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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year ago

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Studious IV (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) 18+

You continue reading Aemond's diary. As his true feelings for you become ever more clear, can you decipher your own feelings for him?

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (second person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: Aemond in his smut writer era (semi-public sex, p in v sex, tiddy suckin', riding, fingering, oral sex f receiving, bad sex)

Author's Note: So sorry for the delay! But this baby is 11K words, so hopefully that makes up for it! Also, I tried for a long time to format this like the others, but tumblr wouldn't let me post it if I did, so the formatting is a little different here.

Read Part I Here - Read Part II Here - Read Part III Here

My Masterlist

Taglist will be done via reblogs (there are simply too many of you to fit here)

Studious IV

You were never setting foot in the library again.

Not after what you just read. Not when you were sure that the mere memory of it would have you bursting into flames the moment you crossed the threshold.

Good gods, only a few entries ago, Aemond could hardly bring himself to write the word ‘cunt,’ and now this? What in the Seven Hells were his advisors – Grand Maester Orwyle, Lord Jasper Wylde, and Prince Aegon – teaching him?

You weren’t sure whether the odd feeling in your stomach was due to how much you ate – an entire meat pie and five tea cakes, all washed down with a pot and a half of raspberry tea – or what you had just read.

Either way, it was not enough to stop you from glancing about your bedchamber to ensure no one was watching you and then rereading the entry from the beginning.

The 16th day in the 5th moon of the year.

I have just returned from the library. Grand Maester Orwyle suggested that I consult a book on anatomy. Since there was no business of court I was required to attend today, I asked one of the librarians to help me retrieve the title after I finished my training.

I also found a few books Aegon recommended, only after I dismissed the librarian – I did not want him to know that I took those. Or that I even knew what they were. Gossip abounds in the capital, and I do not wish to be the subject of more than I already am.

By the titles alone, I am surprised Mother allows them to remain in the Keep. I likely will not read most of them. Aegon has already traumatised me quite thoroughly. I see no reason to allow him to ruin reading for me, as well. Although one title, ‘A Caution for Young Girls,’ seems innocent enough.

But the books are not why I am writing now, when my usual routine is to write immediately before I retire to bed. I just… I need to commit this to paper before it leaves me entirely.

On my way out of the library, I saw her. My wife – if I die tomorrow or in a hundred years, I shall never tire of calling her that.

She has quickly found the more private areas of the library, it seems. I would never have seen her if I had not been considering going there to read myself.

It must mean something that she did not choose just any of the countless hidden places within the maze of the library, but my favourite – a secluded alcove along the western wall. An indicator of our compatibility, perhaps. Or even a sign from the gods?

Had the books I’d been carrying not been so… unsuitable, I would have asked to join her.

No, I wouldn’t have. That would require far more courage than I can summon when I see her.

I just stared at her, watching her face as she read. From where I stood, I could not see what she was reading. But I could see her, and that was enough.

She is so expressive! I saw her both smile and frown in quick succession, and once, her entire face scrunched in displeasure as if she had just taken a bite of lemon! Gods, how can even such an unpleasant expression be so beautiful?

Perhaps I should not have watched her at all, for the longer I stood there, the further my mind drifted. And then, I heard Aegon’s voice, as clearly as if he were standing beside me.

‘Don’t limit yourself to the bedchamber brother, or even the bed! A wall or a table serves just as well. And there is a certain thrill to knowing you could be discovered…’

Damn him. Why did I ever ask for his assistance? I would have been better off enlisting the help of an actual whore! At least then, the vulgarity would not come from the future King. Damn him to the deepest of the Seven Hells.

But that stupid advice echoed in my mind over and over. And against my will and better judgement, an image began to form. A dream – a waking dream.

Though my feet remained planted on the floor, I imagined setting aside my books and joining her in that alcove. She would look up and smile upon hearing my approach, perhaps even giggle at my attempt at stealth.

I would sit beside her and ask what she was reading. I might even ask her to read to me. But I would not let her read for long.

I would kiss her while she read. Not on her lips but all over her perfect face. Her cheeks, her forehead, on the tip of her nose. All just to distract her, to make her laugh. Only when she made so much noise that I feared discovery would I kiss her lips to quiet her and finally claim my prize.

The kiss would not be like in the Sept, or in her chambers that night. Instead, she would kiss me back and open herself to me. I would kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Until we were both out of breath but still wanting more.

Seeing her like that, with her lips swollen and cheeks flushed… I would not be able to wait until we returned to our chambers. I would lift her onto that very table, books be damned.

Like our wedding night, we would not undress. We would be in too much of a hurry.

But even hurried, I would be gentle. I would take the time to prepare her, as Lord Wylde said I must do every time. Doing so makes the experience more pleasurable for the woman, he says. And Orwyle added that her enjoyment makes it more likely that the coupling will be fruitful.

Gods, I hardly care about that anymore. Of course, I want an heir, or several. But I want her more. I want her to feel as much pleasure as I do. To ‘peak,’ as Wylde and Orwyle put it. Aegon uses other words, but I find them too vulgar.

And in the library, making an heir would be the last thing on my mind. Even finding my own pleasure would be secondary. I would use my fingers to prepare her – perhaps get her to peak once before I even enter her?

Aegon says women can find release much more than men can. According to him, he once made a woman peak ten times in one night. I would be more amenable to believing him if he didn’t also claim he did so five times. But maybe he is right about ‘practising’ increasing stamina. Though he has had years of practice, and I have had only two days…

But in the dream world where I have the courage to approach her at all, and the gall to bed her in the library of all places (can you call it ‘bedding’ if it is not done in an actual bed?), I also have that stamina. And the skill to indeed make her peak with just my fingers.

I do not know what sounds she would make, as she was entirely silent on our wedding night, but I would want her to make them. I would want her to make such noise that I would have no choice but to kiss her to quiet her and keep her from drawing the attention of the rest of the library.

Even when I was buried within her, I would kiss her. With one arm wrapped around her hips to hold her steady as I fucked her so hard the table would shake, and the other hand tangled in her hair so I could kiss her just as hard.

I want to kiss her so badly. When I finally go to her again, that is what I will do first.

Once we had both finished – for I would ensure she peaked again with me inside her – I would kiss her more, softly, until our breathing steadied. Then, we would simply take our seats again, and this time, I would read to her.

By all the Seven, what has become of me? To not only have such thoughts but to revel in them as I do?

You didn’t bother reading the rest of the entry again before clutching the diary to your chest and staring at the bed canopy above you as a thousand questions burned through your mind and set your heart racing.

Had he been thinking about that the day he came to you in the library?

Was it what he intended to do, had you not reacted so poorly to his words?

Were you really wishing that he had?

You turned on your side, cradling his diary as you once did a small stuffed pony, and noticed for the first time that night had fallen – you had spent nearly the entire day reading. For a moment, you considered running to Aemond’s chambers. But when you looked back at the journal, there were still more than a dozen ribbons shut in its pages.

And if you went to him just after reading what you did…

Whatever was becoming of Aemond, no doubt thanks to the men he had asked for help in better bedding you, by reading his diary and the most private thoughts and fantasies contained within, it was becoming of you too. For when your eyes drifted closed, Aemond’s dream of the library became your dream as well.

The next several days of entries were almost identical.

Aemond woke at dawn after a night of dreams filled with you. They were not always of a carnal nature. Sometimes he dreamed simply of holding or kissing you. Once, he dreamed about flying with you atop his dragon. You didn’t know whether the prospect was thrilling or terrifying. Perhaps both.

Each day, he broke his fast, trained, then ate a small meal before joining court.

Before joining you.

When he wrote in the diary after dinner and several hours of studying and ‘practising’ (you still could not determine what that meant), he still remembered every little thing you did. You had never spoken at court – it was not your place to. But he had catalogued your every movement and reaction to the business of the realm. Every raise of your brows, every repressed smile, and every curious tilt of your head.

You thought you were quite proficient at maintaining a regal mask of indifference. Your mother had you practice it on the journey to King’s Landing while she commanded your brothers to shout at you the most outrageous things they could think of (much of which she promptly scolded them for when they were done).

But Aemond saw through the mask. Not only that, but he correctly interpreted every movement you made.

He knew that the twitch of your lip when Lord Bolton made a petition was a sign of your marked distaste for the man. He knew the scrunch of your brow upon the reading of a missive from a Pentosi diplomat was you noticing a contradiction from the previous message and realising the diplomat was lying. And he knew that you stiffened every time he looked at you because you were nervous about what he would say or do.

Aemond knew you. Even then.

And yet you had so dreadfully misunderstood him.

The shame of it was enough to make you set down the diary and call for a bath – a private bath, without any of your maids present even in the adjourning rooms. You gave an excuse that you were exhausted and simply wished to remain alone.

But really?

As part of his study of the anatomy book Orwyle recommended, Aemond had drawn a diagram of what lay between a woman’s legs. And annotated it based on the advice of Lord Wylde and Prince Aegon.

You were curious to see – with the aid of a hand mirror – just how accurate the diagram and annotations were.

You awoke the following morning feeling more refreshed than you had since you came to the palace, from both the welcome break in your courtly duties and the exploration you had conducted in the privacy of your bath. Though you were fairly sure you did not reach a ‘peak,’ as Aemond described it, you felt close to the height of something several times. But each time, you panicked at the intensity of the racing feelings within you and withdrew your hand. Still, those few minutes of pleasure were incredibly relaxing.

And as it was Aemond’s notes that allowed you to discover the feeling that your own clumsy attempts had failed to bring, the prospect that you would – eventually – once more join him in his bed became thrilling beyond reason.

In truth, the only thing that stopped you from rushing across the castle the very moment you emerged from the bath was the unfortunate fact that you were still bleeding, though it was light.

More than that, while your body was more than ready to forgive Aemond, your heart and mind were still hesitant. He had hurt you. He made you cry. Reading his diary helped you understand that it had never been intentional. However, you still needed to understand everything before making a final decision on whether to forgive him and if you could, as Aemond hoped in his note, ‘learn to like’ or even to love him.

So, after breaking your fast, you again settled into the couch and turned to the next green ribbon.

The 23rd day in the 5th moon of the year

Were Aegon not my brother and the heir, I would throw him from the top of the Rookery.

‘A Caution for Young Girls’ is no such thing. It is little more than a manual in promiscuity and sin!

But… damn him. It is quite educational.

Unlike the book Grand Maester Orwyle suggested, it is not focused on the science of anatomy or conception. Rather, it is entirely concerned with the pleasure of women. After all, it is the supposedly true story of a woman’s quest for pleasure.

A Wylde woman, if it is to be believed. I may have to ask Lord Jasper about it. Is this why he’s had such success with his own wives?

But that, and indeed the sinful nature of the book itself, is unimportant. What is important is that it may actually be the key to my learning how to pleasure my wife.

It spoke at length of various methods of using one’s fingers. Crooking the fingers while within seems to be crucial, as is locating a ‘sweet spot’ where her walls feel slightly different. That spot, as well as the ‘pearl’ which lays at the top of her sex, is the epicentre of her pleasure.

And, like the others said, preparation is required. This is where the use of the fingers comes into it – as well as various other methods. For example, the book mentions kissing quite often, and not only on the lips. Or the cheeks. Or even anywhere on the face.

I admit the idea, though it is new to me, is quite appealing. The book mentioned several places where women most like to be kissed. The jaw, the throat, behind the ear, the nape of the neck, the collarbone…

There was a spot of ink, as though Aemond’s pen had been resting on the page without moving for a long moment.

…the breasts, and lower.

I do not understand why. Perhaps it is because of Aegon’s incessant comments about the breasts of every woman in the Keep, save our mother and his wife – would that he would also exclude my wife! – but I find myself thinking about her breasts with startling frequency. I did not get to see them on our wedding night after I foolishly forgot to undress her.

There is a story in the book which… well, I find myself wanting to replicate. One which would provide me ample access to her breasts. But more than that, it carries an intimacy which I crave most of all.

When Lady Coryanne was serving as a handmaid to a warlock in Qarth, she often found herself called to help him ‘relax’ after a long day. On such occasions, she would mount him while he sat at his desk and ‘ride’ him while he buried his face in her breasts.

I… it was easy to imagine my wife and me in a similar, though more loving, position. Likely not at my desk, as I don’t actually use it often. But perhaps, here. On my chair by the hearth, where I read my books and write in this diary before bed.

She would come back – for she would be living here, with me, not across the Holdfast and so far away – after a long day. Maybe she would have been in the gardens, or with Mother, Helaena and the children, or in the library for hours. I would have been stuck away from her all day in meetings, court, or training.

Even apart from her for only a day, I would miss her terribly. As I do every hour I do not see her. And she would miss me too.

When she came in, she would press herself against the door as she locked it, then turn to me with a mischievous grin. I would know what she wanted, but I would not play along. Instead, I’d mutter a greeting and turn back to my book, pretending that my blood was not racing at just the sight of her. For I want her blood to be as heated as mine.

You read the last paragraph again, the realisation finally set in that Aemond was about to narrate another of his fantasies. Fortunately, after his previous entry about the library, you decided to be more cautious and had already dismissed your servants until your afternoon meal. You had suspected that there may be more in the diary that was thoroughly unsuitable for prying eyes.

And, thanks to his diligent notetaking, you knew precisely what to do when the feelings such unsuitable words provoked began to burn through you.

You undoubtedly did not want an audience for that…

I would let her tease me, pretending none of it fazed me. When she brushed her fingers lightly across my shoulders, I would not flinch. When she leaned over me further than she would really need to see what I was reading, but wanting me to see that peek of her breasts nearly spilling out from her dress, I would barely look. And when she pressed a kiss, long and slow, to my neck – gods, would I like that too? – I might even pretend it was an inconvenience.

It would vex her that I did not give her the attention she desperately wanted. Not enough to truly anger her, but only enough to make her pout. So that when she took the book from my hands and dropped it to the floor, then sat atop me in the chair with her thighs straddling mine… I would simply have no choice but to grab her little lip as she stuck it out and push it back into place before kissing her.

I would kiss her in every place the book instructs, taking my time to worship every bit of her. I want to drive her as mad as she does me just by her mere existence.

But I know she would not simply let me tease her. She would return each kiss I gave her and more. Atop me, she would roll her hips slowly, purposefully, as if we were engaged in a dance. I would be able to feel her, hot and wet and as eager as me, but each time I rose to meet her, she would pull away.

Gods, am I really wishing for her to deny me? Perhaps practising as Aegon instructed has conditioned me to crave such delays to my satisfaction.

Either way, I think I would break before she did. She is strong-willed, and with as many brothers as she has, I believe she can be quite patient. So, I would beg. I would apologise for trying to tease her and plead for her forgiveness. And for her to…

She would, I hope, without hesitation. She would rise only long enough for her to remove her smallclothes and for me to do away with my trousers. Then, we would both sit again, together, with me gently guiding her down to mount me – Seven Hells, that makes it sound like I’m a horse.

I’ll be whatever she wants.

Again, and as always, I would give her a moment to adjust and make sure she is comfortable. Orwyle’s book said that with well-endowed partners – which, according to the measurements in the book, I am – women may always need that moment.

But I would be glad to give it to her. For it would allow me to unlace her bodice, and like the warlock from the book, I could bury my face in my beloved’s breasts.

I find it hard to imagine what it would be like, how they would feel. Soft, I think. Warm, as she is. And perhaps, if I pressed close enough, I could hear her heart beating.

When I was fully settled within her, would I hear it beat faster? Or would it slow with contentment, knowing she was safe and loved – oh so dearly loved – within my arms. Perhaps it would be like the stories, and I would hear it skip a beat.

Either way, I would be more than content to just sit there, breathe her in, and let her move at her own pace. We would not need to be fast, as we would in the library. In my own rooms – our rooms – there would be no need for hurry. We could just stay there, entwined, or we could move together.

I think I would prefer it slowly. Not even seeking our releases, really. Just… enjoying each other. Enjoying the connection of our bodies, our minds, and our souls. Knowing that we are one, that the gods have made us one, and that nothing can tear us apart.

Although… I do think her legs would get tired after a while. That is something I should perhaps be worried about. Especially if she did want to move, and fast. To seek release.

If she did, I would help her. The book did not detail how, as Lady Coryanne was a servant at the time, but… I could figure it out. I could move my hips up to meet hers, or even lift her on my own? I think doing so with my hands on her hips would give me the most leverage. Or perhaps her rear?

I am very drawn to the idea of holding her close as we reach our peaks. Of feeling her breath on my skin, being close enough to hear each little noise she makes, and the sensation of her gripping me as tight as she can as she comes. Even the thought of her nails digging into me brings a certain thrill. And if I don’t reach my peak with her – which, I think, is very unlikely – we can always continue. Or move somewhere more comfortable if her legs do get tired.

At this point, I think I am more than ready to practice. Of course, this wasn’t my intention when I started writing, but… yes, I am most definitely ready. And anything else I wanted to write about seems inconsequential now.

You dropped the diary onto your heaving chest, the image Aemond’s words had painted still burning in your mind. Seven Hells, you could practically feel his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you to his chest as you moved together, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered words of praise between desperate kisses.

With a hazy smile, you snuggled further into the couch and beneath your blanket. As exhilarating as the descriptions of his desires were, what truly warmed your heart was the way he wrote about you, the two of you together.

The connection of your souls as one? It was exactly what you’d dreamed of when first told of your betrothal. Aemond was what you dreamed of.

Why did he have to stop writing? What in the name of the Seven was he practising that was more important than that?

Frustrated and with your pleasure now truly over, you closed the diary and turned on your side, resigned to simply stewing in your own thoughts for the few hours left until your maids returned.

After a light, solitary afternoon meal, you again dismissed your maids. By this point, they were more than a little suspicious about the titleless book you were reading. But, you insisted that you simply wanted to be alone, for your moon’s blood still plagued you. It wasn’t entirely a lie. You did still have some cramping and a slight headache.

In truth, it was because you knew what would happen in just a few entries – your second night together.

It surely wouldn’t be as thrilling as some of his other fantasies. You knew that firsthand. But after learning what Aemond felt for you, you were desperate to know his side of that night.

So desperate, in fact, that you barely skimmed the following two entries in your haste to reach it. Both primarily had to do with whatever smut he had read in A Caution for Young Girls. The first was a rather exhaustive list of all the ways he wanted to kiss you – and there were far more ways than you were previously aware of.

The second caused your most intense blushing yet, for it was near treasonous! After reading another story of Coryanne Wylde ‘riding’ a man, he fantasised about you riding him while he sat on the Iron Throne. It was an intriguing idea, but it seemed a little too hazardous to tempt you.

Finally, you reached what you had been waiting for.

The 26th day in the 5th moon of the year.

I had hoped not to make an entry today – for I had every intention of spending tonight in my wife’s chambers. But she is there, and tragically, I am here.

Tonight was almost worse than our wedding night.

When I saw her watching me in the training yard today, I thought… she was almost smiling – at me! She had no obligation to be there, and yet she was! She sought me out! She wanted to see me!

I had to bite back a cry of joy and relief. I immediately abandoned the rest of my training, nearly impaling the poor squire with my sword for how hard I threw it at him, so I could rush to the ramparts and greet her.

But when I got there, she was gone. I asked a few of the other lords and ladies that were there, but no one knew where she went. Even after speaking to her, however briefly, I still do not understand why she left.

You felt your cheeks flush with shame. Aemond hadn’t grimaced at you that day – quite the opposite. He had been so excited to see you there, and as usual, you had misinterpreted his reaction.

Or, based on how frequently these misunderstandings occurred, perhaps his expressions were merely indecipherable to normal people. Or, more likely, maybe just to you.

You set his diary down, careful to use one of your discarded ribbons to mark your place, and picked up your own. By this point, you had filled several pages with your reactions to Aemond’s writing – some of it sincere, some bordering on humour.

Yet you had no words to express how sorry you were that you had so thoroughly misjudged him. So you wrote nothing and just kept reading.

When I went to her chambers to check on her, I encountered one of her maids, who told me she had retired early with a headache and would not be joining the family for dinner.

Perhaps I should have gone into her chambers then and asked what was wrong. I knew – or at least suspected – that the headache was a lie. An excuse to allow her privacy. I often do the same, citing my scar. Which, as I told her, is not always a lie.

But if I had gone to her, as I wished. I would not have known what to say. Ask her why she ran from the training yard without speaking to me? Or why she wanted to avoid me and the family? Tell her I’m sorry for the disappointment of our wedding night? Ask Beg for a second chance?

I could not do it. I was tired from training and admittedly still somewhat discombobulated from realising she had been watching me. Though I did make it to her door, I merely touched the handle for a moment before retiring to my own chambers.

Now, after yet another disastrous visit… I should have gone to her earlier. I should have trusted my instincts (as Aegon often encourages me to do) instead of allowing my mind to think itself into an inescapable hole.

As I bathed and redressed, and even while attending court and dinner, I could not stop thinking about her. Agonising over what I may have done to make her flee from me?

I never even considered that she may actually have a headache until I was again at her door after dinner. The fear that I was disturbing her, perhaps making her pain worse, was nearly enough to make me turn and flee.

But then, her voice came, soft and light and so enticing. Of course, I somehow managed to answer idiotically when she asked who it was. Though she lessened the sting of embarrassment with a small joke. She is so achingly clever!

I asked her how she was, and her answer made it evident that the headache was a ruse. I am trying not to be too proud that my deduction was correct. She is not used to lying, nor is she good at it. And it is yet another thing I admire about her.

For hours, I planned what I would say to her. It was eloquent and thoughtful – practically poetry. ��

The tail of the last ‘y’ extended nearly an inch, and you imagined Aemond just staring at the page, consumed by his thoughts for a moment.

But her room looked different tonight. She finally unpacked.

There is a large tapestry above her hearth depicting her home keep, the field below filled with vibrant pink flowers with bright yellow centres. The same flowers appear nearly everywhere. On framed examples of embroidery, on her curtains, pillows, and even the blanket strewn over the back of her couch.

I must find out what they are, for they are clearly very important to her.

You looked up from the diary, glancing about your room. Indeed, you had not realised how many dog roses decorated your possessions. It was no wonder he guessed they were your favourite.

‘I was quite impressed when you brought me my favourite flower,’ you wrote in your diary. ‘I thought you had somehow read my thoughts. I suppose I made it easy for you.’

She also has a large bookcase in her sitting room, which was specifically requested when her father sent word accepting the betrothal. Since the last time I was in her chambers, she has begun to fill the shelves with books and trinkets. I spotted a small silver bell, a wooden box carved with various birds, and a little glass flower. It was not the same flower that is so prevalent elsewhere in her chambers (this one was a pale purple rather than pink), but still quite pretty.

While pondering that flower, I returned to the couch to compare it to the pink flower on her blanket and saw what she had been reading – “The Last Dragonlords,” my first, and still favourite, history of my house. It is not a particularly rigorous academic work, but I prefer it for the sense of wonder it has for the story of my ancestors.

If, at that point, I remembered any of what I wanted to say to her, the sight of that book, and the knowledge that she was somehow reading my favourite… I lost all words. I fear I fell silent for an uncomfortably long time, for she spoke next.

She wanted to know the reason for my visit. I asked her directly about the ruse of her headache. She seemed nervous, so I told her I do the same and that I often experience lingering pain. I was tempted to remove my patch and show her, but… she was already quite nervous. I did not want to make her more so, or frighten her so thoroughly that she will never warm to me.

What lay beneath his eyepatch that would frighten you so? You had heard many rumours. That his lost eye was nothing more than a pit of darkness. That he had replaced it with a jewel. That an ever-burning fire, fueled by his hatred and rage, burned within.

Despite the stories, you felt a twinge of shame and hurt that, despite his love for you, he did not trust you with seeing him truly bare. He thought you could be frightened away.

Somehow, that shame far overshadowed any curiosity or fear about what lay beneath the brown leather of his eyepatch.

I could already tell it wasn’t going to go how I wanted – she would not meet my eye. So, I offered to leave. I would not impose myself on her when she did not want me to. That is not how I want to start this. Or, start it again.

But she did want me to go! At least, that is what I thought she meant. I am not so sure anymore. She said something about my right to be there as her husband. At the time, I thought it was her shy way of asking me to stay. Now… I think she may have just been repeating something her mother or a Septa taught her.

There was another small patch of angry scribbles.

I’m so stupid! And hardly better than Aegon. No – she may not have been particularly enthusiastic, but I am sure if she genuinely did not want me there, she would have said so. And I would have obeyed. After all, she was quick to ask me to stop some of the other things I tried to do.

She did not like the kissing.

When I first mentioned that I would like to lie with her – which I foolishly reasoned was out of my desire for an heir instead of my desire for her – she simply laid on the bed like on our wedding night. But that is not what I want. I do not want this to simply be a union of duty! At least, not anymore. And I so wanted to kiss her.

So, I beckoned her to me, and she obeyed. My hopes that this would be different were still relatively high. I got closer, touched her face, and asked if I could kiss her.

And she asked, ‘Why?’

I swear that one little word hurt more than any pain I’ve felt in the training yard. Almost more than… well, not quite more than that. But close.

I could not think of any reason other than that she is my wife, and I love her and want more than anything to kiss her. I only told her the former and the latter, for I think if I told her I loved her, she would have been more afraid than if she had seen me without my patch. And the gods must be good, for she said yes.

Then I kissed her. I held her close, and I kissed her.

It was the most wonderful thing! She was soft and warm. And when I laced my hand through her hair, she made the most delightful sound! I could have just kissed her forever.

But then it was over. She shouted and pushed me away. It was… it was just after I tried to use my tongue. I don’t think she liked it.

She asked me why I ‘needed’ to kiss her. She must have disliked it very much.

I had no other explanation than what I had already offered. At least, none that I could tell her without sending her running from me forever. So I stopped and told her I did not need it – the first lie I’ve ever told her.

When she moved back to the bed, I could not help myself. I could not let us be in a marriage where we lie together out of nothing more than duty, fully clothed and anxious to get it over with. It was foolish, and I probably scared her with the request, but I asked her to remove her nightgown. She had already taken off her robe – a massive thing in her house colours that practically drowns her.

You allowed a brief kernel of anger to spark within you, enough for you to pick up your pen and write him another little message in your diary.

‘That robe is dear to me, thank you very much. What is it that makes you hate it so?’

There is nothing more beautiful in the world than her. She puts even the Maiden to shame. I would have been happy to stare at her, to take in that beauty until I had my fill – if I would ever get my fill.

She got on the bed and positioned herself exactly how she was on our wedding night. Not quite how I pictured it, but considering her hesitancy, I did not want to push her.

It took all my control to stop myself from kissing her again when I undressed and joined her. But I did. I also resisted doing anything more than just looking at her breasts.

I sat between her legs and stared at her. While I was more than ready to begin, she was not. At all. Of course, I knew I would have to prepare her, but I hoped she would have had at least some desire for me already.

I started with gentle touches, drawing circles on her thighs. She shivered a bit when I began, but she didn’t ask me to stop. From where I was sitting, I could tell she enjoyed it, even if she didn’t understand it. She did ask me to explain, and my answer was probably lacking – how does one explain why he was so inadequate? – but she gave a small nod when I promised that tonight would be better.

Then I finally touched her where I really wanted to and was delighted to find her… well, not as wet as I’d hoped, but it was an improvement upon our wedding night! I ran my fingers over her entrance, hoping to coax more wetness from her before I truly began. And when I looked at her again to ensure I wasn’t hurting her, she smiled at me!

Encouraged, I kept my fingers at her entrance, not venturing inside yet, but continuing my preparations there while I began to seek her pearl. As the books said, I only had to draw a straight line upward from her entrance to find it.

And, oh, when I found it! Her eyes snapped shut, her back arched off the bed, and the most glorious whine escaped her! It was everything I had imagined and more. Gods, I think I could have peaked just from watching her as I circled her pearl again and again, faster and faster.

But then, she asked me to stop – begged me to.

I thought I must have done something wrong, but she shook her head when I asked if it hurt. And when I asked if it felt good, she would not answer. She merely requested that I get on with what I needed to do and leave, for she was tired. This wound cut even deeper than before with the kissing.

I wanted to prepare her more – I was going to use my mouth on her. To show her how dearly I wish to please her, how much I want to worship and love her, if only she’d let me.

In anticipation of that act, I have been consulting Coryanne Wylde’s various accounts and expert critiques of the act in order to form the perfect strategy.

To begin, I would undress her, as I planned to do on our wedding night, laying gentle, nearly chaste kisses on each new bit of skin I revealed. Once she was bare, I would kiss her. Deeply. To give her a taste of what is to come. Then, I would kiss my way down. Her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, her breasts, and the plane of her stomach.

Once I made it past her navel, I would take her leg in my hand and begin a new trail of kisses upwards. The book says to start at the ankle, but I am too impatient for that – I will begin at the knee instead.

Just when she thought I was finally about to give her what she craved more than anything, I would once again change course to kiss her lips one final time. Then, I would descend.

I would start slowly, experimenting with different tactics to determine what drives her deliciously mad. Once I knew, I would feast. I would devour her like her pleasure was the air I needed to breathe. Like her cries of pleasure were beautiful music, and I would die if it ever stopped.

I would bring her to peak once with my mouth on her entrance. Again on her pearl. Then again and again in whichever way made her scream the loudest.

Only when she was so drunk with pleasure that she could no longer rise to meet my mouth or grasp at my hair would I relent. I would make my way back up to her mouth and soothe her with gentle kisses until she had regained herself and was begging for me to finally fuck her.

But I didn’t get to do any of that.

She asked me to stop, so I did. I pumped myself a little to ensure the disappointment hadn’t rendered me incapable of performing my duty and entered her.

The preparation did help. Entering her was easier, and she did not wince as much as the first time. And she felt even more heavenly somehow. The feeling was so intense that I had to take a moment to remind myself that she only wanted me to finish quickly so she would not have to endure me any longer.

So, I fucked her. I did not make love to her, as is my true desire. I just fucked her, like she was just any woman and not the love of my life.

And then, a miracle! I thrust into her, something about the angle allowing me in quite deep, and she reacted. She gasped, breathless, and her hips snapped up to meet mine. I froze in surprise and elation. I found her ‘sweet spot!’

But when I smiled at her, she turned away and refused to look at me again.

I just kept going. I did not try to hit that spot again, so as to not upset her further. I finished as quickly as I could and left the bed.

It was stupid of me, but I turned back to her after dressing. Everything had gone so horribly, but I still love her. I still need her. So I could not just leave her like that.

I asked if I could kiss her again. She let me. I was quick, as promised.

Then I came back here, once again alone and no closer to earning her love than I was before.

I must meet with my advisors again tomorrow. Perhaps they can help me understand why I keep fucking this up so badly when all I want is for her to let me love her the way I want to and for her to love me in return.

Your heart ached so severely that you thought there might be bruises when you looked down at your chest. But there was just skin – skin that Aemond would have happily kissed, had you let him.

As horrible and confusing as that night had been for you, it had been so tenfold for Aemond. He had wanted a grand, romantic evening, and you had greeted him with only coldness and suspicion.

He called you ‘the love of his life.’ You ran your finger over those words so many times that they became smudged, then went to write something in your diary but halted with your pen hovering over the paper.

What could you write to match what he’d said about you? Even if you could, would it really be true? How many times could you say, ‘I’m sorry?’

Well, at least one more time. ‘I’m so sorry, Aemond,’ you wrote, ‘I didn’t know, and I was still scared. Not of you, but of what I thought my life was to be. If you had only told me… I do not blame you, I swear. I just wish the both of us had been more honest with each other.’

You were far too exhausted to continue. It was not yet midafternoon, and you had already been from the near-heights of carnal pleasure to the depths of your despair that the unfortunate state of your marriage was, in actuality, mostly your fault.

So, after setting Aemond’s diary aside, you picked up your embroidery basket and began to work while your mind wandered.

It was only when your maids arrived to bring you dinner that you realised that, somehow, the dog roses you intended to make had become a sprawling wisteria vine.

You dreamed of the castle garden in late spring when all the flowers were in bloom. As you walked down the garden path, you saw every colour imaginable amongst the vibrant greens. But there was only one flower you really wanted to see – and the man you knew would be waiting for you beneath them.

Just as the first purple tendrils came into view, the dream faded, and you woke to see the first hints of dawn still beneath the horizon.

Drawing your blankets over your head, you squeezed your eyes shut and stubbornly tried to fall back asleep and return to your dream – to no avail. You were well and truly awake. And it would be some time before your maids came to dress you for the day.

So, dragging the blanket from your bed with you, you trudged back into your solar and settled into the couch before picking up Aemond’s diary again.

The 27th day in the 5th moon of the year

I met with Lord Wylde, Grand Maester Orwyle, and Aegon this morning. They had advice, but it was not as… straightforward as I had hoped. There is no simple trick to get her to love me. Nothing I can study from a book and then implement with assured success.

I have to woo her. I have to be witty and pleasant and charming and… romantic.

I do not think this is going to work.

Especially not after my first attempt was so disastrous.

Lord Wylde asked that I tell him about her, so I did. When he learned she enjoys reading as much as I do, he suggested I try to find common ground there. So, I went to try and find her in the library.

She was exactly where she was the last time I saw her there, still reading “The Last Dragonlords.” I watched her for a moment, savouring the look of contentment on her face as she read, as well as a few quick reactions to the book. How I love it when her nose scrunches in displeasure!

‘That is quite the odd thing to fixate on,’ you wrote in your diary. It seemed a decent night’s sleep had helped recover some of your humour. ‘What is it, in particular, that you like about my scrunched nose?’

She did smile at me when I approached, but I think she thought I was a Maester, for her smile faltered when I greeted her. And she was so shy. Usually, when I struggle to find the right words, she breaks the silence. Today, she did not.

At least it gave me time to remember why I came to the library. She was still reading “The Last Dragonlords,” so I told her it was my favourite and asked if I could join her. I think she was somewhat embarrassed about reading a children’s book, but I assured her it was no matter and that I would nonetheless enjoy reading it with her, and she allowed me to sit with her.

My plan was to sit with her, discuss the histories, and perhaps, in time, hold her hand as a first step toward genuine affection. But the plan quickly went awry.

It all happened so fast that I don’t even remember exactly what I said. But somehow, I insinuated that she was not intelligent enough to understand the book. The book meant for children – young children.

She was very upset with me. Rightfully so! Still upset enough that she stormed out of the library after making several cutting remarks that proved that she is, in fact, quite intelligent.

After several minutes and a brief reprimand from one of the Maesters, I finally gathered myself enough to realise that she had left the book there. As well as several pages of notes.

Of course, the noble thing would have been to not look and ask a servant to return them to her. But in that moment, I was desperate, not noble. So, I looked.

Her notes were beautifully organised and remarkably thorough – the work of a true scholar! She even crafted a beautiful family tree all the way through Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. Had I not fumbled our initial interaction so entirely, we would have had a wonderful discussion.

You had feared him finding the notes, but you had never considered that he would be impressed rather than arrogantly amused. It made sense now that you knew his true nature. Perhaps, once whatever was between you was resolved, you could have that discussion.

In all honesty, there were a few questions you had that you hoped he would be able to answer. Not least of which being why in more than a thousand years, Targaryens had only come up with a dozen names that they repeated over and over again. You wrote as much in your diary.

It was useless for me to sulk in the library, agonising over what I should have said, so I gathered the book and her notes and left the library.

An apology was more than necessary, so I went to Aegon’s rooms. After all, there is perhaps no one with more experience apologising to women. Even if his apologies are self-serving.

When I arrived, I found Mother had already found Aegon first, and was well into another tirade about his behaviour. Normally, I would be happy to watch Mother yelling at him, but I did not feel I had time to. And Aegon was glad that I granted him a reprieve.

Admittedly, I had not wanted to admit to Mother that my wife and I were… not as close as I wanted. But, as she always is, she was eminently understanding, and far more helpful than Aegon was. His only suggestion was to bring her something nice – jewels, silks, or the like.

On the other hand, Mother gave me sage advice on what to say when I go to her. As my words have been my primary point of failure, I was very grateful for this. She did also say that a gift would not be amiss. An ‘offering of peace,’ she called it. But she advised something personal, not luxurious. If the gift is too valuable, she says, it will seem as if I am trying to buy her forgiveness rather than earn it.

I knew immediately what I should get her. I thanked Mother (and Aegon) and left at once for the gardens.

I found them – the flowers she loves so dearly. Dog roses, they are called. Unfortunately, they do not grow well in our climate, but the Maester’s managed to coax a few to bloom with their various potions and other horticultural creations.

They are almost as beautiful as her.

The Maester I spoke to said that it would be best if I had them cut just before I brought them to her, to preserve their beauty. So that is what I will do.

I will not practice tonight. At least… not that kind of practice. Instead, I will rehearse my apology. I cannot fail tomorrow.

You winced slightly, knowing that the next day would not go as Aemond planned and feeling as though it was your fault. But there was no changing that now. And you had already apologised – often and profusely.

So, you wrote only a simple note: ‘I don’t recall seeing dog roses on our tour of the gardens. Did you pluck them all?’

Looking back at his diary, you took a deep, steadying breath. Only two ribbons left.

The 28th day in the 5th moon of the year

I am the stupidest, most idiotic man in all the seven fucking kingdoms.

All I was trying to do was apologise to her for my unkind – though unintentionally so! – words in the library, but somehow it ended with her crying and me fleeing from her chambers yet again.

You cringed at the memory, almost not wanting to read on.

Aegon gladly offered his explanation, even after I told him I did not want it. He insists that I have so thoroughly repulsed her that she cannot help but burst into tears at the sight of me.

Mother thinks that she is just missing her family and her home, as she said. That she is overwhelmed by being alone in a strange place, and the familiar sight of the flowers – dog roses, as I have learned – brought those feelings to bursting.

Perhaps Mother is right. But her parents left a fortnight ago, and she has shown no other signs of homesickness. And she is not alone! She has the other ladies of the court to talk to, and Helaena and Mother adore her. And me.

If she came to me, I would do anything to cheer her. Not that she would seek comfort from me, no matter how dearly I wish she would. She certainly won’t after today.

After the disaster in the library yesterday and the scolding I received from Grand Maester Orwyle after my training this morning, I knew beyond a doubt that I needed to apologise. I… the shame I feel for having played any part in the state Orwyle described her in is unbearable.

So, I went to the gardens and had a Maester cut the flowers for me and arrange them in a simple bouquet.

She was on her couch when I arrived in her rooms – still in her nightgown and that robe. And again, she did not look at me. She had eyes only for the flowers. I thought then that they had been the right choice.

I apologised, but she did not react. She still just stared at the bouquet. So, I went ahead with the rest of my apology.

Then she touched my hand. It startled me, and I pulled away from her on instinct, dropping the bouquet in her lap. She looked at them like I had dropped a helpless kitten rather than flowers!

And she started crying. Softly, the tears welling in her eyes for a long moment before spilling over. I do not understand what I did to upset her. I said only what I had planned last night. It was so hard to resist brushing the tears away, but she seemed nearly volatile, and I did not want to make things worse.

‘I miss home,’ she said, finally.

It did sting that she does not consider King’s Landing and her life with me her home – it still does. But she is hundreds of miles away from the family of her birth, from the people who have undoubtedly treated her better than I have. I cannot blame her.

I apologised again for upsetting her and left.

At dinner, I had planned to ask Mother and Grandsire if we could find a way to send her home, at least for a little while. So she could be happy. Perhaps I could even go with her. I might have an easier time talking to her without the pressures of my family and the capital upon me.

You smiled at the thought of Aemond at your home keep. Of him in all his black leather among the fields of dog roses. Talking with your father in the library. Him training with your brothers – you were confident he could defeat any one of them alone, but knowing your brothers, they would absolutely gang up on him.

‘One day,’ you wrote, ‘I would love to show you my home.’

I was waiting for the opportunity to ask when she arrived! After this afternoon, I did not think she would come to dinner, but she did! I could have wept for my relief.

And when I offered my hand to her, she took it. Not only that, but she squeezed it – hard. I think believe it was her way of accepting my apology.

She did not speak during dinner, nor did anyone ask her too many questions. Aegon was his typically infuriating self, silently encouraging me to do something with her. What he expects me to do when in front of the entire family, I do not know.

After the meal, I offered to escort her back to her chambers, which she accepted. And once we were alone, she thanked me for the flowers!

It was going unusually well. That is, until I decided to open my mouth. I only meant to compliment her, as she did look quite beautiful, but… I just kept talking. And then I had suddenly insulted her gown from yesterday and her robe.

She closed herself off from me then, shoving away my arm. Why could I not just shut up? I know my words are the source of so many of our misunderstandings, yet I keep talking! At this point, I am strongly considering a vow of silence.

‘Please don’t take a vow of silence!’ you wrote, scrambling for your diary as if it mattered how quickly you got the words down. ‘Your voice is far too lovely for me to never hear it again.’

Tomorrow, I am going to try a suggestion from Lord Wylde. Show her that I am not a failure in everything I do. I pray it works.

You turned the page, expecting to find the entry for the next day, but there was none. There had been a page between the entries for the 28th and the 30th, but it had been sloppily torn out. All that remained was the beginnings of the date in the upper corner.

It was entirely against what you knew of Aemond. The man who had dutifully started his journal on the first day of the year and began each entry on a new page would not do something like this.

What had upset him so? Had you said something to him?

No, of course not. The only time you had seen him that day was in the training yard, and you hadn’t spoken to each other, not after… not after he stormed off. Had he actually been hurt in his fight with the Kingsguard? Or was he just embarrassed that you had witnessed him fall?

Gods, how you wished you had gone to him that night. But perhaps you could make up for it now.

‘After you were absent for dinner,’ you wrote to him in your diary, ‘I almost came to your rooms. I was worried for you. Though I confess, that was the only reason I found myself walking toward you… I missed you, at dinner. I missed you helping me into my chair. I missed your smile. I missed the way you’d hold the plates for me. Most of all, I missed your voice, and your presence next to me.’

You sniffled slightly, staring at a lamp on your wall to dry the tears that were forming before finishing the entry, ‘I’ve missed you these past days, as well. But I’m almost done. I’ll see you soon.’

The 30th day in the 5th moon of the year

I have made my gravest sin yet. And my most foolish.

We had the perfect morning together in the gardens. Silent, mostly, but perfect. She smiled at me! She allowed me to lead her through the gardens on my arm. It was… precisely what I had hoped for.

Until I once again acted like an absolute fucking fool.

Before I had to leave for court, I asked if I could come to her rooms that night. And for one perfect moment, I really believed she was going to say yes.

But then she mentioned her moon’s blood, and I just… panicked. I am not entirely an idiot (though I become less sure of that declaration with each passing moment), I know what that means.

It means that I’ve failed her. In even more ways than I knew.

I have made her miserable. I have made her cry. I have failed in every duty of a good husband, including the most basic of tasks – I have not given her a child.

I cannot go on like this – trapped in an endless cycle of misery where I can do nothing but hurt the both of us. I must do something to free us from this.

It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t love or even like me. I just want her to be happy. If that means that I never get to see her or love her again, I will make myself accept that.

First, she needs to know why I’ve acted this way. To know my true feelings so she can decide what she wants me to do. Gods, if she wanted me to go to Essos and never return, I would.

A blot of ink covered half the page, as though he had simply set his pen down while he thought.

I know what to do. I just pray she understands.

“I understand,” you said aloud, as though Aemond were before you. But, of course, he wasn’t. He was halfway across the castle, a distance that suddenly felt like the Narrow Sea itself. Throwing down your blanket, you shouted for your maids to dress you at once, your morning meal be damned. The moment finished tying off the last lace of your gown, you ran.

You had only been shown where Aemond’s chambers were once – on your first tour of the Holdfast. Then, you did not know whether to be disappointed or thankful that they were far from yours. Now, as your nervousness flooded through every part of your body, you hated the distance more than anything.

Each step was an effort, as with every one, your legs felt heavier and heavier, as if they were made of iron. Your blood felt as though it was rushing dangerously fast, carrying with it a marked chill. Despite feeling frozen within, sweat still somehow beaded at your brow. Yet you could not wipe it away, for your hands were all but stitched to the two diaries you carried.

Was this a terrible idea? Would Aemond laugh at you for all your silly little notes? Would he be angry with you for taking days to fulfil his request? You came to a halt in the middle of the corridor, tears prickling in your eyes as you considered so many horrible possibilities.

No, you thought, the word echoed by the impact of your foot on stone as you took a heavy, sure step forward.

The Aemond you thought you knew would do those things. But that Aemond wasn’t real – and never was. He had only ever lived in your terrified imagination.

The real Aemond was the one who had been so awestruck upon first seeing you that he could not say anything other than your name. Who had fallen for you so quickly and with such intensity that he forgot how to act like a proper person and instead stumbled over his words and actions like a drunk man through a crowded alley. Who had been so desperate for you to return his affections that he swallowed his pride to seek help. And who had finally given you his diary when he could think of no other way to show you how he really felt and who he truly was.

It was the thought of finally meeting that Aemond that made you put one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, until you were sprinting down the halls, only stopping when you came to the door you had seen only once before – his door.

You did not understand how you had found it again after only seeing it only once before. Nor did you remember knocking on the smooth, dark wood.

But then you heard footsteps approaching.

Hastily, you transferred the diaries to one hand and wiped the sweat from your brow with the sleeve of the other. You wanted to straighten your hair, for it had surely come loose from its braid after running so fast. But there was no time for that.

There was the dull, metallic sound of the door being unlatched, and then there he was.

Aemond stood before you, breathing heavily himself as though he, too, had been running. His silver hair was mussed, and there were smudges of purple beneath his widened eyes – his eyes.

He was not wearing his eyepatch.

Your mouth fell open at the sight. At least one of the rumours had been true. Beneath the raised, rough skin of his scar, in place of his lost eye, was a brilliant blue sapphire. It suited him perfectly and was perhaps the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

He looked at you for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile before realising what had caught your attention so thoroughly.

“Oh gods,” he whispered, covering the sapphire with his hands and turning away. He took a few steps into the room before speaking again. “I did not mean for you to see this. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please…”

You said nothing. Silently, you moved into the room and shut the door. Aemond stared at you, his good eye watering as you approached him.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “You should not have had to – ” He startled when you brought your free hand up to his wrist and started trying to tug his hand away from his face. “What are you…?”

When your only response was to continue tugging, he relented, allowing you to lower his hand. He swallowed thickly, fixing his good eye on the wall behind you instead of at you. Seeing his shyness, and now knowing it for what it was, almost made you smile.

But your own shyness took hold of you as you guided his hand down and wrapped it around the spines of the twin journals you held. When you looked back up at Aemond, he was staring at them and the green ribbon that now marked a page within your diary.

“I don’t understand,” he breathed, tightening his hold on the books.

With a slight smirk, you gazed up at him and dropped your hand from the diaries. “It’s your turn.”

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dotster001 · 1 year ago

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Labor Simulator

A sequel to Period Simulator *

Summary: Malleus/Crewel/Crowley/Rook/Vil/Idia x gn! Reader. The boys try a labor simulator.

Requested by @stygianoir and @ase-kjaere

3k follower Masterlist

* it was given a community label by the idiot Tumblr gods, and I don't know how to fight it. Just know, it's not a mature fic

When you come in with the machine, he looks up from whatever it is he's doing, and fixes you with a death glare.

He didn't even try the period simulator, why would he try labor simulator?

Get the fuck out. He has to think about this relationship. Don't worry he won't actually break up with you over this. He just wants you to feel bad

Look, you know labor is worse than cramps. But after he was such a champ with the period simulator, you think everything will be fine.

And you easily forget he's still a hot headed youth, not that much older than you, so you don't think much of it when he takes it from you, and puts it on immediately, telling you to do your worst.

You think you're the one who put him through this. But honestly, you're completely innocent. He's a silly, silly guy. With a big ego, and something to prove. Not to you, don't worry it's not your fault.

And he starts out fine. But by the end of it all, he's crying. Your cool, collected boyfriend is crying. So you turn it off, and hold him the way he holds you when you're sad. In the end, you end up feeding a part of him he didn't realize was starving.

Unlike Crowley, he might actually break up with you. He is not going to go through hours of "contractions", sweat through his makeup, and sob and scream like a baby just because you thought it might be funny.

The only way to save your relationship is to toss the machine to the side, and be like, "JK lol ha ha I would never have meant it literally :)"

As we previously discussed, he bought it himself, and pulled it out seconds after you took the period simulator off.

Why are you like this? Seriously, babe, you don't need to experience every aspect of life to appreciate true beauty! Ok. Ok fine.

So you put it on him, and start to do different levels to simulate different parts of labor. Only, just like before, he wants to roleplay. He'll grab your hand and hiss at you to be his breathing coach.

Things that'll happen while he makes you continue the exercise- he'll name your imaginary children (he's having triplets), he'll decide what school they are going to, he'll pause the simulation and teach you how to be a better breathing coach, he'll teach you how to give him an epidural (do not give it to him!), he'll teach you how to help deliver triplets, he'll try to teach you how to do a C section

Stop him, for the love of God, stop him. You'll have to literally fight him, but if you don't, he's putting a scalpel in your hand….

It was his idea! Human birth is fascinating to someone who came from an egg!

But, again, he comes up on the tragedy of the machine bursting into flames once he comes into contact with it. So, again, he finds a potion that would simulate-

Sebek kicks the potion out of his hands. He's been waiting for this ever since the previous incident, and he will not, I repeat, he will not allow his lord to put himself through an artificial human pregnancy!!!!!!!!

You'll have two faes angrily trying to get you to help them. On the one hand, one is your boyfriend, and you want to do whatever it takes to make him happy. On the other hand, the other is Sebek.

Choose wisely.

He totally didn't cry on the period simulator. And he totally didn't delete the footage in Ortho's data bank, and he totally didn't also wipe his memory of the moment. He'd delete your memories of it too if he could, he's looking into how to do it.

So if you challenge him, and tell him about a labor simulator, he's going to do it! By the sevens, he is going to succeed!

Cries immediately. You only have it at pain level three, and he's already backing out. Ortho says you should keep it going because it would be good for him to learn not to do things he isn't capable of. Idia will once again be deleting Ortho's memory files.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #3k followers #dire crowley x reader #dire crowley #divus crewel x reader #divus crewel #vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud

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grahstumhurts · 1 month ago

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The stars aligned for us

Synopsis- Y/n had always had a crush on Sophia. this being Y/n's senior year, she had to make it count. Sophia, a untouchable goddess, in Y/ns eyes. Will it happen?

A/N - YES I KNOW ITS A CHEESY TITLE AND FIC, ITS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR TUMBLR OKAY. SUE ME IF I WANTED SOME CHEESY ROMANTIC SOPHIA CONTENT. This was not proof read so yeah

Lara always complains about how I stare at her in the halls when she passes by with her flock. “Dude, its honestly sad how much time you spend a day staring at her and or thinking about her, when in all brutal truth, she probably doesn't give you a single thought.” Lara sighs, rubbing her forehead in frustration as she watches me get out my books for my AP biology class. “Its not that bad, okay. Trust me i've been worse.” I try defending myself, “Listen, Y/N At this point you might as well confess since it's almost the end of the year. Whats the worst that could happen? You get embarrassed, yes, But you won't ever see her again until the highschool reunion.” Lara tries to convince me for the Nth time this year. Senior year was supposed to be the year where I let loose. By the time senior spring had come and college applications were through, there had been one thing I had yet to do. I’ve known her for years. I mean everyone knows her at our school. She's everyone's dream girl, Untouchable you could say. Sophia Laforteza. I sigh, almost giving in this time, “No, I won't do it. Like i've said multiple times, she's an untouchable painting that, Good lord, I want to touch so bad” I close my locker, leaning against it, facing towards Lara. She gives me an unimpressed look. “You have AP Bio with her next right? So why not ask her to study sometime? I mean you are basically failing that class,girl.” I pause, I consider it, My brain algorithm approves. The bell rings for the next period. “why are you actually kinda smart, Lara.” I walk past her “Hey, woah what do you mean kinda, I legit just gave you the best idea ever” she yells at my passing figure as i jog off to mr bennetts classroom. “For the sake of my mental health I pray to Beyonce that this works.” Lara mumbles under her breath as she walks off to her class.

Now you would think that the universe would be on my side. And you would be right. The stars have aligned as Lara would say, God forbid that girl ever not talk about stars and astrology the moment the conversation dies down. “Alright class, today i'm announcing your semester-long project for this class. This project will be starting today and will be ending by the end of the semester, so right around April we will present. Now this is a partner project” The class groans in disbelief, “Settle down. Now, I will be picking the partners-” The class erupts in boisterous anger at Mr bennett. “Calm down, Jesus, I'm retiring after this year. This project is going to be about whatever you want it to be. as long as it relates to biology.” He opens his laptop. “Now the partners will be…” he pauses reading the screen “Chloe and Marquise, Nickolas and Wendy, Y/N and Sophia” I note down these partnerships in my head just for reference, Wait. Are you fucking kidding me, its me and sophia? Now in hindsight you would think that maybe this is a class prank on me. I swear to fucking god i was about ready to explode, yean no not that kind of explode, the one where im the most anxious person on the god damn planet that we call fucking earth. Out of the 24 students in this class, other than me, there is a one in fucking 24 chance that i would be placed with her. Which i find is fucking ridiculous. “And thats it for partners, now if you could start planning your projects that would be great” Everyone shuffles around the room, trying to find their partner. I scramble to pick up my things when I drop my pencil case. I notice a manicured hand pick it up, i connect the hand to the arm, the arm to the body. Like the gorgeous goddess she is, she hands me my pencil case, Stupid fucking fish pencil case. “I like your pencil case, its pretty creative and unique” She comments, placing the fish on the table “thanks, my grandma got it for me so i've just been using it ever since.” I laugh uncomfortably. “What do you wanna do the project on?” I meekly ask her, I avoid all eye contact possible. She ponders for a moment, “I've always been kinda interested in how the weather contributes to moods, would that be something your okay with doing?” “imokaywithdoingwhateveryouwant” I spit out, at possibly the pace of a marathon runner. She laughs to herself at my reaction “you're cute.” She mumbles. “Are you free this week to start the project or…” She drags off the end of the word to insinuate for me to answer, “i'm good for this week, maybe tomorrow? After school” “We can go over to your house? My siblings can be quite loud so i dont think that’ll be the best “study spot”” She physically puts those two words in quotations. Which wakes me up to the reality that i will be spending the rest of the semester with her, creating a project. “Sure, Im down.” I say a little too excited, I clear my throat. “Cool, cant wait” she says casually as she walks off to her desk to pack up.

The first week went surprisingly well. I actually kept my cool and had a normal conversation with her. As the weeks grow, my feelings never really cut off for her. Instead, like a tumour, it grows. And so does my guilt. The project builds up a good amount of research, by the time its almost the end of the semester, March to be exact. The guilt, it flourishes inside me like a mouldy banana in the bottom of your bag. For all I know she could be straight.

I hear the doorbell ring, I know its her. My mom answers the door, as per usual. lets her in, then she comes up the stairs and up to my room where the door is already open for her to come in. “Hey” she greets me “almost the end huh? I bought some snacks on the way here, I remember last week you mentioned sour skittles to me so I figured I could try them with you.” “you remembered?” “Yeah, why wouldn't i? We are friends right? I mean with all the time we have spent on this project, i assumed we are friends” she looks confused, almost hurt? “Are we not friends” “we are, yeah” I flusteredly responded, panicking at the seemingly wounded look. She cracks a smile “i'm just messing with you,” she knocks my shoulder against hers as she sits down on my bed. “I think there's a storm coming soon actually” she says opening the shopping bag with the seemingly endless amount of snacks in it. “Kinda ironic don't you think?” I say to her, We get to work for the next couple of hours, sprinkling in some goofy moments between the two of us. She ends up having to stay over, The storm inhibiting her ability to go home. I look out the window, the rain looks as if it will never end. “You ever danced in the rain?” She sits next to me, resting her head on my shoulder, observing the perspiration. “I did it once with an ex boyfriend of mine,” she adds to her previous comment. For some reason that last bit stung a little, like a scratch from a cat. “You had a boyfriend?” I ask genuinely curious. “I ended things with him since I figured out that i liked girls” “oh, i didnt know you liked girls.” I looked at her, Her hazel eyes looking back. “Do you like girls?” she questioned me. “Yeah, always have” I answered meekly. An idea came to me when she looked back out the window, I stood up. “Lets go out into the rain” I drag her closely behind me as we walk out the front door to my house, running out into the wet sky. I laugh at her standing confused in the doorway. “Dude come on” I actively try to convince her “you were the one that started talking about dancing in the rain” I open my mouth and let the almost salty droplets hit my tongue. “Eugh, dude, dont you know how disgusting rain water is” She runs out into the rain, fully embracing the uncomfortable wetness covering her body. I curtsy to her “Mi’ Lady would you care for a dance?” I say in a faux british accent. She giggles “Of course Mi’ Lady, a dance would be appreciated.” I bring her in, her waist in one hand and her own hand in the other. “Is this okay?” I yell over the sound of the water droplets hitting the ground. She nods, resting her head on my shoulder as we sway in the middle of the driveway. She looks up at me, searching my face for something. Looking down at my lips, then my eyes, then back at my lips again. “What?” I asked her “do i have something on my face?” She cups my cheeks, her warm thumb stroking my cheekbones. Before I can say another thing, she leans in, and kisses me. The Ivy that is guilt covering my heart slowly withers away, her hands leave my cheeks and caress the hair on the back of my neck. I pull her in closer, wrapping my arms around her body. A lightning crack makes us pull apart. “You seriously dont know how long ive been dreaming of this happening” I tuck my face into her soaking collar, she kisses my forehead. “How long?” she giggles, “1st grade, When i first moved here. And it trailed all the way here.” “damn i wasn't expecting that.” I blush. “Do you wanna be my girlfriend?” I call out over the rain. “Of course dumbass” She leans back in, coating my whole body in a warm honey feeling, The stars aligned for us to be.

#sophia laforteza x reader #katseye x reader #sophia laforteza headcanons #kasteye imagines #katseye fluff #kpop fluff #kpop x reader #sophia laforteza

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smokesandsonatas · 1 year ago

Note

beelzebub as a dad please!

-Hello! I accidentally deleted the other request like this, when I was trying to combine this and the other one. It's a Papa Beelzebub ask too and his daughter would be like Kanao from Demon Slayer. I'm sorry, and I do want to recover the deleted draft but I don't think Tumblr allows that. Sad. I also tried to imagine Beelzebub's daughter. I created the image. Her name is up to interpretation. -

+++

The first time he had seen the girl, she was staring into nothingness. Her clothes are torn, she's covered in grime, and her bones are peeking through her skin. Blank, big eyes slowly turned to him when Beelzebub walked to her side.

The demon lord raked his eyes to the ravaged town in from of him. Smoke from the house fire is high up in the air. Bodies lay on the floor, and the smell of blood circles the destroyed town.

Oddly enough, Beelzebub felt...pity for the poor girl. And then he said-

"Come with me."

And the little girl did.

+++

The Lord of the Flies, and the Young Lady of the Flies.

The name itself sounds scary. Sending fear to whoever hears it.

Everyone said his daughter's existence is a supernatural feat in itself. When Beelzebub's love reaches its peak, he would destroy all he loves. Would that mean that Beelzebub does not love his daughter? No, his love for his daughter remains there. It's just Beelzebub has to monitor himself to not go overboard.

Buddha stares at the girl in front of him. Long dark hair covers half of her face. She wears a dress in the color of black. Gothic, it reminds him of the Western people mourning, from one of his travels.

"Definitely got that from Beelzebub," Buddha mumbled to himself. The little girl is an enigma and the only one who has lived, oddly enough, to stay by the demon god's side.

Although unnerved, Buddha smiled, "Hello, I'm Buddha. Little girl, is your dad not here? I need to talk to him about matters involving the underworld."

The little girl just stared at him. Buddha frowned, just how on earth is Beelzebub raising a child?

+++

"Papa..."

Buddha's eyes doubled their size, goodness did the child just speak?

"...is busy in his office," was all she said.

Buddha let out an "Oh, all right." He smiled at her, baring his fangs, "I'll just wait here, tell your dad he-"

"Daughter there you are."

Beelzebub walks to the little girl, gently touching her hair as he looks at her fondly.

Buddha crunched his eyebrows. From the way they dress, they're similar. Their attitudes were almost similar. He narrowed his eyes, observing their faces.

They even look the same!

Is Beelzebub sure this girl is not his biological child?

"Don't hang out with dangerous gods, you might get yourself hurt."

Buddha raised his eyebrow, ready to retaliate.

"I'm not a dangerous god-"

"Don't hang out with gods like Buddha either. You never know what they will do to you. Always be on guard. If you need help, my daughter, call me."

Before Buddha can even reply to Beelzebub's unwanted opinions, both he and his child are gone. Beelzebub did not even give him a courtesy greeting.

"Huh," Buddha scratched his chin, "why does this feel familiar."

+++

Beelzebub is working in his lab as his daughter read books. The silence is enough to let him work in comfort.

Besides they've always been like this, basking silently in each other's presence. Ah, Beelzebub must control his love lest he kill the young lady of the flies.

"Papa," the little girl said. "Look," she held up the book, The Adventures of Mr. B! Then pointed to the protagonist smiling triumphantly, "This character looks like Mr. Buddha."

Beelzebub blinked and went to his daughter's side. Hmmm, the character resembles him. It does look like Buddha, the bright, shining, and happy-go-lucky god.

For some reason, the lord of the Flies doesn't like the feeling of uneasiness bubbling through him. He doesn't like how Buddha is being all his happy self around his daughter, doesn't like his presence, and he doesn't like the way the book his daughter is reading is about heroes based on Buddha's image.

Beelzebub frowned.

He needs to throw the book out.

#record of ragnarok #shuumatsu no valkyrie #ror #snv #shuumatsu no valkyrie x reader #record of ragnarok x reader #record of ragnarok beelzebub #shuumatsu no valkyrie beelzebub #ror beelzebub #snv beelzebub #beelzebub's daughter #i have a thing where the gods'daughters like buddha #'

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burningvelvet · 2 years ago

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random excerpts from lord byron’s diaries that feel like tumblr posts from the 1800s

“My mind is a fragment.”

“I am too lazy to shoot myself.”

“Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, where I was asked—but not inclined to go any where. Hobhouse says I am growing a ‘loup garou,’ a solitary hobgoblin. True.”

“Sleepy, and must go to bed.”

“Whether ‘Hell will be paved with’ those ‘good intentions,’ I know not.”

“Got up—redde the Morning Post containing [..] a paragraph on me as long as my pedigree, and vituperative, as usual.”

“I wonder what the devil is the matter with me! I can do nothing, and fortunately there is nothing to do.”

“Last night, party at Lansdowne House. Tonight, party at Lady Charlotte Greville's—deplorable waste of time, and something of temper. Nothing imparted—nothing acquired—talking without ideas:—if any thing like thought in my mind, it was not on the subjects on which we were gabbling. Heigho!—and in this way half London pass what is called life. Tomorrow there is Lady Heathcote's—shall I go? yes—to punish myself for not having a pursuit.”

“What a strange thing is the propagation of life! A bubble of Seed which may be spilt in a whore’s lap – or in the orgasm of a voluptuous dream – might (for aught we know) have formed a Caesar or a Buonaparte.”

“Oh that face!—by te, Diva potens Cypri, I would, to be beloved by that woman, build and burn another Troy.”

“I have found increasing upon me (without sufficient cause at times) the depression of Spirits (with few intervals), which I have some reason to believe constitutional or inherited.”

“I shall soon be six-and-twenty (January 22d., 1814). Is there any thing in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?”

“Past events have unnerved me; and all I can now do is to make life an amusement, and look on while others play. After all, even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is it?”

“Redde a little—wrote notes and letters, and am alone, which Locke says is bad company. ‘Be not solitary, be not idle.’—Um!—the idleness is troublesome; but I can't see so much to regret in the solitude. The more I see of men, the less I like them. If I could but say so of women too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am now six-and-twenty; my passions have had enough to cool them; my affections more than enough to wither them,—and yet—and yet—always yet and but—‘Excellent well, you are a fishmonger—get thee to a nunnery.’—‘They fool me to the top of my bent.’” (Quotations from Hamlet)

“I wish I could settle to reading again,—my life is monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burnt it because the scene ran into reality;—a novel, for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts; but the thought always runs through, through ... yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Melbourne—the best friend I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women.”

“As to opinions, I don't think politics worth an opinion.”

“Tells Dallas that my rhymes are very popular in the United States. These are the first tidings that have ever sounded like Fame to my ears—to be redde on the banks of the Ohio!”

“This journal is a relief. When I am tired—as I generally am—out comes this, and down goes every thing. But I can't read it over; and God knows what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I fear one lies more to one's self than to any one else), every page should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.”

“Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for The Giaour and The Bride of Abydos. I won't—it is too much, though I am strongly tempted, merely for the say of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each) what?—the gods know—it was intended to be called poetry.”

“I will not be the slave of any appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, that heralds the way. Oh, my head—how it aches?—the horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte's dinner agrees with him?”

“If I had to live over again, I do not Know what I would change in my life, unless it were for not to have lived at all. All history and experience, and the rest, teaches us that the good and evil are pretty equally balanced in this existence, and that what is most to be desired is an easy passage out of it. What can it give us but years? and those have little of good but their ending.”

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crooked-wasteland · 4 months ago

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I just saw your essay on the codependency of FizzOzzie and it cleared up a lot of things I've been thinking about this ship and to be honest, I myself thought it was the most healthiest ship in the whole show even better than the trash that Stoliz is but well... (btw, I was trying to scroll through tumblr to find it but can you just link it for me so I coud read it again)?

It also brings me to an idea of the possibility brung up in two fics each with different ideas:

#1 if Hazbin's events every leak in Helluva's since they're the same universe, there's a possibility that Lucifer would want to have precautionary heirs for the defense of Hell and outright force Ozzie and any other relationships with lowerclass apart since it's "not compatible with angelic DNA" or some thing, so Ozzie could in fact leave Fizz because of his status

#2 Ozzie getting tired of Fizz... Ozzie is the sin of Lust after all and Lust can be ever-changing and capricious in its nature as a sin. Ozzie’s character, embodying Lust, might lead to a fluctuating commitment level, influencing his interactions and relationships. In biblical lore, he did end up causing a lot of sinful things like fucking a human named Sarah or so I remember?

Again this is the same guy who humiliated Blitzø in Ozzie, S2 just rewrote him completely (btw, in my rewrite I'mma change him to be more evil and instead give the whole "lovey-dovey Sin" idea to Satan who is female and thinks Asmodeu's "fake-love" is like a slap in the fact to her idea of realistic and true romance)

I'd just feel like Fizz would be better off with Blitzø tbh or Striker or all in a threesome... the possibilities are endless, and why is the show making love seem too fairytale and unrealistic?! Like Blitzø shouldn't have to fuck Stolas just because he was his arranged playmate for just one day??? The show did the childhood friends trope dirty and would be better if Stoliz was a thing until mid-teens broke up for [insert reason] and reconnect but honestly, Stolas should've had his own seperate season/arc dedicared to himself if HB was an anthology show

Also the fact that Asmodeus couldn't just burn the contract, one-shot the lawyer and go on a rampage to save Fizz is just beyond me... the Sins are supposed to be these scary demon lords so why aren't they, hm?

Sorry for rambling and what do you think or want to add?

Absolutely here you go.

The consistent failure of Vivziepop is to commit to a mature story. She describes her own protagonists as "Deeply flawed but understandably traumatized people who just need love to fix them" while the villains of her shows are "irredeemable" (and women, but that's a tangent).

I mentioned before that trying to use the excuse of the setting being Hell and playing that out to the logical conclusion would end up exactly like Good Omens. The whole moral of said show being that imperfect humanity is worth saving, that life is worthy and beautiful for its own sake of existence. That is why the story of Good Omens uses the Bible, angels, and demons to tell it's story, to make that point.

Why is Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel set in Hell? What is being said by the plot, themes and story? So far we have that demons are better people than the Angels in Hazbin. That sacrifice is the only virtue worthy of redemption and thus reinforces backwards Christian ideals of penance.

Personally, I would have made Hell less absurd. Less a place of debauchery and chaos and more a mere continuation of life. We see in the Hazbin Pilot a character falls from the sky and says "I'm alive?" Before being hot by Travis' car. The point being that people just transition from one life to the next and in that they keep living life the way they always have.

My personal criticisms of the series' use of Hell is that it established this idea that people only behave if they have a god to fear. Once in Hell, there is no salvation, so why bother. It's like a Christian asking an atheist why they wouldn't commit murder if they don't believe in God. The answer is that people like order and security. People dying would seek to maintain their status quo from life. A lack of salvation wouldn't change that for them.

And frankly, I wouldn't have redemption be a thing. This story and its messages are actively devalued by the act of redeeming sinners when the Angels are just the same as them. By having Hell just be a warped continuation of life on Earth, it makes the message more universal: Life is Hell. Life is suffering in a way Hell can never hope to be. Physical anguish and torment for all eternity can never amount to the pain of the fleeting and the terror of change and uncertainty.

I would have made it impossible to be redeemed because the fact is, regardless what you believe happens after death, what we know we have is life. We fear death so much we have created salvation throughout history, the wish to keep living forever in some way. But, especially for young people, life is harder now than ever before. It's more terrifying and uncertain and cruel and uncaring.

So if life is Hell, how do you be happy?

That would have been my thesis for the show. The message underneath is all about finding happiness in the absence of salvation. Even the idea that maybe salvation is something we should reject to really feel what it means to be alive. Giving up on our deaths and seeking our own fulfillment, and in that finding community, love, and hope. To see true humanity as something selfish and kind at the same time.

That's how I would have taken the concept.

#hazbin critical #helluva boss criticism #helluva boss critical #hazbin hotel critical #vivziepop critical #ask and answer

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pearwaldorf · 1 year ago

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This is an introduction to Hozier playlist for my friend @junemermaid. The categories are a little idiosyncratic, but I think they make sense. I don't know what music services you have access to, so there are no links. I trust you can figure out how to get access to the songs.

Things I didn't know I needed words for until I heard these songs

Foreigner's God

Butchered Tongue (an introduction to the song from the Choctaw Theater in Oklahoma)

(additional reading: “A’ghailleann”: On Language-Learning and the Decolonisation of the Mind, by my friend Iona. It is about Gaelic and not having access to the first language you spoke, and how we deal with those sorts of things.)

Wry narration from self-aware narrators

Jackie and Wilson

Almost (Sweet Music)

Nobody

(What I mean is in contrast to something like this from Lord Huron. The narrator's a fucking idiot but I'm not sure he's aware of that.)

Horny but not really about sex (but not not either)

De Selby Part 2 (the video, starring fellow Irishman Domhnall Gleeson, is so pretentious, I love it to bits)

Talk (the song I'm totally going to make a Hannigram vid to, one of these days I swear)

NFWMB

Yes he really is Like That, Tumblr was not exaggerating

In a Week

Like Real People Do

In the Woods Somewhere

To be fair, I think he's gotten away from this a lot more since the debut album. People mean the bog prince nonsense affectionately, but I think they also use it as an excuse to ignore his more political songs. (On the other hand, the oatmeal.)

The way white people should cover songs by Black artists

Say My Name (more info on why he decided to cover it)

Problem > Regulate (As a child of the 90s I respect this so much)

The ones I'm really fucking angry about because they're gorgeous and beautiful and poetic

Work Song (the second song I would put on any Shepard/Garrus playlist)

Shrike

Unknown / Nth (this is an Aziraphale/Crowley song to me; the bridge fucking took me out at the knees the first time I heard it)

Abstract (Psychopomp) (This song is deeply weird in the best way. It is the perfect early oughts pop song I always wanted from Coldplay but it's about a formative and somewhat disturbing event in the narrator's childhood. But also about romantic love somehow?)

Unreal Unearth is, I think, a level up in terms of poetic lyricism.

The prettiest song you will ever hear about domestic violence and is really weird to sing along to live because of that

Cherry Wine

A disturbingly well-adjusted breakup song

All Things End

That random EDM song he did a couple years ago that's actually really good??

Tell It To My Heart

#hozier

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bonkbobl · 3 months ago

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distraction

ROOSE BOLTON X READER

gif not mine

a/n: so this was the story i wrote like several weeks ago that got deleted by tumblr. i finally got the motivation to rewrite it (bc like i think everything but the last bit got deleted)

summary: roose bolton indulges his urges with lower born northern girls — by no means is this a very well kept secret. he stole your first night from you and your husband, just as he has done with many others in the past, but this time you remain cemented in his mind months after. that is out of the ordinary.

warning: mentions of previous dubious consent situations, no huge smut scenes but smutty descriptions of past memories, unplanned pregnancy, some bits of self hate and shame, take that trigger warning seriously!! reader was a victim of SA from roose and theres a lot of conflicting feelings, cheating depending on your pov but i dont think it counts bc she had no choice, roose is very much not the good guy here please be aware, a lot of victim blaming

Roose doesnt know when he began to care for you. It certainly wasnt that first time he saw you, bathing naked in the river. And it definitely wasn’t when you and your husband showed up at the Dreadfort asking your liege lords blessing for marriage.

Of course, he knew in both instances, he craved you.

A craving that should have been satisfied when he exercised the first night rights. No, somehow between the your first night and now, he had begun to yearn for you again. That night far from expelled you from his mind.

Only a couple times, Roose saw himself riding out of the Dreadfort and he’d see you outside, hanging clothes on a line or tending to some animals.

You’d always spot him, then quickly pretend as if you didn’t, probably praying to each and every God that he wouldn't come by to see you.

In truth, it didn’t matter much whether he stopped by or not. The damage had already been done and there was little his visit could do to worsen things. Your wedding night had ruined your marriage. It was something you had been coming to terms with over the past couple of months.

At first, you had tried your best to console your husband. The experience took a toll on both of you — he had refused your bed for almost a month afterward and after weeks of patience, you were finally able to have a real wedding night.

He was gentle and slow and kind, a noticeable contrast to how roughly Roose took you. You felt ashamed even comparing in the privacy of your own mind, but you thought it before you could even realize how much you hated the idea.

You loved and cared for your husband. He loved and cared for you. He treated you delicately and respectfully, as a husband should. It just wasn't quite as exciting as the passion, the rough kisses, the biting. He almost seemed afraid to touch you.

He’d asked you after you made love, how it was. You braved a smile and nodded, telling him it was wonderful.

Then he pressed, “Better than…”

And inside, your heart shattered, wondering if thats really all he cared about in that moment. With a faltered smile, you nodded again, though it was a lie and in his eyes, you could tell he knew.

When days later you had a more heated argument about the same topic, he revealed he’d been sat outside the door the entire time you laid with Lord Bolton.

That shut your mouth and you stared at the ground wordlessly as he continued to shout at you. Why would he? You thought but you knew your indignation was misplaced. It doesn't make sense why he'd willingly submit himself to the that experience of listening to your lord claim you, but it also didn't make sense why you sounded the way you did while it was happening.

Why did you?

He made a cot in your kitchens and you whimpered, tears spilling into the sheets that you were supposed to share as husband and wife. He didn't share your bed ever again. Granted, it's only been a couple of weeks since you consummated your marriage — you could understand if things just take time.

You were wracked by guilt. But you also had a great deal or resentment and anger building by the time Robb Starks war came about. You spent the length of your marriage comforting your husband over your assault. How is that right?

But the guilt… the guilt never stopped. You close your eyes and you can feel him if you try hard enough — Roose. Feel him kissing, feel him rubbing you down there, and when he made you get on top...

It was shameful.

When the North began to rally for the King in the North, any help was appreciated, even from an untrained soldier such as your husband, even from a simple farmers wife such as yourself. Anyone can do the least bit to help.

You did what little you were permitted to do — cooking for the soldiers, cleaning, dressing wounds. Having things to do with your hands took your mind off of your messy personal life. For a little bit.

It was only a matter of time before you started to feel his gaze on you. Everywhere you went.

Of course, you had expected to see him. But you had also expected him to ignore you.

You expected that if you were to ever approach him, it would cause a huge upset. Everyone knew he almost had his bastard's mother flogged when she brought her baby boy to the Dreadfort and you had no intention of meeting that fate. You thought, all the better for you. He wont seek you out and you would never put yourself through having to look in his face again. Every time you closed your eyes, you could already imagine him on top of you, and how he felt inside you.

It was especially difficult to keep those images off your mind because still, your husband refused your bed, keeping two separate cots in your shared tent.

You're a shameful little thing. Letting your mind wander from your marriage. To the man who ruined it no less...

No such luck met you, however and your expectations to be left alone were subverted.

Roose noticed his bad habit of turning up whereever you seemed to be as well and no matter how he tried to cull it, he'd still find himself wandering a little too close to your tent and the medical wing of camp where he was scarcely needed.

A few times, he'd spoken to you and you always kept your head down, ignoring the heat that would tease at your cunt or the way your stomach would twist at the sound of his deep voice. Only "Yes, milord," "Straight away, milord," "Of course, milord." One time he had even went as far as to compliment you on a job well done, serving the Northern Cause, and you still didn't budge to look up at him, gritting out a particularly bitter, "Thank you, my lord."

You truly were getting more and more bitter by the day. You felt quicker to anger — fed up by your husband, and seemingly unable to escape the watchful eye of your liege lord. You wondered why at first. Now you think, he must get some kind of high from it — from knowing that he was in many ways a part of you now, ingrained in your mind, a constant presence in your marriage. You wondered if he'd ever get tired of this petty humiliation.

You would snap. You were sure of it. One day, you'll say unpretty words, unbecoming of a farmer's wife. You could feel it even when you were alone, trying to unwind. You'd find yourself thinking of a scenario in which you'd be allowed to give him a piece of your mind, and sometimes you'd mutter curses to nothing but the wind as you knitted. You were wound up unbelievably so. You could hardly conceive of a time you felt more anger in you this frequently.

It nearly came to a head when your husband stumbled into your shared tent one afternoon and started clawing at your body. You had been laying on the bed, reading, grateful for a moment of solitude.

It was mid day and he already stunk of ale.

He took the book out of your hands and began kissing up your neck and you shoved him right off, storming out into the open air, furious at his lack of disrespect. Tears already pricking at your eyes.

Of course, you had been hoping he'd warm up to you and come to you one night. You'd talk it through — talk about both your individual feelings. You'd apologize for the cruel words you'd spoken to each other and start making love, start looking forward to the future you'd promised each other. You'd start trying to build a family. You'd begin making love regularly.

All these fantasies in your head — and he just stumbles in one day wanting to stick his dick somewhere.

You had only made it a few meters outside, the loud hustle of the war encampment, driving you even further up the wall. Your mind is too loud. Each day is feeling more and more like a dream rather than your life. Its all too overwhelming.

Your husbands grasp on your wrist halted you and you turned. He brought you in close, his stench absolutely putrid and you could hardly even recognize the boy you agreed to marry — the boy who was so gentle with the little pigs and sheep, who always wanted to feed them when he came to the farm to see you. All in a couple months, spoiled rotten.

"Aye, where d 'ya think you're goin, little lady?"

You snatched your wrist away forcefully, though you didn't need to be so aggressive. His movements were as slurred as his voice and a gentle pull would have loosened his grasp enough.

"I'm not in the mood," You hissed. "You don't talk to me most days now, you haven't shared my bed in weeks, and now you think you can climb on top of me stinking of ale..."

Anger flared behind your husbands eyes, "C'mon. You'll just end up enjoy'en it anyway."

Nothing but hurt stabbed at your heart as you moved away from him, "You act like this all happened to you. That you were hurt, that someone took something from you. You never showed any care for my wellbeing once.” You could feel the tears pricking at your eyes and you moved to storm off from him. “I'll talk to you later. When you're sober."

“Come back here you slut—” Was the last you heard and the last you saw was his hand raising. You turned and ducked.

When you turned, you ran into a firm chest, the hands attached to the man steadied you with a firm hand on your waist. Your husband flinched back when he saw the figure behind you, lowering his hand, but not without a bitter laugh. And you looked up, only needing a microsecond to realize who it was. You promptly, pushed yourself off him, nearly tripping over yourself doing so.

His deep voice rang out before you could start back on your feet, "Is there a problem, my lady?"

"Everything is fine," You held your gaze on the ground, begging that he'd just stay out of this so you can go and leave without creating a scene.

But he didn't see your urgency to leave. He saw your tears. He showed very little visible reaction to this very awkward and unfortunate situation, but you could sense that he was taking this far too seriously for your liking. As you moved to disengage, your husband had to get a last word in.

"It's alright, Lord Bolton. The whore is yours if you'd still like," Your husband, Mister Kent, yelled. Kent, you could hardly stand to share his name anymore.

Your face grew hot, suddenly aware of the eyes on you and you slipped away quickly, feet moving you swiftly to the tree line behind the camp. Roose had little awareness of those watching, simply scoffing at your husbands theatrics before turning to attend to what mattered more in the moment. You.

He called your name once and you kept speeding off, wiping your nose, your face. You refuse to cry.

He called your name a second time, sounding more irritated at your attitude — to think you were making him run after you — and this time, you gave him an answer. You turned and with all the hatred you could muster in you, you uttered a firm, "Don't."

Roose's hard eyes softened, only slightly, but the determination to catch up to you had faded away. With a simple nod, he watched as you finally ran off, seeking your much needed solitude.

Even long after you were already gone, he still thought about you. It was the first time he'd seen real resistance in you and to be truthful, it puzzled him far more than he'd care to admit out loud. He had stepped in, as your legal protector, as any good lord would have and instead of showing gratitude, you were angry at him.

Anyone else wouldn't have dared to speak to him in the ways that you have.

This created conflict — for one thing, he was understanding more and more what a liability to you were. A distraction at first, but the more he permitted himself to see you, the more troublesome you become.

Roose isn't a man to concern himself with peacocking and flitting about pretentiously drunk on power. But he was feared and respected. And he didn't get to be feared and respected by associating himself with beautiful young peasant girls. He didn't make grown me tremble in their boots at the sound of his name by letting little peasant girls talk back to him freely.

This distraction...

You could prove to be more trouble than you're worth. Of the few times he's seen you, he attempted to pay you no mind but sometimes, his eyes wander. Sometimes he's thinking about something more important and he realizes he's looking at you.

Your hair is always done up with a dirty little scarf. Sometimes it wouldn't be done up very securely — locks of hair falling in front of your face as you worked. In those moments it was difficult to look away.

Sometimes you'd wear these milkmaid dresses that you'd usually save for the warmer summer days when you'd work on your farm. And your straps might loosen over your shoulder, falling. You'd have to adjust it back in the right place after completing your task. Those dresses surely complimented your figure in ways that Roose imagined would make even a maester blush.

Your perfect little body looked even better, bare, in the dim firelight. His roaming hands were the best accessory — the best clothing — to compliment and accentuate your curves. The marks he left on you were better than any precious metals or gemstones you could adorn yourself with.

Just remembering what you looked like after he was done with you — chest heaving, warm, sweating and worn out, lips and cunt both so puffy and swollen, and doing nothing as his cum started to threaten to spill out of you. Your mind was wracked with the confusion of actually having had enjoyed it. And when you watched him push his spend back into the hole from where it was trying to escape, that action almost made you want more. He could see it in your beautiful flushed face.

Those memories are enough to make him completely forget himself and lose his train of thought when he sees you.

He'll be noticing you from afar and before he knows it, he's only a few paces from you, looking down at you with nothing to say but some arbitrary order that he'd come up with on the spot — fetch water, bring milk of the poppy for one of the generals, help the women prepare dinner.

You're one hell of a distraction.

Roose considered having you and your husband sent home from the war effort. It would have been the most practical solution. If the king is already flitting about with the Volantis Princess, the North cannot afford so many side tracked leaders.

And yet, he cant help but feel some vague sense of responsibility to you.

Perhaps if it were any other man, this was to be expected, but Roose has bedded many women under the old first night tradition and never paid a second thought to any of them. They were all just his subjects. He'd protect them, he'd do his duty, he'd take what was rightfully his, and he'd punish them if they refused him, but he had more important matters to concern himself with.

Definitely more important than a petty dispute between wife and husband. Though it left a distinctly bad taste in his mouth to think that your husband might be mistreating you in any way, calling you debasing names. Gods forbid, he's been misusing you — Roose knows there isn't a scarcity of husbands that subject their wife to all their most debased urges. Especially when there isn't a good amount of respect between them and it doesn't seem to him that your husband particularly carries much respect for you.

For that man to raise a hand to you.

Roose scoffed at Mister Kent's behavior. He supposes it's partially his fault, perhaps mostly. Or entirely. Not that he'd usually particularly care.

It's just that Mister Kent had an especially blatant disregard for your honor. That the man could even think he had the right to treat you as if you were below him when you were more valuable to the northern cause than he could ever hope to be — it baffled Roose.

Because thats what this was about. The North. Your husband is one foot soldier. You keep the army fed and medicated.

He reasoned with himself, that it's a part of his oaths to protect those small folk that reside in his lands. That includes farmers wives when their husbands aren't honoring the oaths they took at the altar. It wasn't personal. It was something he had overlooked in the past that he'll aim to rectify.

—————

You wiped some sweat from your brow, nodding kindly to the lady next to you, who brought you a fresh tray of bowls to fill. Then on your other side, another woman scurried up to you, tapping your shoulder.

She looked younger, slightly nervous.

“What is it?” You asked, turning with concern.

She spoke quickly, “Lord Bolton ordered me to pass a message,” her mousy accented voice barely audible as the other ladies rushed to get food to the hungry mouths of the men.

You flinched backward, confusion all over your face, but you leaned in anyway. You’d let the poor frightened girl complete her task. Your distaste for Lord Bolton doesn’t have to translate to her.

“Milord said to tell you that your belongings have been moved to a new tent, apart from your husbands, and that from now on, when we are to move camp, you should maintain this change.”

You stared at her, open mouthed, with brows knitted together in frustration, “Where?”

“Next to Milord’s, I believe. N-next to Lord Bolton’s own tent.”

Taking in a deep breath, you moved to turn back to your task. You'd worry about it later... But the offense had already set into your mind and your jaw clenched tightly. Opening your mouth, your original intent was to sternly thank her for delivering the message to you. She’s simply the messenger. You refuse to react and push the negativity of your reaction onto her.

But a surge of anger rose to your throat and you stifled your movements and words, taking a moment to collect yourself and think about it. Yes, this girl is simply the messenger. You should take your grievances to the man.

You nodded politely at the girl, “Thank you. Could you...” You gestured at the cauldron that you had been manning and nodded toward it pointedly, “Just for a moment. I need to speak find Lord Bolton and speak to him about why such changes have been made.”

“Of course, my lady,” She curtsied and rushed to take over your job for you.

You stopped in your tracks just as you were about to leave. “I’m not— Theres no need for formalities. I’m not a lady. We are neighbors if I am not mistaken. Your tavern is not far from my husbands farm.”

She nodded, hesitant, but conceded, “Of course… Its just… Lord Bolton—”

“Has overstepped greatly,” You finished.

She refused to respond, simply nodding in acknowledgment of your opinion. You’re brave to speak against your liege lord in such a manner.

You took your leave quickly, trying to find your way to the Lords and Ladies table as swiftly as possible. Perhaps there was still a way to reverse this change before anyone else takes notice and rumors begin to swirl.

Right next to his tent. What was he thinking? Did he simply aim to humiliate you— Humiliate your husband more? Was what damage has already been done not satisfactory— that he must shame you not only in the eyes of your husband but the entire North?

You were never meant to garner attention. A simple farmers wife was the life you thought you’d be destined for. And that was happy.

He’s spoiling it all.

You stepped up to the table, heart beating loudly in your chest, the fear feeling more like rushing adrenaline due to the fury underlying. “My Lord,” You greeted, trying to stay as respectful as possible.

Roose turned to you, as did your king, Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark, Theon Greyjoy, Rodrick Cassel, Rickard Karstark, and Greatjon Umber. Just as they did, Most of them had turned back to their previous conversations, passing you off as a servant girl with no doubt a simple question regarding something logistic. A fair assumption. And you were grateful for their dismissal. It made it less nerve-wracking.

Roose raised his brows at you. The only one of his companions that maintained an interest in you was Lady Stark, who looked to him for his reaction, and back at you.

“May I speak with you? Alone?” You pressed.

Roose looked you up and down, slightly amused by how ticked off you appeared to be. Pursing his lips and continuing to chew on the veal you and your ladies had prepared, he shrugged, “Whatever you have to say, surely, can be said now. You have no secrets to keep from the mother of the King, I’d hope?”

You glanced at Catelyn who still watched you curiously, then back at Roose. Taking a deep breath, and sighing it out, you kept your glaring eyes trained on him. “You had no right,” You held your ground firmly. The boldness of your words attracting the interest of the others once again, and despite the building pressure of those eyes watching you, you steeled yourself, holding to your purpose, “No right, My Lord," And through your words, you decided to add, "R-respectfully,” to soften your tone. Though it was only out of fear, not because you actually respected the man.

“No right to do what?” He challenged, icy blue eyes not budging a single bit.

You were taken aback, shaking your head and recoiling into yourself as if you were disgusted by him — which you were. You kept reminding yourself to be disgusted with him. He’s a disgusting man. Stubborn, always needs to get his way, arrogant, assertive, pragmatic, effective, dominant.

Though you couldn't help the bit of desire for him that you felt. It rose like bile in your throat just like every other time, but unlike every other time, the disgust that you'd usually feel toward yourself turned to anger, directed at the man in front of you.

“You—” But your next words died on your lips and you took in another deep breath, trying to keep calm. You were already bold for talking to him in an accusatory manner. You cant afford to curse at him or say all the things you want to say. Not with all these eyes on you. “I wish to share my tent with my husband. You had me moved. Without my consent.”

He gave you a look of faux consideration, as if he were truly listening to you and considering a change in his actions but you knew he wasn’t. He was condescending, “I seem to remember this is the same husband who stumbles around, a drunken fool, and raises his hand to his wife in front of not only his fellow soldiers but his liege lord.”

“Convenient picture, you paint,” You seethed, articulating each word with venom, no longer trying to hide any disrespect.

“Was there a lie in my words? Does he not hurt you?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. Dont pretend you care. Not now. Don't you fucking dare. “Well—" Yes, but would have been your next words but you bit your tongue. The point of this wasn't to debate your husbands behavior toward you. You, yourself found it distasteful. You should focus on the matter at hand which is that you don't want to be so close to this man. "I’ll have my own tent then. If it pleases you, My Lord,” Your words still full of spite, “But you’ll have my belongings moved again so that I’m not right next to you.”

Catelyn’s mouth parted and she stared at the man beside her. You kept your eyes stubbornly trained on Roose, looking at him with great offense and sass in your eyes, as if to ask him with just a simple movement of your head, what the fuck were you thinking?

Roose smiled, mostly to himself. Strangely your boldness did nothing to anger him. He expected some more gratitude, maybe. But you’re spirited. For some reason that excites him.

“No,” He said simply, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, “That won’t happen.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, entire face stiff with anger. “I don’t know what you expect,” You asked, “A thank you?”

“It would be appreciated. When your liege grants a favor—“

“A favor, ” You laughed, growing more audacious by the second, but your tone became mocking “A favor out of the goodness of your own hear—”

“Yes, it was a favor,” Roose said, more stern than he had been for the rest of the conversation.

Your expression settled into a hard frown, realizing yourself and your lack of power in this situation. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“And you’d do well to remember not to interrupt a Lord whilst he is speaking.”

You stared stubbornly for a moment, eyes narrowing in on him, challengingly. Then a few moments passed without a word between either of you.

Finally, you surrendered, valuing your head above your pride, “As you wish, My Lord. Thank you.” But the submissiveness of your words could not hide the unmistakeable snark in your tone.

Without granted leave, you turned on your heel and stormed right back off from where you came.

Roose sat back in his chair, ignoring the few lingering gazes of his peers. Though Karstark and Umber quickly busied themselves with their previous interrupted conversation with the younger Greyjoy, the King spared him one last curious look before joining their round of jibes against each other.

It was Lady Starks stare that bore uncomfortably into Roose’s profile.

But he paid it as little attention as possible. He took to his neglected meal and cut another slice of that veal. Stone faced, but thinking about your angry little face. The bite and the snark behind your voice. How badly, did he want to stand and take you right back to his tent and make you understand just how passionate he really was about your protection and safety. Just how capable he is of providing it, unlike that pitiful husband of yours.

As he chewed, the dreadful little realization started to tease at his mind. That perhaps this distraction was spiraling a little far beyond his control.

But the image of your angry, eyes softening as you lay beneath him… the fury dissipating into pleasure, it was more than enough to convince him that control over himself was not what was at the forefront of his mind, nor did he want it be. His desire was beginning to win over his will.

He’ll have you. And you’ll welcome it.

—————

Your days were spent mostly to yourself. Regretfully, you were actually quite thankful for the change in living arrangements. You no longer had to interact with your husband, who had become a near constant anxiety before. And Roose kept his distance for you — perhaps he's gotten the hint...

You could only hope that was the case.

One morning ripped you from your idyllic independence when you found yourself running and wretching into the nearest empty vessel nearly the moment you stood from your bed. You threw up two more times that morning before you gave in and asked a nurse to give you something for the sickness.

That inevitably led to the conversation you had been dreading since the moment you woke up.

"When did you last bleed?"

"I..." You paused to think on it but it couldn't come to you. Two cycles must have passed you by without you even realizing because three moons ago was as recent as you could think of.

Then a new anxiety began to build in you. Because you distinctly remember your husband never consummated your marriage until a mere couple weeks ago — more than a month after your wedding night.

"I'm not sure."

"The sickness means you've had it for probably a bit less than two months now," She informed you, counting on her fingers, "half a month for the babe to take hold, and then the mother gets sick after another month. Half a month for those with a more fragile countenance."

"Is there any way it could have started within two or three weeks?"

Her brows furrowed confusedly for a moment before the gears began to turn in the woman's head and her expression soured to vague pity, though she stepped back from you, almost as if your shame could be contagious. She shook her head lightly, and full of judgement, "There is always moon tea."

Moon tea was exactly what your husband suggested when you told him later. Though you shocked yourself when the a creeping reluctance rose to the front of your mind.

Mister Kent detected your hesitation almost immediately. Before you could fully process your own thoughts and feelings on the matter, he was invigorated by his personal mission to kill the mere idea of you possibly keeping the child.

"You can't mean to say you actually want to keep it?"

All you did was glare, unsure of yourself. "I don't know."

"How can't you know?"

"I don't know," You repeated, stepping back from the man that you once loved. "I don't know if I want to."

"What could possibly make you want to keep it?"

You scoffed at him, "It's still my child," you tried to reason, anything that would get him to empathize, even a little bit, with you. But it was to no avail, you were quickly realizing. He hardly ever really cares to see things from your view.

"It's not mine."

"That fact doesn't negate what I just said," You shot back, brows furrowing frustratedly at his selfishness.

"You'd have me raise another man's bastard?"

"We are married."

"We won't be if you have that bastard."

And there, you let out the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. You smiled humorlessly to yourself, scoffing once again at the situation.

"You can't possibly have thought that I would be amenable to this,” he filled the silence

You simply shook your head because no, you didn't think he would be happy. Of course he wouldn't be happy. But this was the point of no return. If you were to keep the child, there'd be no mending your relationship with him.

Overcome with some bout of sentiment, you took a good look at his face, trying to remember any reason you should pick him over your unborn child — nothing but a bundle of cells right now but probably more capable of truly loving you than this man ever would have been. For a moment you even felt the creeping feeling that you were grateful the child wasn't your husbands.

"I need time to think about it," You spoke carefully, so as not to antagonize him but also not to give him hope.

He rolled his eyes.

For you, that had done it. You still weren't entirely sure if you'd keep the child but next time you spoke to your husband, you'd bring up the question of an annulment. You didn't wait for whatever response he might have before leaving.

—————

Roose caught you just in the corner of his eye. He'd watched you enough to recognize you by the way you walked — or paced, was more accurate to describe it. You were always pacing from place to place, anxiously. He diverted his gaze away from Catelyn Stark who was speaking to him about something mundane, something to do with the Kingslayer, their most recent and most valuable bargaining chip.

You escaped his view as quickly as you came in, disappearing angrily into your tent. You're always upset. At least this time it has little to do with him. He's been giving you some much needed space for a little while.

He knew he stared just a little bit too much when he turned back to Catelyn in front of him and saw her looking to their side, at the little slit of fabric through which you disappeared. Then she looked back at him, curiously.

Roose smiled politely, silently urging her to go on, and hoping the damned woman wouldn't nose around.

"She's pretty, that one."

"Yes," Roose hummed, mentally cursing himself for being a little too careless, "The wife of a farmer. They live about a quarter hour ride south of the Dreadfort."

Catelyn hummed too, eyebrows moving upward awkwardly. "A-and how did you come to be acquainted... with this farmers wife?"

Roose stalled for less than a second before coming up with some farce. It wasn't difficult to think up a simple lie. Although it was barely a lie, simply an omission of most of the truth, "Her father was the Dreadfort's main supplier of milk. And eggs."

"Ah..." Catelyn nodded, and Roose knew she only accepted that answer as a courtesy, clearly aware that there was more to the story. "And her husband..."

Roose rolled his eyes at the mere mention of Mister Kent, "A drunk."

Catelyn smiled a bit at that, eyes narrowing with skepticism, "Unfortunate." She then cautiously pushed, "You seem rather attached to—"

Roose took a deep impatient inhale, causing Lady Stark to quickly drop the subject.

"I take it you were good friends with this girls father. And the only reason you seem to be so protective is because of that friendship..."

The impatient Dreadlord spared Lady Stark a look of incredulity. He wondered why she’d try to come up with a cover story for him when they both know she believes something else — when they both know the reality is something else.

"I would hope that is why, Lord Bolton," She addressed his disbelief, "This girl... She seems to have a kind heart, a strength and resilience, if you will."

For a moment, Roose's irritation blended into pure amusement at why Catelyn Stark would even begin to lecture him on what kind of person you were but she left no room for Roose to speak in protest.

"She is firey."

Roose chuckled, "Yes."

Yes, you are. Even the night he took you, you tried to hold your chin up high and face him. And you did, you glared at him as he entered you, your hardened, angry eyes wavering with each thrust until your furrowed brows knitted together with pleasure replacing your stubborn resistance.

"Don't dishonor her," Catelyn stated her point, finally.

For a moment, Roose scarcely knew what to say. It was a long moment, longer than it would usually take for him to generate a response.

Don't dishonor her.

He's afraid it might be too late. All those things Catelyn had said about you, after only bearing witness to a single heated interaction between the two of you, were all true. They were all things he came to learn about you slowly, all things that made it even harder to forget you or cast you aside.

It was in that moment that Roose came to the realization that while your husband wasn't a very good man, he might objectively be much worse. Well this wasn't the moment he realized that, of course the head of the house with the flayed man on their banners would be a slightly more rough around the edges than a simple cattle farmer.

But he committed a grave crime against your honor. Your husband has also sullied your honor in different ways, but he could hardly claim that he has treated you the way you really deserved to be treated.

"I'll try not to," Roose responded with a nod, and walked toward your tent.

Hopefully there was still time enough to rectify his mistake. He really shouldn't have let his desires get the better of him so easily. The moment he saw you, he knew he had to have you. It always goes like this. Its never ended with some strange sort of sentiment developing — that just wasn't the type of man Roose was. Not until now.

"My lady," Roose said once, trying to alert you of his presence outside your tent.

Upon hearing his familiar, deep voice, you looked up from your spot on your cot. You wiped your face of the few tears you'd allowed yourself to shed and scooted off the bed, but you hesitated for a moment.

Do you really wish to speak to him? All this pain caused by him. You should tell him to fuck off right back from where he came.

"My lady," The voice said, more firmly this time and with that signature tint of irritation that you'd come to know so well.

You sighed. You should speak to him about these matters. It concerns him. You're not going to get rid of the child, you couldn't bring yourself to. Inexplicably so, the thought of having a child to take care of, running around you, carefree and smiling, outweighed any hatred you may hold for that child’s father.

If your lord is kind, he'd give you an allowance like he did his bastard's mother, perhaps even allow you to reside in the Dreadfort. You could raise your child to be better than the men you've known in your life.

You went and opened the flaps of the tent, cocking your head to signal him in. He stopped as the tent closed behind him and you stood there with your eyes trained to his chest, waiting for him to take more steps inside. It remained as such for a second, then two, and you stood, confused as to why he was just standing in front of you instead of moving inside to the table set up in the center.

He took off his glove and you watched his hand come up to touch your chin. He tilted your face up, your eyes met his, observing as he inspected you. He looked down to consider something, and then met your eyes again promptly, a strange hesitance in them.

It fascinated and scared you at the same time. To see Roose in a somber mood. Skepticism remained on your face, waiting for some punchline.

"What do you want?"

His lips parted for a slow inhale, the closest thing he’d permit himself to a sigh. A sudden rush of heat felt as if it struck him in the chest. You were all he could want. If you caught on to his reaction to your words, you didn't say anything.

"I... wanted to apologize," and it was the first time you ever felt really shocked by anything Lord Bolton said or did.

Everyone to the east of Winterfell heard tale of the cruelty of the leech lord, not even his insistence on taking your first night managed to surprise you. But this... You suddenly wanted to listen.

"I fear I've behaved unseemly toward you, disregarded your honor. For this, I ask your forgiveness."

You realized he was finished and closed your open mouth, searching for an answer. You felt that he expected you to forgive him. But in truth you didn't really want to. "I don't think it's really that simple, my lord. I appreciate the sentiment but... I..." You huffed, looking down, frustrated at your ineloquence today. But he caught you off guard with this and you hadn't rehearsed an angry response to an apology ever.

His gaze was still fixed on you as he readjusted the weight he was placing on his feet, the first ever signs of desperation obvious in his body language and you couldn't say you ever thought him capable of this range of emotions — that in it self was impressive. For the first time, he was squirming, awaiting your words instead of you hiding away from his.

"I cant forgive you so easily. Not for this."

"Well what can I do?"

"What?"

"Is there something I could do to earn your forgiveness, I find that to be a fair question," Roose said quickly and clearly irate.

You looked up at him and laughed nervously because he was glaring down at you and to be honest, this was also a first. You wouldn't think it to be the case with him. And even in that moment, you wracked your brain for any moment in which you'd seen Roose truly angry, not just slightly iritated or mildly annoyed, but frustrated and emotionally driven to anger.

He huffed and pulled himself from you, walking further into your tent. You stayed at the entrance for a moment, staring at nothing, then you looked at him, still failing to find the correct words.

Another nervous laugh escaped you as you said, "Again, I don't think it's that simple. You cant just... do a favor and expect everything to be forgiven."

Roose stood, facing away from you, clearly thinking to himself. He looked all broody and upset and you couldn't help but laugh again. The men around here are all so wrapped up in themselves and their unprocessed emotions and you're always the one to carry their weight.

"Why do you care?"

He didn't answer for a moment. And you wondered if he even really heard you, but as you were about to repeat yourself, he responded, "I don't."

You scoffed, "Then you overstep again. If you don't care why do I have to forgive you. Why can't I just hate you for the rest of our miserable lives?"

He turned to you, eyes narrowed, taking you in, "Do you?"

"I don't know," You answered completely honestly, "You... ruined my marriage."

He responded quickly, firmly, and frankly, "I admit my part. I admit the dishonor I've brought you. I admit that I overstepped my bounds. These things I will admit, but I was not the demise of your marriage. Many have survived worse and continued to foster a deep love. I know, because..."

"Because we weren't the only ones," You finished, nodding. You knew. "But I'm the only one of those women who you continued to... pester afterward. You claimed your right. What right did you have stepping into my marital quarrels?"

"You'd be a fool to stay with that man after the way he treated you."

"And what's my alternative?" You asked, your voice full of humor, "Will you marry me, Lord Bolton? Is that your proposal?" You shook your head as he didn't respond, not even visually. You both knew he'd never take you to wife. If he wanted to, he would have already. But a man like Roose Bolton would never marry for love with a girl with nothing to her name but a couple of cows.

"I am sorry," he said, pausing to find the words, "That your husband has chosen to place blame on you for what I had forced you into. However, given that, surely you must see he is no man at all."

Of course, you agreed, but you didn't really see what his point was. So you said nothing, trying to come up with something. In the mean time, he continued.

"I can't marry you. But I can protect you. I'll send you to the Dreadfort. You'd be given a job, a room..." You'd be close by. "Your husband too, if you truly insist on dragging him along."

"For what in return, a bed warmer?"

"For nothing in return," He corrected, face twisting with indignation, "What kind of apology would that be if those were my terms?"

You kept your distrustful eyes trained on him, not wanting to give him any kind of small victory. But you couldn't deny the offer sounded tempting, especially with the most recent development — you were going to ask for an annulment to your marriage the next day, you were going to keep the baby. You had the same thought — living at the Dreadfort, under his protection. It just felt more rotten leaving his mouth than it did in your head.

He took a few cautious steps toward you and gently took your hands in his, “You’re a good woman. You do your duties, often even without receiving thanks. You’re a loyal woman, strong, passionate…”

You inhaled deeply, still trying to keep some emotional distance but he looked earnest, forehead creased by the way his eyebrows pushed against them. His eyes were the widest and most inviting you’d ever seen them, no jokes or hidden arrogance in them.

“I… care. I feel as if I’ve committed a great crime against your honor, and you are the most honorable woman I’ve come to know in all my years,” he confessed.

It was something that struck you in the heart — something you couldn’t push out. You had been questioning your own honor. You wanted to live an honorable life but recent events had made you feel like a failure in that respect.

Especially… you ripped your eyes away from his, sighing to yourself. Especially the way he looks at you and the way you cant help but look at him with the same longing. It was hard to hate him before when he was nothing but a prick who happened to know how to fuck the shit out of you. Now, as the father of your child, standing in front of you and whispering reassurance and praise, it was damn near impossible.

He finished his small declaration simply, “Don’t resign yourself to a miserable life. Let me make it better for you. We don’t have to speak to each other once you’ve moved into the fort.”

Decisively, you figured without a husband and with your father long gone years ago, you could do with an ally and protector. Of course, Roose Bolton wasn't ideal but he had the most reason out of anyone else to want to protect you — truly protect you

Never mind your night of passion. You tried not to think about it, especially not with him in front of you. It just clouds your judgement unnecessarily to think about his lips on your skin and his hands gripping roughly at your body, pulling you mercilessly against him. His fingers tangling in your hair, or moving your hips as you sat over him.

You cursed yourself. You hadn't meant to curse it out loud though and Roose tilted his head, brows coming together in a mix of confusion and anticipation as he was still waiting for an answer.

Unsure of yourself and your decisions in this moment, you started where you thought may be the most important, which was to explain your reasonings for everything, "Mister Kent and I will be seeking an annulment."

Roose didn't say anything, contrary to your expectation that he'd have some distasteful quip about how it was a long time coming. He just watched you respectfully. It was promising.

"I trust you will grant this annulment?"

"As your liege, I would, but I'd require a reason. A reason that would be considered valid to the Gods."

You took a deep breath and braced yourself, taking a few steps toward him. You pursed your lips in a tight, awkward smile and looked up at him. You felt like you couldn't stall this enough. This is as good a time as any.

"A reason valid for the Gods," You nodded, offering a sardonic chuvkled, "I've a damn good reason. I'm carrying a child that's not my husbands."

You watched closely for his reaction, but it was as if he froze in time, staring. He did nothing but stare. You wondered if he thought you were joking. Then he blinked and you decided he must just be thinking really hard.

"He refused to bed me for a time... the first, and only time, was about a fortnight ago now."

He continued to say nothing, but his eyes went off to the side, seemingly doing math. You nearly laughed at the sight of him doing the calculations. But you saved him the trouble.

"For reference, my wedding was about six weeks ago," you filled in the blanks for him, and tilted your head as his gaze met you again. You looked down at his lips for just a moment but quickly corrected yourself, "So... It's highly unlikely — well impossible that it would be his. A wet nurse I saw this morning said that sickness doesn't start until at least a month of having the babe."

"And it's started?" He finally asked.

You nodded, daring yourself to hold his gaze, "This morning," his eyes boring into you caused you to take in and let out a heavy breath, your lids growing heavier the more he searched your soul for answers — signs of deception. Though both of you knew there'd be no reason for you to deceive.

It was only when your lip twitched that you realized how close you'd gotten to him. You promptly blinked your head clear and looked down. He tilted your face up to find your gaze again, eyes raking your face. His own eyelids were just as hooded with desire.

"So It's mine," He stated, it wasn't a question. "You carry my child?"

His words shouldn't have excited you. It's the last thing it should do. But the reminder that you have Roose Bolton's baby in you, that the seed he shot into you on that one night had managed to take root in you by chance — that you carried the product of your shared passion that night... It made your stomach twist familiarly. It was only that this time, you didn't feel guilty thinking your husband never made your stomach twist that way.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying desperately to keep your mind grounded and stubborn. "Unfortunately. Well, maybe Fortunately. I'm not sure the alternative is kinder. I'm only telling you as a courtesy, because you'd find out eventually if I'm to be living at the Dreadfort."

He couldn't help but chuckle at that. He truly hopes that no matter what, you never lose that bite to you. His fingers loosened around your chin but you held his gaze, understanding that this is what he preferred.

It just made you nervous. Neither of you spoke for a few moments, just looked at each others faces — really looked, and tried to know each other for the first time. You pushed away the feeling of wanting to kiss him, weakly this time, but you really cant. You haven’t even annulled your marriage yet and just because Roose says some pretty words to you doesnt make everything okay.

"He wanted me to take moon tea," you said, unsure of why you did. Just to keep talking, probably. Because you could see him looking at your lips with intent.

His eyes narrowed, still endlessly scanning your face, every so often landing on your lips. You tried to create a little bit of distance, and continued to talk, hoping it wouldn't escalate any further than this current tension. But even as you tried to pull back, you couldn't help but feel slightly drawn toward him. Especially with the way he was looking at you, it was hard not to have flashbacks to your old passion.

You continued, "I knew I wouldn't," Again you weren't sure why you felt the need to say it. You meant to reassure him that you wouldn’t have done such a thing without informing him first — that you were his loyal subject. It read more like a confession than anything else. It fanned the fire burning behind Roose's ice cold eyes. As you said it, you couldn't help but mirror his response.

How had you come to be so loyal to this man and he to you?

You still find reason to dislike him... but the thought of getting rid of his child had never truly been a realistic option to you. Even if you had the moon tea in your hands, even if you started to drink it, you'd remember the way he looked deep into your eyes as he took you — well it wasn't much different from the way he was looking at you right now.

The only real differences between now and then was that you’d been more naked that day, he was inside you, and after taking in your flustered state with those ever intense eyes of his, he captured your lips in his hungrily.

His face drew closer to yours. Then your lips brushed.

You pulled back slightly.

His hands came up to cup the back of your neck and cradle the under side of your skull as his face chased yours.

No… even if you had the tea in your hands and sipped a mouthful of the poison, you'd have remembered this exact energy and you would have spit out that tea before you could swallow it down.

One last attempt to pull away, feeble, and barely helping in any way, "I couldn't," left your lips, the words spoken more or less into his mouth, and you closed your lips onto his.

#roose bolton x reader

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cheweduplego · 1 year ago

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Early Bird

Paring: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

WC: 1.2k

Tags: stand-alone fic, first entry in this fandom, fluff, plenty of kisses, morning sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, not-really-somnophilia (reader is mostly👀coherent before any finagling happens), slight overstimulation, breeding kink implied (I mean, he asks nicely), soft Simon, Reader and Ghost work together (an ode to reader's callsign, Osprey)

Summary:

he loves you so dearly, he doesn't care what hour of the morning it is, he'll show you, his beautiful early bird.

a/n: this is my first fic on Tumblr (that will see the light), so I hope you all enjoy! let me know your thoughts <3

The soft crack of the curtains, shifting in the early morning breeze, awoke Simon. At the unfurling of his eyes, he gazed upon your sheet-clad form dusted in the dawning sunlight. Your drift from him in the night was large enough that he felt a disconnect of your warmth, so he reached his deft, callused fingers to drape across your hip. He was nothing but happy. Content. The both of you home from such treacherous places, the blood and grime, long gone down the drain of the bathtub.

Dragging you closer, he nestled your naked forms together, two pieces of one whole. Your neck provided him the solace his soul so deeply craved. Soon, you began to stir – though the warm breath of your burley companion was soothing in ways, the tickle of hairs was almost unbearable. Barely coherent and in the smallest voice, you pleaded, “g’back to sleep, Si.”

Though you wriggled to position his face elsewhere, he didn’t obey. All he could muster was a hum – maybe in defiance – you’d never know, as his lips now moved across the expanse of your jaw.

“Not tired, love.” He breathed in your very essence. You groaned; you loved this man, but lord, why did he never leave you to sleep? He moved, pressing kisses down the plateau of your shoulder as his hand cascaded up to the depression of your waist, running across your ribs. You were too tired to think about him; the breeze of an early autumn morning chilled you, so you were secretly happy about his persistent intrusion. The man could have been a space heater in another life.

“You see, love, I think you would love to go back to sleep, but” – a shift down, his face peppering your collar bones in kisses, “I think it would do you good to be an early bird.” A large hand encapsulated one of your breasts while his mouth took to the other – You both let out almost identical moans, low and heady, full of desire. Your back arched just slightly in your sleep-drunk haze, exposing the sweep of your tits to him, urging him to take more, to take you.

You whimper, a particularly rough suck placed on your nipple in tandem with a dragging pinch to the other. An almost ridiculous wet pop fills the space, a string of spit breaking as he releases you, “So lovely, princess, want nothing more than you.” He rubbed his bare face into your chest, licking, sucking, savoring your skin.

He traversed lower, fingers and teeth alike, softly twisting into your torso. Time was blurring; you couldn’t tell if it had been two minutes or twenty, but you did know that you’d been painted with fleeting bites and purpling kisses. Fuck, his spit, drool, coated your hips and the tops of your thighs. You were a mess, the sheet had long fallen to the floor by the bed, revealing the incessant rise and fall of your chest. The room was filled with your pants and moans, only accompanied by Simon’s groans, so deep they were almost growls.

Your eyes remained closed, an arm draped across your flushed face. Strong arms hooked under your knees, pushing your legs apart as he sat back. Persuaded by your needy thoughts, you peek at him, and fuck, he looks just as ruined as you already feel. Your eyes searched his face, lips puffy from exertion, and God, his eyes were dark, full of lust and whole-bodied admiration. “Christ, love. You gonna let me taste your pussy? Please darlin’, c’mon, you’re leaking all over the sheets.” You knew he was right, the breeze chilling the dampness that shone at the apex of your thighs.

He was begging you, his eye found yours, completely lost and wanting. His claws wrapped tightly around your hips, pulling you to the end of the bed where he lay, rutting his clothed cock into the mattress. Stubbled cheeks ran over your inner thighs, inhaling so deeply as though to ingrain your scent into his DNA. You couldn’t wait anymore, letting out a strained noise, you groaned, “Please Si, p-please– need you, always need you.”

Your pleading was all he needed, his tongue darting out and bullying its way into your entrance. The buck of your hips is involuntary as is the nearly pornographic moan that leaves the both of you. “Ahh–! Si-” you cry out, hands twisting into his hair, pulling him into you.

His tongue was hot, searing as it dragged up through your folds, gathering every drop of your juices. He was groaning out muffled curses into you, the vibration exhilarating as his lips sealed around your clit. “G-god, I- Uhh–!” You couldn’t think. All you could do was feel the energy in your body wrenched from you. The sounds coming from the man between your legs had you thinking he was doing this for his enjoyment – which would be correct. He was insatiable, tongue and lips holding you in an onslaught of painful pleasure.

He had no words for you, just growls. His fingers dug so hard into your hips that you were sure there would be bruising. You whined, hips twisting, not sure if you were trying to get away or get more, as the tip of a finger pushed into your fluttering hole. “Christ, you taste so good, Birdie, so sweet, makin’ me so hard.”

His finger took no time easing in as he began to fuck you with abandon. The squelches and screams he pulled from you had long drowned out the rustling wind. Heavens, you couldn’t think, his fingers were so thick and rough, a welcome difference from yours. “I can’t- Nghh–! Si, please, too mmm-much!” You felt him smirk against your core, tongue catching under the hood of your clit just the way he knows you love.

He wants you to die, surely, that must be it. You were essentially in tears, mouth parted in a silent scream as the only sound that came from you was a choked whimper. Your hands released his hair as though it burned you, in fear of tearing it out, as you came. Your thighs seized around his head, hips canting up and trying to pull away from his mouth. Yet, the purchase his arm had across your lower stomach kept you firmly in place as you gasped, remembering to breathe.

The tears began to fall, so much pleasure, too much, beginning to overwhelm you. “Si, p-please, too much, I came, Ahh–! Christ please, I’ll be g-good–!” Your cunt was clenching hard around his digits, quivering and flexing at each broad lick he laid against you. You felt weightless, mind blank and eyes squeezed shut just as he released you with a filthy slurp.

“Such a pretty girl, did s’well for me, didn’t you?” He whispered in an almost teasing tone. His eyes cast down to look at your puffy cunt, completely covered in slick and spit. Your nipples were hard– he knew you’d argue it was the wind– but lord, when his eyes reached your face, he almost came. Your eyes were heavy, lashes thick with tears, pants rolling from your parted mouth hidden behind your palm.

You only realized he still had your leg in his hand when he pulled it farther to make room for himself. You could barely whimper fully as he released his hard cock from its confines, tip red with desire and leaking beads of precum. He wasn’t done with you just yet, lining himself up, “Be a good Birdie, and let me breed you, Hmm?”

#first post #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #cod mwii

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flowers-of-io · 6 months ago

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Tithe (to) me baby one more time

This post is my personal attempt to understand Season of the Witch, and potentially defend my hypothesis that at its core it doesn't make sense. I may yet change my opinion on this as I write and research, because here at flowers of io dot tumblr dot com we do real science and do not let ourselves be blinded by prior assumptions, prejudice, and bitterness. Maybe there is yet something there that I don't see.

Disclaimer: This essay is nearly 4k words long and has not been beta read, so any typos, tangents and formatting issues you may find here are my fault only and I preemptively apologise for them. Please tell me if anything is unclear or worded weirdly! I haven’t written a longer lore analysis in a good while and I may have got a little rusty.

With that out of the way, let's take a look at how Hive tithes, tributes, and willpower actually work!

1) Anthem Anatheme

Over three years ago in this post I wrote a bit about anthem anatheme, which is the way both worms and ahamkara feed. I did not explain it well, though (and I was being very comically exasperated over Truth to Power), so let me try again.

From the Merriam-Webster:

First appearing in Old English in the form antefn, anthem derives ultimately from Greek antiphōnos—a word meaning "responsive" that is a combination of anti-, meaning "over" or "against," and phōnē, "sound" or "voice." The Greek root gives a hint as to what the musical form of early anthems was like. Originally, anthems were devotional verses sung as a response during a religious service.

French anathème and English anathema is the formal exclusion from the community of Christians (in the New Testament) or the Catholic Church (in contemporary canon law). The original meaning of the word was a little different, though. I'll quote the Wikipedia article because I don't think I'd be able to word it better than it is explained there:

The word anathema has two main meanings. One is to describe that something or someone is being hated or avoided. The other refers to a formal excommunication by a church. These meanings come from the New Testament, where an Anathema was a person or thing cursed or condemned by God. In the Old Testament, an Anathema was something or someone dedicated to God as a sacrifice, or cursed and separated from God because of sin. These represent two types of settings, one for devotion, the other for destruction.

Anathema derives from Ancient Greek: ἀνάθεμα, anáthema, meaning "an offering" or "anything dedicated", itself derived from the verb ἀνατίθημι, anatíthēmi, meaning "to offer up". In the Old Testament, חֵרֶם (chērem) referred to both objects consecrated to divine use and those dedicated to destruction in the Lord's name, such as enemies and their weapons during religious wars. Since weapons of the enemy were considered unholy, the meaning became "anything dedicated to evil" or "a curse".

Combining these two meanings would give us something like ‘a hymn of offering’, the ‘offering’ part having a derogatory ring to it.

In the most recent Destiny loretab on the topic (Queensfoil Censer) Anthem Anatheme is explained as "a manner of subjecting reality to one's will, similar to a Lightbearer's ability to affect paracausality", and this is in line with the prior, much more vague definitions that we've had. It is both the invocation and the act of changing reality to match your will. It does have a similar vibe to aiat, which I wrote about here: "Ahamkara drive power from the space between ‘what-is’ and ‘what-is-desired’. Stating ‘aiat’ creates this connection between ‘what-is’, ‘why-it-is’ and the space in between: ‘why-it-is-?’."

It is also what worms and ahamkara feed on. The reason ahamkara "tweak" the wishes they grant is precisely to widen that gap between how the universe was before the wish and how it will be after it - the impact it will make on the universe - how much it will change.

2) Tithe to Power

Worms feed in the same way, except they are not the ones invoking Anthem Anatheme, and instead it is their hosts who do that. Contrary to the popular belief, worms do not feed on *killing*, per say--but killing is one of, if not the most efficient way of reshaping universe according to your will. Toland says: "This is the shape of victory: to rule the universe so absolutely that nothing will ever exist except by your consent".

The worms sort of... cede the ability(?) to invoke Anthem Anatheme to their hosts, and so also it is the host who gains power from that — the worm feeds, yes, but there is also something else there, something I don't quite understand but it's tied to the Darkness, Ascendant Plane, and Taking. The power that allows you to will things into existence, to define and dictate the rules. "Nothing will ever exist except by your consent".

Ergo: the more powerful—or rather... impactful, or influential—entity you kill, the bigger is the space of their absence; the more sustenance the worm gets, and the more power you gain — because you've asserted your will over them, you did not permit them to exist. As Toland explains: "Oryx inhabits a world where power is truth. To win is to be noble, and to be real. [...] The echoes of Oryx go forth to ask a question: are you the truth?"

So what I will be referring to in this essay as power is the total sum of your impact on the universe, which (thanks to your worm's paracausal abilities) gives you paracausal abilities. Willpower given shape, sort of. That is the foundation the entire Hive system is built on: magic, runes, philosophy, everything.

Now, I used to think tribute and tithe were two different things, but they are apparently used interchangeably in the lore: "The Worm within demands tribute. Now you shall kill what you can and take what killing you need to grow—or for your own purposes, if you dare—and tithe the rest to that which rules you. Thus, tribute will ascend the chain and the excess shall pool at the height, as unlike a river to an ocean" (Truth to Power: Injection). This entry is supposed to quote Oryx in the Books of Sorrow, but it doesn't repeat the words exactly, and omits something very interesting (and confusing). In Carved in Ruin, where Oryx dictates his law, he actually says: "You Thrall, each of you will claw and scream, and kill what you can. Take enough killing to feed your worm, and a little more to grow. Tithe the rest to the Acolyte who commands you."

"Take enough killing to feed your worm, and a little more to grow" seems to suggest the Hive-host and the worm feed on the same thing, or at least that the same thing that the worms feed on is what allows the Hive to grow. The whole shtick with the worm pact was supposed to give the Krill power over their own flesh and the world around them, so we can presume they grow physically as they attain more (will)power - to will their form to change. The lore about it is very vaguely worded though, and a lot of this is my own interpretation, so don't take it as indubitably true.

What I want to make extremely clear, though, is that neither tribute/tithe nor (will)power is a physical thing. Of course the power you have can manifest as paracausal abilities, but it's like with hitting something really hard with your fist - the stronger you are, the more impact you will have on what you're hitting, and the effects are very tangible, but your physical strength itself is not an, I don't know, physical object. It's the potential energy in your muscles I'm struggling to word it better, but I hope you understand the metaphor. The more you affect the world, the stronger your paracausal muscles get, so to say.

The way I understand the logic behind tithing, then, is that in the Hive pyramid scheme you transfer some of your power to your direct commander because they have power over you. Your will is subservient to the one above you, so they demand a cut of its potential growth. It's a way to organise the Hive society, really, because without this system in place everyone would be mindlessly killing each other to survive, while now the ones in command have an incentive not to slaughter all their soldiers if those soldiers are a source of power. It's delicate calculation - is it more beneficial for me to kill my underling and gain the entirety of their power in a single slurp, or allow them to live and transfer to you a percentage of their own power gain? How risky is it to leave them alive, in case they get too powerful and strike against you? But then again - the more power they gain, the bigger the percentage that you get. Is it worth to kill them now, or wait for them to get more powerful, so you can then gobble up a larger meal? It's like fattening a pig but the fatter it gets the more it is able (and willing) to kill you. At which point does the risk outweigh the potential future gain?

2.1) Nature

This part of Hive gods lore also ties into the way aiat works, and the whole thing with definitions and essences that I wrote about in that essay, so I won't go into this right now. What is essential to remember for the purpose of this post is that the Hive gods emulate their natures, or are their natures, and by invoking those natures they can be fed power, summoned into a given place, and even brought back from beyond the grave. I’ll just put a few lore quotes that sort of explain this concept, or at least illustrate it. It will be important later.

You must obey your nature forever. In your immortality, Aurash, you may never cease to explore and inquire, for the sake of your children. In your immortality, Xi Ro, you may never cease to test your strength. In your immortality, Sathona, you may never abandon cunning. (IX: The Bargain)

Oryx made war on the Ecumene for a hundred years. At the end of those hundred years he killed the Ecumene Council on the Fractal Wreath, and from their blood rose Xivu Arath, saying, “I am war, and you have conjured me back with war.” […] He drove the Dakaua Nest into a trap, and they were made extinct. From their ashes rose cunning Savathûn, saying, “I am trickery, and you have conjured me back with trickery.” (XXIX: Carved in Ruin)

In each act of His power Oryx seeks to incarnate the self-sustaining, immortal suzerainty that He worships. The power that He uses to wash his Taken clean and etch them into useful shapes. (Echo of Oryx)

He is not a simple thing to kill. He wants to be isomorphic to conquest, to triumph, to killing and death.** He is a syllogism, now, but in time He hopes to become an axiom. (Oryx: Rebuked)

[Xivu Arath, hear me.]

[You are war, and I conjure you with war and blood.]

[A gift for my favorite sister.]

(Empress: CHAPTER 5: NEW GODS)

MY HOME IS WAR. MY VOICE IS A BATTLE SONG. FOR AS LONG AS YOU HAVE WORSHIPPED WAR, YOU HAVE WORSHIPPED ME. I AM HERE TO CLAIM MY TRIBUTE. IT IS OVERDUE. (Empress: CHAPTER 6: BATTLE SONG)

3) Season of the Witch

So now let's talk about the premise of Season of the Witch.

We don't know what Savathûn's plan was exactly; we didn't get a scene of Immaru dictating it to Eris or Ikora, only scraps of it mentioned by various characters. But the gist of it, pretty much, was this: Eris plugs herself into the tithing system through the ritual in the first cutscene, and we - using the Acolyte's Staff, which contains worms - transfer the power we generate through killing to her. I say generate because I'm not sure we would've been able to actually use that power (for example, to create a throne world) if we're not connected to the system, but then again Hiraks had done it somehow, so idk.

Another thing, which I hadn't caught while playing the season, but either @winnower-winnower or @the-goldendragon pointed it out to me when we were talking about this, is Eris' nature as the god of vengeance. Every act of violence done in revenge against the Hive and/or the Witness, either by her hand or ours, should technically give her additional power.

So what was the goal of all of this?

Well, apparently the whole point of Eris becoming a Hive god and plugging into the tithing system was that she could become more powerful than Xivu Arath and beat her at her own game. And how would she get all that power? Why, by killing, of course! That's the sword logic, right? Nothing is permitted to exist except by your consent. That's power. And Eris already has so much power, as the hand wielding the blade which ended both Crota and Oryx, and possibly Nokris, and Hashladûn, and Alak-Hul, and countless other Hive. She did not perform these feats alone, granted (something that very cool sword logic cutscene seems to have forgotten), but she was the inciter, guide, and main motivator for them.

And this is all true, except for the one small detail which is exactly the reason why Xivu is (used to be?) such a compelling antagonist: this is not how you beat her at her own game.

3.1) Xivu and War

Remember imbaru? Remember how Savathûn made an entire power-generating scheme based around the idea that she, the god of cunning, cannot be outsmarted or outwitted, and every wrong guess about her would only feed her power? It was conveniently forgotten for the duration of The Witch Queen, an investigation-based campaign, but it HAD BEEN a thing.

And Xivu Arath had done her homework, and copied this idea. If she is war, then every act of war will invoke her and so give her power.

I AM THE WAR YOU CRAVE. PURPOSE ETERNAL. A LEGACY IN BLOOD. WHEN YOU DRAW BLADES, YOU DRAW ME. YOU CANNOT RESIST WITHOUT INVOKING MY BANNER. (Immolant Pt. 2)

And earlier seasons remembered this! The whole reason why Rasputin sacrificed himself was because Mara had enlightened everybody on the idea that Xivu would've gained power from any act of war and slaughter, regardless if it'd been against ours or her own soldiers. She'd set herself up to be struck against, and it would've been a power factory for her. Rasputin had no other choice than to fold and disable the weapons entirely. That was his sacrifice, that was what set him apart from the god of war in the end.

Season of the Deep had some insight on that too:

Zavala: Rasputin proved we can't beat Xivu Arath in direct conflict, but..

Sloane: Zavala, I tried every which way to fight her when Titan went dark. I never managed to put a dent in her plans. Just survive.

Zavala: So it is truly it. [sighs] And all that's left is for us to accept it.

(Deep Dives, Week Six)

And my absolute favourite:

Sloane: This report is interesting. Xivu Arath intended to use Rasputin's Warsat network as an unwinning scenario. We fire the Warsats on her army, she gains power through death. She fires the Warsats on the City, everyone dies. We only achieved victory through defeat. Through a... moment of sacrifice. It makes me wonder about our approach to defeating her.

Lord Saladin: Winning without fighting. Philosophers of war have contemplated this very thing, both in our culture and, as I've learned, those beyond Earth.

Sloane: How do you defeat the undefeatable? That's an interesting problem.

(Salvage, Week Three)

...But then we got Season of the Witch, and it turned out the way to defeat the undefeatable is simply to hit it harder.

Okay, but why shouldn't it work? I've said before Eris was extremely powerful by herself, and with the plan to boost her with our tithes, she'd be even more beefed up on sword logic. Why couldn't she hit Xivu Arath harder?

Well, for the simple reason that Xivu gets power from war--all war, or at least all war against herself. Even disregarding the sheer disparity in power at the start, the billions of years of tithes that Xivu was ahead of Eris, this idea was doomed at the start, because for every ounce of killing-power we passed over to Eris, Xivu got the same amount of tribute. We were making war on her, for Eir's sake, what else were we expecting?

Same goes for the idea that we cut off the tribute Xivu was getting from her powerful lieutenants like Ir Uulxal and took it for ourselves/Eris. Yeah, that's probable, but at the same time we were powering Xivu up by making war on her. That had been the whole point of her as an undefeatable antagonist.

I've heard people argue that what we were doing in Witch wasn't direct violence against Xivu, so it didn't count as war. And to those people I say that hybrid warfare is a thing. Seriously, my country neighbours both Russia and Belarus, and I don't want go on an IRL tangent but claiming the only act that count as war is the direct clashing of blades is some extremely medieval thinking. It's like saying the Cold War wasn't a war. Planning, plotting and strategising how to destroy an enemy absolutely is war, gathering power in order to destroy the enemy is war, trying to outmaneouver and outplay the enemy tactically is war. If the point is aggression or counteraggression, if there is An Enemy, it is war.

I'm willing to accept Eris got some amount of power from Xivu invoking her nature of vengeance in her acts of war against us, but still, it would be ridiculous to believe that would've been enough to match and surpass the might of Xivu herself. I'm sorry, it's simply unrealistic. In her acts of vengeance Xivu did not alter the universe in any meaningful way, she just threw a few beefed up Taken at us and that was it. If she'd, idk, kicked Venus into the Sun in her vengeful rage, then maybe we could've talked about Eris gaining a substantial boost of tribute, but as things stand there was barely anything to go by.

3.2) Savathûn and Death

Alright, but what about that extremely sexy assassination of Savathûn that Eris performed after the final mission? The game said that this was the source for the missing chunk of power Eris needed to defeat Xivu! Savathûn had been super powerful, right? Why wouldn't that be enough?

There are two problems here, and let's tackle the smaller one first. We don't really know how powerful Savathûn was after she had been raised as a Lightbearer, exactly. The tactical obliviousness of the entirety of Witch Queen to imbaru suggests post-rez Sav is no longer in the tithe system and cannot gain power through the Hive magic means because she doesn't have a worm anymore. That doesn't mind she isn't powerful, and that by deposing her one wouldn't make an enormous change in the universe, but we don't know if she can get more powerful anymore. SotWitch reintroduced the imbaru engine, but doesn't elaborate on what it even does now that Sav doesn't have a worm, or how it works.

And now the bigger problem: Eris did not claim Savathûn's power when she killed her.

This whole system is based on Anthem Anatheme, remember? Making ripples in the universe. Creating spaces between what-is and what-is-wanted. What Toland says after we kill Ascendant Oryx puts it well:

Dwell a moment on the weight of what you’ve done. Contemplate the story you just ended. Will you ever do anything that screams down the millennia? Will you ever hammer your will on the universe until it rings and rings and rings? Oryx was an awesome power. Show reverence. (Oryx: Defeated)

There is a reason why the Grimoire card unlocked by killing Oryx in Regicide is called "Oryx: Rebuked", and the one we get after killing him in King's Fall is "Oryx: Defeated". We did not defeat him in Regicide. We put a dent in his plans, sure, we weakened him, but we did not kill him. That's the point of Ascendance, of throne world and oversouls and other means of hiding death: they make you harder to kill permanently.

Ghosts are funny, because they serve pretty much the same purpose. They hide their Guardians' death. The Guardian isn't dead as long as their Ghost lives. That's our conditional immortality - we depend on our Ghosts just as Ascendant Hive depend on their throne worlds.

Death doesn't stick unless it's permanent and irreversible. I'll even risk the claim that the power Mara generated (and would've assumed, has she been in the tithing system) by indirectly causing Savathûn's death—immense power—was removed from her tally, so to say, in the moment of either Savathûn's resurrection, or when she got her memories back and decided she was still herself and not a new person with a clean record.

Eris couldn't have claimed Savathûn's power for herself without killing Immaru, just as she couldn't have taken the power generated by Oryx's death if he'd been killed in the physical world only. This wasn't an "interesting sword logic stunt", this was a suspension of logic priory established in-universe and it infuriates me to the point of pulling out hair. There is no way this can work. If it DID work, Ascendant Hive would've created power batteries for themselves by killing each other in the physical world and coming back to life as if nothing had happened eons ago. The Books of Sorrow go out of their way to point out that Savathûn and Xivu's deaths in star by star by star were "true deaths" and that's why Auryx was able to claim his sisters' power.

This is either a lazy retcon serving to nerf a character too powerful for the narrative to handle, or the writers not understanding how their own universe works. It's infuriating, it's stupid, and it does Xivu Arath so dirty I struggle to find words for it. It strips her of the most compelling part of her as an antagonist. And down at its core, it's a lack of creative courage. Did her undefeatability make Xivu Arath an extremely difficult antagonist to handle? Of course!! But when you write characters like that, you should be brave about it. You should commit. And as things stand now, it appears the creators had been challenged by their own story and instead of picking up a fight they backed out and changed the rules. They were been defeated by their own creation. Which is, of course, a note of praise to how good the creation was, but in the end it leads to a sad conclusion. Bungie can no longer handle the story they're telling; and whether that is because of the seasonal model, or the speed at which they've forced themselves to update at, or a lack of communication in the writing team, or any other reason, I sincerely don't care. The result remains the same either way.

#i like my lore with coffee #destiny 2 #hive #the darkness #season of the witch #xivu arath #eris morn #aunt savathûn #eris morning #little war sister #worm #worm gods #ahamkara

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katyawriteswhump · 4 months ago

Text

the freak in the penthouse part 7

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve.

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3

“Listen to me, Stevie. Hiding myself away in a tarnished ivory tower wasn’t the answer. Till you came along to rescue me.”

Eddie was spouting total garbage. He still had Steve grinning like an idiot and clinging like an idiot around Eddie’s neck. The idea of being Eddie’s hero made him feel good about himself—good in a way he’d not felt in a very long time.

Then Eddie screwed it all up: “I really like you… I know it sounds dumb, but I wanna help you, like you’ve helped me, and—”

“Zip it, Eds.” Steve pressed his fingertips to Eddie’s parted lips. I fucking knew it. He’s revving himself up to ditch the hooker. Steve yammered meaninglessly: “Yeah, I know what it looks like, me peddling my ass and all, but truth is, I don’t have to do this anymore. You were an exception.”

He almost spewed some horseshit about being made of strong stuff; like, fiercely independent. That lie jammed in his worryingly itchy throat.

I barely tied my own crappy shoelaces till I was eighteen.

He smirked: “Tonight’s about you breaking free, not me. C’mon, man—let’s party.”

Eddie slammed Steve with a searching look that lingered long enough for Steve to wish the shiny parquet floor would swallow him up. His smirk faltered. Shiiiiit, he’s gonna ditch me RIGHT NOW.

“Uh, Eddie, I—"

“You win again, Champ.” Eddie clapped his hands to Steve’s face, planted a wet kiss on his nose. “You really got my juices flowing tonight. The lords of hell demand music, and it’s gonna be metal and it’s gonna be loud. Hey, I want cheesy nachos. You up for cheesy nachos?”

Eddie ordered them on room service. When they arrived, Steve was extra-careful to stay out of sight. When Kline had nearly busted him leaving Eddie’s that morning, it’d shook him up big time. He’d not gotten much quality sleep on Robin's couch.

Soon, they were jumping around to Aerosmith, ACDC, Black Sabbath, and other bands Steve almost liked. Eddie smoked less than usual, for which Steve was quietly grateful. Eddie also kept on talking more than usual—at least, shouting, between bouts of headbanging. They moshed like they were tripping on acid, and Steve swore he was gonna get whiplash.

“The reasons behind my deeply uncool funk are not exactly rocket-science.” Eddie shoved a cassette in the stereo then wheeled around and collapsed onto his enormous beanbag. “I got rich in a way I don’t deserve, and I came apart like a whacked pinata. When I was broke, I had the confidence of a God.”

“You talking about being the badass Dungeon Master?” Steve slumped down dizzily beside Eddie and walked his fingers around the crazy demon dude on Eddie’s bare chest. A mellow acoustic track by Extreme started up. “I met him earlier. He destroyed me, totally.”

“It was pretty cool, huh? He’d like to creep out and play again soon. Hey, what do you say to those handcuffs?” Eddie slammed a punch into his own hand. “Dungeon Master is a teeny bit of a sadist and he luuuurved watching his bad dude squirm.”

Yeah, I can do bondage for you, Eds. You can even spank me again, what’s it to me? Still can’t believe you let me squirt all over your face...

He’d do pretty much anything to make Eddie stay, which was the dumbest and most depressing thing of all.

While all this galloped through his head, Steve blurted: “Bring it on, oh master of the dungeon. Oh great, barbarian overlord and wielder of the sword of power!”

He feared the He-Man references were a cheesiness too far. Eddie hooted anyhow. Steve fluttered his lashes before turning away to take a slurp of beer and surreptitiously thump his chest. Dammit, why did his crappy asthma have to mess with him on top of all the other shit today? He swiftly turned the conversation back to a previous topic—a house Eddie had told Steve about, which he’d bought for his Uncle Wayne.

“Why don’t you go home to him?” said Steve, which felt as painful as yanking out a handful of hair. That said, if he really wanted to be Eddie’s knight in shining armor, he didn’t see much choice. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you to skedaddle. The sex has been kickass and the money’s swell… Why stay in LA? It’s not your home.”

“The boondock accent gives it away, huh?”

“Jesus, I didn’t say that—what’s wrong with your accent? I wasn’t born in California either.” Nope. His parents moved here for the climate. For him. And then they jetted off on that ski trip, because they missed the snow, and… “It’s just, I dunno… I… uh…” Steve stammered like a moron, partially because Extreme’s sap-fest lyrics kept throwing him:

‘Now that I've tried to talk to you and make you understand, all you have to do is close your eyes, and just reach out your hands… and touch me… hold me close, don't ever let me go…

More than wo-ords…’

More than goddamn words? It was the words that were so mind-bogglingly tricky right now and he was a dud with them at the best of times. He wished Eddie had never begun all this talky-talky crap. Typical Eddie. Now he’d started bleating, he couldn’t stop—was there nothing this sucker wouldn’t get addicted to?

“Cliché alert,” murmured Steve, “you gotta do what makes you happy.” His tired eyes fluttered shut… and then flew wide again. Eddie plastered his lips to Steve’s in an ashy kiss, which lingered through the smoochy track.

Steve palmed Eddie’s dick, where it tented Eddie’s silky boxers, and wondered, Should I blow him? Steve enjoyed blowing Eddie. He'd learned to trust Eddie wouldn’t push too deep. Dammit, he’d enjoyed pretty much every trick he’d turned with Eddie, which was a fucking miracle, and several times Eddie had blown him.

Hell, yeah, he’d had Eddie plump lips around his cock, sliding and sucking, till Eddie’s cheeks hollowed. He’d revelled in the sexily demonic glint in Eddie’s soul-destroyingly gorgeous eyes. Then, that one time, Eddie did a dopey cross-eyed thing that had Steve cracking up even when he verged on spurting down Eddie’s throat.

‘What would you do, if my heart was torn in two…’

FUCKING LYRICS. SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT THE HELL UP!

Steve tuned in to the noise of blood pounding in his ears, and rutted against Eddie. He breathed hard through his nose, scrubbing his tongue roughly against Eddie’s. When Eddie’s hand slipped down the back of Steve’s shorts, Steve rammed his butt shamelessly at it.

Finger me already! Like that first night… Can’t we go back to fooling around? All those times you made me forget you were paying for this shit… Oh God, don’t think, Harrington… Feel… fucking feel it. He’s gonna leave me… He’s gonna leave, goddammit.

He was genuinely relieved when the sap-fest track finished, and they rolled apart.

“Aaaaah, that sure made parts of me mega happy,” said Eddie, grinning down at his crotch. “You my shrink now?”

“ Haha.” Steve coughed behind his tightly clenched fist. “All part of the service. I should increase my rates.”

“You darn well should. I’ve been robbing you blind.” Eddie tenderly hooked a lock of Steve’s hair behind his ear. “You’ve done so much for me. Heck, I almost feel myself again tonight. You gave me the brush off earlier, I hear ya, but I so wanna payback the good stuff, and—”

‘Love of my life, you've hurt me…’

“JESUS FUCKING WEPT!” Steve leaped to his feet, reeled giddily a moment, then marched over to the stereo.

‘You've broken my heart, and now you leave me; Love of my life, can't you seeeeee?’

He slammed the stop button on the cassette deck, cutting off Extreme at the end of the third line of their criminal cover of a Queen song:

“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ!” Steve dashed shaky fingers across his kiss-swollen lips. “Freddie Mercury’s only been gone a few months. Who the hell do they think they are?”

“Woah! I respect the passion there. You’re a big Queen fan, honey?”

Steve stared down at Eddie. Holy crap, what was wrong with him? He’d gotten good at blotting everything out. Now, the flood of memories threatened to sweep his legs from beneath him.

His dad had bought him the Queen piano book. He’d been so proud when Steve began bashing out the songs. Even though Steve had been too numbskull to actually read the music and had instead picked all the melody and backing chords out by ear. His father knew that, of course, but they’d all pretended the hell out of it.

And ‘Love of my life?’ One of his mom’s favorites, though it hadn’t been in the music book and betrayed how he wasn’t even attempting to read it. He’d figured it out for her, and now… and now?

“I can play this one,” he muttered, fingers picking out the notes on some imaginary keyboard.

“You gonna serenade me, Stevie?” asked Eddie, pushing himself to his feet. He stretched his arms, as if waking from a dream. “Hey, let’s shift the party to the piano. I wanna jam, and I’d love to hear you—"

“No.”

“You sure you’re all right?” Eddie squeezed Steve’s elbow, and Steve hitched his lip in a weary snarl. “Ooookay. Shall we embark on a daredevil quest to the balcony for some fresh air?”

Steve nodded then located his uniform white shirt, dragged it onto his shoulders and buttoned it. He followed Eddie out to where autumn breezes whipped between them, and police sirens wailed up from the city below. Eddie leaned forward against the balustrade, fidgeting with his hands. He drew his cigarette packet from his pocket, and then assaulted Steve with woeful Bambi eyes: “Do you mind if I, uh—"

“Since when did you need permission?” sniped Steve, wrapping his arms tight around himself. “I’m not your fucking babysitter.”

They crawled into bed soon after. Eddie, as ever, fell asleep super-fast. His soft snores were thickly laced with the stench of tobacco. Steve lay awake, sweating, his mind churning so bad he could almost ignore how his lungs remained dead tight. It wasn’t like he’d expected this to last, so why was it such a wrecking-ball blow?

Eddie had been edgy and depressed when they met. Eddie was still edgy and depressed. The solution wasn’t Steve whoring his ass or Steve’s dipshit suggestions about a game.

The solution was Eddie moving on.

Nothing Steve could do would change that. Yeah, there’d been moments, like when they were having sex earlier, when this thing between them felt real. Their one-sided heart-to-heart only reminded Steve that he was the one who needed to get into bed with reality. Eddie liked him, that was obvious, but Steve wasn’t in a position to rescue anybody. Heck, even Steve had told Eddie to go home to his uncle.

To his family.

Steve sniffled, and of course, that had to be the time when Eddie’s smoky snores totally stuck in his airways. He stifled his first couple of coughs in his hand, but the breaths between were wheezy. Shit, shit, SHIT!

He rolled out of bed and fumbled in the dark for his pants. He took a puff of his inhaler, held his breath for a way-too-fast count of ten, exhaled slow. As the hit of coolness spread through his lungs, he stumbled into the washroom. He sank to the floor, leaning back against the iron-hard clawfoot tub.

The attack wasn’t the worst, and he’d known it was coming. His asthma always screwed him over when he was stressing out. He took another puff, then his arm dropped limp, loosely clutching his inhaler at his side. His limbs were shaky, his head all woolly, and his heart skittered at breakneck speed. Dammit, he was using his meds too much, and he was gonna need to put an order in for more. Then Eddie’s money would dry up, and…

“Steve?”

Steve’s stomach knotted so bad, he almost retched. Eddie was standing in the open door, staring at him. Then he was crouched beside Steve, his hand on Steve’s shoulder, stroking fretfully which just made Steve clamp up worse.

“Woah, woah, woah. No way! It was your inhaler?” He scrunched his bedhead hair, panic filling his eyes. “Sheeeesh! I can’t believe… I’ve been that self-absorbed? I could’ve smoked on the balcony, Stevie. I couldda quit!”

“Forget it,” husked Steve. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve furiously swatted Eddie’s hand from his shoulder. “Don’t poke the grizzly. Your rule, remember?” He really wanted another puff. He wanted to punch somebody, too. “I agreed to it, and you chose to break it. I didn’t… Never d-did have any choice in…” He’d have screamed if he’d been able. Instead, he whispered, “Get lost.”

...

Chapter 8 on tumblr

Chapter 8 on AO3

Sorry about the angst!! Will get them to a happier place soon (ish) promise!

Thank you for reading. Likes, reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

#steve x eddie #steddie #thefreakinthepenthouse #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington whump #steddie fanfic #bottom steve harrington #top eddie munson #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfiction

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