'm sorry, Alfie, I'm feeling a bit under the weather, I think I should go home."

"Of course, love," he nodded, beginning to stand but she briskly left the room before he could. "You be careful," he called after her, not sure she even heard.

There were days Ollie really enjoyed his job. The days where everything went right and nobody got punched, or killed, were considered goof days. But, the days that went wrong, always seemed to go disastrously wrong, and they usually started with him giving his boss some bad news - which is exactly what he was about to do.

"Are you goin' to say somethin' or are you just goin' to stand there like a lost fucking lemon?"

Ollie cringed at his boss' voice, his eyes trained on the cabinet in the corner of the room.

"Ollie, I swear to fucking-"

Ollie spoke the secretary's name abruptly, causing Alfie to pause mid sentence, relaxing in his chair. "I heard back from the men you got to follow her."

It had been three days since she had been to work. She had rang in sick the first day, and seeing as how she acted the night before, Alfie was inclined to believe her, but when she failed to check in the following day, he had ordered some of his best men to 'check in on her.'

"They saw her at Mrs Levy's..." He trailed off, watching as his boss' expression went from confused, to understanding, to fury.

"When?" There was a darkness to Alfie's tone, though his posture was relaxed, Ollie knew better, this was the calm before the storm - and he was about to bare the brunt of whatever was about to happen.

"Just now. It's the first time she's left her flat in days, they sent someone straight away-"

Alfie didn't stay to hear another word, flying out of his chair before Ollie had the chance to say another word, and Ollie breathed a sigh of relief.

He also said a prayer for Alfie's poor secretary.

Mrs Levy was not the kindest woman. She had helped many girls in a similar position, but she had never claimed to do it out of kindness. If you asked her, she would say it was a way to save the reputation of girls in her community and an excellent money maker.

The young woman looked around the bedroom she was in, it was clean, if a little cluttered. There was a table next to the bed with various instruments laid out, little metal pieces that made her stomach turn if she looked at them for too long.

Mrs Levy had already explained everything to her - what would happen, how it would feel, and what could happen after - which did nothing to quell her nerves.

She had asked for a moment alone, and Mrs Levy had rolled her eyes, telling her it would be extra if she stayed there too long. She sat on the bed, her shoes laid on the floor, and her hand resting on her stomach. She didn't feel an overwhelming sense of loss about what was about to happen, but it did make her sad, and just for the moment, she allowed herself to think about the 'what ifs'.

What if she had told Alfie she was pregnant?

Would he have changed his stance on marriage?

Would he have given her the money for this himself?

Would he have confessed his undying love for her and dropped to his knees in front of her?

She scoffed to herself, shaking her head to rid the fantasies from her mind. There was no point of dwelling on it now, it was done, and he would never know. She would return to work in a few days and claim she had just had a stomach bug.

It would all just be a bad memory.

She was about to call Mrs Levy back into the room when a crash sounded from outside the bedroom door.

"You get back here, right now, you little-"

Mrs Levy's voice became background noise when the door swung open, and none other than Alfie Solomons blew through the doorway, pistol in hand.

"You and I need to talk, love," he said, causing her eyes to widen in dear. He looked at her confusedly before following her gaze to the pistol held in his hand. "Fuckin' hell, I'm not...I wasn't..." he huffed a sigh, tucking the gun into his belt and holding his hands up in surrender.

"You can't be here," Mrs Levy's voice cut in. "Get out!"

"Oh fuck off, you ol' bat," Alfie rolled his eyes, swinging an arm out as if to bat her away. "C'mon," he held an arm out to the woman who sat on the bed, her eyes wide and her hands shaking.

The car was silent as Alfie drove through the streets of London, the only sounds coming from the shouts of pedestrians as they avoided the car that sped past them, narrowly missing them as they tried to cross the road.

"How did you know?" She asked meekly, her eyes downcast.

"Had my men follow you when you didn't show up for work two days in a row - you're sacked by the way," he said simply, as if he were discussing the weather.

"What? Alfie-"

"Well you can't be workin' now anyway," he shrugged. "With you being...y'know," he gestured a hand to her stomach, "wouldn't be right to make ya sit in a distillery all day."

"I need to work now more than ever, Alfie," she protested, turning her body slightly to face him as best as she could in the cramped vehicle. "I need money if I'm going to be raising a child alone."

Alfie's head snapped towards her, a frown on his face. "Who said anythin' about raisin' it alone?"

"Really?" She raised a brow at him, as if she were waiting for him to burst out in laughter. "You said it yourself, Alfie, under no circumstances would you get married."

"Is that what all this is about? You skive work and go to see that daft bint because of I said I didn't want to get married in passing."

"Mrs Myers is not a-"

"She's killed more people than I have, love."

"That's not funny, Alfie," she admonished, crossing her arms across her chest. "So you're saying you would get married?"

"No," he replied. "But I ain't sayin you'd have to do it alone. I paid for your birthday night out but you don't think I'd pay for my own fuckin' child?"

"I can't go home, Alfie. My mum said-"

"Fuck that daft cow," he pointed a finger in her direction, he had known her mother for years, and he had hated her for just as long. "And you will be living with me."

"Unmarried and cohabitating? Are you trying to get me ostracised?"

"You should have thought about that before you let me get ya pregnant, darlin'," he looked at her with a toothy grin. Her face twisted in confusion when she looked out of the window, taking in her surroundings.

"Where the fuck are we?" She asked, looking at the big white houses with a mixture of uncertainty and wonder.

"We are home," he told her plainly, parking the car in front of what she considered to be the nicest house on the street. She wordlessly exited the vehicle, following behind him as he ascended the steps and opened the black door, holding it open for her.

"Better than your mum's flat, ain't it?" He threw an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to his side as if the entire situation wasn't an absolute nightmare.

She hummed in response, taking in the foyer, the walls were bare, and the wallpaper was dated, but that could all be fixed - and she looked forward to doing it.

"If I were to consider marriage," Alfie spoke from her side. "I would only consider it with you," he pulled away, clearing his throat. "Let me give you a tour."

Alfie wasn't lying. He proposed to her when she was four months pregnant, right after they felt their baby kick for the first time. They married one week later, a grand affair considering it was on such short notice.

Their son was born exactly five months after their wedding, in their shared bedroom.

thanks for reading! for anybody who has read more of my stories do you think they're too similar plot-wise? i enjoy writing angst a lot but get scared that my fics are too samey lmao. so if you'd like to see me write something different pls lmk

[alicenttully]

i know its a fairly popular take that "aemma would hate alicent for calling her grandsons savages" and it seems to stem/be partly influenced from this idea that like viserys, aemma would turn a blind eye to their obvious bastardry. but like, if you actually think about it - the reality is that as soon as it became apparent to her who jace and luke's biological father was, aemma would have stepped in meaning it's unlikely joffrey would have even been born in the first place.

not only like the majority of westeros aemma would have been the practioner of the faith, but she grew up in the vale which i think after the reach/highgarden is the most pious. she would have been raised/conditioned to believe in certain expectations for noble women like her and her daughter. in fact the first and only conversation we see her have with rhaenyra on screen centres around this idea of duty. i'm not saying she wouldn't have felt sympathetic to the pressure rhaenyra was under, but i honestly think some of y'all deluding yourselves if you think she would have tolerated rhaenyra's actions like viserys because it suited him. as i said the reality is as soon as aemma realized the truth, she like most people would have wanted harwin removed from his position and kicked out of the red keep. which brings to my next point. being the kind of place that westeros is, most parents would have seen harwin's affair with their daughter as dishonouring her.

like ultimately i don't really care what aemma arryn would have thought about alicent and or her fighting for her children's claim over her rhaenyra's. i don't really care if she disliked a teenage alicent, even though she would have only known a girl that rhaenyra was close with. if she's the type that would have blamed alicent for going to viserys even though she clearly didn't want to and even then was only kind to him, similar to how viserys has the audacity to blame alicent when he finally clocked that she actually wasn't in love with him, then i guess she's just a bad person like her husband was.

but it's the way y'all treat aemma arryn by automatically assuming she would have supported what rhaenyra and harwin did, and never considering that she idk might have had thoughts and opinions that don't always align with her husband and daughter. what's more, in her limited screen time we actually see her disagreeing with rhaenyra and viserys. she doesn't like rhaenyra flying while she herself is pregnant. she doesn't take viserys' "dream" seriously nor is she confident like him that she will give birth to a son.

[thevelaryons]

I’ve always found it interesting that of the lowborn/bastard women in the DotD, Marilda is the only one who doesn’t get slandered and insulted in the Westerosi history books.

Speaking specifically about the women who were rumored to have had affairs with noblemen, the women (Sara Snow/Alys Rivers/Nettles) in particular get derogatory descriptions for various reasons. The men they are linked to all either die or are unable to do anything about the rumors (Sara: her rumored lover Jace dies and her brother Cregan is far away in the North when those rumors become a thing in the South years later/Alys: her rumored lover Aemond dies and her son is obviously too young to do anything about the insults people are saying about his mother/Nettles: her rumored lover Daemon dies). Regardless of whether any of the rumors were true or not, it's still the women in the relationships who were described in a negative manner. Even men like Aemond or Daemon don't get as slandered, despite their more controversial actions.

Sara may or may not have existed (the fact that her existence alone is doubted speaks for itself) but in the history books she is described as an "unwashed" bastard. Even the fact she was a virgin at the time of her affair with Jace is called into question. Alys gets descriptors like "slattern" and "cow". She is reviled as a seductress and witch who would sacrifice her own children. Nettles gets insulted as well, both by characters around her and the maesters/septons recording the histories. Beyond the classism, there is also a racial angle to the insults with her skin colour always being at the forefront when she gets called "dirty" and "creature". It’s unfortunate but Westerosi society is unfair to women, especially those of a lower social class, and so they do often have to rely on the men in their lives, whether that’s a male lover/husband, their father, brother(s) or son(s) as a source of protection. Characters like Sara/Alys/Nettles don't get that protection.

Then you get to Marilda's descriptions in the book, and it's completely clean. Not a single insult is uttered against her despite her supposed involvement with two different Velaryon men. Whether her affair was with Corlys or Laenor, it occurred at the time when they were married men. Laenor is dead by the time when he's claimed to be the father of Marilda's sons. But Corlys is alive and well. Not to mention, he's a very well respected figure in Westerosi society. That being said, I can’t see Corlys doing any major PR control here since he does not have the means to do so.

Alyn, however, could ensure his mother did not get negative remarks. He's the one said to have fostered close ties to the Citadel and a positive relationship with the Faith. On more than one occasion, he was anointed by the High Septon himself, which is something that's typically reserved for the King or his Kingsguard. So I think Alyn might’ve used that influence to his favor.

While Alyn does seem like the type who doesn’t care much about what others think of him, he clearly respects his mother so I doubt he would want her to have a bad reputation. Even concerning the rumors of Alyn's potential affairs, the maesters are somewhat dismissive about them and call the rumors "unreliable". They don't give much credence to what third parties are saying on such matters. As for Alyn's mother, she is spoken of with nothing but respect and even flattery at times.

History is truly written by the victors.

[slttygeto]

༉‧₊˚. PLAYLIST

༉‧₊˚. episode 04: lonely star

preview: ". . .He knows a part of him is right, what he said wasn’t wrong. Perhaps, he could’ve said it in a different way—whenever he remembers the dejected expression across your features, the attempt at covering up the hurt behind your eyes by pulling away from him as though he was fire—his heart sits heavy.

And then the two of you didn’t talk again. He didn’t bother to try to text you, and you would never text him first."

content warning: cursing, hanma owns a strip club, oral s.ex, unprotected s.ex, choking, hair pulling, no aftercare.

word count: 7k

➜ ┊: @softshuji @mitsuwuyaa @kariatenoh @reiners-milkbiddies @citrusteaa @bejeweled-night-33

➜ MASTERLIST

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

Tokyo was a bustling city. People escape from the mundane using any source of entertainment allowed. From going shopping to partying, the city provides numerous remedies for any challenging moment a person might experience. There, in the depths and labyrinth streets of Tokyo and its lively nightlife, exists a world that only unravels to those who dare seek it. Hidden between tall buildings and colorful signs, paradise on earth stands proudly.

A black car pulls up in the alleyway, parking right outside the back entrance of a disheveled looking building. The door opens and cigarette hits the dirty floor. A foot crashes the bud, adorned in squeaky clean shoes that do not fit the vibe of the creepy alleyway. Golden Glow reads in bright neon light right above the back door. The man’s slender fingers push the wooden door open, stepping into a vibrating world of sensuality and allure where reality and fantasy blur for hours on end at night.

The air is thick with perfume and anticipation, a line of rich men of all backgrounds sitting on the deep red plush seating facing the focal point of the strip club. Murmurs of who will be performing next fill the room and the tall man makes his way towards the VIP table.

“You’re late.” Kisaki doesn’t pull his eyes away from the curtains waiting to unravel tonight’s star, more or less used to this kind of behavior from his right hand.

“I had to take care of something.” Announces Hanma as he pulls his seat back and grabs a cigarette. The relationship he had with smoking was more of a toxic affair—a continuous tag of war between depending on the small bud and desiring a whiff of the substance when things get a bit too hectic. With each inhale, he feels a momentary release from existing. He’s never enjoyed it, not fully at least. Existing meant he had to abide by rules, which he never did. Breakups were nasty, women lashing out insults towards the man they called a God only a few nights prior—they should’ve known better, is what he tells them every time. He never claimed to be a good person, just a good—no, an amazing fuck.

Hanma’s dick serves as a distraction from his violent nature, he momentarily hypnotizes those women with each sharp and angled thrust from his hips. Deliciously dragging out moans, whines and profanities, proclaims of how godly he feels and how they’ve never had better. He is good at using and not giving much in return, he shows it through prioritizing his orgasm, only speaking when the dirty talk tips him over the edge. Shuji doesn’t budge as a pillow is thrown his way, ‘asshole!’ sounds from behind the door he’s just closed and he swears he could feels his fingers twitch. He’ll spare the cleaning staff of the hotel a blood bath tonight.

“You took too long,” Nahoya adds his two cents as usual, and the tall man wonders what the orange haired even provides for him to remain alive and attending special nights like these.

“It’s your club, you’re supposed to get here first.” Kisaki presses and the lights dim as the curtains open, revealing tonight’s a woman clad in a gorgeous set of deep red lingerie. She commands attention with the way her body carries her across the stage, each step is like a soft whisper, beckoning more people to look at her—admire her. She embraces the power she holds over the spectators, feeling a surge of dopamine push her to do better.

“You’re not my fucking dad. I’ll get here when I want to.” His fingers tremble as he drags the cigarette away from his lips, resting his wrist on the table as his whole hand shakes. You would think that years of smoking would get the man used to the motion, familiarized with the aftermath of each whiff—somehow, it doesn’t. Through furrowed eyebrows and behind framed glasses, Kisaki notes the unusual behavior from the man. He is far too moody, perhaps more than usual. Hanma took pleasure into killing, coming back from missions was almost as euphoric as an orgasm after being denied for so long. As far as his report went, the mission was done and Toman’s men were able to discard of the dead body rather easily. So what was wrong?

The younger man doesn’t say anything, he waits until the show wraps up and for people’s attention to drift elsewhere to speak to the taller man. As Hanma, not so quietly, slips away from the table and onto one of the VIP rooms upstairs, Kisaki soon joins him.

“So, wanna talk about what’s up your ass lately?”

“What do you mean?” Hanma’s voice is devoid of any emotion, but he still looks unimpressed as he casts half a glare towards Kisaki.

“You know what I mean. Something’s up your ass, you need to fucking pull it out and do your job. I don’t need a moody bitch as my first in command.”

Hanma’s heard worse over the years, he knows what it meant to be involved with someone as nasty and as disgusting as Kisaki. However, he was having a bad week and Kisaki came to him at the wrong moment.

“This moody bitch will blow holes into your brain and make it seem like it was a pathetic attempt to kill yourself. Don’t fuck with me.” The tension rises between the two men, silence engulfs the room that’s hidden to the rest of the audience. They’ve had to fight before, the scars littering Hanma’s arms a reminder of Kisaki’s knife slashing the man’s skin. The shorter man’s own scarred hands a grim testament to what Shuji was capable of doing. The two of them don’t speak another word.

Kisaki sits on one of the soft chairs facing Hanma, placing his gun on the tiny glass table. The other man does the same, and it feels like a silent agreement that neither of them was going to harm the other.

“I went to her place.” There’s no question about who he is referring to. Kisaki knows all too well who you are. He’s seen you from afar when you were all young, unknowingly grasping the heart of a delinquent who’s never known what the feelings he had for you even meant. His face twitches as he remembers the conversation he had with the man a couple of weeks ago.

“You found her?”

“She’s back in Shinjuku.” Kisaki doesn’t miss the way Chifuyu’s body tenses up when the two men mention your name. He’s managed to keep you away from this mess for years now, his plan was coming crashing down from a single interaction with Hanma Shuji. Like domino pieces lined up, the tattooed man blows on them and watches them tumble just for fun. He was after you just for fun, Chifuyu fears.

“And? What do you wanna do now?” Kisaki’s busy rummaging through papers in his drawers, he doesn’t lift his gaze as he continues. “Do you want the men to take her away or?”

Sensing his silence, Tetta raises his eyes and notices the deadly look on Hanma’s face. Had it not been Kisaki, a man who’s known him for years and was desensitized to his glares, he would’ve most likely fallen from his chair. His eyes became storm clouds, hiding their usual golden color and crackling with the threat of lightning. Hanma’s never cast him a look similar to this before, usually blessed with an emotionless face.

“No. I don’t want any of them near her.”

Kisaki leans back against his seat. He’s seen Hanma get riled up over things like missions going wrong, people pissing him off, testing his patience—this was a different kind of negative emotion he was displaying. Dare Kisaki say that it was fun to witness? Perhaps even unexpected from the tall man? But he doesn’t say a thing, only gives a curt nod and proceeds to finish the task at hand.

“Why is that?” he asks, curious to know what lead the man to end up in your place.

He glances towards his fingers which had long ago healed, he could still feel your fingertips against his skin, warm breath fanning over his wrist as you tended to his wounds with so much care, as though you were stitching a tiny tear in a delicate fabric.

“She cleaned me up.” Kisaki has to blink a couple of times, but he notices how Shuji keeps his gaze fixated on his fingers. He chews on his bottom lip out of habit. The band aid wrapped around them is unfamiliar, the man’s never taken care of himself this way—oddly enough, Kisaki feels that Hanma had a strange attachment to the adhesive strip keeping his healed cuts safe. It has been days since that incident, he most definitely did not need to cover his hands that way.

“Cleaned you up?” Kisaki pours himself and the other man a glass of whisky, pushing one of the glasses towards Hanma.

“Saw my hands and thought that I was in pain.” The taller man mumbles as he brings the glass of whisky up to his swollen lips. Downing the liquid like rapid fire, he slams the glass on the table and leans in his chair, head thrown back as he grunts.

“I think I fucked up.” Hanma admits, his hand covering his eyes. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you or your touch since that night. So soft, offering him what he has deprived himself of for years—you were so gentle with his hands, treating him as though he was made of glass. Your beautiful eyes witnessed the harm he is capable of causing to others, yet your soul set that aside to make sure he was okay.

Only for him to mess it up.

He knows a part of him is right, what he said wasn’t wrong. Perhaps, he could’ve said it in a different way—whenever he remembers the dejected expression across your features, the attempt at covering up the hurt behind your eyes by pulling away from him as though he was fire—his heart sits heavy.

And then the two of you didn’t talk again. He didn’t bother to try to text you, and you would never text him first.

He was growing impatient with each passing second. He wasn’t an expert at solving this kind of problems, let alone when it involved him in the equation. However, one thing was for certain; his insatiable need to feel you again made every moment apart from you feel like he’s been cursed with damnation.

--

October comes to an end, you start to accept the atmosphere of loneliness that settles like a heavy cloak over the landscape. The days grow shorter and the nights longer, there are Halloween decorations displayed along the entrance of every apartment door. It’s adorable. Pumpkins, bats, and your most favorite—cats are all over the fronts of every store. You look up and find paper lanterns with spooky designs, themed displays in shopping malls, and themed merchandise in stores. You find yourself yearning for the celebration to linger a bit longer.

As the days turn into weeks, Hanma’s absence becomes palpable. You cannot ignore that the lack of his pestering feels strange and foreign, when you had only started speaking to the man again for a couple of days only. Like a shadow retreating to darkness, it feels like he never existed in your life. You’re back to living life the same way that you did before he suddenly reappeared in your life—you don’t know why you’re disappointed. After witnessing murder with your two eyes, you thought that Shuji would scare you. He should. Such an unpredictable man with a history of violence that remains unknown to you should instill a deep fear in you. Then why do you find yourself craving the presence of a man whose ruthlessness carves a path of destruction? A man whose words made it feel like walking through a field of thorns?

You pay your feelings no mind as you drown yourself in chores, making sure there was no speck of dust left on each furniture of your apartment. A shower soothes your nerves afterwards, the motion of scrubbing the dirt off of your skin a subliminal attempt at getting Hanma’s aura off of you. You make yourself a cup of hot chocolate, top it off with some marshmallows as you settle on the comfortable couch with a soft yet heavy blanket draped over your shoulders. The movie you picked for the night is nowhere near comforting, but you brush it off for the sake of Halloween vibes.

However, those feelings melt away as soon as ears pick up on the sound of footsteps near your door. It was pretty late for anyone to be visiting you, let alone on Halloween night. You set your hot chocolate down and walk towards the door in quiet footsteps, praying that you don’t make a noise by accidentally breathing too hard.

Behind the door, Hanma stands looking almost apologetic. His head hangs low not out of shame, but because he sees your shadow from under the door. He holds back a chuckle.

 “It’s me.”

When he hears no reply, he pushes himself off of the wall and walks away from the door. An uncomfortable feeling gnawed at his chest, but he refuses to acknowledge any of it as his hand reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He lets one dangle between his lips as he reaches for the lighter. Until he hears the creaking sound echoing in the hallway.

Glancing back, he sees that your door was no longer closed, but he couldn’t see you either. His feet slowly drag him towards your doorstep once again and the moment he attempts to peek inside, your face pops from behind the door. The both of you pull away at the same time, you almost close the door in his face but his foot stops it before you could close it shut.

“I had to hide my cat. He likes to escape when I open the door.” You announce with a tone that appears to be protective, very used to your fur companion’s habits. Hanma nods, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. It wasn’t until you break eye contact that he realizes he’s been staring at you without uttering a single word.

“Are you alone?” He can see inside your apartment, he towers over you with so much ease. You shift your weight from one foot to another, eyes avoiding his as you stare back at the TV screen and the obviously empty living room.

“Yeah,” you pause, glancing back towards him. “Why?”

“I was thinking you could—“ he wiggles his fingers. “See if they’re okay.” You stare down at the band aids wrapped sloppily around the skin and have to fight back the urge to smile. “I tried to do it myself but I don’t think I did as much of a good job as you did,” which was true and very apparent.

You take a moment to consider your options, chewing on your bottom lip as you fixate your stare on his hands. It was relatively late at night, you were wearing a light sleep dress—this could either go right or horribly wrong. For now, you don’t mind taking the risk.

Pushing the door wide, you see the way his eyes glimmer as they scan your entire body from head to toe. He doesn’t hide that he is checking you out, even as he steps inside your place, he chooses to stare at you instead of scanning his surroundings like last time. You refuse to crumble under his gaze nor change what you were wearing, you close the door and make your way to the kitchen without uttering a single word.

Hanma suddenly thinks of something and he bites back the urge to smirk as he makes his way towards the kitchen as well. This is the farthest he’s been in your place, your kitchen is rather small compared to the one he has in his apartment, but he appreciates how full it is. From the fruit sitting on the counter, the coffee machine, the magazines, the small board where you have what looks like a to-do list written there—it feels homey. It feels like you.

You glance behind you, noticing the pair of shoes in your kitchen and don’t bother to look back, but you feel a tad bit annoyed.

“No shoes in my house,” no response. Surely, he wasn’t going to ignore you when you were about to take care of him.

“I said—“ your stomach flutters and your breath catches when you feel something land on your shoulder, hot breath fanning the tiny bit of skin exposed from your sleep dress falling to the side. You hold your breath for what feels like an eternity, body frozen in place.

“No shoes in the house?” his deep voice sends chills down your spine, his hands resting against the fridge instead of gripping your hips.

His fingers twitch when the smell of sweet vanilla and coconut hits his nostrils, your scent is intoxicating and he struggles with himself. Every instinct urges him to break free and surrender to the intoxicating allure, yet the tether of restraint holds Hanma firmly and keeps his impulse in check. He doesn’t want to upset you again, but he thoroughly enjoys seeing you like this. So flustered.

As he pulls away from you, you turn to face him and use the first aid kit to put space between the two of you, like a shield. If you were trying to appear intimidating with the scowl on your face, Hanma’s smirk tells you that you were failing miserably.

“What the hell is your problem?” you don’t even sound mad, just completely and utterly embarrassed. You were fighting a war between your brain and your needs—the warmth of his body lingered on your skin for far too long, and although his breath reeked of cigarette and something minty, it made you feel dizzy.

“You’re red in the face, doll.” He purrs, making his way towards the couch. This time, you were certainly not going to get down to your knees and treat his cuts. Not after the stunt he pulled.

“Shut up.” You groan, sitting on the couch.

“You’re like, totally vermillion in the face—“

“I will kill you!”

He snorts and comfortably settles on the couch right beside you. One glance at his hands and you can tell that it really isn’t that serious. You bring his hands close to your face, inspecting them as soon as you take off the adhesive strips. There are a few faint scars, but they’re all healed and he only needs to apply ointment to them for extra measure. You put them back in his lap for a few seconds, leaning forward to grab the ointment you placed on the small coffee table in front of the both of you. You don’t realize that you had both gone awfully quiet after that moment, for a few seconds you almost forget what his touch felt like until you feel a pair of eyes burning holes in your face.

“Take a picture, it lasts longer,” you blurt out, never meeting his eyes. You want to appear unbothered by all of this, by his intense way of giving you attention. But god knows how loudly your heart was thumping in your chest.

“Would you let me do it?” oh my god.

You don’t respond, you want to focus on the task at hand and step away from him as quickly as you can. The longer you felt him near you, the harder it was to contain yourself from matching his energy, his flirtatious comments. You were supposed to be mad at him, why did you cave into his request of having his minor cuts treated once again when the man ruined your mood the other night?

“No, I wouldn’t.” You say firmly, although your touch against his skin is very soft. Hanma can tell that you’re fighting an inner battle, you’re not good at hiding it. Your furrowed eyebrows make his own skin burn, his thumb craves to smoothen the skin of your forehead, get you to relax that jaw and melt against him the same way he does when the tip of your finger grazes his skin. He snaps out of his thoughts when he sees that you were already putting everything back in the white box, golden eyes staring between your hands and face.

“We’re done?”

“Yeah, you should be fine now.” You get up and head back to the kitchen, leaving Hanma alone with his thoughts once again. He notices that the movie you were watching was paused only 20 minutes in and the hot chocolate sitting on your coffee table was starting to go cold. It seems as though your night was just getting started and him showing up put it on hold.

However, Hanma doesn’t want to leave just yet. He can’t put his finger on why he feels the need to stay, perhaps the idea of going back into his car, driving to his empty place made him feel a little bit sick to his stomach. It was an unspoken rule for Hanma to never visit his place unless he really needed something. Clothes, money—he always packed those in a bag and left it in his car. His place—located in the heart of the city's shadows, is nestled within a towering skyscraper, its imposing structure casting long, foreboding shadows over the streets below. Whenever Shuji inserts the key card, he is greeted by an atmosphere steeped in mystery and menace. Dark, rich tones dominate the décor. Nothing about the 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms apartment made it feel homey. So Hanma avoided it like the plague.

He thinks he can find an excuse to stay a little longer with you. Should he take you out? He can’t. You were far too comfortable in your sleep dress to change into something else. The movie seemed interesting, perhaps a few sweet words would convince you to let him stay a little longer before he has to depart—

“Have you had dinner yet?” You break his chain of thoughts so easily, Hanma is a little taken aback at first. Glancing back towards you, he sees you holding two white ceramic plates in one hand. The pot, which he assumed had warm, homemade food in it, is sitting on the stove with a ladle inside. Were you offering him a meal?

“Not yet,”

“I figured you skip meals,” you say with a frown. You forget the grudge you’re supposed to hold against him, it nestles itself somewhere in the back of your head the moment you see Hanma lost in his thoughts. You glance at his face—not as full as it was when the two of you were kids. He’s never had chubby cheeks, but you could tell when the man had a good meal and when he hadn’t eaten properly in a while. You naturally find yourself reheating the food you made for yourself, grateful you decided to cook more than a singular portion.

“I don’t do it on purpose,” he clarifies, as though he needs you to understand where he is coming from but then his lips are sealed shut. He’s never had to explain himself to anyone, it’s a little foreign for him to be doing it with you.

“You forget?” you guess, your back facing him as you serve him a good portion of the katsu curry you’ve made. You make sure to give him a bigger portion than yours, assuming that the man has probably skipped lunch as well.

“Mhm.” With the way he engulfed you in his arms previously, you shouldn’t trust him so blindly and have your back facing him again. But you don’t seem to care as much, maybe even wishing he does it again. Instead, you hear a chair creak from behind you and see that the man has made himself comfortable in your kitchen. You hand him his food before sitting across from him, then the two of you dig into the food.

Hanma hasn’t tasted something this good in—14 years. Ever since his mother stopped cooking him a decent meal. You made a dish that’s such a delightful harmony of textures and flavors, engulfing him with a warm velvety blanket he would never throw over his own shoulders. He glances towards you and you’re focused on your food—at least, you look like you’re trying to focus. He sees that some habits never really left you. You ate fast, way too fast, never truly savored your food. You still had a habit of bringing the food close to your nose and inhaling the scent (he never understood why you did it). He can remember the last time you tried to smell something he was about to eat—a sandwich he had bought that had a weird mixture of ingredients, you leaned down to inhale its scent and Shuji swears he hasn’t laughed as hard ever since. The face you made was of pure disgust, pushing the bread back into his hands and away from you. You’ve always had such an expressive face—either that, or Shuji stares at you a bit too much.

The present situation mirrors your date at the ramen shop in sad ways. It is obvious that the two of you have grown apart, no longer needing to be so close to one another at any given moment. The person who sits across of Shuji Hanma is someone he recognizes but doesn’t fully know—he recognizes certain habits that even time couldn’t tear away from you. But your touch, your body and soul feel different. On them lingers this love and care you still held for the man along the years, but never to a full extent. It seemed as though even whilst with him, you were thinking of something else—somebody else. He could be mistaken and you’re just trying to push him away, but Hanma’s gut feeling never betrayed him.

His stomach twists in knots when he sees you reach for the jewelry adorning your neck—a necklace with a golden heart pendent. You hold onto it with so much care, cautious not to break the fragile accessory.

He is reading too much into it.

He pulls his eyes away from you once he’s done with his curry, polite enough to put his plate in the sink and wash it off for you. You stare at his large back in silence, contemplating your next words.

“Tonight’s Halloween.”

Hanma turns to look at you, his raised eyebrow an indication that he didn’t know where you were going with this.

“Yeah? You got a costume you want to show me?” he teases, bracing himself against your kitchen counter. You have to pull your eyes away from his hands and arms, ignoring the way your pussy throbs at how large he looks in your tiny kitchen. You realize what he says and make an offended face, standing up with your own plate and utensils and walking towards the sink.

“Over my dead body.” You nudge his side with your elbow, he moves away from the sink but still stands next to you.

“Okay then?” he questions as you turn on the water.

“You could stay and watch the movie.” You offer without looking at him. You were scared that your face would betray you, you almost slipped and said ‘with me’ and that would give him the upper hand, another thing to tease you about.

“Like a date night?” you halt your movements, quickly turning off the faucet and turning to stare at him. Your breath hitches when you see his face so close to yours. He isn’t trying to intimidate you, the playful glint in his eyes give away his true intentions. However, you can’t deny that having him so close to you was starting to be challenging for your self-control.

“I… I don’t know.” your voice is barely above a whisper. You try to build a wall between the two of you, put some distance, but it’s useless. Hanma stares at you with golden orbs that mimic lanterns lit up in the night, evoking a sense of nostalgia that felt so strange to you—

Up until now, Hanma was a mere teenage crush you had parted ways with on less-than-great terms. There wasn’t a single time during those twelve years where your heart yearned for the man, remembered the way he would make your stomach leap and be like a light at the end of the tunnel—why let such silly feelings resurface so unexpectedly? You could blame it on your celibacy, not having been out on a proper date for a couple of months now—but even as you look at it, you haven’t been this interested in anyone for a while.

What was Hanma Shuji doing to you? What was so different about him? Could it be that the man’s touch messed you up?

He steps closer to you, tall figure looming over your smaller frame in an attempt at caging you between him and the sink. He’s got a million things to say and yet, his lips remain frozen. Yearning to feel the warmth of your own softer, plushier ones. As you confess shakily, although your hands far too comfortable holding onto his shirt for it to sound convincing, he chuckles and you smell his minty breath.

Everything about him looks…inviting. You cannot look away from his neck, or his jaw or his lips. You’re lost in a trance, on this terrifying journey where you wish to be able to hear something other than your own heartbeat. Deafening, muting the world around you for a split second as Hanma leans down and captures your lips in a fiery kiss.

It’s different than the one shared at the ramen shop—there was no waiting, no longing for your touch for twelve long years. You were at hand reach, so close to him like a dream. Hanma needed you like the moon needs the stars, promised himself to tattoo the feeling of your lips against his for years to come—they fit perfectly against his, like a mold made specifically for his body. It’s surreal. The initial kiss is short, gently easing you into the sea of his passionate and intense loving, because when his lips reattach to yours, you’re being pinned to the wall.

His hands grab your face, they hold you in place like he’s been craving to breathe again for an eternity. You can smell him, feel him on you everywhere even with layers of clothes stuck to your skin, set ablaze like a furnace. His electrifying touch leave goosebumps in their wake, trailing from your cheek down to the back of your neck. There, his hand grips your nape before his fingers dig into your scalp.

When you gasp at his touch, Hanma’s heart leaps. Like a ticking bomb, it was only a matter of time before he unleashed a side of him he wasn’t sure he wanted to offer so early on. You’re such a tease, he thinks. Why were you giving him those eyes as he pulls away from the kiss? Why are you biting your already swollen lips if you didn’t want him to bury himself so deep inside you?

“Ask me to leave.” He says, voice firm as he tries to catch his breath.

“Shuji—“ you go for his face but he grabs your wrist mid-air.

“Ask me to leave, doll.”

“No.”

“This is your chance,” he leans down, close to your face and brushes his lips against yours. “—won’t stop if I start.”

“If I touch this,” his hand gropes your boob over your dress. “If I kiss this,” he yanks your head back, brushing his lips against your throat. “I promise you. I won’t be able to stop.”

At this point, you’re more than fed up with his teasing and crash your lips against his. You push yourself off the wall as get on your tiptoes to reach for his lips, and he decides to end your struggle and picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. You kiss him harder, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip as he marches towards your room.

“Didn’t take you for a biter,” his words are muffled against the skin of your neck as he kisses there. You throw your head back, allowing him more room to work with and you feel your back hitting the familiar soft mattress. The bed was made, but the blankets are quickly discarded to the floor as Hanma’s mess of limbs loom over your figure and plant hungry kisses on the skin that’s showing.

Thanks to your choice in outfit, Hanma finds it easy to strip you naked. Skilled fingers undo your bra to reveal your breasts in full display, but his hands are busy groping at your mound. You gasp at how rough he is handling your body, but the wet patch forming in your underwear indicated just how much you’ve been craving this kind of attention. His lips attach to your hardened nipple, whilst his left hand twists and fiddles with the other one. It feels like he is attempting to nurse on you with how hard he sucks, golden eyes staring deeply at your fucked out face. Messy hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, and your eyes barely able to stay open as he gives your erogenous zones the right amount of attention.

“Mmm you’re so soft,” he teases the nipple with his teeth and chuckles when he feels you try to squeeze your thighs together from under him.

“Shuji,” you breathe out, as soft as a silken thread.

Pulling away from your breasts, he admires the hickeys he’s painted across your skin—branding you as his on your very first night together. Sure, he’s done this before but never this passionately. He wants those bruises to never go away, glued to your skin like a tattoo and a constant reminder that this is what being his meant. He attaches his lips to your skin again, this time on your torso—he travels down to your stomach, passes your belly button before kissing right above your panties. He notices how drenched they are and hisses.

“Fuck, you’re fucking dripping.” He says as he moves them to the side and his mouth falls open, drool threatening to spill. “All for me, doll?” his thumb teases at your engorged clit and you whimper.

“Don’t tease, fuck—!”

You react almost immediately as he attaches his lips to your clit. Your legs try to close around his head but he is having none of it as he grips your thighs and forces them open, continuing his assault on your pussy.

“Shit, shit!” you gasp as he lays his tongue flat against the bud before moving his head from side to side while watching intently as you writhed and twitched under his touch. There was no way you could escape his mouth, tongue moving down to lap at your folds while his fingers pinched your clit. Hanma craves to exist between your thighs for the rest of eternity, a place so warm and so wet, offering him the best of both worlds.

He pushes two fingers past your folds, grinning from ear to ear when he sees the way your body tenses up. Curling them upwards, the combination of his rough finger fucking and his mouth’s continuous assault on your clit makes you cum hard. You’re writhing, crying desperately for the man’s head to leave your thighs. Soft “I can’t—I can’t!” resonate through the room, but soon die down when he spares your pussy and instead, litters soft kisses over the inner of your thighs.

“You did so well, took me like a champ,” it seems as though the only time Hanma shows any emotion beside boredom, is when he has you under his mercy like this. It’s when he makes you blush, flustered, angry or in this case, cum so hard that you have to take a moment to remember your name—that’s when he feels alive, as though life is worth living again.

Your heart thumps loudly when you hear him fumble with his belt. A sound that makes your ears perk up, eager with anticipation. You push yourself up with your elbows, licking your lips when you see the obvious bulge in his pants. It makes your mouth water, and your hand reaches down to palm him through his pants. A rough hand grabs your wrist, you look up at the man hovering over you with lustful eyes. You stare at him through your lashes, neither of you uttering a single word—he is telling you not to touch, not right now, and you are craving his body like earth needs the sun.

You squeeze the bulge, lips parting when he closes his eyes and leans down towards you. You hear a soft groan emitting from the back of his throat, and it’s your sign to do it again and even go further. Hanma puts a halt to your attempt with a rough kiss against your lips, pushing you back against the soft mattress until you are whining against his lips.

“Oh what is it?” he says, almost mocking your sounds. “Do you need something?”

“Shuji—“ you are way too embarrassed by how he is speaking to you, staring to the side. But he doesn’t seem to mind your bashfulness, rather indulging it by kissing your cheek and then your pulse. The kiss on the cheek is a stark contrast to how roughly he finger fucked you, and when he finally releases his cock and you see the way it jumps—your stomach twists in knots.

That thing will reach spots your own fingers haven’t been able to.

You panic when he starts to tease your folds, hands pushing at his shoulders to remind him to use protection. You did not want to have a kid running around anytime soon.

“I’m clean,” he says and a part of you can’t help but not fully trust him. He sees the expression on your face and chuckles, leaning down to kiss your neck as you melt back on the mattress.

“I get tested frequently.”

“I’m not on the pill—“

“Don’t worry, I can’t get you pregnant.”

You don’t have time to question what that could possibly mean, lips forming an ‘O’. You are forced to lay back and take it as Hanma’s cock keeps going deeper and deeper—you feel full of him. A sob erupts from your chest as you feel him pull his hips back and then—thrust.

He repeats the motion a few times, piercing eyes scanning your face like a hawk. He wants to memorize your body like the back of his hand, wants to tattoo the feeling of your warm and soft cunt at the forefront of his mind—you are so soft and pliable, making sweet noises that he easily swallows by kissing you deeply.

“Fuck you’re so sweet,”

You moan into his mouth when he angles his hips a certain way, Hanma grins victoriously against your lips and uses his hands to grab the back of your knees. Pushing them to your chest, he enjoys the sight of you taking his cock like a sweet girl. You’re so cock hungry, practically begging him to fuck you silly with those glossy eyes staring deeply into his.

“Yeah? You like that?” he purrs, his deep voice sending chills down your spine. He removes one of his hands from the back of your knee and wraps it around your neck in a possessive grip, watching as the early signs of your orgasm start to creep in on you like a shadow in the dusk.

“Such a nasty fucking girl—“ filth continues to spew out of his mouth at the same rate as your loud whines. Your eyes can barely stay open as he quickens his pace, jaw going slack when his thumb brushes over your sensitive bundle of nerves. He shamelessly leans back to stare at your pussy as he continues to fuck it, watching as his cock slides in and out of you. The room is filled with wet noises, the sound of skin slapping against each other reaching Hanma’s ears as he takes in the sight before him.

You were so pliant beneath him, no longer putting up walls in his presence. He loved it. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as the tip of his cock keeps nudging at that one spot that makes you dizzy. Your hand wraps around his wrist as he continues to pin you to the mattress by the neck, you stare up at him with glossy eyes, thighs twitching and your back arching off as you finally cum.

Hanma swears he has never seen something as magical. You feel like a magnetic force, pulling him closer with an irresistible allure that ignites a fire in his stomach and sets his senses ablaze. It tips him over the edge, he empties himself inside you with a loud groan as he lets go of your neck and holds onto your boobs as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

Now what? It’s not like he’s never had sex before, he was in fact very good at it—but usually, he gets up and leaves the moment he empties his balls inside. Now, he worries that you would get the wrong idea, that you’d think he’s using you—does he want to use you?

Isn’t this what he wanted all along? To fuck you senseless the moment he saw you run towards the metro station in your tight skirt. His mind was reeling with all the possibilities of what could be underneath the fabric—perhaps a matching set, or if you wanted to be a tease, nothing.

He starts to wonder what his intentions were with you—he wanted to be your friend without getting too close to you. He couldn’t afford having you near him at all times, that came with a cost he wasn’t sure you could afford. In your arms, he didn’t feel as though he needed to prove anything to you—not his existence, nor his power. And for a man who lives his life in pure chaos, a house that didn’t have a mess isn’t one where he belongs.

His hands pull away from your body, his eyes scanning your face only to find that you were fast asleep. He could wake you up and tell you to go pee, but like a puppet, his own fears pulled on the strings as they desired—his feet carry him towards your door in speed record. Glancing one last time at the pot you left outside, he closes the door.

Even as he drives back to his place, Hanma can’t brush off the burning sensation sitting heavy on his chest.

2024 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[a-firsthand-murder-ballad]

AFHMB is a dark fantasy, colonial era WIP IF with some historical inspiration and intended for a ~16+ audience. It is hosted on Itch.io, made with Twine, and will be free start-to-finish. Demo here.

Warnings for general death, very briefly mentioned infant death, war, and disease, amongst others.

The war’s victory was not a joyous affair. There was no celebration when the encroaching forces were routed from the land. No drinking. No parties. No cheering or tearful greetings from spouses who had not seen one another in nearly a decade.

The silence was unmistakable. Loud. Overwhelming.

There was no joy to be found in it.

The removal of enemy soldiers from Herritus was instead met by one of the bleakest seasons to have ever settled over the country’s south. Crops and livestock died of the cold, infants were unable to be roused from their frigid sleep, and chromatia returned from its grave with wretched determination.

The streets are deserted- not a soul travels the worn roads. The homeless freeze to death and community shelters across the nation are wrung dry. Not even a noble such as yourself is safe from the cold’s grip.

It seeps in through the cracked windows, through the gaps under the doors. Your fire cannot douse it. No matter how many lanterns you light, the shudders will not be dispelled. You don a dozen layers; it finds a way through each.

When you are diagnosed with the grey ruin and made to realise you may have only a few months left to live, you must take it upon yourself to remove any remaining loose ends- before the sickness takes you.

And yet...something is wrong in the town of Nērisk. Something impossible is happening. And someway, somehow, it all ties back in to your brother’s murder twenty years prior.

Reminder that everything here is subject to change. It is a WIP for a reason.

- Customize your MC, including their gender (with options for women, men, and nonbinary MCs, plus enby men and women) and pronouns (supports multiple sets and custom input), appearance, and skills.

- MC’s personality is semi-set.  You can shift the way they develop and how they react to some situations, but some facets of themself will always be set.

- Optionally romance any of 9 options, with 10 poly routes available, including one quad (four person) option.

- Discover that not everything in Nērisk is as it seems, and that you cannot put your past behind you quite so easily...

- You are not the hero of this story. Rediscover old friends, and with them, old vices you thought you’d overcome.

Florain Vettikar [M/F]: An individual from your past you held dear (ex-best friend or ex-lover), taken from you too soon as karmic retribution. They’re long dead...but that doesn’t mean they’re gone.

Aviri von Jhersten [NB]: Someone you knew long ago. Their hands and yours are stained with the same blood, yet they were the one to claim guilt for the fresh grave. Now, they return, with new money and old vendettas.

Cillian Rittaker [M/NB/F]: You had seen Cillian once in passing as a child, a poor orphan your mother had shooed you away from. Nowadays, ze’s a powerful healer...and Nērisk’s final bastion against the chromatia.

Liel Amorson [M/F]: A childhood friend. You haven’t seen them in the decades since their family was forced to flee Nērisk, but now they return. You’d think they hadn’t changed at all if not for the emptiness in their eyes.

Acrocantus vel Yurius [M]: A son of the king of a distant country, who ran to Nērisk to escape his father and his homeland. He’s completely out of his depth...and is paying you to let him stay in your manor.

Ueryphus el Lirisis [NB]: Vel Yurius’ personal guard. They don’t trust you, and maybe they’re right not to. Still, they manage being unhappily polite, if only due to your extended grace when it comes to housing them.

Niphiles Ivares [F]: A wanderer, constantly coming and going. You’ve seen her around a few times, maybe even had a chat or two. Now, though, she’s trapped here in Nērisk, and growing increasingly paranoid…

Micah Kirrest [NB]: An annoyingly kind and persistent barkeep- and perhaps the only person you can call friend. Recently, you’d been separated, and now ey refuse to leave your side...no matter the circumstances.

Allifair ve Ketimnar [M/F]: As a child, they were forced to train under the same church authority you were, and now, they’re a priest with that same church. They hide their guilt well with jokes and snark. Too well.

[Poly routes are Florain/Aviri, Florain/Liel, Florain/Micah, Aviri/Micah, Cillian/Niphiles, Cillian/Aviri, Cillian/Allifair, Liel/Micah, and Acrocantus/Ueryphus.]

[The four-person poly route is Florain/Liel/Micah.]

Demo

Tag Directory [TBA]

[daryllia]

The very first bill ever proposed by a female lawmaker in the United States came from Colorado state representative Carrie Clyde Holly in January 1895. Building on a decade of women’s activism, Holly’s ambitious legislation sought to raise the age of consent in the state to 21 years old. In 1890, the age at which girls could consent to sex was 12 or younger in 38 states. In Delaware, it was seven. […]

[…] Based on English Common Law dating back to the 1500s, American lawmakers had selected 10 or 12 as the age of consent to coincide with the onset of puberty, as if once a girl menstruated she was ready to have sex. Men accused of raping girls as young as 7 could (and did) simply say “she consented” to avoid prosecution. Reformers understood that once “ruined,” these young victims of assault could be forced into prostitution because no man would marry or hire a “fallen woman.”

Prostitution especially concerned wives and mothers because, before penicillin became widely available in 1945, syphilis and gonorrhea were more widespread than all other infectious diseases combined. Wives who unknowingly contracted STIs from their husbands could pass them on to their unborn children, resulting in miscarriages, fetal abnormalities, blindness, epilepsy and unsightly “syphilis teeth.” In most cases, women could not successfully sue for divorce, support themselves, or retain custody of their children if they did divorce. […]

[…] British purity reformers had succeeded in raising the age of consent to 13 in 1861, and the movement received international attention in 1885 after muckraking journalist William T. Stead went undercover in London’s brothels. Stead published a series of salacious articles, collectively titled “The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon,” in the Pall Mall Gazette detailing how London’s husbands and fathers paid top dollar to deflower child virgins in the city’s brothels. Within months, public outcry led Parliament to raise the age of consent to 16.

[…] Many lawmakers rejected women’s presence in public affairs and further resented the unprecedented campaign to curtail white men’s sexual prerogatives. So they stone-walled WCTU members, inserted neutralizing or mocking language in their proposed bills, and occasionally outright banned women from their galleries. The few legislators who went on record in support of young ages of consent voiced sympathy for hypothetical men who would be ensnared into marriage by conniving girls who consented to sex and later threatened to press charges. […]

[…] For years, black women—including Frances Ellen Watkins Harper and Ida B. Wells—had called attention to the fact that white men used rape as a tool of white supremacy. […]

White Southern lawmakers stridently opposed revised age-of-consent laws because they did not want black women to be able to charge white men with a crime. Kentucky state representative A. C. Tompkins went on record with his opposition, explaining, “We see at once what a terrible weapon for evil the elevating of the age of consent would be when placed in the hands of a lecherous, sensual n*gro woman,” insinuating that black women, who he claimed matured earlier and had a more sexual nature, would seduce men and then accuse them of assault. […]

- Kimberly Hamlin "What Raising the Age of Sexual Consent Taught Women About the Vote" 2020

[luhafraser]

Let me be clear: although many think I don't have a real life, I do. I'm not just a Tumblr account... I have a family, dogs and a cat. I'm currently recovering from bronchitis 😮‍💨🫁, and dealing with the school holidays 👧🏼🛝 and lots to do at work. 🤯🤯🤯 That's why I'm not at all sorry for being MIA... I have my priorities, my family and my health...

I've said it a few times... Sam and Cait's shitshow is just a pastime for me... So back off, nasty Anons... You're wasting your time here🖕😜

---

It's not a real timeline, but look at this amazing script... Brilliant... 😝🤣

1) Sam in London; 2) a "fan" says Sam was with a "female friend"; 3) Susie in London; 4) P's innuendos; 5) Susie posts latergrams in a hotel room and gym, it looks like one of rooms at the Firmdale hotels; 6) P says she won't publish without a real evidence 🤣; 7) Susie returns to her home; 8) Another "fan" says she saw Sam on a flight to Gran Canaria; 9) Sam shows himself in a mysterious room on IG Live; 10) Sam's small group of stalkers (surprisingly, they're not the evil shippers 😜🤣) certainly discover that it's not a room in a luxurious hotel (the kind Sam usually stays in) ***(Sam has people monitoring his online steps and who he follows on Instagram, etc... Nothing new there... But I'm curious how someone who isn't a fan gets "here"?! And this fandom have some here, they are not fans of Sam and Cait or Outlander. See below 😉); 11) P releases the name of the new blonde; 12) the current blonde posts several pics/videos showing some gym in Gran Canaria and an airbnb Villa; 13) Sam's voice appears in two of the blonde's videos; 14) B posts the blonde's airbnb Villa; 15) The war of the "queens of Mordor" begins (I don't believe anything about this war, but it's funny and keeps people entertained, just what SamCait and PR want); 16) B says that airbnb Villa is not the place where Sam did his Live; 17) B goes back on what she said, and shows that the male SH and the female SH are in the same Villa 🤣; 18) Chaos begins in the fandom; 19) Sam appears in Austria/Audi Ambassador stuff; 20) blonde posts with her son at her home (latergram... 🤦🏻‍♀️); 21) Ok... Susie, Sarah, who will be the next S? ⏰️

😜🤣

***⬇️

Script to look like James Bond... Women and cars... ?! 🤦🏻‍♀️😬 No, you are not Bond, Mr. Heughan... Sorry! 😝😂

---

But on the other hand...

You know.. I'm not on the "gay train", but hey... I can't blame anyone who thinks he's gay. And have you noticed how several women, linked to Sam, are always traveling to paradisiacal beaches or going to gyms with their gay friends... ?!? You don't even need to follow them on Instagram to know this, there are accounts here that posted everything about them... All that was missing was their blood type... 😝🤣

"Hawaiigate Oops Gran Canaria gate" didn't seem like a good script to prove that Sam occasionally has affairs with women... Even because the place is known for...

But, it certainly moves things around here... Just saying 🤷🏻‍♀️😂

---

OMG... Laughing a lot with #Samarah... 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

---

And Sam/PR decided to fix a flaw in the script and his speech, something that became a joke in this fandom, at least among shippers...

There are women in Glasgow, people! After 10 years, he finally had time to meet a woman there...

Amen 🙌

🤣🤣🤣

---

I find it very difficult for a taurus man, who calls himself a romantic, who is used to staying in hotels like those from the FS and Firmdale chains and who has already made this type of comment...

Taking his supposed girlfriend to a place with these reviews... 🤔😬😂

After 10 years, Sam knowing how this fandom is, being the guy who claims to preserve his loved ones, would he leave breadcrumbs for "fans" to create a new story if he was really dating this woman? I'm amazed that she, with a son, gets involved in this shitshow, but who will know her reasons.... Even Cait used her pregnancy and child in the Belfast promo.

---

Let's see if Sam will follow P's wishes and take Sarah to the TCND event... And let's pray 🙏.

I see THE RING 👰🏼‍♀️ #Samarah 🤣🤣🤣 This didn't even take 7 days, it seems! 🤣🤣🤣

---

I still spend my free time looking at what SamCait shows and what this fandom says because I want to see the end of this shit, when Sam no longer has P or B and his onlys... One day Sam and Cait will fall into oblivion and that's why that they keep feeding this whole circus... What, or rather, who would Sam and Cait be without all this crap? I think it's funny that Sam pulls all this on himself... Except during promo, he's the one who moves things around here (right now Gran Canaria gate, Austria trip, Scottish Sun article, a new company with an enigmatic name... It could be SDFGINEEDTHISSHITSHOWCVBN 😝🤣, "Audi Quattro",...). But to me... This seems like something from someone protecting their loved ones, taking on all the shit for himself. Although, every now and then Cait needs to show that she is alive and with her husband by her side.

I watch and wait... And I know I'm not alone in this! 🧘🏻‍♀️😜

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 9: Bride

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Welcome to the penultimate chapter of the rework! This is a modified OG Chapter 6, with a couple mini flashbacks inserted. Sorry about the wait; turns out my HV was completely rubbish the first go around, so I’ve been pulling my hair out trying to translate properly. Thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ for giving her stamp of approval!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, violence, age gap.

Daemon sees little of you in the weeks before the wedding.

Viserys, in his infinite wisdom, had elected to employ the services of the Rogue Prince in all matter of small duties and odd tasks, from assisting Strong in training with the City Watch to flying to the Reach and taking tea with the leeches of Highgarden. It is his punishment for daring to claim his precious child, his little beauty, ‘the People’s Princess’ or so you are called. 

One of the worst experiences of his life thus far has to be meeting with Lord Tyrell in a lurid solar in the man’s equally-as-tasteless Keep, having to pretend as though he’s apologetic for beating his head in for daring to tarnish your name. Upon learning of the Crown’s intentions to expand trade with the region—a thinly-veiled endeavour to compensate for the now-crooked jaw and the scarring bisecting his right cheek—the lord had been all merriment.

Sycophantic fuck, Daemon had thought to himself at seeing Lord Denys’s disposition change, the disfigured flesh stretching repellently as he smiled affably at him. Trust House Tyrell to prioritise money over pride.

It was likely short-sighted of him to believe that the Hightower problem would go away once his brother had announced your marriage before the court. Since the day of the pronouncement, the Queen had been making sly jabs on the suitability of the match, from overly-polite enquiries as to the state of the residuals he had claimed from Runestone—”I do hope Lord Gerold was accommodating to your requests to receive the remaining funds from your late lady wife’s estate?”—to offhand remarks about the plight of childlessness that had plagued him in his previous union. Not that a child could ever grow in the septic chasm that was his bronze bitch’s womb, though he had admittedly never bothered to explore its rocky depths. 

He had weathered the slights well enough, though he couldn’t help but to drop a few barbs about the son she was no doubt representing. Aegon is a perverted little twat if ever he had seen one—groping maids, fondling kitchen staff, and there are even rumours of him forcing himself on some unsuspecting common girl, though the tales vary widely and are exceedingly difficult to pin down.

I may be violent and brash, he thinks, but at least the women I bed come to me willingly.

Unfortunately, it seems as though the Queen has been whispering in Viserys’s ear when he is called to the Small Council chambers once more, this time with the full retinue present. He is surprised to see you in attendance, standing meekly at the foot of the table with eyes darting between the forms of your attending sister and the table.

It looks like an inquisition.

“Niece.” He strides forward and lays a kiss upon your brow in greeting, glaring out at his brother over the top of your head. You whisper a greeting in return, the sound fearful and taciturn in a way that he had not heard since the commencement of your reignited acquaintance. He addresses the wider audience sternly, who have shifted in discomfort at the liberties he has taken with you. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Daemon.” Viserys clears his throat uneasily. The Hightower bitch is thin-lipped beside him, and he is intrigued to note the thunderous expression on Rhaenyra’s face. Whatever this is, it isn’t good. “There have been… concerns… raised about your ability to—see through this marriage with my daughter.”

Now he knows the Hightower woman is involved.

“Oh, really?” Daemon asks quietly, dangerously. He can see Lyonel Strong swallow, resolutely avoiding staring at him or his little niece. “And by that I am taken to assume you mean my ability to bed her? Rest assured, brother—I’ll have no trouble at all on that account. Care for a demonstration?”

The occupants of the room shift guiltily as they exchange glances, and Daemon feels as though he is the butt of some unheard-of jest. He wonders what in the Seven hells is going on. Looking back at you, he sees you are equally as confused.

“It has been recommended to me by the Grand Maester that—so as to address this issue—we proceed with a… public… consummation,” Viserys says. Daemon finds it difficult to ascertain the tone. Guilt? Self-satisfaction? Whatever it is, it’s clearly warring in his brother’s mind, for the spasming of his features is bizarre to look upon. “The Small Council will bear witness to the evening’s… activities. Along with myself, the Queen and the heir.”

He cannot fucking believe his ears. For a moment, he is concerned he is having some kind of fit, or perhaps the madness of his bloodline has finally caught up with him. But the prolonged solemnity of the seated advisors, the stone-cold face of Rhaenyra and the guilty countenance of the Queen prove that his hearing is very much functional. His blood runs cold, then hot as he processes the words.

His impertinent comment seems suddenly ironic. It seems I’ll be demonstrating after all.

“A public consummation.” He shapes the words slowly, jaw clenched. Lord Tyland shifts nervously in his chair as he takes in what must be a truly deranged expression on his face. “Enlighten me”—his hand falls to the pommel of Dark Sister in feigned relaxation—“what precisely does that mean?”

This time, the old codger himself pipes up. Mellos, the balding fuck, has always disapproved of him. With a stern, unforgiving visage and a constantly disparaging nature, he is one among many, many maesters that Daemon can claim a healthy disrespect for. After the bungle the man had made of Baelon’s birth—dead child, dead mother, and naught to say for his learned experience save for ruined sheets and the encroaching decay of mortality—it was even more difficult to trust the man.

“You will wed the Princess,” he says superciliously. Daemon chafes at the obvious implication that he is somehow unintelligent for asking what the fuck he is thinking. “You will attend the festivities, and you will perform the bedding ceremony; after which, the Small Council will adjourn into the marital chamber behind a screen, view the consummation, and confirm it took place through examination of the linen.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Daemon actively battles the urge to unsheathe his sword and run Mellos through.

He cannot believe the insanity of what has been asked of you. He cares markedly less for his own welfare—after a three-year war in the Stepstones, one learned not to be too choosy about where and in front of whom to bed a woman, taking any opportunity to achieve a quick release before battle called once more. It is an outrage. It is an insult.

He ought to have expected it. His brother really had capitulated too easily. Now he understands why.

“When did I offer you a choice?” Viserys asks, brow raised. He almost looks as though he is prepared to laugh, but perhaps he too is feeling the flush of Targaryen madness in him at the discussion being forced to take place. “You never lay with Lady Rhea. I’ll not give my daughter to you so you can squander two Targaryen lines.” 

When Rhea had been alive, he’d never once tried to stick his cock in her. Too plain, features too drab and form too shapeless—and that is physicality alone. She’d been much worse in character, sneering and conceited, though she had little cause. Runestone was no Dragonstone, nor is it comparable to the capital. He had honestly been concerned the razor-teeth surely lining her cunt would bite his appendage clean off. A thoroughly unpleasant shrew, an utter waste of woman—the most enjoyment he ever received from her was the sight of her brain spilling out of her cracked skull as she lay dying in the fields of the Vale, twitching and gurgling.

“So this is your brilliant solution? Having everyone watch? Inspecting her afterward, as though she’s some brothel whore? What—do you want to traumatise the girl?”

He cannot look at you, cannot bear to see the fear on your face, though he enjoys the discomfited looks shared amongst the Small Council at the crassness of his words, the resigned indignation of the Hightower woman and the barely-veiled fury of his eldest niece. Good. The attending Kingsguard—Ser Willis Fell and Ser Steffon Darklyn—straighten watchfully, hands falling to rest on their pommels to match his own disposition.

Lyonel Strong straightens in his seat, seeming eager to resolve the issue through artless placation. “Prince Daemon—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Lord Hand,” Daemon snaps. He doesn’t give a fuck about what prosaicisms Lord Strong could possibly offer.

“It is a revival of Targaryen tradition.” Mellos clears his throat. “One that saw the reigning King’s…er, virility… proven to all those who denied it. This is the only—”

“Maegor?” His vexation turns to fury. “You want to reinstate a practice begun by Maegor?”

Long has his reputation been compared to that of his grandfather’s despotic uncle. It is terribly ironic that the custom Maegor had instituted on the eve of his wedding to his Black Brides would be reintroduced for his own ceremony.

He may have needed to prove his cock worked, Daemon thinks irately, but I certainly don’t.

This is not what he voices aloud. “I already have the blade”—his grip tightens on Dark Sister—“so I suppose you may as well name me ‘Daemon the Cruel’ and be done with it.”

Lyman Beesbury flinches; Viserys sighs. It is then that you step forward, timidly reaching out and touching his arm.

“Kepus,” you whisper. When he hushes you, you continue louder, more forcefully, carefully measuring your words in the tongue of your ancestors. “Aōle jikāks arlī daor. Līr jaelzi gaomās.” Don’t get yourself sent away again. Just do what they want.

He is furious at the fact that you are so used to having the wills of others exerted over you that you make no protest of this barbaric demand. Instead, you urge him to concede. He cannot help but to direct his irritation towards you.

When he angrily asks you if you’d actually like to be fucked with the entire Council watching, your rejoinder is swift but even. I am not the one you are angry at, you say, and it is true. Of all the people in this fucking room, it is you who deserves his rage the least. A wave of guilt washes over him when he considers the rudeness of his words.

He has to leave. If he doesn’t, he’ll say something downright insulting or potentially threatening, and he cannot afford to be exiled again. Not with the wedding looming so close—not when everything he has worked for is within close reach.

“Fine.” He huffs as he turns to face the Council once more. “This is not over. And fuck you very much for this little suggestion,” he says, pointing at Mellos. “I’d watch myself if I were you.”

He can hear the sounds of Viserys calling him back, of Mellos sputtering some indignant horseshit. He knocks lightly into Cole’s shoulder as he exits the room, the heavy door slamming loudly shut as he stalks off.

Daemon’s footsteps lead him to the yard, where the Strong boy’s second-in-command— a truly beastly figure by the name of Luthor Largent—is running training exercises with the City Watch.

He slumps against the wall, arms folded, watching with dark eyes and stormy thoughts as the man runs a truly merciless regime, shouting abuse at the stragglers who fall behind. Easily approaching seven feet in height, the captain is a fearsome grizzled warrior, a soldier who strikes fear into the hearts of the scum of King’s Landing. He had employed the man during his own tenure, selecting him from over a dozen contenders from the crownlands. It is a personal source of pride to see him prosper within the brotherhood.

The City Watch has flourished in his time away. He is irritated by the fact that he is forced to admit this—that the Strong lad has been a worthy enough successor to his former post as Commander.

It is some time later that he is approached by the man himself, Harwin Breakbones in his practical burnished armour and gold cloak. The man sits a small distance away from him and feigns careful examination of his subordinates, though it is clear his purpose has more to do with him than his post.

“Prince Daemon.” His growling gravel sets Daemon’s teeth on edge. Just because he’s accepted the man’s place in Rhaenyra’s life doesn’t mean he has to like his presence.

He sighs. “Ser Harwin.” He smirks when Largent tosses one of the new recruits clean over his back, sending the soldier sprawling and groaning in the dirt. He continues, still affecting ignorance and watching the display before him. No use in drawing this out. “What can I do for you?”

“I bring a message from the Lord Hand.”

Daemon’s eyes briefly flick to his companion before returning to the training. There are eyes all over the Red Keep, and it wouldn’t do to give any potential enemies ammunition.

“I had thought the Lord Hand was rather displeased with you at present—seems I was mistaken.” He sneers as he gives voice to the rumours that Lord Lyonel had rather comprehensively chastised his son for the constant speculation regarding the paternity of Rhaenyra’s children.

Secret conversations do not stay secret for long in King’s Landing. 

Strong grunts, a displeased concession. “If you would prefer I keep his words to myself, I’ll depart post-haste, my Prince.”

The cheek of him. It startles a laugh from Daemon, and he decides that perhaps it is worth listening to the lad after all.

“Very good.” He glances to Strong. “Well, then. Give me this message.”

“The white raven is in the pocket of the watchtower,” Strong says, and Daemon’s nose wrinkles as he ponders the words.

White raven, white raven… white ravens, Isle of Ravens, the Citadel—Maester. Watchtower—clearly ‘Hightower’.

The maester is in the pocket of Hightower.

It is clear that this has something to do with the old fuck’s grand idea to exact humiliation upon him and his little niece. Daemon’s jaw works as he contemplates the revelation. There’s little possibility that the Queen would govern the loyalty of the Grand Maester so coldly. Not only is she not nearly good enough at pretending perturbation as she had done in the Small Council, but he also doubts she would be willing to inflict such distress upon you. Nothing he has seen of your acquaintance would lead him to this conclusion.

But old Otto… an ambitious cunt, a man whose grandson holds a very legitimate claim to the Seven Kingdoms, a claim that is superseded only by the King’s declaration that his daughter will succeed him as heir. Such a man is capable of this. He has little doubt that the slimy fuck has been plotting behind the scenes ever since his removal from office. And, if the King’s daughter should only produce bastards—gossip that could very easily be proven correct in the right circumstances—precedent suggests that the next in line is… you. The People’s Princess, you are loved and respected by many, and you are far less personally objectionable than Aegon.

You are also to be his wife.

He is clearly not alone in realising how advantageous your impending match would be in shoring up the succession and preventing the Hightowers from acceding to the Iron Throne. It suddenly makes a twisted sort of sense. Popular opinion had long held that Daemon had cooled toward Rhea due to how zealously he was forced to her bed on the wedding night. To devise a public spectacle such as this in the hopes that it would foster resentment between you and he, prevent the solidification of the union before it can flourish…

It is absurd. It is underhanded. It is clever. A valiant attempt at engendering disharmony in conceivably the most significant blow to his ambition since the disgraced man had slunk from court, badge of the Hand firmly pinned to the lapel of another.

“Thank you, Ser Harwin,” he says. “I will remember your loyalty, and your father’s, when the time comes.”

The man nods. A brief look passes between them. It seems Breakbones and the Lord Hand have value after all. Perhaps he had been unwise to dismiss them so quickly. 

He pushes himself off the wall and treads leisurely back into the Keep in search of you, making careful effort not to appear hasty or distempered lest prying eyes should report this to Oldtown.

Otto really does spend too much time thinking about my cock, Daemon thinks wryly.

It is not the first protestation the man has had about his carnal exploits. Still, the dilemma is evident. Either he continues to protest the atrocity being demanded of you, to kick up a fuss and demand the respect you are both owed as Prince and Princess of the Realm, or he swallows his dignity and his wrath and he removes the lord’s power over the circumstances by… letting it happen.

Obviously, he ought to proceed with the latter. This is the surest way to foil Hightower’s plot, at least for the time being. But the thought of how frightening you would find it, his sweet little untried niece, to have your despoilment on exhibit for the Council’s sick satisfaction is a preoccupation that he must speak with you on before he makes any decision.

He finds you in Laena Velaryon’s apartments of all places, the series of rooms that she shares with her husband and children. The lady opens the door herself when he knocks, white hair untamed and loose, framing her head with dense coils that set off appealingly against her dark skin.

She is rather fetching—he’d always thought so. Daemon had even gone so far as to ask for her hand some years ago. In light of his upcoming nuptials, he cannot say he is too aggrieved that Rhaenys and Corlys had rebuffed him then, for you are an infinitely superior match. The woman is cradling the swell of her belly, a grimace of effort upon her face. He supposes the weight of the growing babe is beginning to exact its toll on her. Behind her, he can hear the sounds of bickering.

“My Prince,” Laena breathes, rubbing her distended middle with a small frown. “What might I assist you with?”

“Lady Strong,” he greets. After asking if you are present in her chambers, he is gratified when she nods, obligingly stepping back and widening the entrance so that he may step through.

You are standing over the glowering forms of the seated Jacaerys and Lucerys, Laenor beside you with arms crossed and a stern bearing. Across from Rhaenyra’s sons sit the identical forms of two young girls—he can only assume these are Ser Breakbones’s daughters, the twins Baela and Rhaena—one of whom is failing to conceal the cast of despondency from showing, the other with her arm thrown around her sister in comfort.

“It was unnecessarily cruel,” you are saying, a look of such disappointment on your face that even he feels the urge to quail. “You did not think about how awful it must feel for Aemond to be without a dragon, and nor did you consider how your actions might have made Rhaena feel.”

Ah, yes, he thinks, recalling a snippet of memory. The Strong girls had been gifted dragon eggs at Rhaenyra’s request—though one had yet to hatch.

“It was Aegon’s idea,” Jace says, his countenance more contrite than his words suggest. Tears have welled in Luke’s eyes.

Laenor scoffs. “And if Aegon had the idea to freefall from dragonback—would you do that, too? Use your sense, boy.”

He kneels down to crouch before his sons in all but blood, casting his hand through the boys’ dark hair comfortingly as the younger begins to cry. “I am unimpressed with your behaviour, but I understand what it is to be led into making a mistake. You will apologise to Aemond, and I will be discussing with your mother how you will be making reparations for this deed.”

Jace nods seriously, and Luke sniffles.

“You should also apologise to Rhaena, boys,” you add, eyes flicking guardedly to Daemon as you register his presence. You pat their shoulders as they sidle past you to hug Laena’s children, smiling faintly at the endearing sight the foursome make. 

Before making your way to him, you whisper something unknown to Laenor; the man’s gaze snaps to Daemon. He nods once in acknowledgement, though that same tightening around the eyes remains, a sign that he—like so many others—is yet to truly accept Daemon’s claim of you.

Laenor had been vexed by the news of your impending union, sidling up beside him for but a moment to whisper a mild-mannered threat while the court gathered themselves. “I’d threaten you,” he’d said, slapping his back a little too hard, “but I think whatever Rhaenyra is likely to have said to you will have a far more frightening consequence. Just know I’ll be looking out for her—and watching you.”

He is glad you have the love of your family, a feat not easily won in the divided House of the Dragon. He supposes Laenor’s pledge will be tested soon—as Rhaenyra’s Prince Consort, he’s likely to be one of several to watch the wedding night’s proceedings.

Daemon follows you out of the room, tipping his head briefly in farewell to Lady Strong as he departs. He turns to you. You are staring up at him watchfully, hands clasped together, a vision of piety in your high-collared gown.

“Are you well, Uncle?” you ask him, gentle and guileless.

His mouth quirks at the query. It is sweet and charming and utterly like yourself to be concerned for his welfare in light of the command levied by the King upon you both.

“I’m fine, sweetling.” He reaches for your small hand to draw it under and around his arm, securing your hold on his frame before initiating a slow walk to your younger sister’s apartments.

He has become familiar with your weekly visiting schedule over the weeks—Rhaenyra, Laena, Helaena, Viserys and Alicent, Ser Lysan—a repeated cycle of teas and books and chatter. It is surely your unsettling Hightower sister you are proceeding to next, and you make no protest at the direction his steps are leading you in.

He allows his gaze to settle on you once more. “I’m not concerned for myself. But I am concerned for you. How are you feeling?”

“Qrīdrolaks iksan.”  I am confused, you say, switching to your native tongue as you pass a busy intersection of the Keep and glancing nervously at the ogling of the courtiers. It has been three sennights since the announcement, two days until your wedding, and still the news preoccupies the residents of King’s Landing like no other. “Mīvindiks. Yn ñuhe gaomilaksir gaominna.” Frustrated. But I will perform my duty.

“Lo zūgā, kepa aōha qubroti jās ivestrinna.” He steers you up the staircase, looking down at you in concern. If you’re afraid, I will tell your father to fuck off.

You giggle, squeezing his arm in amused admonition. The gravity returns to your countenance as the laughter dies off.

“Daor.” You sigh. “Lo bonir gaomā, ponte ērinis. Kesir tatinna, kepus.” No—if you do that, they win. I will see this done, Uncle.

His brave, brave girl. Though the remark is decisive and firm, the way in which your lower lip quivers as the words escape belies the trepidation you are surely feeling.

You straighten, swallowing and looking straight ahead as you approach the so-called Hightower wing of the Keep that is named for its occupying residents. “Zaldrīzesse biādroti zūgusy daor.” Dragons do not fear sheep.

An admirable sentiment. But he must make certain before he allows this to happen.

“Pōnto syt gaomagon bēvilō daor—lo epō, qogrondi ossēninna.” You don’t have to perform for them—I will slaughter the bunch if you ask. 

He almost hopes you will take him up on it.

You dig your heels in lightly when you reach an entrance, the door to the chambers left ajar. Inside, he can see a sliver of pale hair and the inane mutterings of the witchling, light and nonsensical. You are one of few individuals that can draw the girl to the realm outside her mind.

You shake your head at him, declining his offer. He wonders if you believe him to be jesting. He is not.

“Ynot mīsilā,” you murmur, and it makes his chest tighten. You will protect me.

He can count on a single hand the number of times in his life he had been the recipient of such belief. It is so simple a statement, and yet so profound. Watchful, mistrusting girl that you are, he is pleased to receive such an avowal of faith in him. He hopes that he will deserve it.

You tiptoe to lay a sweetheart kiss upon his cheek, blushing scarlet as you dart into the room and close the door, a bold ingenue teasing at her suitor. He chuckles at your shy seduction as he ventures off to his room to ponder the plot that has been unveiled.

If Viserys wishes to watch the bedding—if Otto wants to wage war on his marriage—then let him, he thinks to himself ruthlessly.

Let them bear witness to the power your union will wield; let them see and be afraid.

After all—dragons do not fear sheep.

In many respects, the wedding ceremony is every bit as typical as any other ritual undertaken in the Sept. As he had predicted, there is far too much droning from Septon Eustace, far too much incense and far too many spectators. He shall have to commence talks with the High Priest to arrange for a Valyrian rite.

You are darling in a high-collared gown of white and precious metal, sworls of gold and silver latticed in conformation to the shape of your waist and bust, decorating the sleeves and ends. Rubies and other priceless jewels glitter among the openwork, fashioning a picture of might and wealth. He’s gratified to see the Valyrian steel necklace he gifted you around your throat, and it serves almost as a divide separating your bare skin from the fabric.

You’d favoured these gauzy sort of dresses as a girl, too.

“Mama! Mama, do you like it?” you ask, handfuls of skirt clutched in plump fists as you sway from side to side, beaming at your reflection.

“Beautiful, my dearest!” Aemma laughs at your happy little wiggle, hand pressed to her belly. This babe is a boy, or so she’d told Daemon, and a rather active one at that. She winces, presumably from yet another movement of the child tumbling about in her womb. “Is it what you wanted?”

You nod enthusiastically. “I love it!” Your eyes meet his through the mirror. “Kepus! Do you—do you like it too?”

Truthfully, you look a little too similar to those iced cakes you enjoy, puffed and pastel and thoroughly impractical. But Aemma is correct; you are beautiful. With your silver hair curling strikingly against its backdrop of pale sky and your cheeks rounded and flush with your joy, how can you be anything but?

“Lovely,” he says from his place by the door, unfolding his arms and standing tall. “Ready for your celebration?”

At the reminder, you gasp like a common street performer, revolving on spun heel to dart to the exit. You are getting quicker by the day, and so he is only just able to catch you around the arm as you bolt through the small opening and into the hall. You squeal as he swings you up and onto his hip, tiny arms winding in a near chokehold around his neck.

“Yes! Yes!” You are exultant, the high sound of your voice piercing in his ears. Your legs kick out at his side for good measure. “Happy name day to me!”

Daemon swallows against the dryness in his mouth. She looks nothing like a cake now.

He is struck by the urge to lay you across the altar and give the Seven Kingdoms something to really talk about. His bashful princess, so precious, so demure, so clearly eager to be corrupted—and he is all too willing to do the spoiling. 

“I am yours and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” Your voices mingle in the chamber, a pleasing amalgamation of high and low.

The Septon finally—finally—gives him leave to kiss his bride, and he savours the gentle touch of your lips against his, no more than a ghostly graze of skin against skin. You are soft and sweet in his hold, and it is with exultation that he leads you down the aisle as his lady wife.

Your ladies rush forward to help gather your skirts as you stop him uncertainly at the top of the stairs. You clutch his proffered hand with a grateful smile, leaning on his support as you journey down to the courtyard from where you will make your way across to the Great Hall.

The seating arrangement had caused some headache during planning, he knows. That is the issue with Targaryen intermarriage—when husband and wife share the same family, whom do they assign as representatives for each? In the end, it had been decided that Viserys would sit next to you, with Alicent and the Lord Hand rounding out the left side of the royal table. On the other side, Rhaenyra was to be installed beside Daemon, Laenor completing the row at the end. He is thankful for the arrangement, having no desire to sit beside his brother. The King is still surly and aggrieved by the entire thing, but had miraculously—and for a reason unknown to him—conceded to your preference and acquiesced to the match.

At the first feast following the ceremony, it is custom for the wedded pair to remain seated as the guests dance. This forces Daemon to make conversation with an occupied Rhaenyra—busy watching her oldest child like a hawk on one of the auxiliary tables beside Ser Harwin, a move that had set afresh new gossip—or a drunken Laenor, or dodging the gaze of Viserys.

You are quiet and withdrawn, though affecting a facade of genteel delight, and it is no wonder. With the prospect of the bedding ceremony looming—a ridiculous tradition in which the wedded pair were stripped by the crowd and carried undressed to their bed—and the further ignobility of an exposed consummation, you are likely to feel quite traumatised already.

Sitting beside him in your pretty little wedding gown, he is discomfited by the recurrence of memory once more.

A tugging at his shirt distracts him from his goal.

“What?” he barks. The sound of a sniffle draws his attention down.

You stand in your name day dress, skirts as frightfully fluffy as ever, only your expression is drawn into a scowl and your eyes are rimmed red. With a sigh, he steps away from his latest liaison—Lord Crane’s wife, or is it his daughter?—and dismisses her with a careless wave of the hand. She scurries off, lips bruised and hair ruffled and thoroughly indignant, though he cannot confess to care overmuch for her feelings.

He stoops before you. “What is it, sweetling?”

You pout, rubbing a sticky hand over your face. Your mouth is smeared with icing, he notes with some amusement. “There is too much—too much people here, kepus. I don’t like it.”

“Too many,” he corrects automatically, brushing stray strands out of your face. He frowns, grabbing you by the shoulders when you lean into him. “All those guests, hm?” he asks, attempting to distract you from the flood of tears that is no doubt on its way. “Awfully loud for my little princess, too, I wager. Want to leave?”

“Uh-huh.” Your palm trails a path of sugar-paste over his doublet and flexes in the fabric, your gaze shifting from his and slightly to the left. He takes hold of your wrist before your fingers can make their way into his hair. “I’m tired.”

Good girl. It had been a struggle for the ages to have you admit to such a thing until recently. He used to have to hold the blankets firm over you until you ceased your caterwauling, stubborn tot desperate to stay up just a little longer—but against his strength, you were no match. And now, here you are, conceding your fatigue with no prompting whatsoever. You are growing up, and the prospect fills him with a bittersweet gladness.

“Alright, then.”

He lifts you under your arms and strides down the empty halls. Your head settles into the crook of his neck, nose snuffling against his flesh, and he savours the doll-sized warmth of you in his embrace for just a little while longer.

You never did enjoy crowds. He cannot imagine you are at ease now.

When the call for the bedding springs up from within the crowd, he rises and turns to you. “Come, sweetling,” he tells you, taking your hand. “We’d best leave now.”

You are already flushing, uncertain. He can feel Laenor glaring at the back of his neck.

“Daemon!” Viserys is reddened with excitement and beaming. “can you not hear the noise? It’s time for the bedding!”

He is deep within his cups, swept along by the conviviality of the hall, the loud chatter and spirited guffaws comprising the din. He has not absorbed his brother’s stance as of yet, severe and uncompromising.

“There will be no bedding,” he says, tugging you to your feet. You follow pliantly, brows furrowed and worrying at your bottom lip.

“We agreed, brother!” The King’s face displays the slow-dawning comprehension of a man who has realised that the groom is prepared to make a scene at his own wedding feast. And he is.

He cares not who he must murder in order to convey you to your rooms untouched by other men. You are his.

“No.” He smiles through gritted teeth. “You decided. Don’t worry, brother. You’ll get your spectacle, but my niece will not endure any further debasement this night.”

He lightly fingers the knife attached to his hip, watching Viserys’s eyes flicker between the motion and his fixed expression. Meanwhile, the Hightower bitch is dabbing at the corners of her mouth with cloth, a poor pretence at ignorance. His brother forces an exhalation, no doubt resigned and irked by yet another display of defiance.

“Fine,” he says. “No bedding.”

“Good.”

You brighten imperceptibly at his words, quickly taking his arm and allowing him to walk you through the hall to the entry before your father can change his mind. The nettled grumbles begin in the chamber behind you as the King announces the news.

“Thank you,” you breathe, a relieved half-grimace painting your features.

“Of course,” he says, leading you up the grand staircase to your marital chambers.

Despite everything—despite the knowledge of Otto’s hand in your union and the expectation of what is to come, despite your obvious apprehension and the role he is forced to play in it—he cannot help his excitement.

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[carothehotmess]

The funniest part of the whole conflict about paternity that was raised in this episode is that it is literally pointless for two distinct reasons:

1. Rhaenyra’s children are not bastards.

2. Regardless of the paternity, Rhaenyra’s children are still Targaryens.

So lets break this down.

Number 1: The bastard question

Alicent is pissed that Rhaenyra is “committing treason” or whatever by having kids with someone else but… her kids aren’t bastards. And I don’t mean that in a “hey Alicent your kids suck but Nyra’s are chill” kind of way, I mean that literally. If we (the viewers) were going to label them, then we would say they were some combination of either being conceived through surrogacy (for Laenor? but meh not really) or that they were more or less adopted.

Typically, “bastard” refers to the child born from the union of a married man (lets call him A) and a woman that he is not married to (we’ll call her C). Because the child is born to C, someone not part of the marriage between A and B, the child is not recognized as part of their lineage, and is not claimed by both A and B. For one, it is a lot harder to pass off a child as your own if you just suddenly seem to have the baby overnight, without either member of the couple ever visibly appearing pregnant. And for another reason, most women probably wouldn’t want to claim a child that their husband had while engaging in an affair. (Of course, this does not include questions of surrogacy or non cis hetero couples, but that would be a much longer discussion).

Number 2: Fire and Blood

Alicent, and everyone else in the episode, keeps saying that it is a “grave accusation” or whatever that Rhaenyra’s kids aren’t biologically related to Laenor but it truly just? Doesn’t matter?? Laenor’s family isn’t the ruling family. Rhaenyra’s is. So, like she tells her son, the only thing that matters is that they are Targaryens.

If Alicent were to cheat, if her children’s paternity were questioned, that would be treasonous. Because she married into the Targaryen house. She has no claim to the throne on her own- her only connection to it is through her husband. So if her kids didn’t biologically belong to Viserys, then they wouldn’t have a claim because they wouldn’t be Targaryens, and they could not sit on the throne. (This is why its considered such a big deal that Cersei’s children are not Robert’s biologically in season 1 of Game of Thrones.)

But that just doesn’t matter for Nyra because she does have a claim to the throne in her own right and as a Targaryen, and any children she gives birth to are going to have Targaryen blood.

It is fascinating to me that this is such a sticking point, not just for Alicent but for everyone in court, because it shows that so many of them still haven’t fully accepted that Rhaenyra really is the heir. The Targaryen dynasty flows through her bloodline, not her husband’s, so it doesn’t matter who the father is as long as she is the mother. And the council and court haven’t really accepted that, or maybe they have and they just don’t realize that because Nyra is the heir, their understanding of how things work has to change.

So Alicent is acting as though she is someone fighting for honor and duty and the maintenance of bloodlines, when her reasoning is completely unsound and based on false equivalency. So instead she just comes across as this holier-than-thou purity-culture warrior trying to restrain Rhaenyra under the same rules that she herself is trapped by.

Conclusion:

The paternity of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey Velaryon does not matter.

Because a) they have been claimed by both Rhaenyra (and House Targaryen) and Laenor (and House Velaryon), and because b), regardless of who their biological father is, they were born to Rhaenyra, their blood is still Targaryen.

[buckybarnesb-tch]

Aemond Targaryen NSFW Alphabet

Y/n is the only legitimate daughter of Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon

Silver hair and purple eyes, she is a year younger than her brother Luke and and 2 years younger than Aemond.

A = Aftercare (What they're like after sex)

•Most people that knew Aemond would say he didn't have a caring bone in his body but that was untrue

•Aemond was very attentive after sex, he always cares for any aches and pains he's caused you and is also quick to ensure that you're cleaned up and comfortable, he loves snuggling you close to him every night

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

•His favorite body part of his has to be his hands, he always takes every opportunity to touch any and all of your soft skin with his hands, fingers tracing you every chance he gets, especially in public, needing people to see his claim on you as if your huge wedding in front of the entire realm wasn't enough

•His favorite body part of yours is your breasts, for obvious reasons, but if he had to pick another it would have to be your lips, he loves kissing you, pulling you as close as he could and feeling your lips on his cheek or neck during every meeting or annoying family dinner

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically... I'm a disgusting person)

•He insists on cumming inside of you every chance he gets.  Every. Single. Time.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

•His dirty secret was one he shared with you upon your wedding, he confessed how in love with you he had been in your youth, he watched you very closely as children and at every family affair after you had moved from Kings Landing back to Dragonstone with your family

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they're doing?)

•Aemond is not overly experienced, only having been with a women once before you when his older brother Aegon took him to a pleasure house upon his 15th birthday to "become a man"

•It was actually a very traumatic experience for him and he refused to do anything like that again

•His brother liked to tease him, acting as if Aemond had no sex drive because he didn't like to screw women in whore houses, however that couldn't be farther from the truth. Aemond was extremely horny, his sex drive was off the charts however he only wanted you and unlike Aegon he would never disrespect you or sully your marriage by cheating on you with anyone

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

•Missionary.  Aemond preferred to look into your eyes when he fucked you, he wanted to see the look on your face when he was pushing you over the edge, needed to watch your eyes roll into the back of your head when he made you cum

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

•While Aemond had his goofy moments very rarely, usually he was quite serious, determined to push you to the precipice over and over again

•He also had quite a few sweet and tender moments as well, always seeming to know when you needed him to be your loving, affectionate and gentle husband

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

•He doesn't have much body hair that's not on his head to be honest, and the patch he does have, you immediately notice isn't bad or unkept

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect...)

•Aemond is very sweet to you from the first moment

•Everyone in the family, in Kings Landing, and honestly in the realm would and did believe that Aemond was a cruel, violent man, he came off unpleasant and unkind but when it came to you, the women he loves, the One-Eyed Prince was a gentle and loving man

•He made it clear from the first moment you found out your marriage had been arranged that he would never hurt you, never force you to do something you were uncomfortable with and never be unfaithful to you, it was something that truly shocked you as you expected to live your life with a cruel, violent man who delighted in humiliating and cheating on you much like his older brother but your husband was quick to quell your fears

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

•Masterbation was all Aemond had before you got married, he wasn't into one night stands or pleasure houses

•After you were married, while he would occasionally still Jack off, unless you were sick or in some kind of discomfort he didn't see the reason to do it while you were his wife, even your period didn't dissuade Aemond, he was borderline needy for you 24/7

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

•Breeding Kink- Aemond was obsessed with filling you with his cum, he loved cumming inside of you, not just because you loved it yourself and would often beg for it but because he was obsessed with the idea of filling you with his child.  He wanted more than anything to see you round with his child, a child that no one would be able to question the validity of

•'Uncle' Kink- Aemond, though he was only 2 year older than you, was your mothers little brother and he enjoyed every time you called him that during sex

•Dragon Kink? (Idk what else to call it)- Aemond often took you flying on Vhagar, your dragon was one that hatched in your crib as a babe so it was too small currently for more than one rider but Vhagar was plenty big enough and once you were up in the air your husband enjoyed turning you around and making you ride him (all while safely tied to the saddle of course)

L = Location (Favorite places to do the deed)

•If not on dragon back then Aemond just preferred your bedroom. Upon the wedding you two had moved into a huge room with a giant balcony and he always seemed to find something new to bend you over or some new way to fuck you in the sun

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

•Aemond doesn't need much motivation, he's ready to go every time he sees you however every single time he sees you holding one of Aegon and Helaena's children he is instantly struck with the need to fill you with as much of his cum as he can

N = NO (Something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

•Choking, he doesn't like the idea of you not being able to breathe

•Anything that will cause you pain, specifically making you bleed or bruising your body- He loves biting you and leaving bruises and love bites on your chest, thighs and pussy, even on your butt where he's quite often given you a bite when you've been laying on your stomach, however he refuses to leave bruises on your neck and jaw where other people can see it as he doesn't want to make you look 'trashy', knowing how judgmental people are, but he also refused to hit you in any way, even spanking you and leaving marks on your butt.  He spanked you once at your request and the sight of the bruises on your ass made him ill, he doesn't like the idea of hurting you in any way

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

•Any man in their right mind prefers receiving and Aemond is no exception, however he is one of the few men you know of who is willing to let alone actually enjoys eating you out

•Before your wedding day Aemond refused to sleep with you, however much to your surprise a few days before the wedding when you were on a picnic together in the garden he crawled under your skirt and sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue exploring your pussy. You had only ever heard about men doing this for a women and you knew most men didn't but there in the garden, 3 days before your wedding, hidden behind his dragon Vhagar, he laced his fingers with yours and ate you out until you came three separate times

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

•99% of the time Aemond is rough and fast paced though he does have the ability to be slow and tender when he knows it's what his Princess needs of him

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

•Aemond absolutely prefers to take his time with you however a quickie is often necessary, especially when your One-Eyed Prince is feeling particularly possessive which often happens when either Aegon is drunk and flirting with you which happens much too often, or when your brothers Jace and Luke rile your Prince up too much

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

•Aemond is not much of an exhibitionist, if he's fucking you outside where people could see it's at a time that he's 100% sure no one even could see, namely someplace that Vhagar is close by and no one in their right mind would approach the massive 200 year old female dragon

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last...)

•Your first night of married life Aemond kept you up for hours, going at it 9 times, he has the stamina to go for quite some time though usually he takes pity on you at some point and allows you to sleep, sometimes even (with your permission) continuing to fuck you even after you've passed out

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

•He doesn't own toys, he doesn't need them and he ensures you have no need of them either

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

•He is rarely in the mood to tease you, he prefers to worship you and give you pleasure until you can take no more

•If he is in a teasing mood however it'll only last as long as it takes for you to beg, once you start begging he will give you anything you want

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

•He growls quite a lot, and snarls occasionally

•Apart from some animalistic sounds he doesn't make much noise at all, it's very rare you get a full moan out of him

W = Wild Card (Get a random Headcanon for the character of your choice)

•Your One-Eyed Prince had a fairly traumatic first sexual experience and while Aegon would say he had 'no reason to complain' and that 'every boy wishes he could have a first time like that' you knew it was something Aemond hated and that made him very uncomfortable to think and talk about

•He loves you very much and he loves fucking you but it took him a bit of time to truly get comfortable with you, letting go with you and being able to give you any amount of control took him a while and a lot of trust and you knew you would never take it for granted

X = X-Ray (Let's see what's going on in those pants, picture or words)

•Aemond isn't very thick but length wise he's just over 8 inches and can hit all the right places

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

•You made assumptions about Aemond just like everyone else did because of the fact that unlike his brother, he didn't come off as a horny asshole however you were WRONG

•Your wedding night proved to you that your husband was actually very horny, and could keep going for quite a while

•He was gentle your first time that night knowing that you were nervous and pure however after that first time neither of you could get enough of each other and you were incredibly surprised by how many times he was able to go again...(9 times through your wedding night)

Z = ZZZ (... how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

•Aemond is not very quick to sleep, though you often are yourself, he is quite fond of staying awake for a bit if not just because he wants to clean you up

•He enjoys staying awake for an extra half an hour just to watch you sleep for a while, he loves how tranquil you look especially on days where you've had a particularly stressful time, getting to watch that stress melt away as he fucks it out of you and then see how restful and peaceful you are when you dream is the highlight of his long, hard days