#except there’s no way Ewan would be into that

[palfriendpatine66]

I need everyone to know that I had a sex dream about Ewan McGregor once that was in fact a nightmare of this scenario. He sighed, disappointed, and was like “carry on if you must” and then kicked me out the second I climbed off his lap.

0/10 do not recommend

[endless-ineffabilities]

It's not like I'm falling in love, I just want ya to do me no good (and you look like you could) (18+)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

Ewan Mitchell isn't one for parties, but for you? He'd make an exception. Surrounded by stars at the GQ party, his revered muse on the big screen becomes a twisted angel in his arms—leaving him seeing stars again as he finds bliss within your warmth.

word count: 6.7k

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Ewan thought he could keep up the celebrity facade, just for the night at least, but the ceaseless barrage of mingling is starting to get to him.

The boo hurled at him right outside the establishment still echoes in his ears. Maybe it wasn't even about him, but his annoyance had been triggered. He decides that it all has gotten to him. What a load of bull.

He had been on the fence about being tapped as an honouree of a lifestyle magazine. Like it means anything. What does this have to do with being an actor? How is this supposed to help his craft? He might as well have been tapped to do one of those videos where he shows everyone what's in his bag.

"It's exposure," his team had chirped in unison, practically reading from a PR handbook.

This wasn't the industry he'd envisioned when he first fell in love with the craft. But none of this is about craft. It's all publicity fodder, all noise.

What he really wants—what his entire being craves—is a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, a SAG award. Hell, he would trade every glitzy dinner party invite for the faintest whiff of Oscar buzz. That was the dream.

Instead, here he is, tethered to a seat at one of four long tables, littered with stars of every calibre—from industry titans to the disposable nobodies who would be forgotten by this time next month.

He had been encouraged to make connections. Socialize. He translated this as a polite way of being told to suck up to people. Maybe a casting director would remember him. Maybe some producer would pass his name along. Easy.

Flattery will get you everywhere in this business.

But at any given time, he would much rather suck on a bloody spliff.

Leaning over to Davey, he says, "I might sneak out for a smoke or something. That's fine, right?"

Davey snickers, sensing Ewan's agitation. "Oh, if you're asking me, I say do whatever you want, mate."

But then someone from his team, straight-laced, precious Lindsay, lets him know otherwise. "Ewan, I'd advise you to sit still for now. What if they call you up some time during dinner?"

Ewan doubles down, his leg anxiously shaking under the table. "Are they going to call on me?"

Lindsay balks. She hasn't heard Ewan sound this pressed before. "Well, we weren't told but—"

"Then I can go. They wouldn't care."

"Ewan, just—"

"Sorry, Lind, but I gotta take a breather. This is all just—"

Lindsay waves him off, resigned. Ewan has always been an easy client to manage, so she can't bring herself to begrudge him this. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure to hide the cigarette if the photographer shows up."

"Sure," he mutters, not meaning it in the slightest. Nobody would care if he is spotted smoking. They should be grateful he is not among the deviants doing lines in the bathroom.

He abruptly gets up from his seat, and backs right into... you.

Of all people. Ewan feels the blood drain from his face, his breath hitching as disbelief engulfs him. His hand instinctively rises, brushing against the silken warmth of flawless skin exposed by your backless dress. The contact sends a jolt through him, and for a moment, he's certain he might pass out. You—right here, in the flesh.

You flash him a dazzling, effortless smile and murmur, "Oops, excuse me," your voice a melodic tease that leaves him utterly undone.

"Oh, no... no problem." He stammers, fully aware that he should be the one begging pardon.

You hold his gaze, ensnaring him so effortlessly. He realises how stupid he must look, with his mouth parted and his eyes wide. He should say his name. He should introduce himself, goddamnit.

But the moment shatters when someone calls your name. You step away without hesitation, and Ewan feels the loss acutely, like an unhooked fish left gasping on dry land.

Then it comes. That fucking sound.

The high-pitched squeal you let out is sharp, almost grating, but somehow it still strikes him as endearing. He'd probably hate it if it didn't come from you.

"Hi! Oh my god, how are you? I haven't seen you since our ski trip in Courmayeur!" Your voice carries, your excitement encroaching his space like an air of warmth.

Ewan follows your trajectory, his eyes trailing as you glide over to Eve Hewson. The two of you embrace like old friends, giggling like co-conspirators, your champagne glasses clinking softly.

He nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself. He knows he's being ridiculous, standing there like a sulking idiot, but the irritation bites anyway. He wants to blame the squeal, or the scene you're making, or the way you seem so goddamn comfortable in this world of chatter and pomp.

But that's not quite it.

He knows the truth, and it gnaws at him like a persistent itch he can't scratch. He's annoyed because he wanted you—your dazzling smile, your undivided attention—to be aimed at him.

He forces his feet to move, making his way down the side hall, where the din of the party fades into muffled chaos. He needs a breather, a moment to reset, but even here, your presence clings to him like static.

It's maddening.

Ewan has spent years watching you. On screens, in interviews, on magazine covers. You're like an open book he's memorised, every detail imprinted on his mind.

That birthmark beneath your right shoulder blade, briefly exposed in that love scene with Glen Powell. He remembers it, even though the camera barely lingered. The way your laugh bursts out unguarded, lighting up every corner of a room.

In one interview, you mentioned Meisner as your go-to technique, and it stuck with him. Of course you'd say Meisner, he thought at the time, like you were someone close to him, because you're all about connection, about living truthfully in the moment.

And here you are, in the same place as him, vibrant and ever so magnetic. Princess of every party, muse of the silver screen.

But you don't know him.

You didn't think you would be attending the British GQ party, but one of your Londoner friends happened to be throwing their birthday bash the night before, so you thought—why the hell not?

You were, of course, invited. Originally, the invite had been for the American GQ Men of the Year party the week prior, but filming schedules had other ideas. For the past two months, you'd been stranded in the icy landscapes of Winnipeg, immersed in the demanding shoot of David Lowery's latest thriller.

Grueling days and endless takes had left you with little energy for glamour. But now, with a few weeks off and the American crew taking a well-earned Thanksgiving break, you finally have some breathing room.

The London event seems like a perfect way to ease back into the whirlwind. And it doesn't disappoint.

The Roof Gardens is buzzing, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and free-flowing champagne. You glide through it like you belong—because you do. Years of this kind of schmoozing have taught you how to navigate these waters. A charming smile here, a fleeting hug there, a bit of banter with a photographer who asks for the best angle.

You find yourself talking to your old castmate Eve Hewson near the bar, the two of you imbibing something bubbly and dry. She looks luminous as always, her dark hair framing her sharp, mischievous grin.

"Winnipeg, though?" Eve says, her tone incredulous as she leans in. "What the hell is Lowery making you do out there? Freeze to death for art?"

"Pretty much," you laugh, savouring the chill of your drink. "But it's worth it, trust me. The script is absolutely incredible. I just wish the weather wasn't trying to kill me."

"Classic Lowery. He probably thinks the suffering adds authenticity or some shit."

"Probably," you agree, rolling your eyes. For some reason, you find yourself circling back to an earlier incident.

"By the way," you say, leaning a little closer to Eve, "do you know who that guy was? The one I bumped into earlier?"

"Which guy?"

"Clip-on earring. Tall, kind of broody-looking in an overcoat? Wasn't talking much, just sort of... cruising awkwardly."

Eve shrugs, clearly drawing a blank. "I have no idea. Was he hot?"

It only takes you a second to consider this. "I mean, sure. In a tortured artist kind of way. Poor schmuck looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here."

"Oh!" Eve says, snapping her fingers. "Wait, he might be one of the honourees."

You arch a brow. "Not a goddamn influencer, right?"

Eve shakes her head. "No, don't worry. I think he's in that Game of Thrones spinoff. What's it called? House of Dragons?"

"Never saw it." You didn't have the time, truth be told. Also, the last seasons of its predecessor had been enough to edge it off your watchlist.

She taps her chin, thinking. "Wait... oh! Wasn't he that nerd in the movie with Jacob and Barry? Saltburn!"

"Oh my god. That's him? He did great in that role."

"Right? I could not have pointed him out. Kind of a chameleon, I guess."

"Guess so," you agree, the curiosity lingering.

The night unfolds exactly as expected. You exchange quips with Harris Dickinson, who flirts with you just enough to keep things interesting. You catch up with Nicole Kidman, who had been somewhat of a mentor to you when you acted alongside her in your third film at just 16. Jude Law joins your circle at one point, his charm as effortless as ever, and for a while, it feels like just another night on the circuit.

By the time you step outside into the crisp evening air, you're craving a bit of quiet. The gardens around the pavilion are softly lit, the gentle glow of fairy light casting long shadows over the manicured hedges. You pull your vape from your Loewe clutch, taking a long drag as you lean against a cold marble railing.

That's when you notice him again.

He's standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a stone pillar, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint smell of tobacco taints the pristine air, and you catch the same restless energy he had earlier.

You wander closer, the soft click of your heels against the stone catching his attention. He glances up, startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone else to venture out here.

"Hey," you say casually, holding your vape up as you stop beside him. "Can you hold this for a sec?"

Before he can respond, you hand him your purse, crouching slightly to tighten the strap on your heel.

He freezes, staring at the outstretched object. "Uh... sure," he relents, albeit hesitantly.

You straighten after a minute, taking the purse back with a quick "Thanks," and give him a once-over. Up close, he's sharper, more distinct. There's something remarkably intense about him that wasn't obvious before.

"I'm Ewan... Mitchell," he blurts, his words a little rushed.

You smile, tilting your head. "Nice to meet you, Ewan."

He fumbles for a response, his cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers. "I, uh, think we bumped into each other earlier. Inside."

"Yeah," you say lightly, your lips curving into a faint smirk. "I like your outfit, by the way. Very vampiric. Dior, right?"

He blinks, then chuckles softly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. Thanks. I like you too... I mean, I like... I like your dress, too."

You laugh at the accidental remark. There's something undeniably charming about him, despite his nervousness. "Why, thank you, Ewan."

The blush that creeps on his cheeks shows through the powder. He must have felt it, because he immediately trained his gaze down to his polished shoes.

Cute. So you make it your mission to break through his shell. These events tend to get repetitive after a while, but maybe tonight will be a lovely exception.

And so the game begins.

The two of you peacefully take hits of your respective choices of poison, your bubblegum-flavoured vapour melding in the air with his Marlboro red.

"You're quiet," you point out the obvious eventually, a teasing grin playing at your lips.

He almost laughs at the understatement but only shrugs. "Not much to say, I suppose."

"Oh, I doubt that." You lean against the balustrade, studying him. Ewan feels his pulse quicken under the weight of it.

You're so at ease. It's infuriatingly attractive. Your disarming allure, your grace in this world of make-believe, only deepens his self-consciousness. He knows what he must look like: an odd man out, fumbling at the edges of fame while you shine at the centre of it all.

He exhales shakily and finally replies, "Don't let me bore you."

"You're not boring me," you reassure him, before playfully adding, "Not yet at least."

There's a flicker of something unclear behind your eyes when you move closer and ask, "So what are you thinking?"

What he's thinking is that he's out of his depth, that he hasn't felt this kind of raw attraction in years—if ever. He's thinking you're the kind of woman who doesn't even have to command attention, and he's already hopelessly drawn in. But what he says is, "Just... wondering how I got here."

Your laugh is soft, rich with amusement. "To this party?"

"Or this moment."

His words surprise him, his ears burning as they register. You don't say anything, causing Ewan's nerves to spike. Did he sound too eager? Too pathetic?

But then, you smile. That damned megawatt smile that looks even better in person than on screen. "Well, it's a good place to be, isn't it?"

You lean a fraction closer, and could swear his heart is about to burst out of his chest.

"Do you always look so serious?" you ask, your gaze flicking to his lips, admiring the way they seem to be in a state of being perpetually curled. "Or is it just the brooding artist thing?"

"I'll take it if it works," he manages, his voice uneven.

"Oh, it's working," you say softly.

Ewan shifts his weight, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the balustrade. "Sorry, I just... I don't get it. These things. Everyone pretending they know everyone, like it's all some bloody performance."

You exhale a stream of vapour, watching it swirl into the night. He's finally opening up, and there is no way you're letting this slide. "It is a performance," you reply. "That's the point."

He shakes his head, gazing at you with a genuine softness you haven't been at the receiving end of in far too long. "But why? Why not just let the work speak for itself?"

There's something innocent in the way he says it, and it's endearing and definitely rare among your crowd. Ewan Mitchell isn't like the men you usually find at these industry events. He's no preening peacock, no walking cologne ad praying to be noticed.

There's something boyish in the way he fidgets, and yet also something undeniably grown in the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you're not looking.

You reply, "It's so people know who you are. Why would anyone want to go see your movie if they don't give a shit about you?"

"You see, darling, that's where talent comes into play."

"Hmm, okay. But do you not know how many thousands upon thousands of aspiring actors come to LA every year just to witness the death of their dreams, because nobody gave a shit about who they are? And I'm certain that a lot of them can outact us under the table."

Ewan takes a slow drag from his cigarette, buying himself time. The way you said "us" sends a thrill through him he's desperately trying to smother. "Well," he begins, "if you're talented enough, you'll eventually catch a break. People notice, don't they?"

"Talent isn't everything," you point out. "You need to have drive."

"That I have," he counters quickly, his voice laced with quiet conviction. He wouldn't have been able to climb out of a life of near-guaranteed anonymity in Derbyshire if he didn't possess drive. There's a confidence in him now, a spark you seem to notice, judging by the faint curve of your lips.

"And charisma," you add, your smile widening, "which, clearly, you also have."

"Thank you," he says on instinct. There's a pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he's again blushing under your watchful gaze.

"And," you continue, dragging the word out with deliberate weight, "in this day and age, you need to get people talking."

Ewan exhales, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "How do I do that, superstar?"

"A big, fat scandal usually does the trick." Your voice is casual, but your eyes gleam with mischief.

"Oh, brilliant," he deadpans. His sarcasm earns him another laugh, and he feels it in his chest like a warm shockwave.

"Or... you could date someone famous. Get on the PR train."

Ewan shakes his head, his brow furrowing. "Not for me, I think."

You drift closer, eyes narrowing slightly as if you're sizing him up. "Oh really? You wouldn't get with me if you had the chance?"

The question lands like a lit match in the conversation. He swallows nervously, "Of... of course I would. But I don't want it to be manufactured."

"How would it go then?" There's no mocking in your question, no cruelty in your smile—just curiosity, maybe a touch of challenge.

He falters, betraying the battle waging between his nerves and his growing comfort in your company. "How would what go?"

"How would you, Ewan Mitchell, get me?"

His throat goes dry. He considers dodging it, turning the conversation back to you with one of the rehearsed quips he uses for interviews. But that feels cheap in the face of your boldness, so unabashed and expectant. "Well, I'd ask you on a date."

"And I'd say yes... go on."

"And we'll go to... the cinema," he says simply, and for the first time tonight, he doesn't feel like treading water.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, you're such a purist."

"What's wrong with that?" he asks, a touch defensive but also playful, emboldened by your attention.

"Nothing, you tortured artist, you," you tease, your tone lilting. "And then what?"

"Then... we could grab dinner or—"

"Would you kiss me?" you interrupt, your voice low and threaded with something heavier. Most would hesitate, worrying they'd gone too far, but you're not like most people. You never have been.

"If you... if you wanted me to," he replies, his own voice rough with honesty.

"But would you want to?"

His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to your eyes. The words spill out of him. "I'd be a fucking idiot not to want to kiss you, darling."

Back in the pavilion, music from the DJ booth intensifies, signalling the post-dinner stage of the festivities. But the booming bass that reverberates is nothing compared to the beating of your hearts.

"On this hypothetical date... do we take it a step further?"

Ewan's thoughts run wild, and they are betrayed by the way his pupils dilate. "What do you mean?"

"I am talking about hooking up." Your words are relaxed, but the way you say them is anything but. They drip with intention, with heat, as if you're privy to the fact that he has pictured that scenario a hundred times over.

"What do you take me for?"

"A warm-blooded man who's clearly attracted to me... and who I'm also attracted to."

"You like me?" he whispers hoarsely.

Instead of answering, you close the distance, your lips brushing featherlight against his. The tentative touch sets him ablaze. When you press harder, surer, he melts into you. His hands tremble as they come up to your waist, anchoring himself in the reality of you.

"Fuck me," he breathes when you pull back, leaving him dazed. "I can't—"

"Do this?" you ask, your lips hovering over his, pulling at the fringes of his restraint.

"No... I mean, I can't believe I'm kissing you." He stumbles over his words, clearly in awe. "I love you."

It's your turn to be taken aback. "Woah, what?"

"I mean, I've loved your work," he stammers. "You inspire me as an actor, you know. I've watched you since your early days. You're fucking amazing."

"Mmm." When he allows his hand to drift along your spine, you ask, "Have you ever... fantasized about... sleeping with me?"

"I... I don't—"

"I'm used to it. Being looked at. Thought of, in that way." There's a tinge of raw sensitivity in your admission, letting him see the real you.

Ewan wants more of it. After just a taste of who you are underneath the surface, he is left craving the rest. "Then I think you know my answer," he says.

You let out a low hum. "I know."

"You're such a goddamn liability," he murmurs, managing to sound equal parts affectionate and exasperated.

"I know that too. Come with me," you say, your tone suddenly commanding. You grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and tug him towards the pavilion. He follows without a shred of hesitation, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of his chest.

The two of you weave through the edges of the party, slipping past clusters of inebriated guests until you find yourself in the dimly lit, unattended coatroom. The small space is as luxurious as the rest of the venue, the perfect backdrop for the tension threatening to explode.

The moment the lock on the door clicks shut, Ewan's restraint snaps like a taut wire. His hands cradle your face as he initiates the kiss this time, his hunger for you bleeding through every press of his lips.

The rest of the party fades away, and there is only you. He didn't care about any of it anyway.

"You are so fucking hot," he groans into the kiss. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Believe it, handsome," you purr, sliding your hands down the material of his coat.

"Are you sure about this?" His question comes out as a whisper, his forehead resting against yours, his cigarette-scented breath fanning your face.

"Ewan," you say, "get on with it before they all notice we've been gone too long."

He huffs out a nervous laugh. "The way you talk makes me think you wouldn't give a shit."

"No, I wouldn't," you confirm, your grin wicked. "They should fucking wait for us."

"You have an attitude, princess," he mutters, his fingers digging into your exposed back.

"Been told I have a big head," you joke.

He hums, before dropping a line that floors you. "Bet you have a sweet pussy, too."

Your eyes flash with amusement, drawing closer until your lips graze his Dior earring. "Wanna find out?"

"Fuckin' hell," his breath shudders out of him, "yes... yes... yes." He knew it might make him come across as desperate, as a damn simp, but he could not bring himself to give a single flying fuck. Not when you perch atop the gleaming marble edge of the table, and spread each leg out to the side, tantalisingly slow. A precious flower to be plucked, right there for the taking.

For him. He feels unworthy. He has half a mind to check the room for cameras—maybe this is all a prank. But what a lascivious, cruel prank that would be.

Is this some twisted initiation ritual into the Hollywood elite?

You trail a smooth, manicured finger along his jawline, igniting a shiver that ripples down his spine. His nerves come alive under your touch, each one crackling with electric anticipation, flipping a switch deep within him directly connected to his cock.

As he has revered you as a goddess on the silver screen all these years, he now reveres you in reality, sinking to his knees.

"Don't keep me waiting," you whisper silkily.

Ewan takes a steadying breath, before diving in. His hands lift the smooth material of your dress, revealing the sacred area between your legs, barely covered in a white sliver of a thong. You might as well have come with no underwear.

The coat suddenly feels too constricting, so he unbuttons it with a sharp motion, letting the heavy garment slide to the floor. But almost immediately, a flicker of concern crosses his face. The Dior number is a rental, and if it gets damaged, it won't be his head on the block—it'll be Davey's. With a hint of sheepishness, he retrieves it, carefully draping it over the back of an upholstered chair.

You notice the gesture, subtle but telling. He doesn’t quite belong to your world—or perhaps he does, but he moves through it without succumbing to its superficial trappings. Your friend Timothée wouldn’t have spared the coat a second glance, long since desensitized to the weight of designer labels.

But Ewan? He handles it all with a kind of quiet reverence, as if even in a borrowed piece of luxury, he remains grounded in something real.

And it only intensifies your desire for him.

There's a wanton intrigue in your eyes as you take in the bareness of his torso. His muscles are defined, but not in the off-putting gym rat kind of way. Instead, there's a natural leanness to his form—a testament to a body honed not for vanity, but for purpose.

Kneeling before you, eyes bright with awe, he gets right down to work. He pushes the fabric of your dress higher, out of his way, and you help him along, your fist bunching the skirt to one side.

"God, you're... perfect," he whispers. His palms rest on your thighs, and when his lips press to the sensitive skin just above your knee, you let out an involuntary sound that draws a low groan from his throat.

"Ewan," you breathe impatiently, unable to conceal your need for him. But he doesn't rush, dragging his mouth higher, trailing kisses along your inner thigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he savours the sensation.

He pauses just before pulling down the waistband of your thong, glancing up at you with wide, darkened eyes. "Tell me if I'm... if I'm doing too much," he says, almost shyly.

"You're not doing enough," you reply. "Keep going."

So he does. He slides the white lace down your ankles, then presses his mouth to your core, his tongue pushing between your folds with a fervour that makes your head fall back. His guttural moan is muffled as he goes down on you, the vibration of it causing heat to pool in your lower belly. You press the flat stem of your heel to the back of his head, drawing him closer.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp aloud, your hips rolling instinctively against his mouth as he works you over. He licks you, sloppy and desperate, his inexperience showing but somehow making it even better. He's so determined to give you pleasure, so eager to make you come undone, that he doesn't care about anything else.

He doesn't care about acting like a starved animal as he sucks on your pussy. All Ewan wishes for, in that very moment, is that you cum all over him—the sweet substance flooding his tongue, dripping down his chin, far more sumptuous than everything they have on offer in the party's banquet.

He's seen you fake an orgasm for a scene before, but this is real.

His tongue flicks over your bud, and when you cry out, he doubles his efforts. He wraps his lips around the aching nub to suck gently, then slides a finger into you, curling it just right. Adding another, he increases the pace, his fingertips pulsing into that damned spot within your walls each time.

The defined bridge of his nose is flush against your clit as he moves, augmenting your pleasure. The whole thing is messy, unrefined, and so damn good that it has you teetering on the edge in no time.

Your thighs quiver around his head, and when your orgasm crashes over you, you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Ewan keeps going, his tongue and fingers refusing to let up, coaxing every last shudder from you until you're trembling and gasping for air.

"Holy. Shit." You lean back on your elbows to recuperate as white spots flood your vision.

"Did I... was that... was that good?" he asks with his lips shiny and swollen, practically yearning for your approval.

"Yeah," you manage, but it escapes your lips as a small, incoherent sigh.

"Hmm? What? What was that... baby?"

Baby, he says. But with the way, he's being so sweet, so dumbstruck, he's certainly the baby in this dynamic.

"More," you give him a better answer, "C'mere." You pull him up to your level, tasting yourself on his lips. Leveraging your legs around his waist, you keep him caged in. The outline of his hardened cock presses against your pelvis, and when you grind into him, his teeth clamp down on your bottom lip.

"Aghhh, hey!"

"Shit, I'm sorry—"

"It's okay," you whisper, not letting him pull away. "I liked it. And I want more."

"Anything, baby," he promises, and the raw honesty in his tone makes your chest tighten. "Anything you want. I'll—fuck—I'll give it to you. I'm all yours."

You nod once, before he claims your lips again in a bruising kiss. One of the thin straps of your dress falls from your shoulder, and he visibly shivers in excitement at the sight of your exposed breast.

"Fuck," he sighs, his hand coming up almost hesitantly to cup you. His thumb brushes over your nipple, as he takes you in with lust-clouded eyes. He leans down and captures the flesh with his mouth, his tongue swirling around your tender peak until you're left squirming.

You reach for him, fumbling with his belt and his zipper, and he helps you, his movements even more hurried and uncoordinated than yours.

When he frees himself, you can't help but stare—his cock is long and hard, already slick with precum. The sight makes your mouth water, and when you drag your gaze back up to his face, you find him watching you, his expression somewhere between bashful and utterly wrecked.

Ewan's hair, once gelled to immaculate perfection, now lies in disarray. He'll need to borrow your comb before he dares rejoin the party. The lower half of his face bears the unmistakable traces of cum and smudged rouge, a vivid testament to the chaotic indulgences of the evening. And somewhere in the frenzy of fumbling and fondling, his clip-on Dior earring has gone astray. He feels the absence keenly, like a phantom limb, yet he resigns himself to the loss—for now, it's a dilemma best left for another moment.

"You're staring," he says, an uneasy laugh escaping him, but there's heat in his gaze, a newfound confidence grounding his nerves.

"Because I like what I see," you reply.

"Tell me if this is too much," he says, his anxiety resurfacing through the haze of lust. It's endearing—so much so that you can't help but smile.

"Ewan," you say firmly. "I want everything."

He groans faintly as he lines himself up. Carefully, he pushes into you, and the stretch is exquisite, sending a shiver rippling up your spine. You both moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. He buries himself to the hilt, pausing to catch his breath, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he murmurs, looking down at where your bodies meet. "Your pussy feels so good."

The compliment makes you feel something you can't pinpoint, but there’s no time to dwell on it. He starts to move, his thrusts tentative at first, testing the waters. But the whorish mewls spilling from your lips spur him on, and soon, he finds a rhythm—deep, steady, and just rough enough to leave you begging for more.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp, your nails scraping lightly against his back. "Yeah... just like that."

Your words are the only encouragement he needs. His pace quickens, and his grip on you tightens as if he's about to confess that he wants to own you. He's already yours, so it's only fair, isn't it?

He's spent years fantasizing about how your pussy would feel, squeezing his cock like a goddamn vice, and he's happy to find out that his imagination is nothing compared to the real thing.

"So sexy, baby," he mutters, his voice muffled as he nips at your neck. "Better than I ever—" He cuts himself off with a groan, his teeth grazing your skin.

You raise your legs higher up his torso to draw him deeper. The angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and your moans grow louder despite your attempts to keep quiet.

Then, suddenly, the doorknob rattles.

Both of you freeze, Ewan still buried deep inside your fleshy walls, his eyes wide with panic. The sound of a familiar voice seeps through the door, followed by a frustrated sigh.

"Where the hell did I leave my phone?" It's your friend, Florence Pugh. Her voice is unmistakable, and the realisation makes your stomach drop.

Ewan’s lips form a silent oh my God. You bite back a laugh, pressing a hand over your mouth as Florence jiggles the doorknob again.

"Seriously?" she mutters. "Locked? For fuck's sake."

You hear her footsteps retreat, her voice fading as she calls out to someone else. "Have you seen my phone? I swear I left it out here."

The moment the coast is clear, you both exhale in unison, the tension breaking into a mix of laughter and relief. Ewan drops his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head. "This is insane," he whispers, though he doesn't feel a single ounce of regret.

"You're the one who couldn't keep it in his pants," you tease, rolling your hips slightly to remind him of your still-connected bodies.

His response is a low growl, and he resumes his thrusts, harder this time, filled with unfiltered desire. The near-miss only seems to have fueled him, the snap of his hips more frantic, more intense. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room—mumbled curses, breathless moans, sticky slapping of flesh meeting flesh.

"God, you're incredible," he says, his voice strained. "I can't get enough of you."

You feel the coil in your belly tightening again, the pressure building with each thrust. Your delicate fingers dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you. His rhythm falters for only a second before he recovers.

"Ewan," you gasp, your voice breaking. "I'm so close—don't stop."

"Come for me, baby," he says, his hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. It sends you spiraling, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body tensing and shuddering beneath him as he continues to move, chasing his own release.

He reaches up and twists your nipple, the sharp sensation making you gasp just before he comes. The sight of you—head thrown back, breast bouncing free from your designer gown, your smudged red lips parted in bliss—drives him to the brink. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one final time. His body shakes as he spills inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you completely. You both tremble in the aftermath, caught in the intensity of the moment, gasping for air, drenched in sweat and tangled in raw desire.

You blink lazily at him, a beautiful mess of tousled hair and make-up in dire need of a retouch. "Still think I'm a liability?" you ask.

"Oh, absolutely. But one worth keeping anyway."

Ewan sits in his dimly lit London apartment, the glow of his phone the only other source of light in the room. A half-empty bottle of Guinness sits forgotten on his coffee table. The screen displays your Instagram profile—your impossibly gorgeous face beaming at him from your latest post, which happens to be a professional photograph of you at the GQ party.

His finger hovers above the Follow button like it's the trigger of a detonator.

His newly-created account is laughably barren—no posts, no followers, no following. Just a desperate, last-ditch attempt to tether himself back to you, even if only digitally.

Ewan had always sworn off social media, claiming it wasn't his style, that he preferred the privacy and the mystique. Yet, here he is, spiraling, drunk on the memory of you and of that night.

The coatroom had been a blur. The attendant had returned far too soon, a flurry of apologies as Florence appeared behind her, claiming her phone from her coat pocket with a triumphant smirk.

Ewan remembers how Florence had tugged you aside, your laughter ringing out as she swiped her thumb across your lips, erasing the evidence of that kiss—or maybe just rearranging it. You had been whisked away to the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, disheveled, speechless, and utterly entranced. He hadn't even managed to get your number.

It's been days since, but he still feels the ghost of your touch, the echo of your moans, the scent of you on his skin. He's tried to focus, tried to pick up his scripts, but his mind keeps replaying the way you looked as you came.

He has even rewatched a film of yours, with special attention paid to a particular love scene. Watching it over and over, repeatedly going back to the timestamp where you're seen riding your male costar.

He felt aroused watching you. Also, incredibly fucking jealous.

"Pathetic," he mutters to himself, his finger still hovering. His thumb twitches, brushing the screen, but before he can commit to his descent into full-blown thirst, his phone buzzes violently, the vibration startling him into dropping it onto the couch.

"Shit." He snatches it back up, squinting at the screen. It's a call from his agent.

"Ewan," comes the voice on the other end, crisp and faintly incredulous. "What the hell did you do at that party?"

His heart stops for a beat. "Uh... what?"

"The party. The GQ one. The one where you disappeared for, what, an hour? Maybe more?"

Ewan's brain scrambles. "I don't—I mean, I just mingled. Like you suggested,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "Why?"

"Because," the agent says, drawing out the word like it's a prize reveal, "you've been shortlisted for a chemistry test next week."

"A chemistry test?" Ewan echoes, blinking. "For what?"

"For her film," his agent says, emphasizing the pronoun like it's blasphemous not to know who you are. "It's one of those secret big-budget Hollywood projects only top actors are getting called for. We didn't submit you because—well, not to be rude, but you're not exactly on their radar for that level yet."

Ewan's heart starts pounding. He sits up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. "Wait, wait. What film? Who's—who's her?"

But he already knows the answer.

His agent drops your name, exasperated now. "Apparently she petitioned for you, Ewan. Said you'd be perfect. So what did you do?”

Ewan is stunned into silence. He leans back against the couch, a slow grin spreading across his face as the pieces click into place. You. You'd done this. You’d reached out and used your pull to bring him into your orbit again.

"What did I do?" he repeats. "Oh, nothing much. Just... made an impression."

"Well, whatever it was, it worked. Chemistry tests are next week in L.A. They'll send over the details. And Ewan," the agent pauses, lowering their voice slightly, "don't screw this up. This is huge."

"I won't," Ewan says, his tone confident now. "I promise."

When the call ends, he stares at his phone for a long moment, the grin still lingering. He glances back at your Instagram profile, his thumb poised over the Follow button again. Then he snorts, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him.

"What's the point?” he mutters to himself, his grin turning into a full-on self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you soon enough."

He reaches for the bottle of Guinness instead, lifting it in a silent toast to fate—or whatever it is that's tied you two together.

Something came out of all that mingling after all.

taglist: @bitchception @insideyourimagination @angels-wouldnt-help-youu @seamaiden @silverdragonfly @powpowjinxlife @starfishjellyfish5 @shellysa14 @delespresso @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @ninihrtss @believeinthefireflies95 @peachysunrize @darktrashsoulbear

[endiness]

tbh one of the things that makes me think that roman might kill himself is i feel like the show's just gonna give everyone the worst, most tragic, pyrrhic victory ending and i feel like roman's death would do that. 'cause right now he's really the glue holding the family together. he’s the one who most wants them to be a family and is actively trying to get them to be one and he’s the one who genuinely keeps reaching out. and, like. he's kendall and shiv's partner and he’s their teammate but he's also their co-conspirator when they're working against the other and he’s their go-between and kendall and shiv will also unite to work against him and he's the main point of contact with connor and the one to stand up for him when kendall and shiv want to exclude him. he's the center point of those connections. he’s the heart. and if roman dies, and if he does so in a way where they'd likely not only blame themselves but each other as well (and especially because they did in some way contribute to roman’s declining mental health for their own professional benefit, which is kind of already happening), i can see that irrevocably splintering the family in a way that logan's death hasn't. and i feel like something as tragic as that is what the show'll end up doing. (especially if the business side of all their lives does actually end up going well. like, maybe they’ll all to varying degrees ‘win’ but at what cost and was it really worth it in the end?) (it wasn’t but now it’s too late to go back.)

[pygmyharmoset]

I actually liked the brothel scene in s2e2. I think Ewan did such a fantastic job with the body language of Aemond. Michelle Bonnard (the actress who plays brothel madame) also got the memo and they both played it perfectly.

Imho that scene wasn’t supposed to be sexy at all. It’s deeply disturbing, it’s terribly uncomfortable. The way he speaks to her when she tries to kiss him, the way he moves his head away and lays in her lap - it’s almost petulant , like an exhausted child. This is in sharp contrast to him being boastful not even a minute ago.

They aren’t lying in a traditional post-coital pose where the man is usually lying down with the woman to his side, curled up into him, no - he’s curled up in HER arms.

The opening shot when the server parts the curtain looks like those paintings of a mother holding her child. The warm milk poured for him doesn’t help. Then he curls up in her lap again, instead of kissing her.

Oh, he is a child, trapped in the body of an adult, reliving his traumas over and over again in the arms of the only adult female figure he feels that he can be emotionally vulnerable with (despite their past history).

Baby Aemond cries to his mother when his brother and cousins bully him and give him a pig. But now he can’t go to her anymore, so he lays in the arms of the madame and tells her how he was mocked for being different.

The madame talks to him like you would talk to a child about to throw a tantrum, except this child has the most dangerous weapon in the known world. She soothes him and tries to suggest to him that a fit of rage from a powerful prince puts everyone in danger - foreshadowing later events.

I see it. I see the vision.

[pogueprincess]

Delicate

summary: On a dreaded night out with Aegon to forget his past, Aemond finds himself thinking of a future with you.

pairing: Modern!Aemond x Stripper!Reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: Explicit smut, alcohol consumption, brief mention of drugs, sex work, dry humping, lactation kink, slight mommy kink, handjob, cum play 18+ MDNI

note: Tbh, idk what urged me to write this, (it was the photo of Ewan on the couch with the leopard print carpet) but shout out to Aegon for being a good wingman 🫡 I have a part 2 planned but only if people are interested

Aemond Targaryen was never a fan of strip clubs. He viewed them as not only a waste of time, but a waste of money. Spending ungodly amounts on overpriced, watered down drinks. Just so some girl who pretended to be attracted to him, could dance on him for a couple of hours. He always left feeling impure while glitter and the scent of cotton candy body spray clung to his clothes. It just wasn’t his thing, he had better ways to spend his time. And yet, he found himself getting ready to go to one now, on a Tuesday night. With his heathen of a brother and his immature friends. What had become of him?

You’re on the opposite side of town, also getting ready for the evening. Hot steam and the scent of coconut invigorates your senses as you’ve just finished taking an ‘everything’ shower. You’re scrubbed to the bone, freshly exfoliated, shaved, and now lathering vanilla scented lotion onto your skin when your phone buzzes. Aegon Targaryen.

Aegon was your typical rich, spoiled, frat boy who frequented the club you worked at. Over the years he had become something more of a friend than a customer. He would sometimes bring you food, or weed, or a pack of cigarettes. He had even come to your defense when certain men would over step boundaries with you.

He was a good customer, gave a lot of money to the club – and to you. He wasn’t exactly your type but there was no denying he was attractive.

you workin tonight?

depends who’s asking 😈 jk … u know where to find me 💋

perfect. and not for me 😢 have a guy who needs a distraction. wear smth expensive!

oh? 👀🤨

money talks baby

yeah yeah 💸💦

It’s a rainy Tuesday night, you’re not sure why you agreed to pick up a shift in the first place. But you could use some extra cash, and your daughter is at her dad’s this week.

Even though the club you work at is one of the busiest in Kings Landing, you anticipate it to be an uneventful evening. Aegon coming in changes things, maybe you’ll have some sort of fun, and at the very least someone to talk to.

It’s just you and two other girls working tonight. There are three men sat around the stage as Floris dances, and Sara is occupied with a private dance in the back. As you predicted, a pretty slow night. You have the bartender make you a drink. You sit and tap on the glass waiting for some action when Aegon finally shows up.

He has a decent sized group of guys with him, most of which seem to already be under the influence. In order to not appear desperate you wait for Aegon to come to you.

“Lookin’ good, girl!” he calls, leaning in to hug you, “and you wore expensive perfume, that’s a good girl,” he flirts as he slides you a $50 bill, causing you to raise your eyebrows at him.

“Is this for… your friend?”

“Not a friend,” he states proudly, a devilish grin on his face, “my brother.”

You look past Aegon to the group of guys he sauntered in with, and then you spot him. A tall, lean guy with hair the same shade as Aegon’s; except his is much shorter, and styled neatly. He’s aimlessly scrolling his phone, barely looking around. You notice he has a pack of Marlboro Menthols in his hand. With a cool demeanor and a jawline chiseled to perfection by the Gods themselves, you are in for it.

He resembles Aegon for sure, though he is much more handsome.

“Gods, there’s two of you,” you groan jokingly.

“Actually, there’s four of us,” Aegon corrects, “but one’s sixteen and the other is a girl, our sister.”

Aegon hardly ever spoke of his family and when he did it was never in detail. All you knew was they were toxic, full of drama, lacking love, and filthy rich.

“Right. Well, what do I need to know about this one?”

“That’s Aemond. Go easy on him, will you? He’s a major nerd, hates all things fun, and the club isn’t really his scene — total opposite of me,” he notes, “but he’s been hung up on this older woman and I need him to get under someone else to get over her.”

You raise your eyebrows at him a second time, unsure of what you’re getting yourself into.

“What can I say? We’re a complicated bunch, but it’s nothing you can’t handle, right princess?”

You giggle at the pet name and he grins before he smacks you hard on the ass.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

You glance over in Aemond’s direction again, now he sips on an old fashioned, his grip tight on the glass while his expression remains unreadable.

You decide to head to the back to quickly freshen yourself up. You’ll need to mentally prepare yourself before sinking your paws into Aegon’s sexy-as-hell younger brother. You brush out your curls, pick away any dried mascara from below your eyelids and generously apply more perfume. Baccarat 540, it was expensive, thank you very much.

You take a large sip of your own drink before you saunter your way back out front and over to the table where he sits.

"Hey! You look like you could use a friend" you purr, “can I offer you a dance?"

Aemond looks over to Aegon who is giving him a thumbs up before looking at you. His eye scans your body.

"Um, yeah,” he finally responds, swallowing thickly, “yeah, you can.”

This time he smiles as he checks you out.

"You wanna go somewhere more private?" you offer in a whisper, motioning to one of the closed off rooms, "ya know away from prying eyes?"

"Sure," he replies and your perfectly manicured fingers wrap around his wrist, dragging him to one of the rooms. Once you’re alone, tucked away behind the velvet curtain, he takes it upon himself to take a seat on the leather couch.

“So how does this work?" he questions nonchalantly, taking a large sip of his old fashioned.

“You’ve never gotten a private dance before?” you ask him and he shakes his head as he swallows.

“Oh, well, I’m flattered,” you giggle, taking a seat next to him, feeling him out.

“Well, while we’re in here,” you say as you place your palm on his leg, “I’m all yours,” you smile.

“All mine, huh?”

“That’s right,” you soon come realize that Aemond isn’t even sure what he wants. You take a large sip of your drink, finishing it off in one gulp.

You discard your empty glass and slowly straddle Aemond’s lap, refusing to break eye contact as you move your body to the rhythm of the song the booms through the speakers. Your palms glide over his lean chest, teasing and tantalizing as you continue to sway your hips. Aemond keeps a firm grip on the couch, his hands not leaving his sides. You reach down and take them in yours.

“You can touch me, you know. I promise you won’t break me,” you encourage, guiding his hands up your body.

His hands are cold as they run up and down your stomach, but they cause a fire to ignite inside of you. His touch is more gentle than what you’re used to. He uses his thumbs to swipe over the sheer fabric of your bra against your nipples. You gasp under his touch but he quickly removes his hands from you, yet you feel his cock grow harder underneath you.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, your hands flying to your breasts, instantly feeling two damp spots there. Fuck.

It’s something you know is inevitable, but it doesn’t make it any less awkward. All of your regulars are already aware of your situation, but with someone new and unsuspecting, it’s an uncomfortable conversation. You’d found a lot of men are actually turned on by it, but there is always that chance that the current one won’t be.

“I – I’m so sorry. I don’t usually confide this, Aegon knows… but uh, I have a one year old who’s still breastfeeding.”

Aemond appears to be at a loss for words. You need to get up before he can reject you himself.

“Let me just—” He stares at you intently as you’re about to remove yourself from his lap. He is definitely caught off guard by your confession, but not in the negative way that you think.

“That’s no problem,” he says huskily as he composes himself, “you stay right here.”

His gaze is piercing as he keeps his hands firm on your hips, the cool metal of his rings digs into your flesh as he holds you in place in his lap.

“Alright, if you’re sure,” you mutter back to him, feeling relieved.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he tells you, the bulge in his pants evidently harder than it was earlier.

You study him carefully, there is a hunger in his eye that wasn’t there before, even moments ago. It’s as if his entire demeanor has changed. You figure you can use this to your advantage.

“I don’t usually do this, but I’m making an exception,” you tell him as you reach behind your back to unclasp your bra. You shimmy it off your shoulders and let it fall to the dirty floor.

“Because I’m Aegon’s brother?” he asks.

“No, because …. I want to.”

It was true, you didn’t normally get this intimate with customers, but something about Aemond was drawing you in.

Aemond’s eye widens as you reveal your glistening nipples to him. You squeeze at your breast lightly, grinding yourself into him, and he rewards you with a moan. your thumb around your nipple, gathering some of your milk onto it before rubbing it along Aemond’s lower lip. He eagerly accepts it into his mouth, sucking it harshly, nipping at your fingertip.

“You like that?”

“Mhm,” he groans against you, releasing your thumb before leaning forward into you. He smells good, expensive cologne and nicotine. His lips find their way to your neck, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. His fingers ghost down your body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. You arch into him, wanting more.

He continues to move at an agonizingly slow pace, taking his time with you as his lips make their way from your throat down to your chest. Your breath hitches once his tongue finally comes in contact with your nipple, lapping at the droplets of milk there. He takes your flesh into his mouth, gently suckling, careful not to apply too much pressure.

Your mind is going hazy as arousal leaks from your core, so you grind down harder on him, attempting to ease the ache between your legs.

Aemond continues to suckle at your breast, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as he drinks from you with ease. His eyes are closed, his mind completely lost to the sensation of you in his mouth. Your body trembles against him and he feels it, your small whimpers and moans urging him on.

He pulls away slowly, and you wince at the loss of contact. His lips leave a trail of wet kisses across your skin as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

You lean back, positioning yourself so that you have access to the button of Aemond’s jeans.

“Can I?” you ask.

He nods his head eagerly, unbuttoning them for you and yanking the zipper down with quickness.

You slip your hand inside, beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs and wrap your hand around his length, tugging gently as your free hand flies to the back of his head, pulling at the hair at the nape of his neck.

Your hand slides at a steady pace against his shaft, squeezing gently. His thick veins pulsing underneath your fingertips.

“Fuck, M-mommy,” he moans.

Your eyes widen at his choice of words but they stir something sinister inside you, and what Aegon told you earlier rings in the back of your mind: “he’s been hung up on this older woman.”

It all clicks.

You kiss him soft and slow for a moment before pulling away.

“You wanna be a good boy and cum for mommy baby?”

“Yes! I’m — I’m good,” he stutters, rutting himself up into your palm.

Your hand works quicker as he finds himself back at your chest. Drinking from you like a man starved.

A few more languid pumps of his cock and he’s trembling beneath you. Shooting thick, pearly ropes into your hand. You move your hand down lower to cup and squeeze at his balls for a moment before bringing it back up to your mouth, licking away the salty remnants as Aemond shoves his cock back into his pants.

As if right on schedule, the timer you set on your phone to keep track of the time goes off.

“Well, looks like our time’s up,” you say with a frown.

“Looks like it,” he replies and the air swells with tension.

You turn to leave, hoping to give him a moment to gain his composure and get himself together but he yanks at your wrist.

“Wait! Let me take you out!” he blurts out at you, “on a date, a real one. Please.”

You bring your hand up to wipe a smudge of your lipgloss from the corner of his mouth.

“This was paid for, ya know?” You say empathetically and his eye darkens. Great. You’ve offended him.

“I know that,” he says sternly, “It’s just, I want to take you out. Please. Just one date.”

“One date,” you repeat.

“Yes,” he assures, his good eye gleaming.

“Okay.”

Something else you don’t usually do, date customers. These Targaryen’s are giving you a run for your money.

You give Aemond your phone number and you let him add his to your phone.

“I will text you,” he promises before he goes to exit the room. You follow him out and watch as he makes his way back to Aegon who is bright eyed and clapping at his brother.

You make eye contact with Aegon and he mouths something to you that you are unable to decipher.

What have you gotten yourself into?

[ariaste]

If you could sit the vampire polycule/diabolicule down in a row on a sofa to watch one (1) movie with the intent of causing the maximum amount of psychic damage and/or drama, what movie would you pick for them? I'll go first: Moulin Rouge. Hear me out.

Louis is upset because he's a pretentious snob (affectionate) when it comes to Art and he's complaining that it's just a ripoff of the opera La Traviata. He's correct but he doesn't need to say it, he is allergic to camp and he's harshing everyone's vibes with his barely-under-his-breath scoffing.

Daniel is ruefully identifying way too heavily with Ewan McGregor's character. Daniel is sitting here with his mouth firmly shut like, "Nobody call me out for being exactly Like That when I was 20, nobody look at me, nobody read my mind, nobody make eye contact with me, god this is cringe. Look, he's even got the drug use going on." (This is show!canon that we're talking about so thankfully Daniel doesn't have to also cope with the "AND he's embarrassingly into a hot redheaded theater nerd, god just kill me now, nobody Perceive me please" vector of embarrassment). Daniel is also not having a good time with the creepy older men skeeving on this theater nerd sex worker once he thinks the words "Hm, Marius vibes"

Daniel and Louis also feeling kind of mutually overstimulated from how their heightened vampire super-senses are reacting to all of the Colors and Flashing Lights and Whippy Camera Movements etc. They have matching headaches and are feeling slightly nauseated.

Everyone is feeling some degree of slightly triggered, emotionally, about either Paris In General (Daniel), or Niche-Theater Life In Paris (Armand, Louis, Lestat). Big mixed feelings also about tuberculosis, a disease that makes people cough up blood.

Armand and Lestat are profoundly NOT allergic to camp, unlike some people on this wretched sofa. Armand and Lestat cannot be overstimulated by Colors/Flashing Lights/Whippy Camera Movements/etc, bc their vampire neurodivergence goes in the opposite direction. They have not blinked or moved in 90 minutes except to breathlessly clutch each other's hands. Lestat is muttering feverishly under his breath like "armand. armand. armand. is it maybe time for us to found another theater together, do you think???? armand??? what if we just. are you doing anything after this. how much cash do you have on hand right now." his ADHD hyperfixation on a new-old hobby is going BUCK WILD. He has to recreate this except EVEN MORE. Armand is watching Satine Suddenly Die At The End, just like how in all of his silly little plays someone also Suddenly Dies At The End, and he is deciding that this is maybe god's perfect movie. This is the greatest film either of them has ever seen. They think this is Cinema.

Armand and Lestat will have never agreed with each other for so many consecutive minutes as they will when the credits roll and Louis starts monologuing about how much it sucks to the point of VAST OFFENSE AND HURT FEELINGS on Armand and Lestat's part

the whole mess devolves into a screaming fight between the three of them while Daniel both refuses to referee and also won't stop making bitchy comments once he twigs to the fact that nobody else seems to have noticed that he was Going Through Some Cringe Nostalgia. The night is ruined, no one is happy, Louis takes Lestat floating the idea of founding a new theater with Armand since "you clearly don't understand art, LOUIS" as one of Lestat's top five greatest betrayals. Armand is not giving a straight answer about whether he is on board with the theater idea or not, which upsets everyone equally, unlike if he had said yes or no clearly and at least gotten one ally locked down. Louis appeals to Daniel to oppose the theater idea; Daniel does a bad job of doing so because he chronically believes that maybe having some hobbies will Make Armand Worse, which is a thing he's into sexually. Everyone goes to bed mad. The passive-aggression for the next week could be cut with a knife.

[ladykailitha]

Of Butterflies and Backstrokes Part 10

Yay!!! This story is back! I was able to get a little bit ahead so I put out a chapter this week. Caged Bird will be back as well, so yay!!!

In addition because Au Pair Boy is doing so well, I'll be putting it out on Thursday and just having two chapters of Around the World come out this week (I'm writing it all the time but last week slowed me down a lot because I wasn't feeling good).

In this we have progress on the Steve vs the pool front, Steve gets farther in his therapy, and Robin is the bestest.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

~

Steve was sitting in his tower as always when Eddie swam up to the base of it. “Hey, I have an idea.”

“What’s up?” Steve asked leaning over to hear him better. He wouldn’t have done that for anyone else. Well, except Robin. He just didn’t trust them not to try and pull him into the water.

“Come with me,” Eddie said wading over to the part of the pool that had steps down into the very shallow end of only three feet.

Steve hopped off the tower and stood about a foot from the stairs. He gulped and shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

Eddie climbed the stairs to get out of the pool and cupped Steve’s face in his hands. “And I’m not asking you to. All I’m asking is for you to sit on the step, cross-legged and when you feel ready, dip your toes into the water. Just that.”

“Just my toes?” Steve asked, his voice wobbling with emotion. “Not my whole feet?”

“Maybe eventually,” he said with that dimpled smile. “But I want to start out slow...”

Steve gulped but nodded. He grabbed his clipboard and sat down cross-legged at the top of the stairs leading to the pool. Then as they continued to train, he absentmindedly swung one foot into the pool.

He didn’t even notice until he looked up to see Max and Eddie arguing with Robin. Max and Eddie were in the pool but Robin was crouched on the edge of it. They seemed to be very against whatever Robin was for.

He blew on his whistle and suddenly all three heads turned his direction.

“Don’t tell him,” Max hissed at Robin. “You’ll ruin it.”

“Well I think he deserves to know,” Robin snapped. “Because it’s fucking awesome!”

“He’ll freak out,” Eddie insisted. “I don’t want him to get self-conscious and get worse!”

“Hey, uh...” Steve said, unsure, “but what’s going on?”

Robin looked pointedly at his feet.

He blinked at them for a moment and then looked down at his feet. His whole right foot, all the way up to half his calf was in water. He looked back up at them in awe. “Oh.”

Eddie moved toward Steve slowly, hands in the air. “Now, it’s just your foot, you can pull it out if you want, or and bear with me here, you can try putting your other foot in the water.”

Steve set the clipboard to the side and took a deep breath. The other three also held their breath as they waited for his reaction.

He went to move his other foot toward the water, but he stopped just shy of the edge and turned away. “Nope. I can’t–”

Eddie finally reached him and grabbed his wrists and started massaging them with his thumbs. “You did so good with the one foot, Stevie. I was only expecting your toes or even nothing at all. Because this is just a first step, okay?”

Steve turned to look at him and gulped. His eyes locked on Eddie and lowered his other foot into the water slowly. The water was lukewarm and the gentle lapping of the water was actually soothing.

“Oh.”

Eddie’s grin was as wide as it was effervescent. “Hey there.”

Steve smiled back. “Well, hello there.”

“You would be a fan of the prequels,” Eddie huffed. “Those are trash, man.” He gave Steve’s hands a squeeze. “I’m going to let go now, okay?”

Steve nodded. “Oh, I know they’re shit, dude. But Ewan McGreggor is hot as Obi-wan and Padmé was either stupid or blind to go after Annie when that smoke show was standing there!”

“You like the boys, Stevie?” Eddie asked wagging his eyebrows.

Steve just shrugged. “I’ve been known to wade in both streams on occasion.”

Eddie just licked his lower lip. Max tired of being ignored splashed Eddie and started a splash war she could not win.

Robin shared a smirk over their heads with Steve, who blushed. Soon after they all piled out of the pool and into the dressing rooms.

They walked out talking and giggling about their celebrity crushes. Robin was talking about the how much hotter ScarJo looked as a red head over her natural blonde, while Eddie and Steve bickered about who was hotter, Han or Luke.

Poor Max just shook her head in disgust.

When Robin and Steve got into the car, he let out a long sigh and hit his head on the steering wheel.

Robin rubbed his back. “Yeah, I think Eddie was right not to tell you. Because while you got both feet in the water, you did freak out.”

Steve nodded. He probably would have put the other foot down naturally and been surprised when he stood up. Now...

“Come on,” she said with a sad smile. “Let’s go get you some ice cream.”

~

“And do you agree with her?” Dr. Hughes asked after Steve described what happened.

Steve leaned on his elbows and clasped his hands together. “I mean, I thought so at the time but now I can see that there were other ways that things could have gone wrong if they hadn’t told me. But I was able to get both feet in the pool.”

“Good,” Dr. Hughes said with a nod. “You’re starting think things through when you have had time to digest the situation. I need to warn you though, there will be times where one day you won’t be able to get near the water and others where you’ll take steps you never thought possible. I wish progress was a straight line, but it’s more like those bead toys at doctor’s offices.”

Steve buried his head in hands. “Is it worth it, then?”

“Yes, Steve,” Dr. Hughes said, “it will always be worth it, because one day you will look back and see how far you’ve come and be shocked at how much you’ve changed.” He steepled his his hands and pressed his forefingers against him mouth. “You recognized at in the first proper session that you might not ever properly swim again, has that changed?”

Steve sat up and rubbed his palms on his thighs with a heavy sigh. “No. Of course not. It just doesn’t really feel like progress. I had to have Eddie’s help. I would have never done it on my own.”

“And I wouldn’t have made you do it on your own, Steve,” he said gently. “The better your support system the further you’ll go in healing.”

Steve nodded. “I lost a lot when I hit my head. My friends, my parents, my hopes and dreams. I like what I do, but I’m not me anymore.”

“Losing your sense of self is probably one of the things contributing to your new phobia,” Dr. Hughes agreed, nodding. “And yet you were able to subconsciously put one foot in the water. Why do you think that was?”

Steve just shrugged.

Dr. Hughes chuckled. “I think I hit today’s limit on introspection, but that’s all right. So I’ll give you something to think about until our next session. I believe that the reason you were able to put your foot in the water without help is because you felt a sense of accomplishment when coaching Max and Eddie that you haven’t felt since your accident.”

Steve frowned, pursing his lips in thought. He nodded, settling back into the chair. “Yeah, I’ll think about that for sure.”

They wrapped up the appointment and Steve drove home to the small apartment he shared with Robin. They could afford a nicer place, but it was perfect for them. Decent rent, okay landlord, and quiet neighbors.

He made it up the stairs, but as he went to put his key in the lock, he stopped. He put this free on the door and leaned his head against its solid surface.

He always felt like a wrung out towel after his sessions with Dr. Hughes. It was just so draining. He knew he was making progress, but it felt so insignificant.

Before he could turn the key, the door opened slowly as to not make him trip on his feet. On the other side of the door was Robin. She gently pulled him inside, closing the door. She sat him on the sofa and then handed him a beer and a large spoon.

He was about to ask what the spoon was for when the microwave beeped and he was handed a large bowl of soup.

“Thanks, Robs,” he murmured, setting the beer on the end table and digging into the soup. Cauliflower and Wisconsin cheddar cheese. His favorite.

Robin came and sat across from him on their coffee table, cross-legged. “I figured you’d want some serious comfort after today’s session.”

He nodded, munching away through the whole bowl, taking sips of the beer to wash it down. When he was done Robin carefully took both the bowl and empty bottle to the kitchen. She came back and pulled him to her, both of them just cuddling on the sofa as Steve relaxed, bit by bit.

“You’re the bestest friend a boy could ask for,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“You helped me through that horrible break up with Vickie,” she said soothingly. “It’s only fair I help you through your therapy.”

Steve sat up and looked her in the eye. “Except that was a one time thing, this might be for the rest of our lives.”

Robin tucked her knees under her and cupped his face. “You still do things that help me with the break up. You’ll change the station if me and Vickie’s song comes on. You’ll make carbonara when you crave it instead of getting it from that little Italian place she used to work because she might there. So let me do the same for you, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he murmured softly. Then he told her all about what Dr. Hughes had said in the session.

“It would make sense,” Robin said after he was done. “Like teaching kids how to swim is fun for you, but it’s not what you grew up doing your whole life. And you have a shiny new sense of purpose that you didn’t have before.”

“So you don’t think I’m hinging all my recovery on Eddie?” Steve asked sheepishly.

“I’m not your therapist,” she reminded him, “I can’t tell you that for certain, but Steve? It happened when Max was there, too. Had it occurred when it was just Eddie? Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

“That’s a relief,” Steve said with a sigh. “I’ll bring it up to Dr. Hughes next time for sure. But I think that he’s using Eddie to help me with the trauma. Like with the way he pulls me out of panic attacks, to the suggestion about sitting by the pool. And yeah it’s a bit sneaky, but it also makes sense.”

“Get Eddie to do the physical aspects of the breaking free of the trauma,” Robin said, nodding her head in understanding, “then he, Dr. Hughes deals with the emotional and mental part of it before and after.”

He let out a long shuddering breath. “I’m still scared.”

Robin gave him a big hug. “It’s okay to be scared, dork. But I’m here for you.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Come on, Max and Eddie are waiting for us.”

Steve gave her a bright smile and took her hand, allowing her to pull him to his feet. He had work to do, it was time to get started.

~

Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

I'm not sure if it's clear enough in the story, Steve went home between the therapy session and his coaching of Eddie and Max. I hope that clears any questions about the ending up.

Tag List: CLOSED

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2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

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10- @aol19 @eriquin @tartarusknight @gloomysoup @morallyundefined

[jamminjunimo]

Hey do you have any Elliott headcannons? I like hearing people ramble about their favourite characters :3c

I do! Thank you, I love to ramble about him!

To start, here are a few I've already written up:

General Elliott Headcanons

Romantic Elliott Headcanons

Cooking (all marriage candidates)

Favorite Movie Genres (all marriage candidates)

That said here are some

More Elliott Headcanons!

In no particular order...

He's a lot like Christian (Ewan McGregor) in Moulin Rouge in some ways—piggybacking off one of my previous headcanons, "I had come to live a penniless existence. I had come to...write about truth, beauty, freedom...and that which I believed in above all things: Love... ...There was one problem. I'd never been in love."

He really cares about the environment and works messages of environmental protection into some of his writing.

He definitely keeps multiple journals, even if he isn't always diligent writing in them (and the journal he mentions in his marriage dialogue is a specific new one).

His voice is usually very gentle and it's always surprising when he gets loud (which only happens when he's had a little too much to drink). It's never a startling, scary loud, but a boisterous, happy loud.

It's rare to see him visibly angry—he's more likely to get quiet unless he's defending someone he cares for.

When dating the farmer, he loves to send them letters. Work on the farm and in other areas like the mines can keep him from seeing them for days at a time or longer and is always elated to receive letters back. He writes about a lot of things: daily life, thoughts, what he's been working on, and (if his relationship with the farmer it there) sometimes more salacious things. ;) He'll also include tiny seashells he finds.

He loves sunrises but isn't usually awake to see them unless he's been up all night.

He has quite the skincare routine!

He doesn't show embarrassment or fluster easily—until along came the farmer. He used to as a kid, being teased for his soft ways and unusual interests, but eventually "grew out of it" as he would put it (but in reality was more because he began to distance himself). But once he met the farmer and began to develop feelings for them, he found himself blushing more often and finding himself at a loss of words. Except this felt much different than when he was young, and he realized it was because he was falling in love. :)

He can see junimos. Not fully like the farmer can, but he's definitely seen glimpses, especially after long writing sessions or days spent quietly on the beach or in the forest. he has no idea what he's seen and usually chalks it up to having been too focused that his mind is playing tricks.

[snowblack-charcoalwhite]

I think the best indicator of "love" is screen time and development the characters are getting. Aemond is definitely not loved, perhaps not even liked by this team. He was sidelined in s1 after Driftmark as well, the show never explored the aftermath for him, ignored his trauma, barely showed relationship with his mother etc. But in s1 Aemond was still a compelling character who stood on his own, now in s2 they write him like an afterthought, it feels like they would have left him off screen if he wasn't needed for the plot, they don't develop him, but the audience sees him occasionally so people remember he exists. His sole reason to exist is to be a worse version of Daemon who gets the same character traits except for Daemon's depth and interactions.

It really sucks and imo it also hurts Ewan as an actor, because after all the hype and PR he got, people had their expectations only to see that he was heavily sidelined for... literally everyone else. And now people are criticising Ewan's acting, but what is he supposed to do when his appearances are so short and he isn't given any meaty scenes? Like you can't seriously compare Tom and Ewan's material yet people do this and say Ewan is a bad actor. Olivia's sad eyes are constantly on screen, it's getting tiresome and repetitive, but hey, they need her to have a chance at Emmys. Same with Emma and Matt, they'd rather show Daemon walking around for 10 minutes then give Ewan an extra second. The battle of Rooks rest could have been his moment, but no, it's Fabien who gets the spotlight out of the Greens. Anime villains can't show any emotions apparently! Aemond can only appear on screen for 2 minutes per episode max. This is downright disrespectful, HBO used Aemond and Ewan for promo, tricked fans into thinking Aemond will have a prominent role, but the show treats Aemond and Ewan terribly. People on social media say they want to watch HOTD just for Aemond because he looks cool and I almost want to say it's not worth it because he is barely on screen lmao. And the writing is awful. The showrunners and HBO had an iconic character in the making but they're boring morons.

Hello!

I have to agree on the point about the complete and utter disrespect with which HBO and the writers have dealt with Aemond and Ewan this season. Actually, basically all of the characters have been subjected to the exploitative treatment and used to either push the show's agenda in a very crude, dumbed down form or to straight out bait the audience to gain more views. Olivia plays a double part of "a terrible mother"/"a victim of patriarchy" (to make Rhaenyra look better/to hammer home the "women good men bad" point) with a default "I'm about to cry" face (she even kind of joked about it herself during one of the promo interviews). Emma so far has been playing another crying/disrespected/constantly in need of saving or standing up for victim of patriarchy. Matt this season gives a master class in playing the walking collection of psychological issues (and not in a good way) - but he at least has something to actually act out. The latter also goes for Tom though Aegon has been really dumbed down - plus sometimes it feels like his main purpose in the show is to evoke pity in viewers. Phia has been amazing with what she was given but overall storywise Helaena doesn't fare that much better than last season - she is still barely a character. Fabien has been talking a lot about Criston's loyalty to Alicent (and this loyalty was shown to us in season 1) but we have yet to see the actual proof of this loyalty in season 2.

But Aemond IMO takes the cake as far as the disrespect towards the character and the actor is concerned. It really feels like HBO after introducing this character with so much potential for development (and the coolest design to boot) played by a very talented actor with a really powerful screen presence just used Aemond for increasing the show's popularity and selling merch - and after that used Ewan during the promo campaign knowing full well that a lot of people have been intrigued by him and interested in learning more about him. Is it possible that no one at HBO had been aware about the way Condal&Co treated Aemond's storyline and how heavily he was sidelined before the season was released? I don't think so.

Anyway, even if HotD has robbed Ewan of an actual opportunity to fully show his acting abilities, at least it has brought him a certain amount of fame and popularity (including interest in his previous projects). People (directors and studio execs among them) now know who he is and what kind of range he has (based off the way he has been playing Aemond and the way he played his other characters). So, after all, some good has come of it.

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

what’s your best advice for someone trying to get into writing Obi-Wan? I’ve been reading a lot of fanfic (lol, for research…), but is there anything in particular that you think is key about getting his character right? I’ve really enjoyed your work and 221bshrlocked so far—in fact, I just asked them this exact question lol

I have not checked my inbox in AGES it seems, since this is over a year old. I’m sorry! If you still want to know, I’d say watching clips of him really helps. Watching his mannerisms, how he talks, what he responds to and what he remains passive on. The clone wars is surprisingly helpful in this too. We get some details on him we don’t get in the movies.

I like remembering, when I’m writing him, that he’s someone who has a VERY immaculate mask he presents to others, and he’s very private. We know from canon books that he doesn’t have a high opinion of himself exactly, and that he has far more insecurities than are visible. There is a lot more to him than he presents to the world. He’s more emotional than he lets on. He feels, deeply.

He’s someone who’s guided by his sense of duty; he finds his purpose in serving others as a Jedi, but I also think this is a crutch for him. He was brushed to the side a lot as a child and teenager, and he was thrust into responsibilities he had to grow into from a young age. When he has loved, he often loses them, in both friendships and romantically. He recovered from this gracefully, externally, but the wounds are still there.

This is my personal interpretation of his character, but I think he really pours himself into responsibility to others, yes, because he cares deeply, but also because that is where he has excelled and been affirmed. But very few have looked at him for who he is, not what he is or what he does, and loved him.

Part of why I love writing him in a romantic setting is this: I think that being loved would challenge his sense of self in a tremendous way. If he’d let a person in like that, I think it could be an excellent propellant for his personal growth.

(I recognize this could also be explored platonically, but if they didn’t want us to swoon, they should have picked anyone except Ewan to play him 💀)

I don’t know if this helps, but I know it’s what I keep in mind when I write him ☺️☺️

[bl00dlight]

In your most recent ask you spoke about how Ewan said Aemond has the code to be able to walk out on people thus he wouldn't allow himself to be vulnerable/being loved can't help him. But I also have to remind you that Ewan also said that Alicent would be the exception to that code, he wouldn't be able to walk out on her for example, and he also said, and I quote; "I think that's the only way you can beat Aemond, is with love." So I'd argue that saying he'd refuse to be loved or refuse to be genuinely close to someone isn't quite correct. Because talking about show Aemond, I think Ewan has been making it quite clear that Aemond would be willing to be close to people who care for him. All I'm saying is that I don't think things are so black and white, I think Aemond, the one from the show at least, would be able and willing to form connections.

I mean yes, no I agree. I said that he'd be able to form connections.

But I think what Ewan meant by that quote isn't "you can fix Aemond with love." It's that you can BEAT Aemond with love. Those are two separate ideas. What Ewan meant was, in that context of him saying that was to do with why he kicked Alicent out of the council room. Which I talk about, and Ewan talks about Aemond not wanting Alicent in the room because she MAKES him vunerable/emotional. And Aemond doesn't want to feel those things, he doesn't want to be put in a position of weakness. He is a character defined by fear. And for him genuine vunerablity = fear.

What Ewan meant is, you can dampen his worst impulses with love. But you can't make him feel more secure with love. Because love makes him feel vunerable aka beaten/weak. Love doesn't mean you'd fix him. Because what happens when you trigger his insecurities? What happens when you do what Alicent and Helaena both do and point out he is violent/cruel?

I think it's a deeply unrealistic idea to frame Aemond as basically, he'd call the whole thing off, this entire personality would go from violent, power hungry, controlling etc

To loving family man - if he is just given some love/care/affection.

He literally PAYS the Madame to do that exact thing and still walks out on her. Because she means nothing to him. He was confessing something which is MASSIVELY vunerable - that he feels guilty for Lucerys - he exposes himself completely to her; yet feels nothing for her. He can just abandon her. Which is Ewan says is Aemonds philosophy. Don't get attached. You can't get hurt if you're not attached.

“Don’t let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner.” That’s the code his character utilizes so he’s able to maneuver around this world without getting caught by Al Pacino."

But unless you were his family members (the ones he actually cares about) Unless you were Alicent and Helaena - he'd be using you as a substitute. Which Ewan also talks about Aemond finding substitutes for that love he so desperately wants. A substitute is not the same thing.

He hasn't exactly been very kind to Alicent has he? When she puts her hands on him he pushes them away after he told her to go back to 'domestic pursuits'. He has trash talked her all season, called her weak.

I think in season 1, yea. His character would be more willing to be close to others: but his character was in a place of greater stablity.

But season 2 is a whole different story. He is like 18 years old and has experienced an unbelievable amount of trauma in the span of a few months. And now? All the stablity he once has is completely gone. Remember, trauma is something that pulls you further and further down into your worst impulses. Why? Because it's a survival reflex. Aemond in s2 has lost ALLLLLLL the love/stablity he once had with his mother/family. Which again, was already very dysfunctional anyway. But it was managed. And Aemond wasn't in a position of power like he now is.

Alicent tries to be close with him.

I don't think you've quite interpreted what I was saying, I wasn't saying Aemond would refuse love/care - in fact I have a whole section discussing how that's exactly what he wants. Only it wouldn't be a functional idea of love and care for the person who was giving it to him.

The ask was specifically asking me how I think he'd behave in a relationship where he is loved and cared for. And I said... well exactly how he behaves with Alicent and Helaena (who both do love and care for him).

I mean, if you want to take Alys for an example - we don't really know what their relationship was like or the dynamic. But just from the fact in the books there was clearly, a romantic element to it - Aemond isn't fixed. He gets worse. He grows more violent, more wrathful, more vengeful. He kills and destroys everything around him whenever he feels the slightest bit threatened or insulted.

And if we apply that to show Aemond? Well... yea makes sense. Alys would just be another substitute. He can siphon what he wants as long as he has power. He can let you get close as long as you never threaten him, as long as he never starts to feel like he might be vunerable in the relationship.

As I said - I never said Aemond can't form connections. He can and he does. I said those connections wouldn't be stable. Put it this way, Alicent is Aemond's greatest vunerablity. And he treats her like shit now that she has turned away from him.

How could a man who has never been shown unconditional love? Ever express that? I don't think I'm being black and white. I think it's actually more black and white to interpret what Ewan said as equalling Aemond is easily fixed with love. Because it's not what he said. He said he is BEATEN by it.

And what does Aemond not want? To be beaten. He doesn't want to feel vunerable or weak. So why would he lean into that if he feels he is going to be beaten? And why would he distance himself from Alicent to the point of stripping her from her only power - if it wasn't for the fact that his love for her makes him feel vunerable?

It's black and white to think Aemond is uncomplicated enough that he would just change his entire way of being for love.

He wouldn't. Love threatens him. It beats him.

And the only way to negate any of that would be to basically give in to whatever he wanted, whenever he wants. To have no power, never complain if he mistreated you or others etc.

Again, S1 proves that even with the stablity of his family - he still lashes out towards others. You're forgetting that Aemond wasn't just hurt by Alicent. He was hurt by HIS ENTIRE FAMILY. His brother, his nephews, his cousins, his half-sister, his father. They all neglected him/bullied him etc. This man would not trust anyone lmao. And he literally doesn't we see that time and time again.

Alicent was the only one who ever stood up for him. He is attached to her.

And Helaena too, Helaena has likely never questioned him before or made him feel bad. They share an affinity for being the outsiders so she has only ever made him feel comforted most likely.

It's not until Alicent and Helaena turn away from him - that he fucken loses it on them. Okay Alicent was rightfully upset with Aemond in episode 1 of s2 for killing Luke and he has been hating on her ever since?

Aemond literally assaults Helaena when she refuses the idea that she would help him kill people.

Yea, you could get "close" to him - but my whole post was that being close to him wouldn't be you were exempt from his abuse. And any love/care he feels for you wouldn't be something he LEANS into unconditionally. Because his ego/his wounds are bigger than just that. It's not black and white to see that.... any connection with him would be dysfunctional.

I explicitly stated he is absolutely capable of love and care and connection. But my whole post was about the fact... it would be a nightmare and wouldn't be how you think of love/care/connection. We are talking about a man who has more power then like... well, in a sense he's the equivalent to a billionaire with a nuke - who also rules the world. Oh and also he has been abused and traumatised.

There is a zero percent chance he would form healthy attachments/connections.

[thephantomcasebook]

Aemond wasn't Daeron in season 1, not even close🙄 Daeron was even mentioned by AEMOND in the script where Aemond was softened already. He was even more soft as a child but they cut several scenes. They turned him into a 'smart' character just so he would think he is better than his brother for his future betrayal.

Oh my God, you Aemond fangirls have got to stop perpetuating this self-aggrandizing myth that Show!Aemond is close to Book!Aemond and was always this way.

He's not.

Tween Aemond in the show, you could definitely make that argument, because, the book doesn't really get into detail about his character as a child, yeah?

But once you get to Ewan Mitchell's Aemond, that ain't Aemond, that's Daeron pretending to be Aemond. And don't get me wrong, Ewan Mitchell does the best of anyone playing that character, but that is far from being Aemond as he was written in the book.

Aemond is boisterous, brash, and everything is do or die. He doesn't think things through but his boldness and will to act puts him over the top every time. He is Aegon's enforcer, and he relishes the job of it. Aemond and Aegon are alike in their thinking and instincts, except that Aemond is bolder and more fearless than Aegon is because Aemond doesn't give a fuck about what other people think of him or what he does. He protects his family, but he's in it to win it, no matter what.

In the book Aegon and Aemond are a lot closer and are on the same page on most things.

Daeron is a analytical, hyper-intelligent, brooding figure, who is sullen and quiet. Daeron is the one that is very close to Alicent and who learns at the feet of Criston Cole. People forget, Daeron did not spend a ton of time in Oldtown in the book. He was there with Otto for 2-3 years max before Alicent and Criston recalled him to King's Landing for the next eight years after Aemond lost his eye. In that time Daeron is a squire but the book doesn't specify whose, but we can assume that it's Criston.

Other people as well as I have it on good authority that Spotchnik did not want Daeron in the show, period. He was too popular, too well developed from GRRM's earlier drafts - which have magically disappeared since HOTD was announced - and he was too heroic and noble. The excerpt of Aemond mentioning Daeron in 1x07's script is a draft, not the shooting script. It was something that was taken out by Spotchnik. GRRM fought for Daeron being included the entire time and they would not pull the trigger till Spotchnik got fired and then they raced to add him in the Team Green bloodline thing. Which is why he's right under Alicent's dial and has no markers of his own on that dial.

Script Drafts are not canon, they're ideas that were never realized. It didn't matter if they made Tween Aemond the softest boy on the planet, if its not on screen, it didn't happen. Same thing with the Daeron mention. For all you know they added that shit to make GRRM shut up and get off their back.

Show!Aemond is 1000% Daeron in Aemond cosplay, with the writers combining the two characters together with the plan of not adding Daeron into the show because he fucks with their socio-political bullshit they were pushing.

No one is telling you that you cannot like Show!Aemond and no one is saying that what Ewan Mitchell is doing is anything less than spectacular with the character. But you Aemond Wives need to let go of this delusion that Show!Aemond is anything like Book!Aemond, cause he's not.

Season 1 show!Aemond is just Daeron from the books with characters telling us - not showing us - that Aemond is like his book counterpart without any evidence to back it up.

I don't hate Aemond, he's in the top 3 of my favorite characters on the show behind Alicent and Criston. But don't get it twisted. He's just Daeron from the books that they had to fix - poorly - because Daeron is coming.

[endless-ineffabilities]

Snapshots of Desire (a Chemical Override minishot)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: unanticipated yet again, and you all have this anon to thank!

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Ewan finds himself in the throes of desire. For better or worse, it will always be you.

August (after the nocturnal file, and before part five)

That dream was driving him insane.

He had awoken in the wee hours of the morning, the sun not having yet risen, and succumbed to his depravities. There was no way he was going back to sleep after that.

At least he was having an early head start. He jumped in the shower right away, because he was restless, but mostly due to the fact that he had to clean himself up.

He had been covered in his desire for you, so to speak, his seed coating the surface of his lower stomach. He felt shame - what would you think if you saw him like that? Would you turn away in disgust?

Or would you watch?

You would purr, Whatcha got there, baby?

He would reply, I'm all ready for you, darling.

Would you use your soft, delicate fingers to pleasure him? They would look so pretty, squeezed around his...

Fuck. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, a towel haphazardly wrapped around his waist, thinking that maybe he needed to jump back in for another cold shower.

He took a deep breath, a piss poor attempt to quiet his thoughts. You still flooded his mind no matter how he tried to spin things.

For fuck's sake, he hasn't even kissed you yet, and you were already the one and only object of his lust.

Only two days, and then he will see you again.

Only two days. Damn it, he needed to get a grip.

December (during the 'chemistry read' in part six)

He knew it was you before he even turned your way. He didn't know why exactly. Maybe it was the particular swing in your step, the smell of your perfume, the shape of your body which he recognised even from the periphery.

This was a set up. His heart was lodged right in his throat, his mind going awry. He had not seen you since that night, and craved you so badly.

He often thought about it - what he would say when he sees you again. If he could even say anything. He was supposed to feel cold, wasn't he? It wouldn't be right for him to want you back.

You sat next to him. Well, at the farthest end of the couch.

He gave you a cursory glance. You looked nervous, your hands fiddling with the script pages on your lap.

Still so fucking beautiful. How could you not be?

"They're all in on it," he blurted out. That's it? That's the best you can do?

She's not everything. Not anymore.

Your responses were cautious, almost shy, as if you didn't want to annoy him. He realised how unpleasant he must be acting when you even offered to leave for his sake.

Please don't go, darling. He started to reach for you, but caught himself at the last moment. "Stay."

Stay forever.

January (just before part seven)

Ewan was grateful for the holiday season. Time spent with family. Time off from work. Time to regroup and hone his craft for his upcoming projects.

Time to be with you. When his family questioned why he wanted to head back to London so soon after Christmas, he told them he had work commitments.

Your arrangement had started just before he went back to Derby, and it was all he could think about since then.

It was unfair to you, and it was wrong. But you felt so right against him, beside him, underneath him. You felt so fucking good all the time.

He always left afterward, right when he sensed himself growing weak and those three words were at risk of spilling out of him.

Would they even mean anything to you? He can't let you win. Not this time.

When you would reach for him after sex, searching for comfort in his eyes, he would turn away and pretend not to notice.

Once, you rolled onto your side away from him, your body unmoving except for the slight, occasional trembling of your shoulders. Ewan could swear you were crying. Because of everything.

Because of him, and what he demanded from you.

Suddenly, he felt like breaking. Breaking everything in sight. Travelling back in time to that meeting in New York and breaking Bruce's fucking jaw. Breaking down and pulling you snug in his arms. He wanted to whisper sweetly in your ear, I'm sorry, darling. I'm sorry. I love you.

He stood from the bed, going through the motions of putting his clothes back on, each one like the lash of a whip. Don't leave, you idiot. Hold her.

"I have to go," he said, the words mechanical and meaningless. It was always that.

I'll call you.

This was great.

Sorry, but I have to be somewhere.

He felt hollow. If he had a heart, it was no longer in his chest, with how cruel he felt he was being.

If he still had a heart, he was leaving it with you.

March (the club scene in part ten)

Jenna held on to his arm as they walked the red carpet outside the nightclub. When the photographers had gotten their fill and they were finally cloaked in the shadows of the venue, she went off to find her friends.

She understood the arrangement, and played her part well. Ewan liked that she seemed just as irked with the whole thing. That she didn't expect more from him.

That she didn't expect anything real.

Ewan went through the motions, wading through the crowd and introducing himself to people whom he has only seen onscreen before. The elegant masks blurred together, none of them holding his interest for long. His mind was elsewhere, tethered to the entrance, waiting for you to arrive.

And then, there you were. His darling.

Ewan's breath caught in his throat. Your gown hugged your body in a way that made his pulse quicken. Your hair done up to perfection. Your smile was confident, your movements graceful.

You hadn't seen him yet.

You were the only one in the room, the only one who mattered.

When you approached him, he felt elated. You were taking time off. You both needed to figure things out. You couldn't be seen together. It just wouldn't work.

But there you were, seemingly drawn to him as he was to you. Walking towards him like a glowing mirage.

When you kissed him, he couldn't get enough. It didn't matter how many times you touched him or how often - it would never get old. He would always need more. His fingers would dig in the flesh of your hips, and he would crumble. Your tongue would slip past his lips, melding with his own, and he would cling to you like a vice.

He was an addict, and you were the substance.

Your dress was so fucking tight, it left little to the imagination, clinging to every dip and curve.

How easy it would be to lose control. To push you against the wall, lift the hem of your dress, and claim you in the shadows, away from the eyes of the masquerade.

No one would notice. No one would care.

The temptation was unbearable, your body practically begging for him to abandon his inhibitions.

But he couldn't, could he? Not there.

He almost felt like screaming when you were interrupted, even in the supposed privacy of the smoking room.

When he finally has you again, there will be no holding back.

Addicts need their fix, just as bodies crave warmth. Just as hearts thrive off of love.

Just as Ewan desires you.

[vatiiagames]

How would the ros react to finding out mc is hiding their injuries? (Need some angsty-ish)

Hi anon! We all love some angst, don’t we?

Carlise would scold you. How dare you put your life at risk, whether you wished to not inconvenience anyone or whatever the case may be. She would immediately get you into whatever care she can. You would probably think she’s angry, but she’s not. She’s scared. When she knows you're being taken care of, she lightens up. Expect lots of reassuring words and praises during your recovery.

Varre doesn't waste any time asking questions. He is quick to begin using magic to heal you, staying silent the entire time. He will wait until you are taken care of and healed before he begins questioning why you did it; why you hid the fact you were hurt. Varre would make you promise to never scare him like that again.

Ewan doesn’t understand. Why would you hide the fact you were hurt from everyone; from him. He’s desperate to try and help you, but he’s not a healer. Sure, he knows how to patch up minor cuts and scrapes, but your condition is beyond his knowledge. His normal bubbly and charming self shuts down quick in anxiety and desperation. He just wants to help you. But he can’t.

Dea is not happy. At all. But she understands. She is likely the most level headed out of the ROs in finding out that you were hiding your injuries. She has tons of experience patching up stab wounds, cuts, whatever it may be. She’s not good with a stitch but if it’s just the two of you around she will make do with what she has. But she will be silent the entire time.

Kizan. This poor man. He has seen battle. He has seen people he cares about get hurt on the field. He’s lost friends. He’s managed to handle it all with grace, as a Commander should. But he can’t handle it with you. Kizan’s hands are on you at once, easing you down and trying his best to care for you. His fingers tremble as he patches you up the best he can. Maybe some calming words would do good to soothe his mind?

Amysa lived a sheltered life at the White Tower and has only recently been learning how the real world is. She’s brilliant on paper when it comes to knowing the ins and outs of the body, but in practice she turns white as a ghost. Seeing your injuries is no exception. She’s immediately brought to tears at the thought of your pain. While she is a mage and she can perform healing magic, her own fear overrides her abilities. She’s upset mostly with herself, not you.

Lyonel is no stranger to wounds. He almost lost his life during a hunting accident. Time is of the ease bc when you’re in such a condition and the fact you have put it off upsets him. He will help you in what ways he can, but if someone else can do it he will definitely let them. He values honesty above all else and knowing you were hiding your injuries hurts him. He will come to see you regularly and check on you, but until you’re better and the two of you can have a talk expect a cold shoulder.

Shian, like Dea, is pretty level headed about the ordeal. But that doesn’t save you from her motherly chiding. She’s not good with healing magics so she carries medicinal herbs instead. Expect sticky poultices that sting at first but numb soon after. She’ll tell you what each one does as she’s mixing it together. You can’t tell if she’s trying to teach you or keep your mind off the wounds. But her soft touch and caring eyes put you at ease. Even if she’s ripping you a new one with the sweetest tone of voice.

Tannic is good at hiding his emotions. Conceal, don’t feel. Or whatever she said. His expression doesn’t change when he sees your injuries. He does, however, get to working on them. Tannic has seen quite a bit of injuries and such in his day, yours are no different. Or so he thinks. One look into his eyes as he’s healing your wounds tells you what his words refuse to. Hurt, fear, pain… Please don’t ever scare him like that again. I’ll tell you because he probably won’t.

[eastgaysian]

the other trevelyan siblings i'm in full dragon age mode now sorry. been cooking up guys for 7 years ☝️🤓. rhion is the eldest then owain then valerie then caden they all have problemsissues to varying degrees. rhion was revealed as a mage at age 9, mom wanted to try and hide this, dad immediately marched over to the circle, and the general family atmosphere after this was one of emotional neglect by parents who should've gotten a divorce. owain is the only one who has any kind of relationship with their parents/maintains even token contact with his siblings. more infodumping ⬇️

rhion: existence is almost forgotten by everyone except owain and maybe their mother, it's hard to tell. chose to become tranquil at 18 following the death of a "close friend," sean, during his harrowing. probably a girl but that's like one of ten identity crises to deal with after accidentally getting a magical lobotomy reversed. (either by gaining the anchor/becoming inquisitor, or due to Shenanigans with owain in a universe where caden is inquisitor.) prone to crying profusely at random times for no apparent reason, generally lacking in emotional regulation skills due to a lack of practice for over a decade. recently i've been charmed by the idea of inquisitor rhion romancing blackwall...

owain: one year younger than rhion. they were close as children and used to regularly exchange letters before rhion became tranquil, after which owain would only send letters on rhion's birthday and never read the terse replies he received. has much warmer memories of his early childhood/his parents than valerie or caden. well-liked/well-connected, charismatic, his hunting parties are popular social events, but totally uninterested in managing an estate due to never truly accepting his role as heir. something of a confirmed bachelor due to an infamous incident where valerie seduced a prospective bride, as well as his reckless lifestyle. still has a pretty good relationship with valerie, they stay in contact, but he wishes that she didn't agree with their parents on the sole point that he needs to get it together and take over the estate. notably, a close friend of the prince of starkhaven.

valerie: black sheep of the family, a popular topic of gossip among the nobility of the free marches, much to the trevelyans' chagrin. barely remembers rhion and thinks ewan's lying to himself when he fondly reminisces about a warm, affectionate childhood. ran away several times in her youth, finally left for good after the previously mentioned seducing-owain's-fiancee incident (which they deliberately planned together), which convinced her parents to give up on trying to drag her back. sister-in-law to the warden-commander surana, and as such gained a degree of his outsized political influence in denerim - officially a lady-in-waiting to queen anora. the most principled and politically shrewd of the siblings, but also capable of being petty and vindictive, even ruthless.

caden: white boy who sucks. kind of 'got away' with being trans since he was always going to be dedicated to the chantry in some way anyway, so arranging an advantageous marriage was never a concern, and if he wants to become a templar instead of a chantry sister who gaf. was like one when rhion was taken away, so he has no memories of or attachment to his eldest sibling, if he even remembers that rhion exists. basically hasn't talked to his parents or valerie since he was recruited at age 10, was sent off to the hicks (ansburg circle) when he completed his templar training, regards the order as his family. owain tries to keep in contact but caden kind of thinks he's a gay loser. he still holds onto all the letters and writes bare minimum replies to the ones he deems 'important enough.'

[peachysunrize]

The thing i hate the most about this season, without going into too much detail about the leaks, is that i've seen a new wave of fandom hate towards Aemond, as if any were needed. Worse yet, I found many posts in the Ewan’s tag, directed against him, just like what happened with Fabien. People are calling Ewan a liar for what he said on the press tour, but what exactly did they expect? That he would spoil the entire plot? He tried to explain the nuances of his character, and did a great job with his acting even when he didn't have any lines. The fact that the writing is inconsistent and by now generally shitty is certainly not his fault. Ryan & co. are so biased in favor of the TB that throughout this season 2 they have gradually turned the Greens against each other. Now I can't even recognize them, Alicent for example is so OOC that she has become a completely different character. It still seems like the writers want to tell us that everyone is “good” on some level, except Aemond, who they are now writing as if he were an irredeemable villain. Sorry Ryan and Sara, I don’t buy it and I don’t care. Since they let me choose, I'm even more team Aemond than before 💚

OMG EXACTLY!!!!!!!! As I said before the writers are adamant in making us hate Aemond and their biased opinions on TB isn’t helping! BUT with their stupid story decisions, they made everyone around Aemond look dumb with what they do that now only his narrative makes sense!!!

Remember that the writers want to turn him into this cartoon villain but HE IS NOT. He has his issues for SURE but he is the only one with a brain who knows this is war and takes a step towards it!!!

I AM BAFFLED BY HOW PEOPLE ARE POINTING FINGERS AT EWAN!!!!!!! His job isn’t to tell us anything, he played his character, got the check and be DONE. Ewan has talked about Aemond the best way possible!!! He hasn’t spoiled anything, just admired his work THAT HE IS IMMENSELY PROUD OF (and I am immensely proud of him too) and showing us how much he understands his character!

Calling Ewan a liar when even he didn’t know which scenes would be chosen for episodes is outrageous and disgusting.