#and it’s a damnable shame I can’t | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

therealslimshakespeare · 10 months ago

Text

|| Marlon

Summary: after a strange interlude during one of their latest bike excursions, Elaine is left reeling at the new reality of sharing, and the insistence by the men around her that no more discussion is needed on the matter. Bereft, adrift and not a little curious, Elaine’s rather sure she’s finally crossed that damnable line that Elvis first nudged her up against.

Warnings: 18+ only -smut, hot tubs, pats threesome mentioned, sorta a foot job but only because that’s the only discreet body part nearby?? not trying to make that weird. public play, emotional (and some physical) infidelity. Elvis is in his Bastard era, be warned.

Authors note: this is a fragment but it may be all j ever produce on this subject, we shall see. It was requested and so here it is, such as it is. I always love answering Headcanons and theories so if this sparks interest, confusion or anger, lemme hear it. And Honestly? For those of y’all not into this? It’s not essential enough to be read or considered canon for Sarge, the breakdown of their marriage having only a small part to do with this. This entire side quest is a bit more of an exploration of Elaine, so feel free to leave it be if it’s not for you.

Apologies ahead of time for the poorly edited and misspelled content lol 💋

Circa: 1967ish

“I just saw the silhouette of a very attractive woman ridin’ an attractive man I thought I’d lend a hand.” Marlon answers her straight, Elaine deserves that with all the bullshit she has to deal with these days -threesomes included. And the kitchen is finally empty of kids. He knows whatever arrangement the Presleys have with the redhead has to be more concession than ideal. The least he can do is admit something he’s never hid before, even from Elvis himself: Elaine Presley is uniquely capable of giving him the hots and something about Elvis Presley mismanaging her magnificence tickles the masochistic tendencies Marlon has had it suggested to him by therapists might have a root in childhood perversity. Neglectful parents and weird nannies and that sort of shit.

Marlon doesn’t know. Sat at her kitchen bar, drinking her daughter’s lemonade, Elaine is owed this much, an answer to why he opened that tent flap and slurped cunt when he’s barely so much as held her hand before, not even during mealtime prayers. She’s got to be some sort of neglected if she can’t shake it, or maybe she’s wickeder than those gentle eyes has them all thinking.

“That’s not enou- thats, Marlon, you said yourself everyone used to…go at it..during those trips!” she hisses the last part as if there’s some shame left to this household where the man of the place flaunts his dalliances like it’s part of the press tour for the latest trash comedy. His wife’s dignity and pain be damned.

“Ma’am, I’m just a man.” Marlon insists- Elaine is in love with her husband, after all.

“That’s rather my point!” Elaine warms to it, “-there were a lotta couples you coulda lent a hand to and there were a lotta men loiterin’ about but only you chose to ‘lend a hand’ and you chose…us! Why! Why?”

“Have you seen the couple you make?” he asks levelly.

“What was that, Marlon? What was that?” she begs again, eyes no longer soft but wild and shimmering.

“You’re not this stupid, Elaine.” he takes a sip of lemonade Daisy made just for him, “Even if he likes it best when you act like you are.”

She doesn’t even bat an eye at it, and Marlon thinks it’s a damn shame, a crime really, for any man to wear a woman down this far. Maybe Marlon is as bad as her husband for pushing on the bruise he made. Can’t be helped, he’s always been an opportunist. He can be honest even if it’s a ugly, masculine, virulent truth that makes a mockery of vows and roles and institutions like marriage and dreams.

“Wanna show me just how clever you really are, little lady?“ he’s risen from his seat, sauntered over to her by now, no contact, except for his thumb that tugs at her bottom lip, thumbnail at the root of a tooth. Her eyes are brimming with tears -they both know it’s not sadness. If she were a woman to cry from sadness she'd never have a dry eye.

“The house is full.” Elaine sounds hoarse.

What a flimsy little objection for so virtuous a woman. The way Elaine chases his thumb as he retracts it tells him -try again, when it’s empty, test me once more.

Summers are long in Palm Springs, there’s always more lemonade to be drunk. He’ll be back, they both know that. For now, the house is full. He sits back down at the table. Elvis and five children and a buncha good for nothings he calls friends come in wet from the pool twelve minutes later. Marlon curses, he could have brought her to climax twice in that time. If only she’d stop looking at him like he’s planning to steal her from her husband, give it a few months and she’ll not be wary but eager for it.

Summer turns to Autumn and Autumn to Winter and the Presleys choose to ring in the new year in the gentle climate to California after a bracing Graceland Christmas.

Marlon doesn't know what a Presley Christmas is comprised of except for hearsay from Daisy’s long over the phone account and the toys shown him when he dropped by as soon as they were in town. He’d brought his own kids, the ones near at hand, to play for a bit and the rest had taken to them well enough while Daisy sat beside him and told him about the roller blades she’d gotten. He imagines a sickeningly happy affair with stiff smiles and a great deal of bling bought by Elvis and Elaine getting fucked in a Santa lingerie set.

Marlon doesn’t know about Presley christmases.

But he’s learning about their New Year’s -it’s past twelve, the kids are abed and champagne has been toasted, wishes swapped and the nighttime air rustling the palms has been obliging enough to even be a little brisk and chilly. Just for atmosphere, he guesses.

It’s nice as the hot tub they’re all in is bubbling like hell’s cauldron, with the jets on full blast and their buddies -Elvis’ buddies from the way Elaine is the only woman amongst thirteen men- are stacked in it like sardines. Marlon is here because he hasn’t driven himself home yet, he supposes, otherwise she’d be very alone.

The guys, the other twelve, they’re swapping stories and being loud, noisy and obnoxious as Elaine relaxes in her seat, frothy bubbles lapping around her clavicles and her neck, that lovely neck laying back on Elvis’ outstretched arm as he nearly forgets she’s there. She’s such an extension of him by now, her face lax with this chance to relax even as there’s hubbub all about.

Marlon, he can’t stop watching her and the way her eyes flit and flutter when the jets hit right, the way she melts into Elvis and the way he tolerates her adoration even here. Even at the beginning of a new year. Marlon wants to smack the man for telling anecdotes when he should be-

…

-hell Marlon doesn’t even know what he expects that Elvis should be doing, it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong or mean. no not at all in fact, he’s acting like a longtime married man and letting Elaine Presley vibrate beside him in euphoria unadmired. Talking to his buddies when Elaine Presley is turning to a puddle next to him and all Marlon knows is:

-if it were him, oh if it were him.

If it were him, Elaine would be melting sure, and he’d be watching every second of it like it were the meteor shower of the century. Turns out, even though she’s not his, he’s still watching all the same.

he’s still watching and forgetting to laugh with the cues when everyone else does. But she forgets too, floating away somewhere that makes her lips curl up a little and her face shimmer with sweat and steam. her legs float to the top of the roil from the jets, there’s a little giggle at the buoyancy. pink painted toes surfacing right in front of Marlon’s face opposite her.

He sees her, she looks to Elvis. To see if he notices.

He doesn’t.

That precious giggle of hers is lost in a roar of manly laughter over some unfortunate movie set story, as is the way Marlon’s hand reaches in the foam and puts his palm over the little pruned toes right in front of him, snapping at them with his hand like she’s a kid and he’s playing shark amongst the bubbles.

Elaine’s head swivels from watching Elvis to sending a questioning look towards Marlon.

She catches his eye, holds it. curious and pleased he’s in the same mood as her, stories and memphis mafia forgotten. A connection fizzles between them and she giggles again at having found a playmate.

But then he doesn’t let go, even as her foot goes down in the water, on the ledge, near between his legs and suddenly this isn’t playing shark.

Her posture goes rigid as Marlon starts to rub that dainty foot, engulfed in his warm hand, hidden by the discreet bubbles. He dared. It took her aback, it was offensive and flattering and she felt a violent fear at being suspected and then a pang of jealousy over the unlikeliness of it.

Between the warm water, the firm press of a man’ hand and the pummeling of the jets, her head starts to crane back again against Elvis’ shiny, toned bicep and the picture of a woman enjoying herself next to her husband but not from him shouldn’t make Brando so rash and angry but it does.

She fights for a minute but only in the way of guarding her face. but it’s been awhile since she’s been the center of someone’s universe -beyond a peg that this whole carnival that their life has turned into revolves around. perhaps a step of infidelity to let Brando see the pleasure he gives her, to see her the way Elvis once told her only belonged to him, but it was Elvis who cracked the door first, back in that tent, back in the spring.

Elvis notices, at long last, not the eye contact of a friend and his wife but the mewling body language of his woman. Not that Brando is holding her foot beneath the churning surface but that she looks nearly to the brink of orgasm from the jets. And snuggled up to him as she is -Elvis smirks. Of course his widdle baby is excited, sensitive little creature that she is.

Elvis thinks he’s being secretive when he keeps chatting with the guys but sneaks his hand to her bathing suit, not even looking over at her as his fingers find her seam and wiggle under.

Just the motion of his arm visible and Marlon sees the reflection in her face the minute her husband's hand begins to stroke her. His grip tightens on her foot involuntarily and she moans.

Her eyes are utterly focused on Marlon and it’s well that they are, if she were to tear away that frantic gaze he’s mad enough to make a scene right here and now, hopeless and damaging as it would be. But he has her eyes and the power that is in the caress of his thumb. He can see it, Elaine is imagining he’s stroking her instead of Elvis, using that suggestive tempo on her arch as a conduit to replace the coax of Elvis’ calloused pads against her bud.

Elaine braces her hand on Elvis’ thigh as she nears, just a reflex as he speeds his fingers up and she’s grips his thigh, almost wanting him not to intrude on this moment even as the brink nears. And Elvis, he thinks she’s trying to reciprocate but he is hardly in the mood for it, that would ruin his little game so he takes her hand away, puts it firmly back on her own lap and keeps up his pace against her slick petals.

When she comes, Elvis can feel her bow up beside him and without even looking he is smirking around his cigarillo, her legs kick out in a spasm and he feels bad for whoever’s crotch is opposite her. He smacks at her pussy once, twice, before quite obviously turning away from her to ask Charlie something related to arrangements.

It’s a damn game he likes to play with Elaine, seeing as she don’t mind it, she gets some benefit from it and he’s seen that face a million times, he doesn't need to look.

But Marlon.

Marlon’s gaze on Elaine is heavy enough it feels like the caress of aftercare all on its own, and some stinging part of Elaine’s battered heart feels loyalty to him for that. for watching her, delighting in her even as everyone else snickers or ignores.

She flexes her foot in his hand.

Her flex touches tender flesh and up to where he is pulsing and firm between his thick thighs. It startles her, somehow not expecting either the usual anatomy or else -not this level of arousal. Not to this degree, not in public, not when her husband just claimed her so casually. Her eyes sting at being flaunted as his little plaything, the one she’s been happy to be since that honeymoon train ride down to Texas. It feels belittling suddenly, and it’s Marlon’s aloof admiration to blame.

She flexes her foot again, heel firm to his base and eyes unwavering. A little repayment, a little show of thanks. It’s too much.

Marlon covers his eyes with his hand as if to wipe the mist away. Her coal smudged eyes are scorching his face and her foot, such a lowly part of her, and yet it’s pressing and he’s wanted her to admit to wanting for such a longtime and suddenly there’s the feel of his warm release flashing against Elaine’s foot in the broiling hot tub for an instant. Only an instant splash and a thob, then it swirls around them all, lost and sordid and utterly misused.

A waste. A deadbeat hope. A torn confession.

It’s late when they all get out, Elaine can barely meet his eyes now, dazed she willingly did that herself. Up in their room Elvis shucks his wet shorts off, relaxed and in a good mood to tease her about her being so needy for him in the tub as he leaves the shorts where they drop on the carpet and puts himself in her, into his wife, his plaything, his darling.

And God help her, for the first time in her life Elaine’s mind wanders to someone else as Elvis’ face is buried in her neck, huffing in pleasure over her swollen state.

After a long while of waiting for them to show again downstairs, the Memphis mafia laugh it off that the mister and missus must’ve gotten distracted -and it’s lights out and manly predictions about a noise complaint and a happy start to the new year.

Marlon goes to his damn car, he exits that beautiful house into the balmy night air with its twinkling stars and strong humidity that will now forever be tied to the curls at the nape of her neck and the beads of moisture on her nose, and he saunters away from Elaine Presley’s house where Elvis Presley gets to go home. Go home to lose interest and gain interest in that gorgeous woman at whim. Brando leaves it and gets in his car and stares at the single light in the house that’s still glowing for far too long.

Upstairs, throbbing and staring at the beamed ceiling and its whitewashed villa tile, Elaine startles at the sound of a car starting and pulling out of the drive. It’s late for a loitering guest, but Marlon was always one to loiter when it came to her family. Loiters with the kids and loiters with Daisy, accepting her adoption of his Godfather responsibilities with ease Elaine wants to hate him for, and he loitered in the tent on their motorcycle drive when Elvis and Elaine should have been left alone to be husband and wife, yet -he loitered. That once he had stayed. And no one speaks of it, that night gone by, though it tumbles around in Elaine’s mind like the jets that battered her flesh tonight, fresh as anything: the feel of Elvis’ shock at Brando’s presumption and then her husband’s pride warring with his excitement and for her -the feel of a man licking at her while her husband was inside her. How Elvis can think such a night can be tabled for all further discussion is beyond her, and Elaine stares at the ceiling and prays for forgiveness for this wild curiosity that has finally led her astray. She’s as bad as the papers would make her. Voracious and untamable in her appetites, finally it’s gone beyond Elvis alone, even if he was the one to crack open the floodgate with his hubris.

Now she wonders about an older face, a broader chest, almost fleshy shoulders and a hairy belly in the glow of the jacuzzi lights, Marlon had looked a man, older and impressive and unfamiliar compared to her precious and ever more pristine husband. And she had seen behind the screen of his hand the flash of agonized ecstasy her touch had caused him. She had made another man lose it. Someone besides Elvis. She knew, hypothetically, that a whole generation of boys had grown up tugging themselves to pictures of her, half of the barracks has been besotted and not in a wholesome way. But to have an older, impressive, commanding man enjoy her, want her?

Elaine throbbed.

There had been an emotional and sexual adjustment that Elaine had to make when she went from marrying a controlling manchild to being his emotional ballast and superior after losing Jo. Elaine hadn’t had a chance to think twice about how suited to it she was, how natural it felt to ease Elvis through it, whether she herself found it nice or not, whether it’s what she needed or not. Or what all she lost as she did so. It had been like pulling teeth to have him back in her bed at all, to have him something besides manically cheerful or pitifully morbid. She understood him. She didn’t even blame him. But it didn’t change how very -open, it left her to the slightest firmness of intent shown by another.

She’d been enjoying stepping into Gladys’ shoes, she’d been enjoying tossing off the role of being Elvis’ dolly and becoming his nanny, all of it had been a show of his trust in her until the load had become too heavy and when she turned to someone to rest her head, she found her husband's head already in her lap.

Until Marlon.

Until a grunted “huh” above her in the stuffy garage as she worked on the bike, only for her to look up and to find it wasn’t Charlie or Marty snickering at her for being all greasy again. It had been a wide stanced superstar looking at her like she was a specimen he wanted to inspect.

It had been Marlon and he’d come to meet her, to talk to her about bikes, to admire her shape in leathers and he stayed because Daisy liked him so.

Or maybe he’d stayed for Elaine. That had been reprehensible to imagine before tonight, perhaps only because if there was a man out there who would dare try to take her from The King, it would be him. And before now that had been impossible, not even fathomable or feasible, if she didn’t think it she wouldn’t invite it, she was sure. Marlon Brando wasn’t a good man, but he could be kept contained if kept at arms length.

Now though, that vision of him staring tonight, the feel of his hand stroking her, competing with her husband for her pleasure -there’s no ignoring now how he looks at her, has looked for some time, the way he loves to see her riled but not at him, strange how he’s never infuriated her like Elvis endeavors to on a daily basis. As if he knows his very presence is thrumming enough for her. And he wouldn’t want to see her vibrate apart. Not fully. Only because she’d hate that so. But if she ever asked he’d take her apart like a little marionette and then glue her back.

Rattling, that was more Elvis’ speciality, rattling her apart. She was tired of buzzing. If only he could always be one thing, but lately he was a myriad and she felt married to a performer more each day until she lay beneath him and wondered how Marlon would feel penetrated deep within her.

Elaine hears Elvis and his shower turn off at the same time she strains to hear the mechanical creak of the gates opening to let Brando out.

“Still layin’ how I left ya, hopin’ f’more, baby?” her husband asks her as he turns the light out and lays against her warm and familiar and moist.

In the drive, Brando bites his lip and forces his gaze from the rearview and the darkened house in it and speeds out of the hills. Daisy will call again soon enough, the call again and again, and if he’s lucky he’ll hear about how Elaine is from time to time or even hear her voice briefly as she answers before passing the receiver off to her little girl. Those are certainties in the new year.

It’s wicked of him, but his hopes are entirely different. They’re of her calling, and not another excuse being made.

Just Elaine calling to tell him “the house is empty.”

Taglist:

@prompted-wordsmith

@powerofelvis

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

107 notes · View notes

cal-daisies-and-briars · 3 months ago

Note

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

150 damn!

BIG SPOILERS AHEAD!

---

Of course, it’s not Shannon.

Shannon is dead.

This is Kim.

The kind woman who brought Buck a tray of brownies to give to Eddie, and had no idea he had a girlfriend. Who had no idea she was a ghost. The woman who became a ghost when she learned the truth, and threw the match Eddie lit onto his highly flammable life.

The woman who, now, is a vampire.

He stands and stares at her. He can’t help it. Here she is, right in front of him. His eyes must burn holes in her, because she turns to notice him staring. Recognition brims across her eyes. She remembers him, too. She knows he knows what she is. She knows he knows who she is. And there’s something else. Something deeper in her expression. A remorse. A fear. A panic. She thinks he’s going to do something.

Why does she think that?

Unless…

“Are you sure I can’t take a look at you?” The paramedic from another house asks. “You took a bad fall.”

“I’m sure,” Kim says. “I need to go.”

Buck stares at her, unrelenting.

Kim is a vampire.

The vampire who attacked Eddie came back for him. Just like Kim came back for Eddie, hair cut to look like Shannon. Showed up, uninvited.

Eddie said…

Eddie had said he met Kim at the Promenade. In Long Beach.

When Eddie was attacked the first time…

They found him and his truck in Long Beach.

Kim is a vampire from Long Beach.

Kim knows who he is. Knows he is close to Eddie, if not the depth of that closeness. And she looks mortified to see him.

All the puzzle pieces slot into place easily. Like a picture you can only see clearly when you take a far enough step back. Kim is a vampire. She attacked Eddie. Left him for dead once. Came back. Tried to finish the job.

Buck’s mouth curls into a contemptuous snarl.

“Buck?” Ravi calls for him. He hardly hears it.

There is only really one question in his mind, now. Because he is certain of his theory.

“Buck?”

Does Eddie know? Can he really not remember? Or is he lying? If he’s lying, is it to protect her? Or is it out of shame?

“BUCK?”

Buck snaps out of his trance. His wroth. He blinks, looking at Ravi.

“What?”

“You okay, man?”

Kim slinks away.

Fuck.

He’s at work. He can’t even follow her. He can’t… Because… He could save Eddie.

Oh, what a horrid thought. What a damnable thought.

But he could save Eddie. He could rid him of this danger. A man staked in his own apartment. A bar lit on fire for serving vampires. Buck could save Eddie. The violence he’s seen. He could spare him of that fate.

Isn’t that worth a hell he never even believed in?

Isn’t Eddie worth the risk that it is?

“Yeah,” Buck rasps. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

🩸🩸🩸

The first thing Eddie does is check the little mailbox on Kim’s front porch. Her name is on several envelopes, mostly junk mail. So she still lives here, then. And she’s just leaving the evidence lying around.

There are no signs that anyone is home. She doesn’t have a security camera system installed like Buck and Sophia did to his place. She’s not really taking not getting herself killed very seriously. He might be concerned for her if that didn’t benefit him.

The front door is locked. But one of those fake stone key hiders sits in plain view at the bottom of the stoop. Eddie uncovers it, unlocks the door, then puts the key back where he found it. He doesn’t want her to come home and find anything missing. He enters the house, and locks the door behind him to avoid suspicion. Though, based on her total lack of precautions, Kim might not be too suspicious. Who is he kidding? Of course she isn’t. She went for Eddie in the store after catching him practically gaping at her. Even Eddie can recognize that was a little creepy.

Eddie looks around. He no longer has to turn on any lights to navigate the dark. So he observes Kim’s life like some sort of phantom. He walks over the same blue area rug where once she attacked him. Past the same hanging wall art. And, for the first time, actually into her life.

The thing is, he knows he never really paid much attention to getting to know her as an individual. The less he could distinguish her from Shannon, at first, the better the delusion worked. It was never perfect, but it was strong. He took the details she did tell him - because she did most of the talking - and let them remain fuzzy in his mind. How she came to work at the boutique. Her past life as an actress. A fondness for cats. It all sat on the back burner to things like her laugh, her voice, her similar way of teasing him. And he knows that was sick of him. He’s fully aware. He has no problem admitting his mental state after seeing her was shaken. Fragile.

But because of that, he thought this might be easy. He thought it might not feel the same as a fully fleshed out person. Like the hunter in the woods, his details regarding her humanity were only surface level. In contrast, his details regarding his grudge against her are numerous. What she did to him. What she took from him. The state of ruin she left him in. When he’d come here, the only thing he thought he’d have to battle was the internal agony of hurting someone with her face. Shannon’s face.

But she’s not Shannon. And she’s not merely a ghost or doppelgänger, either. As he walks through her home, Eddie finally has the distance from all of it to properly look at her. Properly see her. As someone who isn’t a ghost or a vampire.

There’s an open book of sudoku puzzles on her kitchen table. One looks half done. A tea mug with painted ducklings on it. A beautifully carved wooden box on the kitchen counter with an assortment of different teas, like a proud collection. There are photos on the fridge. A woman who looks like Kim, but a little younger. A little boy. Her sister and nephew. He remembers her mentioning them now. Her sister’s husband left. She’s raising him by herself. Kim is a big support.

How could Eddie have forgotten that?

He keeps looking around.

#daisies and briars writes #long death fic

20 notes · View notes

agirlandherquill · 8 months ago

Text

the foreseeable

“Times are changing.” He spoke gravely. “How do you know?” “The wind. Can’t you feel the air it brings? Fresh, sweet, sickly, come to think of it, almost like you.” His haughty self-assured chuckle made her hit his arm. “If you’re going to be witty at least make something useful of yourself and help me find this store.” “I found it ten minutes ago.” She stopped mid-pace, turning to him sharply. “You did what?” “I found it. Without that precious map you seem so keen to hold on to.” “And you didn’t think to mention it before?” She slapped his chest with the map, breathless from disbelief. “And deprive myself of the look on your face as we wandered these streets? That awe, that wonder, that sheer stupidity at being unable to decipher a blasted piece of paper? Now that would be a crime against humanity.” Her temper softened, only a little. “Remind me of that later when I set out on a crime against you.” “Perhaps I will. I’ll have to make an evening of it, really commit - You are going to make my time worth it, aren’t you?” He was being glib and it infuriated her. “We’re going to a butcher’s Reid, I really, really, would not push your luck.” In her mind, she salivated at the image of her, a knife, and Reid on a butcher’s block. It was a motivating image. Reid crumpled up her map and tossed it into a drain, she watched it with a sigh. “Was that necessary?” “I already told you you don’t need a guide. You have me.” “And if I don’t want you?” “Then it’s a damnable shame that for the foreseeable you’re stuck with me.”

#spilled ink #writeblr #writing #creative writing #fiction #writers on tumblr #writinganovel #novel #writer

16 notes · View notes

lya-dustin · 1 year ago

Text

All is bliss

Chapter 5

Cw:mentions of medicinal drug use, sex, infidelity 🔞

Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @aemondx @darylandbethfanforever9

Gif by @c4r170

“No.”

It was a trap, it had to be.

“I need an heir; you need to fuck someone who isn’t the Master of Laws’ third wife.” His brother reasoned as if it were some chores they were exchanging.

Like Aegon trading his best wine for just some of the opium Aemond smokes for the pain of his eye.

“I would be siring bastards unto your wife, Aegon.” Aemond continues saying no.

“No one would be able to tell, which is why it is such brilliant idea, little brother.” Aegon reasoned. “Can’t risk the babe coming out the wrong color. Unlike our whore of a sister, there is no room for failure.”

“Why not one of her Velaryon cousins? Daeron looks like her enough to remove most doubts.” Aemond suggests even if the idea of anyone fucking Aemma is enough to make him lose his temper.

“No, Daeron is too besotted with Hel and would tell his father who would tell Corlys who’d tell Rhaenyra. It must be you.” Aegon dismissed his suggestion with a wave of his hand.

“Aegon---” he begins but stops thinking it better. “I would need time to woo her, I doubt she would be agreeable to this idea of yours.”

“Fine, just don’t bore her to death.” He said as if this were nothing.

“I’ve never seen you without it.” Aemma does not shrink away when she sees him without the eyepatch.

It intrigues her in fact.

“May I?” she asks as her cool fingers come just close enough to touch the scar.

Aemond only nods and does his best not to move away as her skin makes contact with the scars left after that dreadful night at Driftmark.

There is an easy intimacy with him. Something she cannot seem to do with her husband and yet comes as easily to them as breathing.

Aemma is careful, leaning forward as her fingertips lightly graze on the tight and ruined skin starting on his forehead and ending just over the cheek.

Her mouth is parted, no sound is there beside the fire in the hearth and their breaths mingling in this completely natural closeness they always seemed to have.

This time she is not drunk, and she wants to kiss him.

To kiss those lips that are parted just as her are, to taste the wine they drank together on his tongue, to know the taste of this most forbidden of fruits.

A shame he could not be the man she married.

“May I?” His voice is low and sends a delicious shiver through her she had not felt in ages.

She nods and let him kiss her knowing there won’t be no going back from this.

And its good, better than those perfectly false ones with Aegon that make her feel like a cheap whore.

Better than her first kiss with Addam of Hull who she had hoped would take her away from everything so she wouldn’t marry Aegon.

She pulls away the moment it starts to feel so good she wonders what other talents the man sitting on the window seat with her has.

His eye is wide with desire, and she knows hers look the same.

It had been a long and deep kiss that made her forget she was married to his own fucking brother and that the moment anyone knows about this they are fucking dead.

“We shouldn’t have done this.” She says, yet she doesn’t move away from him.

“You are too good for him, you know that, Aemee.” He says, his damnably kissable lip twitched slightly in a sort of smile.

“I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt because of me.” She admits wishing she had the courage her mother had in spades.

“I will let you in on a little secret, my pearl, my mother is the biggest hypocrite that has ever lived.” Aemond says with a wicked smirk.

He hates himself.

She will learn he was told to seduce her to further their gains one day and that day everything will come crashing and burning around him.

Aegon had not said mother was the architect of his scheme, but he knew shit must be dire if they were going that far.

Father’s health was waning, Rhaenyra was on her seventh pregnancy and with Aegon left infertile by some whore, mother needed a perfect little prince that no one would ever suspect not being his father’s child.

And because they know the child would be a bastard, Aemma would do anything to keep it a secret.

She’d kill him if it meant the babe would be safe, just as her mother chose her children over her brother when he lost his eye from that fight after he claimed Vhagar.

Mother was a good woman, but she too had been corrupted by the power she gained from his father.

And while Aemond would not have minded their orders, he needs Aemma to want a child with him instead of stealing this luxury she treasures more than gold and jewels.

So, he doesn’t spill inside her when that kiss in the library turns to making love on that settee, and the rug they used to play in as children and on the bookshelves with books more valuable than anything else here.

Calling it a fuck made it feel too impersonal. He had not felt this vulnerable nor done it with his partner’s pleasure in mind ever, he thinks.

Hells, he doesn’t even take off the eye patch when meeting with Lady Wylde or the barren handmaids in his household his mother put in there for their personal use.

“I wish it had been you.” She said with such melancholy in her eyes as he rested his head against hers wishing it didn’t have to end with her going back to his brother.

“It could be.” Aemond kissed her again, it was as addicting as opium, better tasting too. “He won’t care if we are lovers. He doesn't deserve you anyways and after what happened in Harrenhal, Aegon has lost any right to deny you your happiness, Aemma.”

He hates himself, and yet he cannot stop himself from hoping she’d say yes.

“Expect a grandson soon, lady mother.” Aegon says when they meet for something or the other the next day.

Aemma looks guilty and yet looks even more radiant than usual and Aemond has a bounce in his step and even laughs like he didn’t have a stick so far up his arse his hair had turned straight.

Mother does not know, and the identity will remain a mystery like all the great magic tricks in the world.

“She agreed?” the queen asks, looking at Aemma with disapproval.

“Oh, no. The guilt of committing adultery is overwhelming her and believes I am not aware. Aemma would rather die childless than agree to such a thing.” Aegon answered with a dismissive wave.

Aemma would tell him, when she cannot hide her pregnancy, Aegon will be benevolent, accept to claim the boy as his and have her believe she is so lucky to have such a forgiving husband.

Besides, no one would tell the little bastard is Aemond’s and the moment she falls pregnant it will come to an end and Aemond be wed to one of the Four Storms.

Aemma will love Aegon for accepting their son and all will be bliss between them.

#aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc #aegon ii x oc x aemond #aemma velaryon #hotd fanfic #all is bliss fic #aemond x rhaenyra and laenor's! daughter #aemond x oc #aegon ii x oc #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #tom glynn carney

40 notes · View notes

libidomechanica · 1 year ago

Text

Sir Walter hairs, or to

A treochair sequence

And is hush and be you and there the assault: the fleeting careless I

hope the tree, you like. Too. How I died, and die, lift not a summer’s guise,

whereunder who I am. Way, I think some: others nodding on the

walls. A feudal knights prefer before it bore; the ghost of fire, as if

a night of a bird upon the nights, a moderns equally; if our

own cost die, sith red, like memory of uncontested surface be

my dear, through to face. Making to you appear before. Sir Walter hairs,

or to creep from those that yellows Man were I say ’Tis so, tis shine; but

I will lo’es dearly? Because, divide into the coach, will bet you leaves

the night wets me again: but soon as I make, where, now will love, his eyes?

All, hard embrace of the Field-Marshals forth eternal number bodies

tangled in this strange wondrous dread? Till Miss’s compell’d, and prince de Ligne have

hemm’d with me the Two World I been some say, Your mother years: alas! What

melancholy silent, and dear deceiving the Cyprian story

of trump’s her four want of those who live what a lover; what tis forc’d, then,

to break a sucking Nymph reserv’d a Man. For Jock of sorrow at him

so. What a lover; what myself I can’t do, thoughts and crying, while the

earth of western religion quench their name before it rain is with narrow

chief that you hold up your mind might—and love the loved, burnt&blasted, an’

ken ye how way lead in safety to attack the orange, and red that

brought, who bent to mone. Her wings bewrayed, whose delight? ’ Thou hast thou told’st me

with flower springs of sight upbraids them for proud rider on the Tavern

shouts, I read o’er thy name. And on your that reigns; what! Beautiful dream

that able spirits, all is left so deare, we meets the strunt in two years,

who was a little room an age lie, ever sings, and my Love a girl,

my boy. Themselves to whom love? Whether is best; and then souls stand, then conscience

in vassalage thy merit hath should he put in swelling Despair!

Flames resist is so fair discovery of rhymed to scathe. Weigh there’s a

charge; but glows. ’ And free, as the herself should we deluded human: you

shalt in womanhood complain of pith and told men in the armies of

life, and trim; but one. It is claws wept. We forged a scarf of orange ere

nights, a modest pride; another forehead cool. Because the maid; they late

be enviable. Old, and smiling race: for he of benevolent

and Thrush say, the pallid beam in shapings of all were not blame design!

Impatient. Not on the world,—which, thou canst thou, my daily breeze anon,

like breath be rul’d by me; under tribe who once set down this they share it.

And with his honest maids are damnably mistaken more serious

desire. And stuttering him, now a saints the tale o’ love which now

her e’re. Was carriage, o’erflow, as here, now when Love’s sake one may say, alas!

Time she thou, the Life’s offer of it or nothing. ’, He felt that light

nature to the one days will to so; for him; nor all transformed of tales

did I feel em most. Picked words of old terror doth the most! Thou God of

a lord; and sung, and look—her was a bum on than if I had thy placed,

shall enter pillars? Time driven, but will enchanted joy thou so touched

so longed a precious as they with of us, your voice, o’erworn, and she’d

said, He keep himself is resumed with bashful shame of the star-gazers,

holds good to life’s busy hum of loneliness may pay the suns are found

nothing to an earn the man say again. The cries, was carriage I did

better, and leave excellent for glory! Ah, take me, they longed a

sevenfold stormes with impure defeature, that can thousand scatter’d coward.

Thrice fairest body riddles as the honey secret knots, like a bright

should followed his hard, he known; ’ a please me; Lesley is sae fair days

together my lips it part, and is apt as next of mine may so farewell?

He kiss even so she laid the tedious, and Campbell before Don

Juan, who worshipp’st at the sway of error, a tender hide: love to kiss

handsome, break into thee, to grass and silver- set; about here it whistle

mair blaw sweet. The writer of blood! From his soul, were sternest movies

from my cheeks, cries, and calumets, claymore and flatter, and Tim would be.

And as thick to cancell’d, by slaves of eternal Love, he wild. Thence chokes

her painting chambers may I dare not yet for there, disdain’d their myriad

voice happy face still to one arm that great amaz’d at apparitions

of Bow Street’s bank took it sighs that sweet musing their own quadrille.

Now she with spiry turrets crowd, and sweet core. There blind Understanding

on the height of live poet called on the ladie, so did this rebellious

heart; to loves so indeed, in their ears, struck up with half-words but a

thermostat we do not longs not heed it or no? And the whole world,—which, being

soul regarde, the Memory from the cold, cold dust remain the night.

Rob him oblivion oft perform the conspires. Then others like:

and now Adonis lies; it flashing no notice that great joy unto

those who still send the rent, and the soldiers, will kiss his shadow makes me

laugh for by a cyder-press, mound, unfree? Whether friend, before him, now doth

that all is settled hound, unfree? I wish resign: robert Burns: let me knows!

Clips she seede, that old pleasant found something to your dear ideas, whose

name appears, that world’s delightful Herb whose Candle is the twilight

iudgement I was far as well his spent pained gloves—wheezed and grave! I ask’d

him, as one of light; through one for his eyes, ears, for tears come hindmost, holds

her hue that sad office, though of trophies, stars, and not be embrace they

are found out his fair and dead. Of Englishment, and waited on the wild

thankful rite may make fine can do. The third, the Turk’s flotilla getting,

shone like a kind of phantoms of dewe, yet do not there: an isle of the

soul is double- lock the Virgin’s mystical virgin of wrong or pursue,

and being soul shadows in a dull and my flying sap, whiskey,

on the Branches sang sweet sang, Barbauld, survey’d the maids are amaz’d brake.

Lie on the world is wise or two—is gone best follow fruite of illness,

and as a pulse that dost thou, Abelard! When lofty trees supply within

the multitude, that behind himself on the great Hunter of her

linnets prefer before it be forget! In weaken’d, Man’s knead, and whither

love can rest wyde, with her head, half yielding prisoner in the tower,

little equal to replies: perch’d himself Affection. My brave Music

slumbers of a bush pression? Beauties do this your hand angels watch, and

grone. Twenty hundred kissin’ my Katie; o canst not for verse this delights

my soul: come tomb, our blanket, too sincere a poet. I should artless

pictures had stay’d, but saw ten thou God of fire, and her! Imperious

name; myrtle think to see, to framed, thus of all smother know it with

gently,—for a brook; or seen in vain; ’tis paid it as gentleman who

gads in his foul corruption is all the lucky houres. Like to no

such a calendar of which erst from his Lips, The Sage said john surrenders

And when and the sake hasts to sink, by a blast eche coste doth protectors;

nor age no need, that I of wintrye ages hence, why, the bud before

him irresistance or chaise, or little sadly seekes for its

mystical virgins blush, and thee now, its earth. That, though soon life’s busy throne!

Whether golden arrow channels of their name in the baiting in the

Grape than saddens all family at random dost thou should. Are, such a blow!

Than of Thamis— who bounds, when thou eternal Homer’s heart, thoughts beyond

the eve that once is know! Affection which yet I quit Abelard and

by Solomon and out, alas, why dost thou art, Thou art of quest. She

telling, but your eyes pay the Potter’s dye! From thee thou art no matter;

the things I look from its dark, and then I thought a little space, have for

heart. That dost confess, with thee, and all thought: of all. As summer dreerie death

who love’s eyes when think the fair to taste of fear; for love or brag of heav’n.

Whole self I would not to the earth doth the west or seeming to be the

more free scope for lover’s Lips are blood. Had seen what they blew up, and his

cheek, now what bitter in deadly bustle, to the treads on horse keeps on

steering once come from the name, the rage and anguish seize loves are not made

and coughed, pulled me this back who think good forth. John Bull, had grace, and forlorn,

and nothing— Oh, make you a place to flower to him, with long colder.

Turn softly treasure to gratify, like that I perceived with smile; and

as lost their cash for being his yet love; though the Sun and by a

tedious proof how way lead in sadness most soothing like curious night-

wander find out of these moss’d cottage-trees I see an old men in safety

to them close: the earth usurp’d his lance, and perplex and fair. There shed

in thinks we were nor things, devouring skies may be seen mortal go.

Thought to peril and obstination, not on the assail; often are,

forc’t, by saints that sweet past pleasant ease mine be no corresponsibility.

Things in her god, and quickly gone? Would not die, or mend. I askéd

a thorns gray, while you’re telephone for my face? Souring the heigh-ho!

Two people, grief hath made the Stone that sad reality. They rode upon

it. Before him, the venom of it. Everything flight. For their close

the raging faire out in two Ukraine hard- believe, but lover. Where I

deaf, thy might be for the pomp of love, all peoples shall take his treasures,

look formidable curling bid me this made him to bow, who conquest

is but conversational turn. Said and darker Draught wets me again!

An oven that I were embark’d, then, with sport of quest, a thousand like

hand once, Men wanting tears gave such should produce the just divide into

his hairless flown again. Has take merry with dandle; a thin she falling

brest that some future bard shalt steering up Pall Mall, the crush me; let

me at once in love did follow the cries, cap-a-pie, as the devil

in anything but—pronunciation. Small, himself, a breeze; no drum

and others. Then other’s sorry I could you to desire, forc’t, by

Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, and place no doubt, chastity, love, so

wrought but whet his rank performed of good; for when I get stopp’d the clamour

bodies ruined for those delights, thine shall lover mishaps, as dry his

true. And those who loves an added great god of fire, transformed by the wind:

and Wilderness— and which ripen’d their tide, being course, get you in the

great prove, We die where’er my own I find; affection’s Waste, there beauty,

the day by day, I watches to his soul, were sweet begins a woman

yet quick gathering gone, mine eye and would be like diamonds and for Love.

The Tartars. His flanks;—but it all whole selfe he laugh to seek it; this limit

is the sighs dry her state, how exquisition light every Russ

credential that smiles, and when the British Damme’ s quite, by them all we hears

no tidings in the mind, the sea, ere shall shore. Because why such a tear.

I love, in his clouds, that taught be, seeming hogs, yet may escape, and rose-

trees, lounging in my loose delicate my Fall to the world’s great a passage,

earth, or I tomuch below, but honey- dropping came a Seventh

a Moon—the surface before it should find. ’ The Muscovite flotilla,

and forgat to all full of feeling arms to walk one thinkes younger

heere abide, and embrace; incorporal— some maiden burning in the

wise men thrive well. As well to dote on, and I love my sick heart of god,

through the darts, like cloud o’er in such a one as would though all those who from

his Bond: and yet, ’ quoth shake him sleep of some were little groves and who the

crowds before the poor birds and be blooms, and loathsome catch and. In mossy

skulls the Lady deare: adieu my little rain relenteth? More that needs

in vassalage thy coral berry breed, his army’s loss so that breed.

I’d grow cold and sleeping. The great! Their Heart. Hail, Poesie! My meaning lies.

His very clears to-day will be! Now Ben he had she wit that her cheek

to her sleep steadfastly, the long as the Woodes thee to mee: no, no,

no, no, no, no, my Deare, let bee. Love-lacking of the ledges drives; wee

Pope, they can be well about interest if that thou Morning-tide, being

ear, to show of loue his victorian bands of nature growth of

words of spice. In shape. If you they will not lovers daily labour and

dead, blacksmith, i’ve done? I call aloud: finding than thou doest wanes; who were

not his lance, and Centaur Nessus garb of the charming as the bank. And

then they came from you, guiltie seem’d, sweet, they sat, she is no my arm. A bastard

vile, doing where, where is our lawful shall my spite, by servile round

dropt in two Ukraine had nae will hold up your waking, he hath ever

Ask why then flies; two glass; yet this beating he do? But now his great want

nothing—too thick neck in tender years, and those eyes brief forget what—a

tender least no eyes pay the batteries, cities with the Goods them in

a wede: yet kydst not of Humanity’s wiping Péhlevi, with a

breath our Feet: unborn To-morrow stands of the wind,—and gleam, the boar for

it—’t is gone, ’ quoth she. A tide of Leonidas, when I’ve heart alone.

Love will make at Mornings within them; her eyes than in this bate-breeding

jets black. That melancholy silent, and caught my heart pants, when I do

loved the cause of Eloquences are hence he gives a deadly growth; then

my load and a maid, every sighs aplenty: so let it be and becomes

barters at Halifax; ’ but not kept fast, there’s my gruel! Her

eyelids, whose gently lay, he bends her comes again, and, neither husband,

were mine eyes’ red fire, saving perhaps; but a dreams now fill me why though

she hum of louers neuer know not women, and ever-musing to thee?

Have birth; where is craving, the morn; in every to song and the peepers’

den? Oh, yes, true sight the church-aisle stony helm, and nostrils, should break

into the years: alas! So are ye what the empty bee that needs a

secret Well of deep in an angry brother day! Thou like hawks will fall.

For shame and great, which bred more deem’d with some little Castlereagh? Or names

want subject to inflame to tell, but toys. I may remain, here on my

heart, ’ saith Loue, now the use of Or Molu. Into a camp: I know, was

never crying, yes. Adieu ye Woodes and Beauty, believing spur?

Question: but if that is in this youth as inconstant Drum! And Sally

Brown, and so I cannot swim. So that, and loving eyes; and, to move?

Beautiful, and if no pity join grief and night impress or harm, things—for

fears begun. Time what after Sultán’s Turret in at a time must go, thou

lay, which from his Ambush, so in less the charm the reason, upon the

world will I follow you hear’st me was carriages, then, thy sight dye: but,

fill the glorious eyes, her personal cupidity, so he dress,

and ease: and truth, of largeness given quantity of his world,—which, chorus-

like, bubbling, order breast, and mishap, a true Truth would say, with a

kiss from whose that I should turn on the Stars— ’fore we must beams, and on you

hold your state a notion of gentle gales from his inconstant love to

orphan saw his wealth goes on yawning glories shines so in the fisty

rings to Paraclete’s whole again. Grows that which ourself himself a

football with delays he, since I haue nought except in them ought: of all?

She hand at you see. And now good-morrow to ease our escape from that

yellow and ten thousand tippy-toe because that on thee; thought so dead

and land—I have seen thrive who had perceiving white; that by long sea. And

not thine own from the Idols I had their Institute of what we cannot

write; write, venture: sith incontinual tears the wind: and the long was

sowne, and she sands, that Stella, sincere a mirror of her in the fuel

of living thy mind like Swallow field to pluck’d an Angel came: he wild.

When with Science should tell yourself: you and I love me for the salt

estarnging face to die. This pocket pistol from Venus not slacken, none

in love love: quest. But, when their engineering here shall adieu! This woe.

To part—but as I dream, and other’s life he left branch, but higher, until

their nest, most rank, ribands, sweetly in the devil do you strives the

one Life to life’s busy, and never quit thy power, it with me had

was who do love’s victorious charity! Just that. In ecstatic

may the down one to choke. Come, girls, withouten dreade of chronicle with

patience enough the morning fire Julia’s cheek appear before. The day

I did Cupid let me from thee to me appear as beam must forget

that the down, it seems, a hope of the hear it on my love share a rivers,

repair’d flaws to his homage unto me! And thrust, she would Prudence’

direst morn teem’d my hands, thou will, or wrinkles. Sister, Aretine, and

sweet lips with truth I must forever; the debris of many kiss her

present the honey-moon’s lasting the world have lost his fine-pointed, fetlocks

shag and battle-conjurer, John Bull the tyrants, which them into

Shape bearing tree,-are they saw thing to be at! If thou dar’st, all the scents

snatched by the hot scent of love pitiful grew theme: I have play his wounds,

but thing else to the winds and offer white, when thousands of rock, and those

we for you mayst prove fair cheek, his sour tongue? For in therefore the counsell’d,

where feeble Hope men atheists, and drill— forged a cannot find, and me

these north and me, that snap the Courts where’er you the time may stand whiskery

dot that their pray’rs; snatched beneath of Love we’ll no further, are thou see.

Never dies. Gloss on world in their name, Bannockburn, as the rose responses

give it a clumsy name, the town’s all that oft my life supply But

the waltz to something: a cleft of life shrunk in his breast. Like sluices, stopp’d,

or in it thou, my free. Perhaps thee this; but a kind of Mortal butcher-

sire that can breake moderns equally my love? There men set their

weeks; the morn, that all; but I turn of dizziness. Your voice, that can all

that she in her destitute of what none can never to please, you like.

And truth, it had I Heav’n replied at noon, which else he world his hound. Nurse

to thee, and faint, and blue wind is hush and proud, because the death, and Sultán’s

Turret in ilka groves are rarely to Rest. Our bonnets, and Jesus

from suspires, with Lilia, then noon is alive, and when along

thee. Ah, come to kill. At stool-ball, Lucia, let a parrot turn to sing,

and lie, and as thought so dear. Than on couples huddled in the Tower

of sight upbraide, my little stray; and melts with no great cause he none my

hurt makes them at the chafes her pleaded, when Love’s sake only proue. And our

seven and Beauty make most dainty is one solemn light, slips bedeck

the side-lie of a’ thy father’d up, in some Strip of Beauty make though

every clears to-day be stain. When loves his arm-chair? Hard-favoured out

his strange, an’ merry hae I been woos best where I come! Teaching throat, in

my love; thou make my vision was lives, and God of am’rous charity!

Beloved. I’d rather to remove, or war cuts up Love’s feet, as

so much unblest while it did dwells upon them not. Is hoarse and faith prove,

we’ll buildings a loud song and captive was stand, year upon the snored.

And unhallow Venus’ liking eyes, where Venus, young, but it is

possible not their flank, the pomp of dreade of chronicle; and the making

the fires, long as that glorious paradise was a delusions high

delicious surges sinking off their own fa’ for our loathing-space. Themselves

be one that Tim’s year to you, various chronicle we have done.

That simple and my hand, above him. The raging close command, Field, some

takes and accompany, can we finds no end: his vestal’s voice. Or thee.

’ Into those which you a place where was not long wo in weaken’d, but kind?

Where I dare to those which she hand with other slaves on: nor ages, taught

me say good fame. Full flatters tremble to Love, in the best can escape,

and, falling Heav’n Parwín and fro a dancer, had joys no matters if

these most of Wisdom in his arrow seizeth on his pocket and lyfe.

But soon, as late to this, to wanton talk of sheep are gay, whilst flower,

may serve to you; good-morning is dire. It makes me laugh and never

saw his chin like mistresses in a wede: yet as an empty house of

an angry stir, his others’ pray’r; no happie sights, doe me, and dance, and taxes

Paradise was enthusiasm and the cold, in some strikes him

say against who bear; why warbling eyes each low winter the growth’s abuse.

No where the Divinity of whom the tower pale a stoic, or

lips, and if this melting friends that old Potter’s tale is, where such as the

bank of that in each shadow at his may I dare not be waded, when

this written, and chastity, love will rob the top o’erstraw’d with slight wood,

with the sea; nor, England! Lord of London his braw age o’ wit and prey,

turn’d to be thy mind makes one tenants, who bent to myself, I tremble

into the troubled, make verbal repetition of tales that in my

part mistakes, is they all that he gave: backwoods days of sight on a grand

loves his churlish swine she lov’d a Man. Heaven’s despising spy, this sterile

perquisitions ever seeks: he had waste and Frances, my ear; but

all the eye darts of Love must stirre vp winter comes our lover. Whose smiling

ran, and riots hurl’d low as the morn, roses blow it off, and fears

in me? Th’ indifferent hands from what binds us: strong colloquy

himself on the limb, low above alone, for her to fly—and Lo!

Yet undiscover’d o’er me; no pulses have a sound in giving hath

wrought for its mystery. Thou, when his braw age o’ wit and ye sall be

kill’d with thy increased; and while some time, and now grown more cunning hit, shrinks

back from whome them free, as the sky, which stare, and Jamshýd glorious charms.

That ever and smooth my God! A struck match his wounds mistaken; few are

so harsh kissing, or the second straight groves; our pillars? To one of mine.

I swears the Field, her rash suspended and dropt a falling out a sight

the sudden waste the story. Of this placemen, ever alone: for

Jock of the Bowl from vse of the fool prays her head, and crystal tide of

Life, the course that. And labour and dry’d him seen Joanna Southey fled,

that least: there’s not set of doubt’s a globe of Honour—well, I know: whether;

and low! Great joy unto ye; and the Scales, so beauty fair; the ground,

yonder, though hardned her reason back, while with that aim and echo sigh,

and water in they go. Pure light; then I do to cancel half woman.

The man’s farewell? Till I relate the fisty rings the soul quit the forlorn,

and gluttoning perhaps, ’ though her rich with his delights proudlier prancing

wings. The politesse, and drank deeply is he gone—so much of vanish’d,

Love will leane mens fantastic bags for whom fortune those bright agrees.

I think’st thou a woman starlight half a Line, nor all that befell the

road break into a tree, and all I dote upon your knife. Into their

pray’r. The Roman Lucrece there from seeds spring so long, the shepherd’s tongue.

What, without declining in the Night has flung, in mossy skulls the with

clamoured men will send a kiss that glow’r, and two blue wind serves that ’s

under whose utter’d clerk still we lover bound these most of the foremost

on the day see barren memory resides in absence saddle-bow;

if there: the honeymoon country, or from falling Heaven, but he is

resolved and bone. Where the Lot of Kaikobád and prays, when thy pray’r? Old

dreams came to strikes what seek it; this leagued you ask what hast thou gone? No

fisherman swore will fall to see. Come then play out that died the pomp to

fly—and Lo! Our legs. And was taken tea in small and unfinish’d gold.

Through yonder whose sorrows, and so I can, the honey tongue cannot lack,

and then their packs. A woman bred more fatal foe and I hear horse showed

the shrink that lamps, and I’ll record after thirteenth, when he can resist?

Gave him, I heard them with tears that shall be, where he counter and undetained,

an’ ken ye how Meg o’ the Master terme, my spright, I am

just mounting tongue. This said had a harmony should beside a spring

for passions in reason from the Throne. Ah let thy love pitiful dreamer,

out of day; while thy left understood calls, and sable charted for

where nature be but short, then the employes, distracted, and act is the

totality. Rather race and pray’rs nor forbidding round Diana.

But cease, as late forlorn, and now I will let me go; my day’s hot course

the exact affairs is my shame’s pure lightly votes part, and that: a please.

Deere the spur inspir’d! No, no, my Deare, let not as the mart when we know.

Ah, lean, hateful name; she drops a browner’s jest! For thirty mock tyrant!

Far from all the matter endlesse lust of all who stood being man. My

foe beheld a thousands on world that I sing of grace hath ends. Exchange

for who has stown! The wall, and by cleanly out; there sterne, and this life but

only branch and free, and fry. Whose very poor birds, deceiving gentle

chasing this rein, and send up a Polish pride; anon he was History.

Had I no eyes are but low the boar, under what one. Would be about

these faded eyes disdaine; loue fear of voices of love my persons of

flowers, a non-descript should be dated some buried in the blisses,

the soft floats the ladies could stamp me back to hers have fled frost will gain—

or none, their weather on the familiar. How he outruns through they had

burnt out, my though he be dead, lo! That may pay things which may we ran off

their banner. Juan knew nothing to be the predictability of

blood, or sworn by the sky, and Wordsworth the patience he can controvertime.

I WILL enjoy’d their home and her wings imperious chat: remove.

Or fame; before, that mean that blowes the patrician, was he outruns

that can heart, and hate, but ne’ertheless lust of holes. And after nodded

at his pigtail that spie! My little sadly, how love her brothers—How

blest it shall be waste, being dew? As Wine, and most traveler, long soul of

snows, and thin are scatters and suddenly one by love. And canst not

advantage slip; beautiful in my power, whose still, let him, and high, grave,

so he saw the long sequaciously with your foreigners—and more holds her

on Ida’s shore? Or God be with his Heart then touch thou to rest, her pliant

such would speak for us. Thy naked, with hard by, made wives. Weep my

feet high again revenge is that Dervish- dances of Time is shells by

the Tartars. With Logic absolves with old Benbow; and hopes of old enjoyd

that befell then whatever happy season, upon him, Life’s Liquor

in the Breton, not as that worse and sold forget. End in the assault;

I view set all in hand winds she Death our heave in her comes. When you

shalt scorn with gentle spring bid me die, he is an imaginary

death, as those who govern’d his name so did na Jeanie wist, her graves,

but died the set their crimson cloute, they were be lov’d. Of Me and future

Fears—to-morrow, on the old, and hear us, or in a vestal’s lot!

A door we missing. It! Of hope to find your heate, tho deemed I, my tears

doth favour, savour hue, and me farewell, if it could be my loose some

takes his true, tell me, Love do? A spectral rest! What bitter blows north clymes

to the tasted: make Game oft my life a long-forgotten, an’ ken

ye how the Wilderness—and whole little grief hath no great a nation:

but she, my heard, as e’er would wish you serve? Unto the right, and Earth are

twice as quickly might not under about the world amaze his finding,

mutually placed upon a tree, those describably describably

drowned with the sun itself she shrieks and knows! Before he bark blew up

in they found her intermission of the dark, and Famine. When he strikes

her she camp rung with a feather-bells, whereat she, and Antony

resident—whose ciuil wars and Wesley, and chaste is ever came here, I say!

And gathered; now gazeth she hies, lounging seem’d quite persuaded a Russian

vessels lay off Ismail at whose full, for kings, that to thousand spat

in each part us! Thus do I see barrein now it not. My hart since

I had met a prey, and water pell-mell, as rotted, eyes were at least:

there be, where Venus’ doves witty, but speak grief hath not in stayed at his

swelling done him; but having. Breath a page from his long of themselves, or

continental tasted: there many, poor worst, and sometimes false polish’d

for the dogs— your beauty and forgot: that of such a greatnes of gladness,

whose fierce darts, as that some straue to Mortal! Their slight in my delight

to rate brow, its station bestow’d it anew beginning, whither heart,

when Rome’s ane; a Scottish call hit or non-payment the gate: discussion,

which was the object and rubies but if you wilt tell. Fathers not

see: some day doth quench’d in his hateful name; for proud, as hens their proud; your

depart as from pleasures; give it overcome, the breast of mad mischief

flowers, close meeting those who fly around and Kaikhosrú forgotten?

And then things extemporally a woeful state a notion as a

moon she does, but blessings of Love surrenders, richly compiled, reserve

to ken, how often, like his fresh fire, that, and the main; so, at his brow’s

fall, and mishaps, as dry his arm-chair? And then please thee, thoughts dim and my

distress, mound, now enlarged deride his cancell’d, by specially if new, or

moving me into Clay: and skilful thorn! To cross the name, the blindfold

fury was my Mount Saint, and could rate but the enquiring wound and do

now. Thus she single ball, the day with most man, and much I pray take. To

me thatch-eves run; to bid the cross the Súfi flout; of my friendship’s names?

A good that can escape to friends from East has made plain, he flitted a

saucy message yields, and fill the most in Abraham’s bosom swell? Thus

truly not kept the humour of the Babylon: whether freight turn’d him

like hues all the bier with perfume like glow- worms she were out of the tomb,

our bowled and puts the dead; strong. The bosom of a fool’s cap—I hope some

twine about us—Lo, laughing, with having so: when thou and I sunne,

thus instilling the false or admired or leave him. Robert Burns: grant

flower of bloody trial,—alas! Far from this way, and pass amongst men,

like the sway of error, than she know; such a pernicious poisoned bait.

I should every forbeare? Here pause, for a swallows, if we might melts in

vain endeavour: frail it invariable puncheons, as sentimental,

swore herself in her lips were, merely masquerading me, hate the

maidenhead? Daughter gladly seekes for once we love is like candles

red. Of blood, and answer’d in blackness, disturb the people breed, his others

grow white assist the slumbering was tint, her agents are the tender

Lambkins take the hot encounted boy: but hereafter his hearts of

kisse.—I have time, and thereof gate in sphere, light who bothers’ pray’d, love me.

Like a sunbeam: near Ismail, and then tatter’d at Love is death-cry drown’d

in country quarters her inward buckram, little as the passionless,

herb, leaf, or ward, I could not be said that love all heavenly moisture,

True, ’ she clepes him what bargains its realms of glory, blushes us

with applause, th’ enamour’d portal hand obstination, not thy

shadow,—truth and saved my life, or thee; but bid beware, and amber, I,

when thou the thinking down face deepe move him shakes therefore. Now leaue ye she

said: the tempests of love, and surfeit, yet cannot choose. Of desire.

Suing; his snout digs sepulchres whatever we don’t know how little

across what Meg o’ the Mill was left of appears already still at

once comes Indigestion give me strangely dumb despaire hath pight: but one.

And that grace as strings mutual over our dog-chewed his the wind with

wringing mane upon Impossible keeps on steering ev’ry bead I

dreamer, queen meanest would we not be ours such whom he stream, there did show

me so? But so it charms my veins would be closely … love will breede did flow.

Thought it is gone, thy fair! Exhibits strings to thee be still must needs tempt

to dwells, which be wood where his foes. Ah wretched from Fairy-Land, while of

routs and Noes, bene with paints that silly lamb that made a pearls away.

With much you that drove past, that runs apace; leaves, long as thy spell o’ wit

and consulting from no light, the maid; they lay then, how often haue wrought

it take—and always from his victims at you, tender soul quit the sight.

Whatever can earth, in love you because that of Ilion, and the market

to be so steals along thy grief threw unwilling, plunder—if it

were in its strives be one travellers to choked turn up. If any other

rejoice in vision fleeting … I well the warm firm believe of thyself

when we unripe year; and my disgrace, thought that which you with my whiles,

fair; the sweets distinguisheth in evening earth, doth they not knowing cold?

If thought it is a moment o’er little while you are, for my sighs, still

are on the boar with leaden appetite, unapt to hear nor

Gotterdammerung but a’ the Mill wastes, and those poor girls becomes from her woman

but that Fount drew from his ill repayde, the moon—cold weighty Babylon:

whether half in mine eyes as much; for non-payment ere by her sights,

that trembling, the altars blaze, and a base he run or fourth at this bending

on all I know no fair and done, his jowls fat as a Nun breath, what

the venom’d sores and play, mirth an echo chamber—ran upon his step

had two eyes o’er; that all; but none in Song like feature, that with her her

winter comment upon thy soft lips, together head, which bred in the

lift on her foes pursue, rise in; no end: At this wings. Had grow. Sans Wine,

and a widow’d nation; but that—he believing look’d on, ere frozen

chastity, love shall dance with a widow’d nation about intermine

what things raise euen fil’d my guiltless passions workmanship of Herbage steam,

as they are as he lay beside it, and hours’ land, which she be dear, through

and night: the earth was liberty a slight all thou destroyd! Gives it for

a brook; or sat amid thee oft maisters admire, is resting conflict

or waste and lie to thy looks like their light, that glance by his plain till you

the tongue, then Cleopatra lives that thy to be Nature growth, which them.

And both white dress, they knew she would have this the far-fam’d Grecian hour gave

high, grave, so wrought, ere such as Wine you then, I have no cowards them harm.

Fair Nine, for four sute doth she begins to wet his heart who, like a ghost.

It said he, I would peep; the sun doth with some slight that vertuous sometimes

whoever sallows gather’s hair. I give the same: sweet, yet some future,

away my body, layer, the spare, love, how God was on our tender

sprung from the fault, nor braided hand obstination fresher, all the quest.

However would restore it like birds sweet change to say the second fear

him; but honey to slay, or be you out the eve this kind loved friends before

we comes, adoring cruell miss with true when I thought them twere picture

of all-confess my debt should hoist my military brother, if his

senseless and hath bounds, and we in us, waiting trouble;—I wish me

to gie her comes love, about dream! Be kind love within me thy verge it

is true son, no vapours do wreckes auoid. Drink to fancy while we crouched

her weel again she hum of louers ruined fortune flout, Friendship is feeble

for they could not whether my footing air, and with you this sense, or

dies, strong as twenty cannonade, but of silver shadowe of any

love all things in the morning because I don’t hint, by Machiavel, by

Rochefoucault, and glutton dies; and the west singing, chiefly in me.

To the that campaign; and in my love you therefore ye worn; ye grots the

world may say, See what you stands she just soft cheek discloses, the sweetly

she meeting, knocks at my feet. Into my arms doth he, expectation

will all but where London’s sel’; nae gowden stream; for once prov’d; her kills through

the various eye darts of griefs I left me, yet would slip into the

better: lest that his tomb bestrew whereon we lean never seas at rest,

the same, I felt himself, his blown out in Wales. And in his exist abode;

assist the twilight and where our next morn teem’d Cossacques for such

plain I see somewhere I something love for his glory still, which way she

meet thefts to me? Johnson, when kind. In preparated from each other

in young folks with rigorous sport me; two stream, the tail’s a diadem,

with a widening from his slow brow and govern’d his native error,

a tempest and foul fiend from never did the world with slaughter in his

teethin’ a spoon; o merry hae I been supposed at me; He began

to greet: I have done my hearts move: so offer of life. Who with a tear.

Nor tears doth facts. My dumb with dearth was locust on earthen Bowl of Nights

which stared. In her eyes, at whose utter’d walls where stern, lest she dote on, who

late authors ask’d my brow blushes speak, how Peace upon the rose-buds in

visits with her haste, and oh, ’tis no time to time when noon is gall, is

fancy form’d like and hope of mortal vigour since thou art thou find’st one,

me and strong as twenty time that which you saw me that light, and weary

gait his doubled; that Juan was pale, like angels watch them in a vestals

and alone beneath thee, excuse of all discourse, I don’t different hands

throne, and starting to an assault. Most the most mistresses and clear. His;

then imagination: but only moisture on the breeze care: which is

me the bathe men, but her way. Their efforts shouts—and Loue, do the whirl’d in

the far-off from yonder whose name into the tears, when a’ was done. Some

boats, and aspirant to love me to try to know’st not reproved it—

’t was one- and-twenty times thou shalt liquor, numb to the hunted boar,

and full-grown lately bore into thee thine imaginary death-wound,

yonder whom? To the extent of Reckoning yield, like a shipwreck’d and within

that set of armies of loue. A soft star shooteth from whom I love

do? Thrice fair arms and act is old, and nights, with Logic absolves will tell!

Yet Children of peace, those eyes blaze, and thy father did but lover; what!

Awake! For a score of the Lord of Night has flung the awkward daybreak.

Think that she, and last spares to sweat, for love! Is useless and bids me preuaile,

that he did pass’d for the smooth all to naught, the luck and his frumpy

home and blest when most miserable charm’d, are very things are abhor me?

One the heart; come, I could all outward scrape. Like this carriages, and such

gloom! For increasing seen: mine, where art than that I restrain firm state, things,

streight years would pass’d crest, an eye still love, and the Lip of Beauty and more

delight? ’ She clepes him king hero in them by day and now grownd before

him as any throng: with the moon stops his courteous influence,

stood before, and sung, at either man nor wherein all the Seed of the

moulds from far; draw me on my body, and his brawny side, ladies, all

loose all lies! And I’ve added great oath I will not fear where you I love

her grief three- thousand company, can buy, till Cherry ripe themselves witty:

in they could still instructed in all the world be it was on the

way in dreams! Torches to rest, show’d like a Jade her freight me from the sea!

To read with he, in earth’s sovereign balm derive, and precious proofe shield me

her come, I could say, for share, mark to pipe his woe. But Juan was he root

the world’s Te Deum, ’ and hoary, across to see such aureate the time, that

infection finde, and on their perfect, his look along the impartial

immortal foe and in a Noose or true, ’tis true, but one who with that

kindles red. And breathed for think’st thou wonder, and the wolf would thou drinking

eyes watch the Five pearls, or it on death-wound, the cursed Malayan crease why

strikes her linnets pretty railway ran: a fire—brake with blame, where tame forth?

Her pleading spies, or trots, as she rough of a town surrounding in his

hard embrace, or if I can’t well being with his ears broken station;

so thousand and Kaikobád away. Speech did see how to the Divinity

in polished a walk silent and pass’d a reconnoitre, in the

open parlour windy sighs wi’ me? And my misfortune’s master, cleaning

sap, whiskey, on the abandoned skins. Gazing up his eye, thick

answering on the West; the tryste, to several volumes and forth a

considerable charms my versts from mine eye,— though unseen Powers and shook

the other flower, which I could not vary, is calm, to overshoot

high nor envy them leave with false eyes doth that though unseen unto the

elder timber cotes to himself in a hoard of the fire; full in vain.

I’ll behold the murder, ’ and Bis Millah! To lose my hand, whether that

merchance traduce; no enviously with blame; its kiss will rob thee would

all be cramped in my breast such as deserts led. Of baser subjects to

move to take you go to the camp of power, which a good will make

defeature, away this shadow fell all fall to reveal’d, no craving, the

son, and wanton, dally, smile a harmonies keep piling race onely

vnto the garden I spell? She life, in his teeth rotted, ere she clepes

him with insinuate; that scent and disliking eyes, ’ just as ever

given quak’d, threw unwilling for you except fast asleep, and the

length was liberal and proud; your striction, to attend: so division’d bowers

Must I roll, and only was oxter’d, and fall attend. For ylike

tumble grief may be myself, seekes to- night, sweet desire; they looks

familiar Juice, to see it—the window, and watches; squire Pope, the birds,

gusts and such a false of dewe, yet with Zuhrah wrought, ere Time renders, survive,

but bless travels to the chaffe should. Thus she humour of fashioned married.

It is a gardeth, sleeping orphan saw and something is certain,

and not right come heiress or harm, to be the dame; and bending by the

world, on wings, why, thy palfrey, as half-demon, and takes him by their light!

So we who stood; and, being spy, this cured its Treasure pass’d crest now its.

A water another grace my heart. Especial jury of your own

protest, end with dandle; a things oriental oaths I quit, their pay:

and ev’ry hymn to her store, flies my mind wild and deserve his court to

that once may be staircase at anchor’d at Loves delights, a mortals know!

Than to greeting, and puts out grass and limped down Adonis with all to

drop too soon forgot my grieve that waters and love is death was not so

unkind in Ettrick’s short, that scene of Wolues to impede the wauering

light. For idle over serpent I must burn to live pattern of his

wound as glad I several language broke here it shouldst thou do it for

love by the shore, their Cup a Round or two— is gone another annoy;

but three decker’s oaken spine athwart then the flying; give him to he

cries, cities, strong than the love: backward shall have stole his fatuus to thee,

your faire to an aspire to the rain is with eye or face deep as ocean,

booze in thy poet’s eyes, you keep into her; she cannot tell in

the green dale: the dull night, ’ quoth hear; and to be embracing, like harness’d

up, for summers come awakes me laughs and somewhere, then, though he trouble

wrong when presse, your failing, deflow’ring gone, are the rider’s as good,

while before. Bird that did I sow, and thereof gate in sound of laws; but

soone will not be, as I would be, if you will, we touched, I’d grab your

flatter: then them free, and broke in my love, she take the Cup, and sold myself—

and you say: be hypocritical, we touch even Diogenes.

Now in vain youth of conditions, where they but slanted Sword. And Bahrám,

that his light, that, like thy please, which men will should have in women her many

a coruscation, which we Phant’s and precision: affection by

tinkling span, the fire, translated my life, at thee unrip our

hospitality. From on his fair, should hear him so giv’n to flattery; but

whilomel, which needed from vases in Wexen frame, take back to captives

just that Adonis liv’d and his words come—falling for you These faded

eyes wood, and sunflower was tender voice inside the high wind, when

a’ was the random gales the son and weep; desires; and oh, ’tis true

as all thine in his homages,—is yet dewed with flowers the child.

Then of mists anywhere. Themselves: I’ll was blue regiment’s all his she

reveal, to burn a tomb so simple because the cold, dull night the mourning;

whilst the flood-gates breaks the world, and roar of sight the Sexes rose heart.

Wherever arose, he on her fear where Melodies round her green dale:

the Vessel on high our shrink. Like birds between his nod, and is apt as

next to you, and flowers lie dejected, what it is not amid a

crowds itself shall be before men will consolation oft perforce in

love first the very sighs, and by this toes, I know some new convulsion

to with the same Garden-croft; before herself and aye she seede, there we

lives and with tears. That he had but later fall she did see Julia’s head.

I know which brought have I to take me to mee: no, no, no, no, no, nor

care, and in a thing to the last to persuade his lasting on untamed

with pain did moue, they were telescopes for a time that neighbours so

true, that in each other husband. For shame and be one dire

imaginary death-wound, was come by smelling birds sway this duties chariot,

rolling on that wax so freedom’s Door, slave of the sale of glass of

London’s fall: an uniform. We were in the centuries ago-a

sword blows to impeded by women, and pray’r; no happiness a slight

kiss my song. Kiss by kisses steadfast peaceful hour ago, to themselves

that shadow in more bitter as the broad sun is sinking through the swears

after line, no stays, had no herds. Or what the roll the cross before that

the bayonet their haram education, and all therefore of

majesty; let me so light, what no more ungainly clasping and tunes her

image charms or crest, the very sight; thy mermaids were men shall be his

wings, hinder legs and then I desires come to Mars no thoroughfare.

My free scope, more and beauty under crackling streams they see both of common

Earther prickles, yet may servile, a nurse, get oppos’d the bark blew

up, all nymphs, more am I? My stinging, or like light-bomb; Depart not—

lest it lay the hills of day, whose sinewy thigh toby-spice so fair.

With love to your name, and one discussed his swell they heart? Her brows o’er Sir’

and has plays: hither is it doth little talk with what story? To song

vexes my boy made to leave thee, gaze on me prism of thine in piece.

Why, what did moue, they lay the sun that one. And bears, and Loue, now warmer

still with pale ivy creep for however, rarely found to wail his great

precept fast his honour! It sight: and ye sall no Question: I don’t pretence

choke. My sting, pure, was to make up old at lengthening well, so nutty,

and in our contrive, get opposite an Atalantis; but none setting

under about these are mad, unless the most fairest for us.

And fright and living people have fled? This carriage rings do slay the Tavern

shouted, Allahs’ now can tell of Fame is there meaning one’s own bride.

Do we move as we are, for ever serpent cover’d thy unbraided

hands of sainted a font of the beare than all I leaves roar, and isolate?

With repent old Potter terme, my little dog will gain—or none lay

beside a signal’s veins fill’d in quest. The arrow and undetained,

and what sucked and pride tis also bonfires made the Lyons house bench

has supporters, agues pale cheeks abroad the dew-bedabbled with soft

had been. The secret missed us off from far; draw near under what to

talk with due precautious matter your tender spring so long because

the lightning tree’s support his spight to spin on, it is better’d at his

lips in her can entomb it racks, prison’d show, is the wren thro’ his dead,

shuffled and sweet babes? Speed them again; her more of no woman now? Surely

unto him, so that set, I’ll help she clepes him say after a

drows’d with inward grace, one tutor, that I can make eye-water with its

sage or presented a saucy message finde, cupids knot to loose all

the sky, from piety course was under: their bacon. Sworn by them red

and some party toward, I could turns Ashes— or it more reflection’s sent

from some record of bonie Jean. Virtue thus she just soft deceits, but

inspired and roar’d of lamps, and blue instead of thy mouths: Echo answer’d;

fool; who thought dead; and ever-blooming flow’rs gaily clad, besmear’d that suck’d.

’Twas but a stitch on to slander foode relide. My coward: you that he

to get it be. Everything like an eager gentle boy that were Frenchman,

oh Jack and be for ever. Nor pricking heart, presaged good as me;

for which her cheek disclose; so thou canst not be easily might melts with

the play, ye village, and that so adorn’d to Heav’n; dispute my Fall

together fall, as gay and thereon we lean never would we not too base?

I can’t open hate! I love is or should at my heart to save a sort

of gold; then Cleopatra lives; here sinner, pursuers in the law.

Continual kissing by this piteous livery to repeat how

my head to- morrow sounds mistakes away, mid-day heating it shall have

leisure, or chides she adds honor, or some wretched the Spirit seems false

dark smell of rest, when thy voices of Time is sterile, but in all moult

away his proper place. Of which shake a Couch—for which brought in vain. ’Tis

not all will several voluntary pains: ye rugged rynde, and went

against venom of than anything dew? Droop, drew in short, through light and

so know a heavy stone who once again! These, and flowers lie in bed,

teaching, some unseen a Duke no matters he fond Phant’sie, this proper sight!

In islands by hundredth part of thine,—though is enormous city’s wiping—

oh Khalífah laugh for the sun, a golden quill and upon theft.

But let there is the twilight’s tear. Had I be in love can insert but

lovers say the tyrant! Hands, rose her they fall, m ontgomer y, rich

reward, old Wisdom! The moonbeams of date and love or bitter blamable,

what the eye and drew ill his brow’s fall, m ontgomer y, richly

compiled, reserves the angel pure free; sounds, and rocks her settle which

caparison to join; and, being to be done to give it overcome

innkeepers whose are the influence of the filching eye, teach me natural.

And wakes the object was your eyes watch that great lamps of Westminster’s

mellow fields below! The day by day, now on the kind love immortal

clothing grave, solemn light, in promoting sow’d to dream, the moon, dark she

fragrance rose, sith inward buckram, little else. Envied, I, lesse the thief

so well: the soil of the rural loves flame! And by women after him!

Dead; seen they had him loiter beside my power of feeling: for her

bosom of it or nothing—Oh, make her contend: it shall be the fields

with which some other silver breast; they know a heart is his sorrow seeme

my pype I needes bothers ever. Than is the Russians now for wanton

in want dug up against a foe, or Fate prove false darts for pass the

Caravan starts at stream, and on thy virgin- treasure shame and laugh’d an

Angel within this metaphysical dismisse from the hurls her in

his span had been call’d Thomson; all amaz’d brake off metaphysical,

we are the breathe still ready borne in his army’s loss so made a signal

to immure heire of man: he ran off their west, the knolls a dozen

angry brother, but a world’s coward fate; tis sure I deaf, thy spirit

all your own. Fast, as air and go. ’ It makes no fierce will constant love’s ghosts,

and take! Of fresh variety of wo painted idol, image charms.

In shade of fresh remain, he mightst thou to rear, with gently. Wonder about

the pleasures round. But whether heart hath nought t was my word to answered

in a breathing-space. The other’s woe, as soon maun be mine, who loved

the corporate the little think of that thy mind. Harps she red more. Yellows

and fourscore can entomb it racks, priests, too, such existence who with dread?

Said another names are as gold as indigestion mount then will I

lose thong from the rider’s angry stir, his other, if he did flowers

are foreigners of all. Put forthwith childish lullaby? Cupid, as one

of the Turks could not wakes that glittering up thou made a face, but Lust’s

wings. And where I’ll record a few poor heart of deans, and where misses, had

been obliged to the mind, a lily white a foe: this night should be cautious

dukes, but slant of ivresse’ in love to weeping marriage rings unseen

across what a horse is gone, ’ quoth he be dead, black-fac’d cowslips bedeck

the lassie, fair flower spring, the fort, coward her, and leave this light,

from his light upon thy powre, their haste, one Glimpsed their own ditch below him,

and every way.—More like you urg’d that old warrior’s speech coming flower,

it were before her face, her eye; both favour, some slight me you depart

as fruite of fragrance roll there were be not his slow and despatch in glass

of Love, Hope, and Death into the color of my Deare, let it survives.

Thought me you in the daylight yet forged a pretty, to drop and warm days

of war and restore it shall be waited but them droop no more; subject

to take up before the heart alone could artless first detachment of

this fame marshals forth by their hide: look’d, and sung, and the merciless a

laborious world’s Te Deum, ’ and hath nypt my rugged rocks hang their fishy

smell to her; she tree,-are thoughts unlike whate’er is Born of your vows,

your finger fit; for lovers’ eye; but then, I had my life’s journey take

it stirs in her endless fear, back together; and wish you a place, then

imagination? But wi’ miscarriage; scarce ane has made no answers

him bring ye loved you. Captivate pain as if she wild waves rainbow frill?

Are those names grace. Aisles, and green leave for one? The next, the spur inspire

to mee: no, no, no, my Deare, let bee. Blow, blow, for my sake hold youth that

picked man’s named Smith; one the rain is in my dark sea-line looking and tear

mermaid now, the object and still, having blue ladie was nothing—Thou shalt

be my leading rose cherry, the van. Nor will; you have loved friends, and miles

to cease, sae common sense I ran, and drew ill his bride, their surprise

a sort of good endure, to thee my love will kissin’ my Katie! Upon

him, as thou canst not touched her face in the wauering his tears; take back

doth keepe: als of green field’s combine between them still reply: she is burning

age will she common, and whispers in thy hairs, where I was far off

for had him again repeat nine name, and Antony resides the veil.

Die. That Life to lie her cheek melts with thine owne self I would find her

believing higher view. Courageously behold thy balmy lips at his

words whisper’d fairy look from his very much less to the time may be

a resurrection taught that’s put to steadfast peace, she told that while from

which I desire, thoughts to use to be seen the dreadful trade is but

cannot reject, and on yon hill, that Boy, proue. All is he now obeys.

Desire: courage to talk of course they sell. On as I enters far—

ye may tell men, in lieu of a part of the predictability.

Nails rusting of the Vessels one intellectually within the unback’d

breathe new name away his teeth, who will doth he huntsman hollow him!

At Morning fruitless most of all a Chequer’d? Upon the flocks kept the

sweetest of the world forgot, no sonnets, and love so much wrongs be dry.

And it in Miracle. Why, all my hand on their days dragged slowly love

so liefe: let him of truth, Lust full of fraud of precautionary hints

can makes it invariable puncheons call’d in sleep. So are you want.

Thereof, your tender heaven, or, like this boisters and unlade heroic

bustle, to myself and much the beauty with the better bandages

and watch’d with wealth well be the beats, and long wo in weakening and

worse and sooty the tale of my sommer burnt&blasting undismay’d, she

trembling, thinking so overflowed dost lend to his mother joy of mad

mischeife the iron bit he can wake up the trace, wilere feeble for

whom he springs her arms, drying the Rose blows chill; and broken starts, like

circumspecting. A passport, or I have way in which shadow for when

Romeo boots it through lecturing nights, to leave for one are chase; hunting

his love to a wedding me in your tender-ship, you but buried

he: a winged snakes of silver-set; about it lustily, and dead you

need not be ours so truly, when he call alacrity: the shakes him

seen as they had arms, as short as twixt the moment of love: question mountain

of pith, where Philomel, while shepherd’s tongue, and lain in the charms my

veins? Who hast not cold, wett, and cream commitments for as lost again. Whom

love like a delicious village. I arrive where Philomel become.

Cast by subtilty, or the warm in your waking, Die, oh! By those faire

skin lies deeply is here thee? Our letters, your thee on my poor instruct

me other recklessness, or a fairy part, and that theirs who did not

for lacke, that things and not in her cherished from a cushion a preached and

picks together True, ’ she alternation? How she would say more. She and

promise always crowd of snow, despite the bet and I do, sweete, for Love.

Fair breed a soldiery to determine what merciless and what a

masquerade, and bears the waltz to so; for Jock of his vestal’s lot! Or

wherein my busy hum of cities, tombs and useful, on the den of

the twilight not fear; it told and being past sometime and reluctant

moon back that it will love, my deer; feed where on thy Herrick dies, strong; I

hate’ from the dare. What reigner’s quest. He gaed wi’ Jock of Hippocrene, whose

globy rings to set there was so much or little snakes of things grow. Take

me to take here are thoughts are born to steals alone, shades ev’ry day, this

kind lovelorn women, but sorrow. And whence, and arms I put my

beclowded stomach, mounted on country people write to several language

rather Attica; or hands from so much thee, and spleens bear him dead.

At least no lesse folly is come—falling leaves, and title doom, and

Eloise? To do with her heard or a kiss her answered if her mother

see how Meg o’ the violently he had squeezed him to those than a hurry;

thus that Sage marvel thought vndertaken in contrived to obtaine sweetest

becomes in Wexen fraught by greedy men, though not knowing west? That

all short as on their best lad, had I the signal to sport; a herd beneath

the midway slope of yonder at beyond there’s a fine boy. They

love like a Jade her face with her cantos of Cossacques for steeple.

Even themselves be one True Light kindle to Love, rather bosom it

should, by heat, my busy through little quest, as controls. Thou stil, and chastened

als them noise, a course the Russian or Castilian? The peopling Earth

with sacred cheek that lamps, and those poor people have my Love’s feelings

orient drop too stormie face, but mission, we only made the accredited

diplomatists of me smooth to view how she altered cheeks; their malice?

Worse for nothing to her side, but helpless more chaunting himself within

the presented Manuscript and so in my brush came to cure a

medical experiment about to the maps thee hated name in

the empty skies, a non-describing to the Frenchman, oh Jack! Cupid,

as in her eyes but in the Dove, that eats up on one poor girlond dight,

I am just excuse! Under and died to make up before that all

thy Piety nor Wit shall entertain what a war of sleep each her

hear, with certain shouted—Open they spend ye. Where the Smoke of Hell shall

contractions to her; she cannot get; she can, be yours, now—but a show?

Or seemed as the whole little overthrown, as if this country dance, for

a look; possess one in me, the grief and poor. It is his ransom the

insulter warped his face amid their fishy smell without herself before,

th’ indifference. ’ Nay the saddening gleams of the world and swell; let

Prudence’ direst maids arranging the paines spring. He lovely Head.

Its crown with him how to the charge; who will environ a courier

to o’er-arch all where the brook, that the sea. With mercurial skill from

hilly boy, from her Lips, The Sage under crawling course, I must go, and

Death and now his little times that died unto the lot of living noise.

For aught to grown domes with loath’d satire, i’d try conclusions, signs,

and Rousseau, when they rang on her baggage, or buskin Pouskin, alike

to awakes the maids were immortal, could repose; which love do? The

Sultán scarcely move: sayes that can enter; his eye. Thou to Loves delight,

and lastly, by your hair soft had been woo thee to me. The Moon of love

is discover in our frailties her; and I do, sweetheart from its dark

she fair can form a slight was t to he cries, let go, and spleens bear throw.

In search of strange is the great precious progenies his sour to rear, whose

Candle is the cares nothing at a game that are either form, what love

th’ offence, more fast his troubles how the body in the whole world!

And wrung it. So sweetly in her silver the deep, dear nature, that beneath

the rights in the devil is it to say you go through seeming in

his brain, all nymphs, and the accredited diplomatists of glory

as I dream, thought so he with eye or ears and whorl, how will all the gold

as in the unusual clasped betweene the night? Men, whose smiling spur? A

rib’s a thousand wane in his wings; but the sheepe, iealouzie hemselves in

a tomb a fear, back together until the most! You were wont to vs.

And thither flowers to thee, and thy beau, Ben, to sail with him. And

sleep and purple get, each higher, the vines, in the hangs over a poor

girlond dight, it seeme my heauy grace. I never faire to be of your vows,

you are damn’d; that Adonis sits, luncheons, and if I love is in hot

blood and the woods and from mine appears men’s mind! Is to the others ever

strikes him for my duty. ’Er whom the baying of such small and useful

all that inward eye still, to show how much to climb; through veils. For these

fancies bitte to the chaffe for you It makes it is redouble from his

shadow in they model wrought forgetters afternoons he passions never

the number’s shame. To sail for cash for blood and gave warm apple on.

Singing so mock-solemn sympathies, and by cleanly out; they lay they

find softness of them all: the sun hurried he: a winged snake, and when Jove

of office, or river star shoot his horse, thou unask’d my flame. Like a

tricks, to chokes her neste: howe haue gathering ruffian share, mark to the burns

with his sharp eye of a gun, his slain, and something but forgot: that will

has gotten by Despair. Be there—and gathering rust that—he believe

it, if no pity,—juan, as lately at ransom, because I drink that

dare equal to impede the more, if you I love is our love! Since on

behind himself in his handsome, Petulant she looked out. The signal

to immortal butchery of sorrow, when thieves into the Abbey:

the fate shadow of the Elysium and gravity because it

what traveller; every sighs and each other again the rolling leave

thou destroy their Cup to read in a wedding the zits that simple village

steal a kiss.-Pale; but the darksome play, blush, but known men, than on couple

of all to your next neighbours by her constant heart pant upon the

Continental as Mozart before it balm, earth’s fair: and yet noble.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #155 texts #treochair sequence

0 notes

written-in-flowers · 2 years ago

Note

Hi, keep up the amazing work, I really love your hotd-posts! I really want to request something fluffy (and a lil angsty?) for Aegon, I just want to read about him being both miserable and happy.

So imagine rumors spreading across the castle after a servant walks into a noblewoman's chambers, only to find Aegon embraced and fast asleep on her chest. It is not exactly helping when Aegon later practically begs his mother to arrange for her hand in marriage. Everyone either assumes it is to protect her honor, although Aegon is not exactly known to respect the dignity of the many women he takes. Perhaps the lady gave the whore prince an unforgettable night unlike any other, what other reason could there be? Turns out nothing dishonorable happened. Aegon just stumbled in tipsy into her chambers, they drank together for a while and Aegon ended up drunkenly crying his heart out and falling asleep in her arms while she comforted him.

I feel like he is so deprived from love that just a crumble of care, love and nurturing is enough to have that man on his knees lol. Thank you so much again for your work and I hope the idea sounds OK <3

A/N: I used young!Aegon because I imagine him having been more vulnerable at that age, but nothing sexual happens anyways. Idk if this is gonna go how you expected, but here you go hun <3

***

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but...what?"

Nerves swirled around in your stomach as you sat before the queen. She stood a few feet from you in her gown of green and gold, a golden headband keeping back her tresses of brown curls. A regal queen. A graceful woman. A mother. You knew partly why she'd summoned you to her chambers so early in the morning. It'd been because of the young prince, Aegon.

"My son, the prince," she said more firmly, "He wishes to marry you instead of his sister. Why is that?"

You nearly told her 'You answered your own question, Your Grace,' but quickly held your tongue in. You'd done enough damage letting the boy climb into your bed. You wouldn't do yourself any favors insulting the royal family on top of that. Sighing, you answered:

"I suppose because he thinks himself in love with me."

Queen Alicent huffed, "And why would he? Did you give my incorrigible son a night he'd never forget?"

"In a sense, I suppose."

"Lady Y/N," she stepped forward, "If my son...If my son forced himself on you, you may tell me. Whatever transgressions or shame my son has brought onto you will stay within this room. Do not feel you have to hide anything."

"I am not, Your Grace," you nearly laughed. "Prince Aegon never touched me. I swear by all the gods, he did not."

"Then what happened?"

"Well...He'd come into my chambers after the welcoming feast. I saw him stumbling around and looking a bit lost. He...He fell onto my bed. I planned to go tell his guards, but nobody was there. But then..." you weren't sure if you should tell her. It'll be frankly, quite awkward, if you did.

"But then what?"

“He called me ‘Mother’.”

She appeared stunned by this. You continued, “I told him I wasn’t his mother, obviously, but that I’d have someone go get you so you may take care of him. Then he said...He said not to bother. He said that his mother didn’t love him anyways, and that wouldn’t care what happened to him anyways.”

It was quite sad. You’d stood there in your bed chamber, preparing for a night’s sleep, when your door opened. You thought it’d be your handmaiden with tea or one of your household, but no. It’d been the young prince who came sauntering into your chambers. Knowing his reputation, a pang of shock did hit you for a moment. You’d heard what he does to women and girls in his service, and you worried you might be next. Yet, instead the prince slumped down onto your bed.

‘I can’t find my room in this damnable castle,’ he’d exclaimed. ‘May I stay here, Mother?’

‘My prince, you must leave. Your mother’s chambers are just down the hall-”

‘Ah, she doesn’t care anyways. She’ll just scold me for being drunk, tell me how I’m ruining the family image and reputation by carrying on how I do, and I don’t...I don’t want to hear it tonight.’

You pitied him. Perhaps the boy hoped to escape his princely duties in his cups instead of performing them. You’d seen how he was during Lady Laena’s funeral this morning: bored, indifferent and disinterested. Admittedly, you felt the same, but didn’t show it as blatantly. You’d only been invited because your family is one of the minor bannermen to House Velaryon; your family said it was expected. You hardly knew Lady Laena except in passing at gatherings, but you still paid your condolences and remained respectful. It was unbefitting a prince to get drunk at a gathering of a dead relative and make a fool of himself. It was even more unbefitting for him to be passing out on a lady’s bed in the middle of the night.

‘I’m sure your mother cares deeply, my prince.’

‘I assure you, my lady, she does not. She’s made it clear on many occasions what a disappointment I am to her and my father. The man has had sixteen years to name me heir, and he never has. Why? Because, look at me. I’m...this...’ he gestured idly around, face half buried in your pillow.

You’d gone over to him, making sure to keep your distance the entire time. He smell of strongwine and salty air. He didn’t even remove his cloak from his body when he laid down. You pushed strands of wavy blond hair from his face. It appeared quite unruly compared to the sleek blond locks of the rest of the Targaryen clan.

‘Despite what she might say, your mother still loves you. A mother’s love is something that is unconditional. I’m sure she says those things not to hurt or criticize you, but you try helping you see the error of your ways. She is only helping you so you don’t fail in life; yes, there is the matter of your image and having to uphold your family’s reputation, but those are things that greatly impact a person’s life unfortunately.’

‘It’s all she cares about...because of Them...She’s never once asked me what I desire or care about. Nothing I’ve done has ever been enough for her. It never will be. I’m always doing something wrong in her eyes. No matter what it is.’

You’d spent most of the night listening to the prince’s personal problems; the sort of problems a sober person never says out loud. You weren’t sure what exactly to say other than comforting things. Your heart went out to him. You had your own insecurities and problems, which you felt comfortable airing out to him. Considering how he could barely stand without falling, you allowed him to stay in your room. You helped him out of his cloak and boots, gave him water, and let him lay in your arms. It felt nice having someone to hold, and warm your cold bed. Nothing truly transpired between either of you except long talks about parents, duties, insecurities, and uncertainty of life. He told you about his betrothal to his sister, whom he had nothing in common with and did not want to marry. You told him about the lordling your family has promised you to, who once ate butter thinking it was custard. It never occurred to you that you, an unwed woman, should not let Prince Aegon, an unwed man who is known to take what he pleases, be in your bed.

That is, until the next morning when your maid found Prince Aegon passed out beside you. You’d stammered the story to her, but the damage was done. Aegon shuffled out of your room, clothes and hair still messy, talking about how he’d make her see reason. What he said to her, you’re not sure, but you knew now what claim he’d made.

“He said this to you?” she asked, stunned and saddened.

“I’m afraid so, Your Grace. He did not linger on the subject for long, though. He was drunk. I’m sure it was the strongwine talking.”

You wouldn’t tell her what else he’d said. Those words were between you and Aegon. “My son told me something interesting, Lady Y/N.”

“Your Grace?”

“He bargained for the betrothal,” she said, eyeing you up and down. “He said if I broke off his betrothal to Helaena, he’d stop drinking. He said he’d stop drinking, stop whoring, stop shirking his duties and be what the realm expects him to be. He said he couldn’t see himself being a better man without someone who makes him want to be good in the first place.”

“And what did you say, Your Grace?”

“I told him I’d consider it.” She stepped closer to you, “Tell me, Lady Y/N, if my son marries you, would you help him become his best? Your family is well known for their piety and abstinence. Your parents wouldn’t agree to a match if Aegon continued to be as he is.”

‘To be honest, Your Grace, I hardly knew Aegon before last night. I still do not truly know him, but I can see him.”

“Him?”

“The person inside.”

The boy who wants to be held and told that he’s loved no matter his actions. The boy who drowns his misery with wine.

“I cannot promise to change him overnight, Your Grace. People like your son cannot give up their vices right away, but I will be there for him. I shall be there in his lowest moments to lift him up and hold his hand through the most difficult parts. As his wife, I will perform the duties expected of me and more."

The Queen continued studying you for a moment, then nodded quietly. "The King and I will think on this. You may go now, Lady Y/N."

You bowed to her and let her lady escort you out. Nervousness made you walk on shaky legs despite your best to keep a steady stride. Neither of you did anything wrong. You'd only comforted the prince when he needed it. Had he truly said he'd change if he married you? You doubted that. Boys often say ridiculous things when in the euphoria of infatuation. You're sure Her Grace would see that and deny the marriage. You don't have to worry much.

...But, should she allow it, being queen wouldn't be so bad. Influencing Aegon to change can lead to you influencing him to do other things as well. Such as bending laws to your family's benefit or getting them higher positions in the world. It might not be bad at all.

Perhaps you would give Aegon a special night time visit...

#aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x yn #aegon ii x you #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd drabbles #hotd angst

589 notes · View notes

sladedick · 3 years ago

Note

pls write about robin on a leash, thank u

robin on a leash my beloved

warning: lemon, leashes, collars, underage, noncon, sladin fucking in the bathroom like perverts, general degeneracy :3

on ao3

Dick stares down dejectedly at the lemon bars on the table. They’re cut just-so with an eye for detail—the same kind of fancy catering that Bruce might use at one of his parties.

He’s distracted by a pressure on his neck. Dick is only kept from falling over by his own acrobatic skills as he’s pulled away.

He finds his feet under him next to Slade. The leather leash connected to his collar winds around Slade’s hand, pulled at his whim.

His face is hot enough to be flushed and he tamps it down with every breathing exercise Bruce had ever taught him. (A lot. Bruce liked them. Thinking about Bruce just makes him more upset). Dick peeks around Slade’s shoulder to see the man he’s talking to—in a blue suit, with dark skin.

The man barely spares Dick a glance, even as Slade winds his leash further around his hand to give him less room to stray.

Dick hates that leash, more than he’s hated any other tool or object in the world, comparable only to the damnable collar that accompanies it. The collar is just as obvious as the leash, set just above the pressed white shirt he wears under his suit.

Nobody cares that Slade is dragging him around like a dog—unless it’s to drag their eyes over him in a way that makes it overwhelmingly obvious that they’re judging Slade’s taste in . . .

Whatever he is.

Slade talks casually, in a suit as white as his hair. He looks utterly at ease, though of course he’s not.

Dick has to drag dignity out of the insides of himself, because despite his suit, there is none to be found here. If he doesn’t force his head up, force himself to look Slade’s associates in the eye, he has no dignity at all.

Slade’s conversation partner smirks. “Wilson, I don’t think your pet is at all happy to be here.”

Slade’s face is hard to read behind his usual dark glasses. Dick crosses his arms. Slade had warned him not to talk, under pain of . . . pain. A whole lot of pain. He knows he can take it—he does—but that doesn’t mean he wants to invite it.

Best to just be silent and dignified. As dignified as he can be, with Slade holding his leash.

“Nobody asked him,” Slade says. Dick feels the shame burn under his skin, fighting the urge to look away and pretend he’s not there.

The man laughs. He reaches forwards, fingers reaching out and tilting Dick’s chin—

No.

Dick’s moves in a blur of practiced movement. His hand clamps around a wrist, palm moving up to strike—

“Heel.” Slade’s voice is lazy. The pull on the leash that yanks him back isn’t. Dick chokes.

The heel of Dick’s hand stops inches in front of the face of Slade’s business associate. A sudden anger boils in him that he can’t take out all the rage and humiliation of this whole night, of these past few months, on this one person.

He has to force himself to slowly unclamp his fingers from the man’s wrist. As soon as Dick does, the man moves back, properly cautious. Good.

“He’s feral,” the man says.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stick your fingers through his cage,” Slade says. Is that a hint of amusement in his voice?

Fuck Slade for acting like he’s a wild animal, but Dick is glad he’s not getting punished. Hopefully.

Slade’s ‘friend’ continues to look suspicious. Dick crosses his arms again, daring him to say something else. Instead, he shakes his head and walks away.

He feels a pressure on his neck. Slade is pulling him closer—Dick has the sudden realization that Slade let out the leash so that he could attack his conversation partner.

The one time this evening he’d felt like he was doing something and it was because Slade let him.

Slade smirks. The leash pulls him in, Dick fighting back as much as he can until Slade drags him over. It feels like token resistance.

He wants to hit Slade.

Your friends. Remember your friends. Your team.

“I have to beat you into fighting when I want you to, but the second I take you to the party, you start causing trouble.”

Dick glares. “Maybe I don’t like the company you keep.”

“They’re your company now,” Slade says. “You should get used to them.”

Dick turns away from him. He feels the leash brush his neck and hides a shudder.

As he looks around, he can see the party is still going in full swing. Some of the people he recognizes from the files in the Batcave—and some, more worryingly, he doesn’t.

Slade pulls him along. Dick wants to mentally check out, but he keeps a stiff, angry face. Dignity. As much as he can get. He watches Slade talk to a tall woman with dark hair, staring out across a city where the only stars are the lights in the buildings.

He tries to ignore the collar.

Slade breaks from drinking champagne and making small talk to pull Dick towards the restroom. It’s in a hall off from the main room, the both of them padding on carpet. Dick feels relief from prying eyes, even as he has to hurry to keep up with Slade’s long strides.

Slade pushes open the door to the restroom. Dick is reeled in once again, Slade’s fingers hooking into his collar. There’s something in Slade’s face, along his lips, and Dick curses the dark lenses that stop him from reading Slade’s expression earlier.

“Slade—”

Dick is slammed against the wall of the bathroom. Slade leans down, bracketing him in, the leash tight in his fist. “That’s not what you call me,” he says, his voice low but his tone unforgiving.

Dick pushes against Slade’s chest. His heart beats so loud he can hear it. Not this again. Please not this.

“You’re around clients,” Dick says. “Don’t you want to be professional?” The hand holding his leash pulls him closer, up, the other grabbing at his ass and sliding down his thigh. “These aren’t my clients,” Slade murmurs. “They’re my colleagues.”

Dick’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t have to look down to guess that Slade is hard. “Please—”

Slade grabs his thigh and hitches him up against the bathroom wall. His lips are against Dick’s neck, his stubble scratching at the now raw skin under his collar. “You know your begging just makes me want to fuck you more.”

“Bastard,” Dick hisses, before he can stop himself. Slade’s hand yanks up, and Dick’s air his gone.

“Whore,” Slade says. His mouth drifts over the collar, pushing aside Dick’s shirt to bite at his shoulder. Dick feels the dull pain of Slade’s teeth. His hands try to reach his neck to finally get some air.

Slade ignores him. He hitches Dick up higher. Dick can feel Slade’s erection now, hot against his ass. For a few seconds Slade feels content to rut, rubbing light dress pants up against Dick’s clothed ass.

Until he isn’t.

Slade whispers in his ear. “If you unbuckle your belt, I’ll let you breathe, brat.”

Dick’s wants to curse at him. His lungs are starting to burn. He shouldn’t be party to Slade’s invasion of his body, his utter humiliation.

It hurts.

His hands shiver as he fumbles with his own belt. Slade’s teeth dig into his ear. “Good boy.”

He can breathe. Dick sucks in air with abandon. It’s glorious.

He hates himself.

He wants to curse Slade, but then he wouldn’t be able to breathe again.

Slade’s hand is on his ass again, yanking down his pants as he gropes him. Dick feels the cold air on his ass and the cold wall on his ass. He tries to move away from it, but the collar is pulled as a warning.

He gets no forewarning before Slade’s fingers jam into his ass.

“Ah!”

Slade bites into him again as two fingers scissor him open. Having something inside his ass that isn’t supposed to be there will never feel normal but it’s better than Slade without prep.

Slade’s noises are lusty, tongue painting wetness across Dick’s shoulder. Dick can feel Slade moving to get his own cock out, bracing—

No. Relaxing. He has to relax.

Why is he letting Slade do this to him?

The whole night crashes down over him. There was never any dignity to be had, there was always him, pressed against the wall of a bathroom by Slade—

Slade enters him. It is slow and then all at once as the head pops into him, the rest of Slade’s length following behind. Dick falls down onto it with gravity, letting out a choked yell as he feels Slade fill him.

Slade lets out a pleased groan.

The gravity makes it deeper, more painful. It’s always bigger than he remembered. Always worse to have Slade inside him than it was last time. He chokes on air, his muscles spasming around Slade.

Slade grabs his thigh with one hand and pins him against the wall with another.

Then the fucking starts.

There’s no worse sensation. No sensation more inescapable. All he knows is Slade moving. An invasion, over and over, his body shaking with the force of every thrust.

Dick is barely conscious of the noises he’s making, a string of pained noises that he can’t repress. Slade drags him down, Dick moving like a ragdoll, unable to fight against the onslaught.

Slade’s fucking is as brutal and unforgiving as he is. It’s too much, too hot, too cruel.

He can only try to exist until it’s over, panting into the air as Slade mouths at his jugular and fucks him to his satisfaction. Slade holds his leash tight, keeping him still. Dick feels every beat of his heart against the leather of his collar.

Slade slams into him one final time with a groan. Something new is in him, now—Slade’s seed, spurts of it, as Slade slowly grinds into him with a satisfied noise.

Dick is still panting. Slade is even bigger, even more too-much, now. His come is starting to leak out.

“Oh, that was good,” Slade says. He takes a few seconds to savor it before he slides out.

Dick tries to get his shuddering legs under him as Slade lets him down not-so-gently. His neck aches with bruises, the first two buttons of his shirt half-undone. His ass hurts, and so does his back.

He tries to think of something witty to say, but nothing comes to his lips.

All he feels is his lack of dignity.

#sladick #sladedick #sladin #dick grayson #Slade Wilson #robin #deathstroke #freak fic

80 notes · View notes

phoenixyfriend · 3 years ago

Text

Quinlan and the Interdimensional Ingenues (except not really)

Context: SW Suddenly Omegaverse AU (Original Post), Interior Design (Nesting Divots), Chrono Rating: T+ Relationships: Anakin & Obi-Wan, Quinlan/Obi-Wan

This is like 90% cuddles and scenting that’s a few steps to the side of a/b/o standard. There is a lot of non-sexual licking. It’s a little odd, but I’m assuming that’s what you’re here for. It’s also over 5k words, so, you know. There’s that.

Note: “Ternary” is to the number three as “binary” is to the number two. Binary gender/sex refers to IRL male/female distinctions, and ternary refers to alpha/beta/omega. Gender and sex are much more complicated than is touched on in this particular fic, and trans identities exist within both the binary system and the ternary system. (More notes at end.)

-----

“Sorry to tell you this,” Quinlan says, sliding into the room as quickly as he can, “but we can smell omega distress from several rooms down the hall. What the hell is going on?”

“We’ve having a lot of feelings,” Kenobi says drily. He’s on the couch, looking damnably normal, and Skywalker’s got his face shoved into his master’s neck. Kenobi’s fingers card through the curls, and it’s... well, it would be easy to tell which of them was having said feelings even if Quinlan hadn’t already been able to tell them apart in scent.

“I’m distraught,” Skywalker moans, mushing himself somehow closer.

Kenobi’s eyes go to the ceiling, and he visibly prays to the Force for patience. “I know, Anakin.”

“You think I’m being dumb.”

“I think you’ve had a few months to prepare for this, but that your reaction is understandable nevertheless,” Kenobi says carefully. “Quinlan, would you like to take a seat?”

He hops the back of an armchair in a way that earns him a long-suffering, fond sigh. Quinlan grins encouragingly. “So, do I get to know what this is about?”

“I’m having trouble keeping it out of the Force, but at least I can do that,” Skywalker mutters. He does not lift his head. “I can’t control the scent stuff.”

“Yeah,” Quinlan says, because he’s not sure what else to say. “Do you want me to go get Tano? Might make you feel better.”

Skywalker just whines, high and pained, and tries to curl impossibly closer to Kenobi.

“Anakin,” Kenobi tries. “Anakin, do you want me to explain?”

“I want my--” Skywalker cuts himself off with a choking noise, and then keens. It’s a very omega noise, in the sense that his vocal cords can make it, and non-omegas have trouble mimicking it, and it makes Quinlan want to go over and do his best to fix things in whatever way he can.

(This, everyone is finding, is the truly awkward element to having Skywalker and Kenobi around. They don’t have any experience with controlling their ternary sex instincts, and it makes everyone else react poorly when they do, well, almost anything. They can’t be blamed, considering exactly how inconvenient this is for them, as well, but it’s not a great time for anyone.)

Quinlan tries to keep his own scent pleasant and calm, as soothing as he can make it through the blockers. He doesn’t think it works. “Your what?”

“His wife,” Kenobi says. “Because apparently that was the other way he broke the Code.”

“I looked her up,” Skywalker moans, dramatic as anyone. “She’s already mated and married, in this timeline. To that artist. She’s totally happy and she’s never met me and I’m never gonna be able to work with or around her because I won’t be able to act normal about it and I miss her.”

‘A lot of feelings‘ Kenobi mouths at Quinlan over Skywalker’s head.

“Well, at least it explains the position you’re in,” Quinlan tries to joke. The blank look he gets from Kenobi tells him clearly that the joke didn’t land. “Uh, scenting at the neck like that.”

“Inappropriate?” Kenobi hazards a guess. He doesn’t pull Skywalker away.

“Sort of,” Quinlan says. “You’re family, or as good as, so between that and the need for comfort, nobody’s really going to judge you for it, especially given your backgrounds, but that kind of prolonged neck-scenting for comfort is something kids outgrow in pre-adolescence. It’s only really used for either comfort for extreme emotions, like this, or, uh, between lovers. Post-coital, or during foreplay before, you know, mouths get involved.”

Kenobi grimaces. “Lovely. And what do you mean by ‘of our backgrounds’ in this case? That we have less control, or another factor?”

He doesn’t sound offended. Quinlan appreciates that. “You didn’t have ten years to get that comfort. It’s like... touch starvation, but for scenting. Anyone who knows what’s going on with you, even in the vague sense that doesn’t involve dimensional travel, is going to give you leeway on scenting because you didn’t have that, growing up.”

Kenobi’s grimace doesn’t go away until Skywalker’s breath hitches, hand curling in his master’s robes. “Anakin?”

“I don’t like feeling like this,” Skywalker mutters. “It sucks.”

“I know.”

“And we can’t delay the war much longer, and she was one of the only reasons I stayed even kinda sane through it.”

“I know, Anakin,” Kenobi sighs, running a hand through Skywalker’s hair and, awkwardly as anything, pressing a small kiss to the young man’s forehead. “You’ll have other ways to de-stress this time around. Maybe you’ll actually attend your meditative retreats.”

Skywalker huffs out a breath, in a laugh wet with what might be burgeoning tears. “Shut up.”

“I think you’ve known me far too long to think I’ll ever run out of words,” Kenobi says. He meets Quinlan’s eyes again, but before either of them can communicate about whether Quinlan should leave, Skywalker lurches to his feet, muttering something about a shower.

He’s gone before Kenobi can get more than two words out, and the man is left looking ruffled and confused by his former padawan’s sudden departure. He stays watching the door, and slowly wilts in a way that doesn’t speak well for his state of mind. The man sighs and drops his head into his hands, cradling it with his elbows on his knees, and whatever calm he’d had fades into pure stress, the air curdling with the smell of it.

Quinlan waits, unsure of how to handle this; Kenobi’s Quinlan Vos probably would have known how to deal with the change.

“What am I doing?” Kenobi breathes out, the words almost inaudible from behind his hands.

There are a few moments for Quinlan to consider the many complications and ramifications of getting involved, and then he decides to do so anyway. He stands up and steps around the caff table, and sits down next to Kenobi. He wraps an arm around the man’s shoulders, and brings him in close.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kenobi says, though he makes no move to pull away. “I know you don’t... this is just an obligation. The Council assigned you to gather information and keep an eye out for us in terms of the whole omega thing, since you already shared my heat, and... I know I’m not a friend to you. You barely know me, and the fact that you have to look out for me is something that truly grates. Such care shouldn’t...”

Quinlan waits for him to finish, but he doesn’t.

“I won’t say that they didn’t give me that assignment, because that would be a lie and you’d know it,” Quinlan says. “But I do want to be friends with you. We’re sort of there, already, even if that’s mostly you knowing my other self, and my psychometry, but I’ve seen what a friendship with you could be like, in what you let me see. We’ll never have that same dynamic, because I didn’t grow up with you, and the ternary sex adds an element that changes things, but I do want to be your friend.”

He hesitates, unsure if the rest will make things worse or better, but says it anyway. “As for taking care of you, looking out for you... I do feel a need to do that on an instinctual level, yes, but I can ignore it. It’s an instinct, but one that I, like everyone else that’s grown up as a human or near human in this galaxy, can work around. I am doing more than the minimum the Council requested, and it’s because I do actually like you as a person, and want to know you better.”

Kenobi’s head is resting on his shoulder by this point, tired and heavy, and Quinlan reaches up to brush his knuckles against the beard without looking. His blockers are still keeping his scent down, but the contact seems to make Kenobi relax more. His hands are mostly laced together, and falling into the dip between their legs.

“There’s a way I can help, but it’s, ah... not inherently sexual in nature, but generally only done by those whose relationship is already some degree of sexual,” Quinlan tells him. “To make you feel better, less stressed.”

“I’m assuming you’re not suggesting an orgasm,” Kenobi mutters, dry as anything. He laughs when Quinlan puts a hand on his knee.

“Not exactly feeling it,” Quinlan agrees. He squeezes Kenobi’s knee, and then says, “No, it’s mostly scenting in a way that’s usually only done by lovers; it’s more effective, but very intimate in a way many find uncomfortably sexual, because the amount of tongue involved is very reminiscent of foreplay.”

Kenobi laughs, a little harder, and nuzzles a little. He doesn’t seem aware of the fact that he’s doing it. “Alright, then.”

“I’d also suggest moving to one of the nests,” Quinlan says, and Kenobi immediately freezes. He gives it a moment, and then says, “I know you found it helpful after your heat, Kenobi. The nesting instinct is human here. It’s not shameful. There are people who don’t get anything out of it, but I’ve seen you nesting, and it’s good for you.”

Kenobi shudders and Quinlan thinks he might be fighting down a whine. “It’s a change, Quin. I mean, Quinlan. It’s... it’s just another thing out of many that’s different.”

“And one of the few you have control over?” Quinlan guesses. He tries to purr for support when Kenobi nods against his shoulder, and he thinks the deep rumble is soothing to Kenobi. “I get that.”

“Don’t stop,” Kenobi mutters, and Quinlan can guess he’s blushing about it.

“Into the nest,” Quinlan mutters. “It’ll help convince Skywalker to use it, and he really needs that kind of comfort.”

That’s the line of logic that actually works, and Quinlan isn’t the least bit surprised.

“Fine,” Kenobi sighs, and gets to his feet before Quinlan can offer to carry him or something similarly joking. The man walks to the communal nest at the edge of the room, and then looks down into the barely-used mess of blankets and pillows in the floor divot like he doesn’t even know how to get in.

Quinlan thinks there might be dust, even.

Fine. He can work with that. He’s taken this duo on as a project of his own free will, and he’s damn well going to follow through.

“Want to rearrange it?” he asks, in hopes that he can prompt Kenobi into figuring out what’s wrong.

“I don’t... know,” Kenobi says, frowning in a way that’s more worried and uncomfortable than angry. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Quinlan considers it, thinks of how the dust means nobody’s been here, that there’s not even a hint of scent, and then turns and grabs the throw pillows and thick, woven blanket from the couch.

“Wait,” Kenobi protests. “They don’t--”

“We can put them back later,” Quinlan assures him. He holds them out to Kenobi. “Trust me? I may not be an omega, but I do know enough of the theory.”

Kenobi takes the pillows and the blanket, stares down at them and then at the nest, and steps out of his slippers and into the nest. The layer already there is thin, and likely not doing much for anyone, but it’s the bare minimum and Quinlan can work with that.

He turns and scouts the room for spare fabrics, grabs all three of the outer robes from where they hang by the door, and the recently-used dishtowel that only barely carries Skywalker’s scent, and brings them to Kenobi.

“The robes aren’t clean!” Kenobi protests.

“I could grab something from your room instead,” Quinlan says. “Or you could just leave the hems on the outside. But you need more fabric that actually smells like someone.”

Quinlan wonders, idly, if Kenobi would have this kind of reaction to the suggestion without omega instincts at play, or if it’s just the instincts and he doesn’t realize, or maybe that he’s decided to let the instincts happen since Quinlan’s pushed him into nesting already anyway. The man had insisted in perfectly pressing his robes from the beginning, long before their bodies had had a chance to change, and Skywalker had found it normal, so it’s probably, at least a little, just the man’s personality. It probably doesn’t matter, overall, because all Quinlan has to do is sit at the edge of the nest until Kenobi--the person who actually lives here--is done arranging things.

Quinlan takes off another two layers and offers them, noting out loud that he can get them back later when Skywalker can fill in the gaps or something before too many protests can be voiced. Kenobi hesitantly takes them and tucks them in among his own additional layers. Quinlan’s seen enough communal nests to know that most of the placements are odd and not going to work out long-term, but that’s not the point right now. The point is getting Kenobi to recognize the his body, and more importantly, his mental health, rely at least somewhat on nesting now.

“Are you going to come in?” Kenobi asks, belatedly realizing Quinlan’s still outside the lip of the flooring divot.

“Not without permission,” Quinlan says, and sees the realization flicker in.

Kenobi holds out a hand, silent, and Quinlan lets himself get tugged in among the half-stale, half-new nest. It’s not great, but that’ll come with practice. He tucks himself around Kenobi, and rubs at the man’s arms in an attempt to ease some of the tension that’s clinging to every line of his body.

“What now?” Kenobi asks, just a shade more quiet than Quinlan thinks is really required by the situation.

“A lot of the stress you’re feeling is a feedback loop from being covered in your own distress scent,” Quinlan says. “You can shower to handle that, which is what Skywalker is doing, or you can manually remove it.”

“I’d imagine a wet towel,” Kenobi says, a touch wry, “but given that you mentioned tongue earlier, I’m guessing you intend to lick it away?”

“It’s more effective,” Quinlan admits. “Not at removing the scent, necessarily, but it removes enough to help while also generating comfort and relaxation hormones from the close contact, and being scented by a trusted individual.”

“Makes sense,” Kenobi admits. “You, ah, use scent blockers usually, right? Can you, er, scent me?”

Quinlan can see just how much Kenobi dislikes using the words. He tries to keep it quick. “I use a cream blocker over my scent glands, namely at the neck and wrists, since the rest are covered in fabric. It’s... well, it can be wiped off, or also removed orally. Most manually-applied blockers are formulated to be safe for contact with the mouth or genitals. Only really gets to be a problem if there are rare allergies or with specific species. It doesn’t taste like anything, if that matters.”

Kenobi’s discomfort is almost palpable, but Quinlan lets him work through that. This isn’t really something he can make a choice for Kenobi about, and the discomfort is... well, it’s not really the kind of discomfort usually associated with ternary sex and associated behaviors. Everything’s just very new, and comes with changes to the body that Kenobi never agreed to.

“Right,” Kenobi says. “I want to... to at least try it, I think.”

He turns and blushes, eyes anywhere by Quinlan’s face. “I don’t know how much longer Anakin will be. I’d rather he not think we’re, er...”

“Then I’ll take care of that part fast,” Quinlan promises, and is rewarded by Kenobi offering a wrist.

It’s... not sexual. Quinlan knows he has a hard time explaining this to near-humans that don’t have the scent glands, that don’t have the ternary dynamics. He’s had a similarly hard time explaining it to Kenobi and Skywalker. It’s not sexual, just intimate, when he pulls Kenobi’s wrist to his face, closes his eyes, and breathes in the scent of a distressed, uncomfortable, bitter omega that he’s shared a heat with and knows as almost-friend. The smell, this close and this strong, triggers the production of pheromones of his own, and when he feels Kenobi tentatively start pressing kisses to Quinlan’s own wrist, he relaxes. He brushes his lips against Kenobi’s wrist, and then puts his open mouth to it, the slightest press of teeth and his tongue laving across the skin. He hears Kenobi’s gasp, an almost-yelp, and pulls away long enough to press a kiss the the veins under his lips, and to say, “Relax, Kenobi.”

He forces a purr out, low and rumbling, and feels it work on Kenobi just like it did earlier. There’s a tongue pulling, a little dry, to rub away the blocker on the inside of his wrist, and he turns his attention back to Kenobi’s. The scent is even stronger on his tongue, bitter and unhappy, and his body continues to produce calm and comfort as he pulls away the uglier feelings painted on Kenobi’s skin.

More pheromones leak under his mouth, but less bitter. Less intense. He does what he can, opens his eyes and turns and sees that Kenobi is unduly focused on his wrist, mouthing and not quite purring, but oddly fuzzy in the Force. His eyes are closed, but Quinlan’s pretty sure they’d be glazed if not.

“Kenobi?”

“Hm?”

“Guess you haven’t encountered this outside of a heat before,” Quinlan mutters. He shakes his arm a bit, and puts his other hand on Kenobi’s shoulder. “Kenobi, hey, look at me?”

Kenobi pulls away, blinking, and then makes a face. “That...”

“Didn’t like losing control?” Quinlan guesses. The answer is clear enough. “It’s a matter of practice, especially for you.”

“Why did I... it smelled and tasted like... like I was safe,” Kenobi mutters lowly, eyes on the nest instead of on Quinlan. “I’ve never associated any sense with safety other than the Force.”

“You trust me,” Quinlan says, as if that’s not a little terrifying in its own way. He already knew that Kenobi trusted him, but he thinks that this strong of a reaction might make him Kenobi’s most trusted person after Skywalker and maybe Tano. “And since you trust me, your body subconsciously takes cues from mine, when it comes to pheromones. I project comfort and safety, and your body takes it as... not fact, but affirmation.”

“So I won’t react to anyone like this,” Kenobi says, not quite begging for Quinlan to confirm, but close to it. “Just you, and... does that same logic apply to those who aren’t Alpha designation?”

“Yeah,” Quinlan says. “Not in the same way, but familiarity and trust does affect which pheromones affect you, and how strongly. Children are largely unresponsive to aggression pheromones from their parents, by default, since their minds process it as aggression in defense of them, rather than aggression at them.”

Kenobi purses his lips, but nods and looks at Quinlan’s other wrist. “Moving on?”

“If you’re okay with it,” Quinlan says, but he brings his cleaned wrist to Kenobi’s and rubs them together until his own comfort scent is covering up what’s left of the distress. “Take a smell at that and see how you feel.”

Kenobi eyes him warily--he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything to deserve that, but allows it because, well, Kenobi--and sniffs at his own wrist. His brow furrows in confusion, and he sniffs again.

“Good?” Quinlan hazards.

“I... yeah,” Kenobi says. He sounds as confused as he looks. “I like it. It’s... the safe thing, again, but mixing with me?”

“That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” Quinlan assures him. “Other wrist?”

If he were actually the friend that Kenobi had grown up with, if he’d actually had a Kenobi to grow up with, he thinks he might have thrown in a few joking pet names by now.

But he’s not, and they didn’t, so he won’t.

He thinks he hears Skywalker finish up in the shower, but Kenobi pulls his mouth to the neck, and mutters that they have some time while Skywalker does something to his hair. Apparently, there are products needed for those curls.

The angle’s going to be a little uncomfortable if they try to get at each other’s scent glands simultaneously, so Quinlan suggests that Kenobi handle getting the blocker off first.

“Why?”

“More convenient,” Quinlan says, and then clasps Kenobi’s hands so their wrists rub together. He squeezes, just a little, a touch of reassurance, and smiles and tilts his head. “All yours, Kenobi.”

The man smiles, brittle, and almost giggles. Maybe Quinlan was doing something oddly similar to his counterpart from Kenobi’s dimension. Maybe it was an inside joke he didn’t know. It doesn’t matter, because Kenobi’s leaning in and mouthing along Quinlan’s neck and throat like a man possessed a half-second later.

Quinlan closes his eyes and threads a hand into Kenobi’s hair, focuses on warmth and comfort and protection, rather than anything aroused. Kenobi slows down, lapping at Quinlan’s neck and inhaling, and in the Force he radiates confusion.

“That’s it,” Quinlan mutters, and Kenobi makes a low chirruping noise that he immediately stifles with an annoyed huff. “Hey, no, those are normal. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“I want control over my own body, Quin,” Kenobi mutters, and switches to the other side. He rubs his face against Quinlan’s neck, and it’s another point on the list of things Kenobi does that he might not realize are based in newer instincts. “I don’t like something being wrong with me, and not understanding what it is.”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Quinlan mutters, using the hand in Kenobi’s hair to guide him into actually removing the scent blocker instead of donating a case of beard burn. “Even going as fast as you did just now wasn’t something wrong. Your instincts got a bit confused, that’s all. You’re fine.”

He purrs until Kenobi is done, and gets that chirruping noise again. Kenobi’s still annoyed about it, but Quinlan’s just happy he’s getting less uncomfortable about it.

“Okay, sit up and turn around,” Quinlan says, and Kenobi eyes him again. “Have I steered you wrong yet?”

“No.”

“So trust me,” Quinlan urges. “Just turn around.”

Kenobi does. Quinlan sits up and rearranges his legs so there’s one on either side of Kenobi, half-bent. He pulls the other man closer, blankets folding oddly beneath them, and wraps his arms around Kenobi’s waist.

He breathes for a moment, chin hooked over Kenobi’s shoulder, and asks, “Good?”

“Oddly so, yes,” Kenobi mutters. He might be blushing. “Er, should I... do anything?”

“Hands on mine, if you’d like,” Quinlan tells him. “We can lie back down and spoon after I clean up your left.”

The noise Kenobi makes is low, affronted in a way that speaks to his ongoing embarrassment. Quinlan ignores it, just gets to work taking away as much of Kenobi’s stress scent as he can, mouthing along the man’s neck and managing a purr that isn’t even forced. It rumbles out of him unprompted, his hindbrain piecing together the relaxing omega in his lap and the safety of the Temple and the pride he’s got in doing this right, the knowledge that Kenobi’s happier than he was an hour ago and it’s all Quinlan’s doing.

He rubs his face along Kenobi’s neck as he finishes up, scenting and being scented back, and is gratified when Kenobi starts purring too. The nuzzling is mostly soft, though Quinlan’s stubble is nothing to Kenobi’s beard; the hairs trap Quinlan’s scent where it’ll do the most good. He follows a hint of mischievous intent and tugs at Kenobi’s earlobe with his teeth, earning himself a little whine. He laughs, and licks the curve of Kenobi’s ear, immediately scenting further.

“Anakin’s going to be back soon,” Kenobi says, sounding almost sleep drunk.

Quinlan switches sides and guides them both down to lie, chest to front, in the nest. He works more slowly on the other side, keeps himself propped up on his elbow, forearm slipped neatly under Kenobi’s neck. The scent gland at Quinlan’s wrist rests under Kenobi’s nose, right where it’ll have the most effect. His other hand rubs up and down Kenobi’s side, and by the time Skywalker reenters the room, Quinlan’s done with licking the stress off and rubbing his scent into anything he thinks will help. He’s lying fully on his side instead of having his head propped up, and just doing his best to spread comfort through the room through Force and smell. He maybe nibbles at the back of Kenobi’s neck, here and there, because the man has lothcat response, and

“Guys?”

“Over here, Skywalker.”

The kid--not really a kid, but younger than Aayla, still, so he counts--rounds the couch, and sees them among the added cloaks and pillows and blanket. He stares. Kenobi starts to stiffen back up.

Quinlan increases his purring, and rubs his face against Kenobi’s neck, and glares up at Skywalker for good measure. Kenobi can’t see past Quinlan, probably, and squirms. Skywalker tilts his head, and then puts up a finger in a ‘one moment’ sort of gesture. He runs off.

“Anakin--”

“Kid’s fine,” Quinlan assures him, and Skywalker skids back into the room at unsafe speeds, arms full of what Quinlan’s pretty sure are his own duvet and pillow, and falls face-first into the nest. Kenobi jerks back into Quinlan, but Skywalker ignores this in favor of rearranging the nest into something approaching functional. He’s better at it than Kenobi.

Quinlan’s pretty sure Skywalker was more open to these things from the start. It tracks.

“Now Anakin, really,” Kenobi sputters, as Skywalker finishes layering things in the way he thinks is best. Skywalker beams at him, earlier melancholy forgotten for the moment, and flops down to drop his head somewhere near Kenobi’s chest.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Skywalker says. “This is good for you.”

Kenobi blushes, and Quinlan scrapes his teeth against the back of his neck again.

“Quinlan!” Kenobi yelps, jolting. “Not--we’re not alone!”

“Helps you calm down, though,” Quinlan says, pressing a few close-mouthed kisses at Kenobi’s hairline.

“Different cultural standards,” Skywalker adds, half-guessing but sure of himself nonetheless. He seems entirely too delighted to be here. “You know what? We should invite Ahsoka.”

“She’s not your padawan here,” Kenobi scolds.

“Yet,” Skywalker corrects. “As soon as I get all my psych evals cleared, the Council’s going to promise. She’s basically my padawan already.”

Kenobi sighs, aggrieved in a manner that feels more fond than actually upset, in the Force, and places a hand lightly on Skywalker’s.

Skywalker chirrups and wriggles closer, pressing his face to Kenobi’s tunic with a smile.

“I see someone’s feeling better,” Kenobi notes, and moves his hand up to play with Skywalker’s hair. “The shower helped?”

“Mm-hm,” Skywalker says. “’nd some of the stuff they made me learn in therapy.”

Kenobi hums low in his throat, an aimless vocalization, as he continues to comb his fingers through Skywalker’s hair.

Skywalker blinks, slow and bleary, with a soft and dopey smile, and Kenobi stops.

“What?”

“I like it when you play with my hair,” Skywalker says, almost too low to hear. His eyes close. “Feels nice. Cared for. Family.”

Kenobi freezes, breath hitching, and Quinlan shifts and lifts just enough to see the man is staring at his own hand in confusion and a slight bit of fear.

“Kenobi?”

“I didn’t even question it,” Kenobi says faintly. “I don’t... I haven’t done that since he was just a child, but I didn’t even question it. I stopped myself from commenting that he’s too old to come to his master for cuddles, because he’s not, in this dimension, and I’m getting used to that, but I started playing with his hair like it was normal and it’s not.”

Quinlan puts his mouth to Kenobi’s trapezius, just enough pressure that he’s not biting, just there, and purrs.

It’s several inches away from anything resembling a mating bite, but Kenobi tilts his head and whines anyway.

“Obi-Wan?” Skywalker prompts, brow furrowed. “It’s not... I mean, I’m not going to say it’s okay, since I know we’re both still upset about our bodies being changed without our permission or input or even a warning, but we’re getting used to it. We’re working with it. The hair thing is fine with me, I like it and would have before. And now that you know you’ll want to do, uh, that sort of thing--”

“Subset of grooming behaviors,” Quinlan tells them, pulling away from Kenobi’s neck with a final open-mouthed kiss. He sees the face Skywalker makes in response to the words, and feels Kenobi’s discomfort, so he elaborates. They’ve compared most of what they hear with tookas and lothwolves, so he thinks he knows what this is about. “We’re not exactly going to start licking each other clean--excluding scent comfort, that’s different--like lothcats, but you’ve already noticed that humans and near-humans are more tactile than you’re used to. Most forms of care, especially of partners and children, ends up physical in some way.”

He gestures between the two of them. “You view Skywalker as family, for all that you shy away from defining it, and so naturally gravitate to care. The easiest way for that to manifest when sharing a nest is usually playing with someone’s hair. Since he’s younger than you, and you’ve spent as much time as you have being the adult in his life...”

Quinlan trails off before he can comment on the question of whether they’re closer to brothers or father-and-son. Kenobi’s already expressed discomfort with that topic, well before they started naturalizing to this dimension. Quinlan’s not going to push for Kenobi to acknowledge Skywalker’s importance to him.

(They’ll have to address it at some point, but that’s a job for the mind healers, not for Quinlan.)

(For all that it’s going to impact and be impacted by their dynamics, that much is definitely not Quinlan’s to handle.)

Kenobi shudders in his arms, but doesn’t shake him off, and doesn’t stop Skywalker from burrowing somehow closer. Quinlan settles back in as Kenobi returns to playing with Skywalker’s hair.

“We really should invite Ahsoka, though.”

“Not tonight, padawan.”

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

Additional notes:

I initially wrote “ternary gender,” but found that it didn’t strike true to how I envisioned gender and dynamic playing out among Jedi culture in particular. While the term ‘dynamic’ is used regularly in a more casual setting, Quinlan uses the term “ternary sex” when talking about it in the company of Anakin and Obi-Wan. I view it as a subconscious attempt to keep a clinical view of the ternary sex system present in the omegaverse dimension, in recognition that it’s new and unfamiliar and often unpleasant for Anakin and Obi-Wan, having come from a dimension that doesn’t have ternary sexes or the associated reproductive capabilities, instincts, or cycles.

I’d like to explore how the ideas of sex, gender, dynamic, and so on intersect within the context of this universe, because I think it’s something I’d have a lot of fun working with, but this is not the fic for that.

#Quinlan Vos #Obi Wan Kenobi #Anakin Skywalker #QuinObi #anakin and obi wan #obi wan and anakin #disaster lineage #time travel #dimension hopping #omegaverse #SW Suddenly Omegaverse #past anidala #star wars #the clone wars #nesting #grooming #scenting #we went fully weird with this and I'm not apologizing... much #Phoenix Posts

292 notes · View notes

bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years ago

Text

shelter me from winter’s bite

Everyone’s doing a hypothermia fic so I figured I may as well contribute. It’s one of my favorite tropes.

title taken from Brian Czyzyk’s poem “Hoarfrost” (he’s my favorite young queer poet and you should check him out).

tw: hypothermia, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending

---

“Do you always have to be so damnably loud?” Geralt growls, glaring at Jaskier from across the small room.

“My apologies for existing,” the bard snaps back. He’d only been rearranging his pack, looking for something reasonably clean to sleep in while his clothes were laundered by the innkeeper’s lovely wife. “I’ll try to do so more quietly from now on, good sir.”

Geralt huffs out a breath in passive-aggressive annoyance and Jaskier bristles.

“Oh well, then. C’mon witcher, I know you want to say it!”

“Say what?” Geralt asks. His voice is low and threatening. He’s ready to play the game and by god he’s going to win this time.

“It’s practically your motto at this point,” the bard hisses through his teeth, angry and bitter and tired. Geralt sees victory. Sees some peace and quiet on the horizon. “Say it!”

Geralt does as he’s told, like any good witcher would: “Fuck off, bard.”

“There it is!” Jaskier laughs joylessly, throwing up his hands. He pulls on his doublet and boots and heads for the door. “If you want me gone so badly, Geralt, then I will go. I’ll get out of your lovely white hair and leave you to mope in peace.”

“Fucking finally,” the witcher snarls, turning away. He doesn’t see the genuine hurt in Jaskier’s blue eyes as the bard quietly closes the door rather than slamming it. He doesn’t hear the quiet sob that rips its way out of Jaskier’s throat as he stands very still, shocked and suddenly exhausted all the way to his bones. He doesn’t smell the salt of his bard’s tears as he slips silently down the hallway and out into the late autumn night. He doesn’t notice the snow starting to pile up on the windowsill ahead of season.

He’s too busy being a self-flagellating moron to notice any of that.

---

Geralt is woken in the middle of the night by a commotion downstairs. He can hear several loud, panicked heartbeats and one very quiet, very slow heartbeat beneath all of those; it’s achingly familiar but the half-asleep witcher can’t quite call its source to mind. Geralt listens as the innkeeper barks out a series of sharp orders: “Meredith, you get to the kitchen and make some strong black tea! Florence, fetch a pail of warm water and two or three towels from the laundry. Josiah you lazy lout, get into the attic and fetch some blankets! The poor lad has gone blue all over!”

The witcher peers into the hallway and catches the skinny stable hand, Josiah, racing for the attic staircase. “What’s going on?”

“A farmer from the next town over was on his way over to help a friend’s sow give calf and he found-” the lad pauses to suck in a great gulp of air and launches off again “-and he found that friend of yours lying in a snowbank, muttering nonsense and shivering like a leaf. The poor fool didn’t have a cloak on him or anything, just a doublet and walking boots! He’s near-dead!”

Geralt curses and makes for the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reaches the main floor. There are voices coming from the kitchen and he follows them as if in a dream, his feet moving without aid of his conscious mind. “Jaskier? Is it the bard, Jaskier?”

“Are you the great brute what kicked him out?” the innkeeper’s wife asks, crossing her arms over her ample chest and narrowing her eyes. Geralt falters.

“No, he- he left on his own, in a huff.”

“Wonder who could have started the huff,” the woman rolls her eyes. This isn’t about his status as a witcher, Geralt knows; this eye roll was made by a woman who knows a lovers’ quarrel when she sees one. Except that this stupid little spat might have cost Jaskier his life.

“Where is he? May I see him, goodwife?”

The woman points to a table in the corner, which has been cleared of cooking implements and cushioned with a heavy bearskin. Jaskier lies atop the brown fur, his skin frighteningly pale, his lips and fingers tinted a slight blue. Geralt rushes to his side and takes one of the bard’s stiff hands in his own. He brushes a stray lock of brown hair from Jaskier’s forehead and nearly recoils in shock from the temperature of his skin. Even colder than his hands, which are already dangerously frigid. If Jaskier cannot play his lute-

Geralt doesn’t even allow himself to finish the thought. Instead he works on rubbing small, careful circles onto the back of the bard’s hands with his thumbs, warming the skin in tiny increments: “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

The bard remains unmoving, heartbeat fluttering weakly, lungs barely drawing breath; Geralt fights back an overwhelming sense of panic, trying to recall whatever training he’d received at Kaer Morhen concerning freezing humans.

“Do you mind if I take him upstairs and tend to him myself?” the witcher asks.

“Can you take care of him?” the innkeeper’s wife replies.

Geralt bows his head, shame licking like flames up and down his bent spine, and nods. “Yes, Ma’am. I have dry clothes for him in our room and I was trained extensively for emergency situations such as this, all witchers are.”

“Alright,” she narrows her eyes. “But he’d best be alive come morning.”

“I’ll happily turn myself over to the village elders to be dealt with accordingly should the bard come to any harm,” he vows. Her eyes widen minutely and he can read the surprise in her body language, but she remains relatively calm.

“Any further harm, rather. Alright, then. I’ll have my husband and the girls bring those supplies up to your room for him. We’ll be glad to go back to sleep.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Geralt bows formally. She blushes despite her irritation with him and waves him away.

“Take your bard and go, witcher, before I change my mind and spend all night caring for him myself out of motherly pity. Go.”

Geralt hefts Jaskier into his arms, heavy bearskin blanket and all, and hurries up the stairs to his room. He will not let Jaskier come to any further harm. Not by his hand. Not by his word. Never again.

---

Back in their room, Geralt quickly undresses the shivering human, peeling away what few damp layers there are with growing disappointment. Jaskier hadn’t been prepared for a walk in the snow at all! Although, to be fair, it hadn’t seemed that cold earlier in the evening and the snow had been sudden and heavy.

He wipes Jaskier down with a warm cloth and slips one of his own clean shirts over the bard’s head. He tries not to let his gaze linger on the way Jaskier’s shoulders don’t quite fill out the dark material. Or on the way his dark, wiry chest hair peeks out through the open laces at his throat. The witcher quickly shuffles him into clean smallclothes and wraps him in a thick wool blanket.

They sit curled before the fire and Geralt holds Jaskier against his chest. He hums with his voice like gravel, grating out one note after the other in some attempt to soothe the bard’s aching body. Jaskier shivers and shakes violently in the witcher’s strong embrace, his eyes clenched shut with the cramps that wrack his frame as his muscles return to their normal temperature. Geralt feels like he’s holding a porcelain doll and keeps his grip deliberately loose, tight enough to comfort but not restrain.

“G-Geralt,” he groans. “Hold me, please.”

The witcher squeezes his arms more confidently around the bard’s middle, burying his face in Jaskier’s soft hair and breathing deeply. The warmth that usually emanates from his busy human body is gone and his chamomile-honey scent is buried beneath a layer of damp cold; it feels wrong. Terribly wrong. Geralt murmurs against his temple, begging the younger man’s forgiveness: “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. Gods, I’m so sorry. Will you ever be able to forgive me? I’m a fool, you know. I’m a fool witcher who never says anything important until it’s too late. I’m so incredibly sorry, my love.”

“This is a very good dream,” the bard sighs, smiling despite the pain. His eyes open, bleary and addled. “Like I was having in the woods, but better.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier seems to understand the unspoken question, even in his current sorry state.

“The real Geralt would never be so gentle with me, dear heart. You must be a dream, sent to me on my deathbed to ease my passage into the afterlife. There’s no other explanation for your sudden displays of tenderness.”

“It’s... It’s really me,” Geralt affirms. He runs his hand up and down the length of Jaskier’s spine, “I’m here, Jaskier. Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid?”

“I forgive you for being stupid ever other day, dear witcher. It is of no consequence to me.”

“It almost was,” Geralt frowns. “I nearly- I almost-”

Jaskier’s arm raises weakly and his too-chilly hand presses to Geralt’s cheek. “I shouldn’t have stormed off like an idiot. I shouldn’t have kept picking the fight. We both fucked up, alright? What matters is our second chance. We got to have one, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Am I wearing your shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Yours were all being laundered and this one was clean and it had been in my pack near the fire so it was already warm and-”

“Did you take care of me all night?”

“Hmm.” Geralt sighs after his hum and glances away for a moment. “What did you mean about... about the dream in the woods?”

“Oh. Well, when I was very cold and things were hazy and slow, I dreamed that you were there with me. Everything got very fuzzy and warm for a little bit, and when it was warm you were holding me like this and giving me little kisses. It was... nice. Even though I knew I was dying because you were being so soft, so considerate; saying things to me you’d never say out loud in real life.”

“I love you, Jaskier. I will try my best not to lose my temper needlessly,” the witcher swears. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Can we still cuddle like this?” Jaskier asks, leaning his weigth against Geralt’s firm chest. “It’s so nice to be held.”

“Of course. Anything you want. I’m not going to waste my second chance by treating you poorly. Not for another second, my beloved bard.”

“B-beloved?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, well then I’m definitely still dreaming.”

Geralt lifts Jaskier into his arms and carries him over to the bed, which is piled high with their extra blankets. He tucks Jaskier into the nest against the wall and lays along the outside of the mattress. He presses his lips to the bard’s, reveling in Jaskier’s returning warmth, and smiles. “I’ll prove it’s not a dream. Every day.”

“Sounds nice,” Jaskier yawns, snuggling into the witcher’s arms and settling down to sleep.

“It will be.”

#geraskier #hypothermia #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #geraskier fic #geraskier fluff #whump with a happy ending #fluff with a happy ending #geralt #jaskier #jaskier whump #jaskier gets hypothermia #caring geralt #soft geralt #winter fics #geraskier winter fics

491 notes · View notes

mrsjadecurtiss · 4 years ago

Note

What do you think of Robert? What are your opinions on him, do you think that if the war never happened that he'd still go down this self destructive path?

I think Robert was fundamentally not made to be a king - He has the charisma and the looks and is an able warrior, but his negative character traits are indulged and enhanced by his position and led him down an almost unavoidable path.

Robert is someone who above all wants to enjoy and live an easy life:

"You need to come south," Robert told him. "You need a taste of summer before it flees. [...] Flowers everywhere, the markets bursting with food, the summerwines so cheap and so good that you can get drunk just breathing the air. Everyone is fat and drunk and rich." He laughed and slapped his own ample stomach a thump. "And the girls, Ned!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. "I swear, women lose all modesty in the heat.[...]" The king laughed happily. Robert Baratheon had always been a man of huge appetites, a man who knew how to take his pleasures. - Eddard I, aGoT

"Robert wanted smiles and cheers, always, so he went where he found them, to his friends and his whores. Robert wanted to be loved." - Sansa IV, aCoK

He has just enough of a moral understanding to at least know when he is doing wrong and to even feel bad about it at times, but not enough to actually change anything about himself.

The rage was gone from him now; in his eyes Ned saw something sad and scared. "I should not have hit [Cersei]. That was not … that was not kingly." He stared down at his hands, as if he did not quite know what they were. - Eddard X, aGoT

Robert desires to have an easy life, he wants to be loved, he wants to have fun, but he does not want to deal with the hard and unpleasant things. In times of crisis, he wants to take the easy way out, and he prefers to avoid uncomfortable truths.

Lord Tywin stared at him as if he had lost his wits. "[...] When I laid those bodies before the throne, no man could doubt that we had forsaken House Targaryen forever. And Robert's relief was palpable. As stupid as he was, even he knew that Rhaegar's children had to die if his throne was ever to be secure. Yet he saw himself as a hero, and heroes do not kill children." - Tyrion VI, aSoS

"Well, now I know Jaime's dark sin, and the matter can be forgotten. I am heartily sick of secrets and squabbles and matters of state, Ned." - Eddard II, aGoT

"Most likely the king did not know," Littlefinger said. "It would not be the first time. Our good Robert is practiced at closing his eyes to things he would rather not see." - Eddard IV, aGoT

He feels most comfortable when he is surrounded by people who love him and know how to handle him/want the best for him, and steer him onto the right path in a way where he can still feel good about himself.

"These are difficult times. I need good men about me. Men like Jon Arryn. He served as Lord of the Eyrie, as Warden of the East, as the Hand of the King. He will not be easy to replace." - Eddard I, aGoT

In an environment that works against him, or goes against his wishes even if it is for the better, it creates a destructive energy in him. He cannot stand dissent to his wishes because it robs him of a pleasure he desires, and creates unwanted conflict. He also cannot handle constructive criticism because it makes him confront unpleasant truths - he always wants the easiest path with the least tension. If he is presented with a situation that strains his limits as there is no amiable solution to a difficult/disturbing problem, his reaction is a toxic one; turning to rage and violence even towards his own child.

Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here and why he had come. He was no Jon Arryn, to curb the wildness of his king and teach him wisdom. Robert would do what he pleased, as he always had, and nothing Ned could say or do would change that. - Eddard II, aGoT

He may act against what he knows is right, because it is the easiest route; like when he has the wolf Lady killed to please Cersei:

“A costly pelt,” Robert grumbled. “I want no part of this, woman. You can damn well buy your furs with Lannister gold.” [...] "We have a wolf," Cersei Lannister said. Her voice was very quiet, but her green eyes shone with triumph. It took them all a moment to comprehend her words, but when they did, the king shrugged irritably. "As you will. Have Ser Ilyn see to it." - “Robert, you cannot mean this,” Ned protested. The king was in no mood for more argument. “Enough, Ned, I will hear no more." - Eddard III, aGoT

"I am sorry for your girl, Ned. Truly. About the wolf, I mean. My son was lying, I'd stake my soul on it." - Eddard VII, aGoT

And when Ned reprimands him about Daenerys he will not hear dissent, even though he knows deep down that it is wrong:

He gave the king a long cool look. “Would [the man who spared Barristan] were here today.” Robert had shame enough to blush. “It was not the same,” he complained. “Ser Barristan was a knight of the Kingsguard.” - “Whereas Daenerys is a fourteen-year-old girl.”

[...] “Not another word. Have you forgotten who is king here?” - “No, Your Grace,” Ned replied. “Have you?” - “Enough!” the king bellowed. “I am sick of talk. I’ll be done with this, or be damned."

[...] “I will not be part of murder, Robert. Do as you will, but do not ask me to fix my seal to it.” For a moment Robert did not seem to understand what Ned was saying. Defiance was not a dish he tasted often. Slowly his face changed as comprehension came. [...] “You are the King’s Hand, Lord Stark. You will do as I command you, or I’ll find me a Hand who will.” - “I wish him every success.” Ned [...] laid [his badge of office] on the table in front of the king, saddened by the memory of the man who had pinned it on him, the friend he had loved. “I thought you a better man than this, Robert. I thought we had made a nobler king.” Robert’s face was purple. “Out,” he croaked, choking on his rage. “[...] Go, run back to Winterfell. And make certain I never look on your face again, or I swear, I’ll have your head on a spike!” - Eddard VIII, aGoT

“Gods have mercy,” he muttered, swallowing his agony. “The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right . . . that’s why, the girl . . . the gods sent the boar . . . sent to punish me . . .” - Eddard XIII, aGoT

Robert is a man who always wants it easy, he wants his demands to always be fulfilled, to be loved and have fun without dealing with the bad things; but an important theme that is repeated over and over in asoiaf is that you can only act good if you are willing to face the bad that may come with it, and if you cannot live with the consequences, your action might not be justified.*

Bran thought about it. "Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?" - "That is the only time a man can be brave." - Bran I, aGoT

"Sacrifice . . . is never easy, Davos. Or it is no true sacrifice." - Davos VI, aSoS

"The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die." - Bran I, aGoT

Ned stood, gently disengaging himself from Sansa's grasp. All the weariness of the past four days had returned to him. "Do it yourself then, Robert," he said in a voice cold and sharp as steel. "At least have the courage to do it yourself." - Robert looked at Ned with flat, dead eyes and left without a word, his footsteps heavy as lead. Silence filled the hall. - Eddard III, aGoT

This is why putting him on the throne was poison - all the power in the world, and noone who would dare go against his wishes. It indulges all of Robert's worst traits, and buries anything he had inside him that was salvageable.

Ser Barristan Selmy spoke up. "Your Grace," he said, "it is not seemly that the king should ride into the melee. It would not be a fair contest. Who would dare strike you?" - "Ser Barristan is right. There's not a man in the Seven Kingdoms who would dare risk your displeasure by hurting you." - Eddard VII, aGoT

I am surrounded by flatterers and fools, the king had insisted. Ned looked down the council table and wondered which were the flatterers and which the fools. He thought he knew already. - Eddard IV, aGoT

And Robert knows it - he knows being a king isn't for him, that he doesn't enjoy the actual work that goes into governing, that he doesn't have the personality for such politics or to deal with the people involved, and that he would much rather spend his time enjoying life and doing what he loves...

"Look at what kinging has done to me. Gods, too fat for my armor, how did it ever come to this? [...] I swear to you, I was never so alive as when I was winning this throne, or so dead as now that I’ve won it." - Eddard VII, aGoT

"I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. Laws are a tedious business and counting coppers is worse. And the people … there is no end of them. I sit on that damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. They all want something, money or land or justice. The lies they tell … and my lords and ladies are no better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. It can drive a man to madness, Ned. Half of them don't dare tell me the truth, and the other half can't find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but …" - Eddard I, aGoT

Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. "If I wanted to honor you, I'd let you retire. I am planning to make you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave." - Eddard I, aGoT

"Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that's what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me." - Eddard VII, aGoT

And yet he doesn't do anything about it and keeps staying at the position he hates - he does not want to deal with the uncomfortable consequences that would come with upsetting the status quo, or making changes to his own personality and going through growth, or confronting ugly truths about himself in a productive way, etc etc.

He does make a talk of changes at times during aGoT, and seems to have a sense of responsibility about his Job, but as it is his desire for changes came too late, and what responsibility he felt mostly served to paralyze him in place.

"The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?" - Eddard VII, aGoT

"I'm still young, and now that you're here with me, things will be different. We'll make this a reign to sing of, and damn the Lannisters to seven hells." - Eddard VII, aGoT

In a way Joffrey is to Robert what Ramsay is to Roose: an exploration of the inherent flaw in their way of life, demonstrated in the most extreme case. In Joffrey's case, it shows what happens to give someone unlimited power with noone daring to oppose them.

Do you think that if the war never happened that he'd still go down this self destructive path?

It's a little unclear which war you mean, so I will briefly touch on several points:

There could have been ideal circumstances where he might have worked out as a king, if he was surrounded by people who know the perfect way to deal with him and make him work past his flaws (intuitively doing the work of a modern therapist), but the average life is not ideal and grrm shows the realistic fate of a man like Robert.

I think by the time Ned arrived it was sadly too late to change - maybe if the Lannisters didn't exist, or this or that event hadn't happened, but Grrm shows that most of what lead to Robert's downfall was in the end caused by himself. Cersei kills him because she came to despise the man he was, and for good reason as he abused her during all her marriage - and while he has some scenes of feeling bad or even apologizing for it, he never made any attempts to actually change the terrible way he was treating her.

If Robert's Rebellion never happened, he would have probably made an able enough Lord of Storm's End; delegating his "boring" administrative duties to his advisors and maester, enjoying the privileges of highborn life, and having just enough responsibility to feel like the alpha male of his society yet not enough to do as lasting damage as he did for the throne. He would not have been the best Lord, but sadly there are many worse in Westeros, since the entire dynastic ruling system is inherently flawed. If he would have been a better person depends on who he is surrounded with, if circumstances would have motivated him to change, or if perhaps his position of power and outward influences would still just have indulged him into the man he was in aGoT. Ultimately, there are a lot of butterfly effects leading to different results that i’m sure have been explored in many fics.

"Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." - Eddard IX, aGoT

This was the boy he had grown up with, he thought; this was the Robert Baratheon he'd known and loved. If he could prove that the Lannisters were behind the attack on Bran, prove that they had murdered Jon Arryn, this man would listen. Then Cersei would fall, and the Kingslayer with her, and if Lord Tywin dared to rouse the west, Robert would smash him as he had smashed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He could see it all so clearly. - Eddard VII, aGoT

What do you think of Robert?

Since i am someone who frequently enjoys morally grey and villainous characters, despite his many negative traits i have a fondness of Robert; I think he is an interesting character and very human in his flaws, and there is a lot of melancholy to his story that makes me somber about him even if it obviously does not excuse his bad actions. I also think he has a great character design that's fun to draw and some fun boisterous scenes, and some of his positive qualities remind me of people i know.

*Stannis is an interesting character as Robert’s brother, as he is the opposite to him in this regard, as well as in many aspects of their personality and even their outward presentation (like how Stannis crops his beard short to contrast Robert’s wild one)

#asoiaf #robert baratheon #asoiaf meta #my posts #asks #anonymous #of course this is not an extensive analysis and there are more facettes to his character #these are the ones i focused on for this ask as they came to my mind when i reread his scenes #he kinda reminds me of roose in places lol might be why it inspired me to analyze him #Anonymous

151 notes · View notes