#jaw deformity

[deerteetharepretty]

Eventually, I will get my facial cranial surgery to fix my fucked up jaw. I’m so excited to not be in pain anymore, but I’m not ready for it.

I just got use to my ugly face and I’m not ready to have my jaw fixed. I’m not ready for people to switch up and decide I’m suddenly beautiful because my facial deformity is gone.

Why couldn’t I just be seen as beautiful before too?

Why am I always seen as undesirable and hideous to the point of dehumanizing mockery?

Why do people give me pitying looks when they try to pretend I’m pretty for a moment?

Can’t I still be loved if I’m not beautiful?

I’m so tired.

[bitchfitch]

I need funding to make a rubella themed slasher block buster bc I Guarantee a fuck ton of vaccine hesitancy can be defeated the same way it was created: by bold faced lying for monetary gain

[archivestarlyht]

sol’rys’s hostility when you ask about his scarring is absolutely related to him thinking he’s lesser or mutilated. like it’s a grievous sense of internalized ableism. he was raised in an environment where physical beauty was considered important, and has internalized it. he refuses to acknowledge his chronic pain. he refuses to talk about his facial scarring. he refuses to talk about what happened to his ears (the tips have been crudely cut off at some point) and . he’s more likely to lash out at people who ask, even though he likes direct communicators, being a direct communicator himself. it isn’t an easy mindset for him to get away from.

[ethanhunterrp]

Artwork belongs to: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/RottenTerror/

Once again, this was commissioned by me and was posted with permission!

[twistedappletree]

I swear I’m gonna get to asks and messages soon but I’m trying to fix my sleep schedule after a rough week of hypersomnia and it is ✨not working✨ lmfaoooooo

[dontblametheghost]

blep

[arcadianforests]

i didnt want to detract from another post but i find it really funny that i was so worried about hearing loss/tinnitus from headphones that i took a shitton of precautions for it only to get bad tinnitus/hearing problems from a TMJ thing lmao

[saveyoursunshine]

i love when artists explicitly write/draw eddie and steve with very noticeable, maybe even deforming scars. i love when they dont fail to mention the repercussions the things they've been through have left on their bodies. because yes, we talk a lot about ptsd and horrible nightmares and all the psychoemotional issues, but we should totally talk more about the physical side of it.

eddie with a scar on his jaw that tugs when he smiles and aches after a long effusive rant. having to use mobility aides like a crutch or a walking stick because the muscles on his leg never fully recovered and the scars on his abdomen hurt if he tries to tighten his core too hard.

steve with awful migranes and early onset hearing loss and complex vision problems and slight trouble breathing because his head/face got fucked up one too many times. the scars on his back that got infected because no one gave them notice, that are now scars that twinge when he moves his arms and hurt after a day of running around with the kids. the scars on his abdomen that restrict his range of motion. that raspiness in his voice that never went away after a bat tried to crush his windpipe.

i don't know where i'm going with this i just... we constantly recognize their heroic deeds, but i think it's also important to remember that they are not heroes. they are just teenagers who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. they were doomed by the narrative, literally cannon fodder, and their bodies tell the history of that, and of how they're still here despite it all.

[lemon-lime-behavior]

Do you have any tips for drawing noses? Sorry this is out of nowhere but I'm wanting to improve on my art, specifically the faces, and it's always the nose I find myself struggling most with.

I really struggle w making it fit the face if that makes sense? Every time I try to add it it just throws the whole face off, especially the eyes, not to mention how to make different nose types and the angles </33

I love your art style so bad, it's so smooth and satisfying to look at and the way you draw noses like it's nbd (and anatomy in general like damn) baffles me so I was just wondering if you maybe had any tricks or not, Ty either way for sharing your art in the first place <33

@extravagav Well I can try! First off thank you very much, I often feel like I still have a very long way to go in regards to proportions and anatomy so I really appreciate your kind words <3

Hokay, so, noses. I do love noses. To start off when it comes to drawing noses I'm afraid I'm going to have to give you the most annoying advice in the world which is just to practice a lot. Find a lot of pictures of noses in a bunch of different shapes from a bunch of different angles and just draw them until your brain melts out of your ears. Pay particular attention though to the nose as a 3D object!

It's of course trickier to do than I'm making it out to be but the more you practice at imagining the nose as a 3d physical form the easier it becomes to make a nose model in your mind that you can rotate like a microwave.

This is my personal very very basic understanding of the nose's construction:

it's like three circles and a taco shell.

Okay so now that you've got a basic understanding of the nose's construction, how to put it in the middle of the god-dang face??

So the funky thing about noses is that they tend to change shape the least out of all our facial features when we're making expressions. Our eyes change shape, our mouths move, our eyebrows, our cheeks, our jaws, they all go all over the place. the nose, however, tends to be pretty stationary and doesn't deform much (save in one important way I'll get to later). So because of all this, and here's my biggest piece of advice when it comes to making the nose fit in the face, I like to draw the nose first! I do a very loose head construction, draw the nose, and then sort of "hang" the rest of the features off of it:

Two very different expressions, same nose!

Now when it comes to noses interacting specifically with the eyes the greatest thing to remember is that the part of the nose that sits between the eyes sticks out farther than you might think, and will likely be obscuring one of them, the extent of which depending a lot on the angle and how pronounced the nose bridge is.

for someone with a pretty flat nose bridge you'll be able to see most of the eye except in a more extreme angle, while someone with a protruding ridge might obscure the eye entirely. but the nose will likely be interacting with at least one eye if we're not facing the character head on. Really making your brain think in 3d is gonna most helpful here.

Finally! The nose being expressive! So the main way the nose plays in to expression is by wrinkling. the muscles that pull up your top lip and the muscles that pull down the middle of your forehead are almost all connected to the nose, so the nose tends to develop a lot of wrinkles whenever brows are furrowed or teeth are bared.

Adding those wrinkles can add a lot of impact in the expression! And not just angry ones neither:

Sooooooooooooooo yeah! noses! They're weird and they come in all sorts of shapes and sizes and they can do a lot to add character to a face and they can also make you want to tear your hair out in big clumps! I'm still learning myself when it comes to noses (and most other things) and I'm faaaar from a master at it, but I hope I've been able to provide at least a little bit of help. If you do use my advice going forward please let me know! Good luck!!!!! (And here's all my nose "headcanons" for the strawhats. The ones who actually have human noses, anyway):

[endless-ineffabilities]

Maroon (part six)

modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

themes/warnings: angst, depiction of trauma/injury, mutual pining, language, avoidant Aemond

word count: 3.9k

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The Dragonstone ball came and went. Aemond and the reader are no closer to reconciling. Aemond's personal battles threaten to get the best of him, and there is only one person he thinks of turning to.

Aemond had begun to severely dislike his weekends. 

His stomach churns as he lies motionless under the sterile white hospital lights, feeling more like a lab experiment than a person. The surgeon, a man who face Aemond could now recognise in his nightmares, hovers over him again, poking and prodding as if inspecting a faulty machine.

After four months, the process was routine, almost mechanical. Aemond hated every second of it. 

No matter how many times they examined his injuries, one thing remained glaringly clear – he would never be as he once was. The cold, clinical truth he had been avoiding finally settled like a dead weight on his chest. He would never regain sight in his left eye. Ever.

Aemond’s stitches had been removed earlier than expected, the result of the extensive, borderline-experimental treatments his mother had ensured that he underwent. Her desperation to fix him bordered on obsession – nothing but the best surgeons, the most cutting-edge procedures, were made available to her son. ‘Nothing but the best for the Prince of the City’, they would say. And Aemond knew it wasn’t really for his sake. He had to be perfect. He had to be fixed.

A Targaryen heir couldn’t walk around looking all deformed, not in this family, not in this city. Yet no amount of money or prestige could make him whole again. The best the world had to offer still wasn’t enough.

He clenches his jaw, his body completely tense under the surgeon’s touch. The treatment felt less like healing and more like a futile attempt to erase the ugly truth. He felt wronged, betrayed even. He was so used to being in control, or at least, having some semblance of it. It was the only way he could bury the darkness within – the bitterness, the anger. But he has no control left. Now he is the one who bends to everyone’s will.

His mother demanded justice for him. She wanted Luke relieved of his seat at Dragonstone, and inheritance of Driftmark. At the very least, she argued, the boy should be demoted for a time or sent away to learn the error of his ways. Viserys would have none of it. According to him, both Aemond and Lucerys were equally at fault. Just boys being boys. Yet, nine times out of ten in the weeks following the accident, Viserys frequented Lucerys’ hospital suite accompanied by his precious firstborn Rhaenyra. 

Aemond barely saw him. He normally wouldn’t care; he trained himself not to. But nothing was right. He didn’t deserve any of this. Luke would limp for months, and that’s it, but Aemond lost his fucking eye. He felt that childish angst resurging inside him, and he knew he was no longer in control.

He recalls the Dragonstone Ball, the night from a week prior when he’d finally emerged after months of hiding, his public reappearance carefully orchestrated to show that Aemond Targaryen was still here, still powerful, still beautiful. He tried to convince himself that he had come to terms with everything – a plain-faced lie. The crowd, the so-called elite of society, had clamoured at the sight of him. They had been shocked, though not in the way he’d expected. They hadn’t recoiled at his injuries. Some had barely seemed to notice. 

It wasn’t as bad as they thought.

That had been the general statement. Whispers circulating the Valyrian hall, their astonishment turning to confusion. Why had he stayed away for months? Why all the secrecy? He looks fine, he heard them murmur, their eyes barely lingering on the faint scar on the side of his face. 

Some even saw his appearance in a twisted light, and deemed it as an enhancement to his aura. But they didn’t care about him, not really. They saw a carefully curated image, a version of Aemond that fit neatly into the narrative of a rebellious, aristocratic heir who felt the need to challenge his younger nephew into a game of chicken, only to pay for it dearly. Some had even dared to call him The Dark Prince of the City, a new title he loathed. 

What a relief it must be for everyone that he was only a little bit fucked up. How fucking fantastic. To them, his injury was cosmetic, an insignificant blemish on a life still dripping with wealth, status, and power. It doesn’t matter that there is an aching emptiness inside of him, a sense of loss and injustice that stretches far beyond the physical damage. It doesn’t matter that he can barely look at himself in the mirror. It doesn’t matter that he can’t allow himself to be with you.

But it does. It all does. 

He closes his eye, his mind drifting back to the night of the ball, when he last held you in his arms. When he last tasted you. Oh sweet seven hells, the way you melted unto him. The way you felt… 

I can wait, you promised. But how is that fair? Is there even anything left of him for you to keep waiting for?

“It’s almost time for us to have an ocular prosthesis put in,” the surgeon says casually, as if making small talk about the fucking weather. “Your mother has already vetted some top-of-the-line models, I’m sure you’d be pleased – ”

Oh, will he? The best prosthetic eye, was it? Gods, this must be what winning the lottery must be like.

“ – or she also mentioned that we could go about the traditional route? Apparently, it had been custom to have gemstones installed in place of – ” 

"I don't care," Aemond snaps, cutting the surgeon off mid-sentence. Without waiting for a response, he pushes himself up from the reclined seat. He knows the surgeon’s sudden shift to small talk signals the end of the session. It always does.

"We're finished?" he says, not bothering to hide the bite in his tone. "Good. Cheers, doc."

“Wait, Aemond, remember to regularly apply the ointment – ” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” Aemond says rushedly, barely glancing at the surgeon as he walks to the door. “Oh, and that’s Sir Aemond to you. We’re not friends.”

In the week following the ball, you find yourself slipping back into the familiarity of your routine. Hours spent poring over your dissertation with your supervisor, extra shifts at the bookstore, and meetups with Jace that often blurred into late-night conversations over coffee. You threw yourself into distractions, eager to escape the lingering effects of that eventful night, but the high was hard to shake off.

For a night, you felt like you were floating on clouds. Everything had aligned so perfectly – Jace had been the ideal partner, Baela’s custom gown made you feel like royalty, and the ball itself was something from another world entirely. Things couldn’t have gone better. 

You could have gone with Aemond. But that doesn’t matter now. 

He made his choice – one that had been crystal clear until it wasn’t. Until he’d pulled you out of the ball, and kissed you with such fierce intensity that your legs nearly gave out beneath you. 

He avoided you, but also stalked you. Dropped you as his partner to the ball, but sought you out during it with an emotion in his eyes you couldn’t fully decipher. 

Is that emotion the very same that you feel? Perhaps it was only momentary, and the next time you see him, his gaze will display cold indifference. Aemond is fire, and then he’s ice, keeping you in a state of uncertainty. What you have with him is suspended in limbo – you told him you would wait, and you plan to make good on your word. 

It’s because of him that you refused Cregan when he texted you – your number practically offered up to him on a  silver platter by Jace – and asked if you wanted to ‘have dinner some time’. You said you were having a particularly busy week, so maybe a rain check? You weren’t exactly lying. You did keep very busy – intentionally or not, it doesn’t matter. But as you sit on your worn-out couch, research papers strewn on the coffee table after hours of struggling to break ground on your dissertation, the idea of having dinner with the handsome Stark seemed all the more tempting.

That when you hear it – a faint knock at your door. 

Living alone has never given you much anxiety before, and you didn’t think it would start tonight. But who could be knocking at your door past midnight, when you hadn’t buzzed anyone in? You were never on close terms with your neighbours, either. 

You sit on your couch looking like a deer in headlights, staring at the door like it’s supposed to silence the knocking.

When did you get so wary? It could be Jace. Maybe Helaena. But then again, they’re not the type to show up unannounced. And besides, if it were them, you’d have already – 

Aemond’s voice calls out your name, partially calming your racing mind. 

You sense hesitance in his tone. Almost embarrassed. Like he knows he shouldn’t be here. 

“Aemond?” You find your voice, and move quickly to the door. As you open it, the question is on the tip of your tongue – What the hell are you doing here? – but the words stick in your throat.

“Hi, darling,” he says weakly, exhaustion etched in his voice. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Something resembling a gasp escapes your lips when he turns his head slightly, revealing the fresh bruise blossoming beneath his right eye, a vicious mix of maroon and violet. The skin is split, blood dried along the cut, though his eye itself looks unharmed. 

“Aemond, what – ”

“Can I come in?” he interrupts, his voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

He walks past you as you step aside, his eye trained on you the whole time. A newly-arrived guest in your home and he has already claimed the space, his presence intoxicating. The air feels heavier, as if your modest apartment has shifted to accommodate someone like him. Or maybe it was just the effect he has on you, what do you know?

You gesture for him to take a seat, anywhere he’d like, and he waits until you settle right next to him before he visibly relaxes. The tension in his body eases, and his shoulders drop as he glances down. It becomes apparent to him how battered he must look. 

He starts to say, “I’m sorry for coming over unannounced – ”

“What the fuck happened, Aemond?” you cut him off, your sharp tone making him flinch. He swallows nervously, eyes darting away before he responds. 

“I got into… an altercation. Nothing to worry about, really – ”

His nonchalance is grating to you, frustrating you to no end. How can he say that, when the skin below his good eye is an angry colour it should never be in? “Nothing to worry about? Look at you! Gods, why am I just sitting here… I have to get the first-aid kit – ”

You start to stand, but his hand shoots out, grabbing yours with surprising gentleness. “It’s fine. Just... sit with me?”

He’s not being fair, using that tone with you. His question reminds you of the first time Helaena brought you to their penthouse. She needed to pick something up from downstairs, when Aemond had wandered into the living room, a book tucked under his arm. “This is my brother Aemond!” she exclaimed at the sight of him. “Aemond, this is my new official best friend. Don’t scare her off! I’ll only be a minute.”

You’d stood awkwardly, watching Helaena leave, and when you finally turned back to Aemond, he was already lounging in a plush chair, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

“You know you can sit with me, if you’d like,” he had called out. “Promise I don’t bite.”

He had kept that promise – literally, at least. His bite stung far more – he drew you in, made you fall for him, and just when you thought things seemed too good to be true, he ices you out and avoids you for months. 

But sure, Aemond didn’t bite. 

You ignore his plea, pulling your hand from his. The expression on his face morphs into disappointment, but you force yourself not to dwell on it. If he’s offended, it can most certainly wait until his injury is dealt with. 

“I’m getting the first aid kit,” you say firmly, before disappearing into the bathroom. When you return, he is leaning forward, head held in both hands like he’s burdened by a migraine.

A fresh surge of panic rises in your chest. You sit next to him, clutching the small first-aid kit, suddenly feeling like it’s far from enough. “Aemond, you should probably go to a hospital. You might have a concussion or something – ”

“I don’t,” he says flatly.

“How can you be sure?” You reach for his face, gently turning it toward you. Pulling out a disinfectant wipe, you start dabbing at the bruise. He tries to hold still, but every wince betrays the pain he’s trying so hard to hide. 

“Got hit in the face, not in the head,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Okay, smartass.” you reply, still unconvinced. Your nose scrunches at his tone, and his lips tug at the sight. He’s grateful that at least his lip wasn’t split – he knows you’d make things far more difficult for him if he had to resist the urge to kiss you. Especially with the way your reactions are always so damn adorable.

You apprehensively apply antiseptic to a cotton pad, dabbing it over his bruise. “I don’t know if this is enough, Aemond, we really should call someone… Helaena – ”

“It’s fine, darling. I’ve been through much worse,” he says coldly, and your face falls at his insinuation. You’re afraid to know just how much worse – what he went through, what he still could be going through. He reaches for your knee, and squeezes gently as a gesture of reassurance. “I’m sorry. But trust me, I’ll be fine.”

You shoot him a look of disbelief. He’s comforting you? It almost feels absurd – he’s the one who looks like he ran face first into a pole, yet here he is, acting like it’s no big deal. 

“Tell me what happened,” you demand, putting the contents of the first aid kit back with an audible snap of plastic.

Aemond hesitates, jaw clenching as he tries to find the right words. You can already tell that he’s going to try to downplay it. He says, “I, uhhh, got into a fight, I suppose.”

“What, you just felt like it?” you say bitterly. Ever since you’ve known him, Aemond has always been the most composed out of all his siblings. But it seems as if another Aemond came out the night of the accident. If you don’t look close enough, you would think he has changed completely. But you do, and you know that your Aemond is still in there somewhere.

He doesn’t answer right away. If he were to say he never feels like breaking things, like letting it all spiral out of control, he’d be lying through his teeth. “You should see the other guy,” he replies, leaning back with a cocky smirk that you just want to wipe right off his lips.

With your own.

“It’s not funny,” you mutter, lightly slapping his arm, and he puts on an exaggerated grimace.

“Don’t hit me. I’m already injured,” he playfully scolds. 

You sigh deeply. The boy isn’t making any of this easy. “Who did this to you? Who… who did you – ” Your face contorts into obvious worry, and he exhales sharply, his eyes flickering with distaste.

“Not Lucerys,” he sneers. “You don’t need to worry about your little friend. One of Alys’ degenerate friends at the club. Must have been a Greyjoy. He certainly smelled like one.”

The callousness of his tone, the way he spits the words without a second thought, feels wrong. You’ve heard Aemond make cutting remarks before, but they were always sharp, witty, delivered with a certain sensitivity. Now, it’s like he doesn’t care who he hurts.

“You got into a fight because… you wanted to defend Alys, is that it?” 

“No, gods.” He immediately shakes his head at the notion. “She had nothing to do with it. She left early… she wasn’t even there by that point.”

“Then what?”

The truth of it was, he heard the news of Lucerys’ early induction into the board at Driftmark, like some hero’s welcome. Lucerys, the Velaryon heir, rewarded for his resilience, for living through what nearly destroyed Aemond. His grandfather Corlys, being the CEO, had always doted on him – the raven-haired grandson who didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to him nor to his late son Laenor. 

Lucerys was treated like the golden child. And Aemond… Aemond was left to lick his own wounds in the shadows. 

So Aemond heard the news, and went on a bender. It was nothing if not immature. He knows it. But he hates that he can’t just let it go, that he can’t turn the other cheek like he’s supposed to.

“They said some idiotic things,” he mutters finally, his tone hollow, “and things got unruly. Next thing you know – ” He clicks his tongue, shrugging as if it’s no big deal.

“You just threw yourself into a fight? For what? To feel something?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, darling,” he says, his voice flat. Your frustration reaches its peak, and you wordlessly walk to the kitchen to retrieve several ice cubes, wrapping them in a clean hand towel to create a makeshift cold compress.

When you hand it to him, he just looks at you with brows raised. “Press it against your face,” you explain, your voice clipped but calm.

He looks amused, and he hovers the compress over his bruise for a mere second, before dropping it on the couch beside him, shaking his head. “I’ll pass,” he says, his tone dismissive.

“Just do it, Aemond.”

“It’ll cover my fucking eye,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “and I want to be able to see you. I want to… look at you.” He shifts uncomfortably, gesturing vaguely to his eyepatch. “As you can tell, this one is permanently out of commission.”

His vulnerability chips away at your frustration. “Aemond… ” you whisper his name softly, as his gaze burns through you. “You don’t have to act like this doesn’t bother you. You can be hurt, you can be angry. You can feel whatever it is you’re feeling. Just don’t shut me out.”

His jaw clenches, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“Right. Sure,” you reply, unable to help the sarcasm. “Then stop brushing me off when I try to help you.”

He exhales sharply, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need you to fix me.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, Aemond,” you snap, but your voice cracks under the strain. “I’m trying to be here for you. There’s a difference. Why can’t you see that?”

“Because it’s not that simple!” His voice rises, sharp and biting, his frustration finally matching yours. “You can’t just magically undo what I’m going through. Who I am –”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” you shoot back. “I know I can’t make everything better, but I’m here and – ”

“You shouldn't have to stay,” he mutters, quieter this time. “It would be easier for you if you let me go.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s easier for me, Aemond,” you say, voice trembling with emotion. The silence stretches between you, and for a moment, you think he might actually let you in. 

But then he stands abruptly. “I shouldn’t have come,” he mutters, pacing the room. “This was a mistake.”

“Then why did you, Aemond?” you ask, standing too, your heart pounding in your chest. This was not how you expected your cluttered little night-in to go.

“Because… because of you!”

“Me? I have done nothing but try to help you, even when you push me away… I wait for you, and I keep waiting and – ”

“Why?” He leans over you, tilting his head. “Why wait? I can’t deal with what you seem to expect of me. I can see it in your eyes. How can you look at me like that?”

“Enlighten me,” you challenge, stepping closer. “Like what?”

“Like… I’m better than I am.” Like I’m good. “I’m not. I would ruin you.”

“And yet, here you are,” you insist. “You came here. You sought me out.”

He looks away, jaw clenching again. “I shouldn’t have. Alys would have taken me in, tucked me into bed without all this questioning. Not… whatever this is.”

Your throat clenches at his words, and you have to swallow back the pathetic sob that nearly rises out of you. “Is that what you want? Did you come here for a pat on the back and quick roll in the hay? Is that how you see me?”

“That’s not what I meant.” His eyes snap back to yours, full of anger and regret.

“I’m not going to ignore what’s happening with you, Aemond. I can’t. I care about you. You’re a lot better than you think you are. You’re good and kind and fair. But you’re just – ”

“Broken?” he interrupts, his tone biting, as though the word itself is a weapon.

“Aemond – ”

“Am I just a fixer-upper to you then, darling? A project for your brilliant mind?”

“That’s not true. You know it isn’t. You’re lashing out on me, and I just want to help you!”

“I don’t want your help.” His words are clipped, final, made clear over and over. But you don’t back down.

“Then what – ”

“I just want you,” he confesses, the words tumbling out of him like something precious. You stay silent, trying to process his words.

He continues, his voice growing more pained. “That’s just me. I’m fucked in the head for wanting impossible things. I want you to stop looking at me like I’m still the Aemond you used to know. Maybe that Aemond was never even real. I want you to stop wanting to fix me. And I… I just want you to love me.” 

You say nothing for a while, your chest rising and falling, betraying your erratic breathing. He says in finality, “Like I said – impossible.”

“It’s not impossible,” you find your voice, your eyes never leaving his. 

“What?”

“It’s real, Aemond. And quite frankly, it’s driving me insane,” you admit, feeling braver than you ever have before.

“Darling – ”

“You want me to love you?” you ask, your voice steady despite the chaos of the evening. “Well, you have it.”

He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to shake off your words. “You don’t actually mean that – ”

“I love you, idiot.”

“You love me,” he echoes, the words tentative, like he doesn’t quite believe it. He looks at you, like he’s seeing you for the first time. “I don’t think I’ve ever understood you,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Just what every girl wants to hear,” you tease, a small, weary smile breaking through the tension.

But Aemond isn’t smiling. He’s still staring at you, his hand twitching like he wants to reach out but doesn’t quite know how. “You love me?”

“Aemond.” You can only nod, growing unsure of yourself. Is this him realising that he doesn’t actually mirror your sentiment? Fire and ice – he wants your love, but can’t love you back.

In the heaviest of silences, you do what you’ve expertly done thus far. 

You wait. 

Series taglist (comment below to be added): @caught-in-the-afterglow @aemondtargaryensrider @punggo66 @dollfaceyourfear @candypurplebutterfly @moonmaiden1996 @mxrgodsstuff @lolitaisreal @blue-serendipity @melsunshine @thejanecampaign @fxngsfxgxrty @padfooteyes @msmarvel-19 @tempo-rary-fix @lauraneedstochill @julczimozart @sarcasticfangirl @witchyv @pyjama-shorts @bellaisasleep @zillahvathek @thincrusttheworks @krispold @yougotthatlove @raging-panda @fleetingly-artistic @throughgoeshamilton @polireader @katsav17 @minttea07 @kravitzwhore @meggiemay82 @hedonefox @daenysx @schniiipsel @namoreno @afro-hispwriter @aemondswifeisme @emcharra @malfoytargaryen @iiamthehybrid @fullmetalriotts @kellzlib @justsumtuffstuff @daydreamy-me @yentroucnagol @kezibear @queenofshinigamis @paprikaquinn (continued in comments...)

Some notes in the margins...

Maroon is back! Grateful to all of you lovely readers who waited 🖤

The suspense at the end! Gah!!! If I'm honest, I hit a wall right there. Does the night culminate in heated passion? Is it the right time? Would it be good for either of them?

I'm sure you'll know my decision from the first passage of part seven 😆

As always, I am eager to hear from yous!

[aardvark-123]

~Bad Ideas for Skyrim Mods~

Stylish Lore-Friendly Vampire Lady Attire 4K CBBE 3BBA BHUNP HDT-FMSP SSE AE WACCF OWL CACO ACE: Puts Serana in a stylish tuxedo and top hat.

Immersive Mud: Replaces the mud in Morthal and along the coastline with a deformable mesh into which actors and objects can sink. Characters with legs have a chance of getting stuck in the mud, increasing with the mud's depth and their armour's weight. You can escape from the mud by jumping repeatedly or using Whirlwind Sprint, but any boots you have equipped will stay buried, and must be dug out with a spade.

Realistic Lore-Friendly Fishing Rods: Adds three thousand, seven hundred and twelve new variants of fishing rod, each with different chances of fishing up various types of treasure, rubbish and water-dwelling fauna.

Organised Bears in Skyrim: Adds stronger tiers of bears to bear levelled lists, from Dire Bears at level 32 all the way to Evolved Ancient Frozen Panda Deathlords at level 78. Diversifies bear spawns with exciting new bear archetypes, including slow and tanky armoured bears, powerful bear warlocks, deadly bear crossbowmen, and even bear necromancers who can conjure fearsome bear draugr.

Silent Hill in Whiterun: Puts a small hill on the Whiterun tundra which makes no sounds whatsoever. Maybe it could go in that empty part east of Rorikstead.

Very Realistic Horses: 2023 Edition: Speeds up horses. They now canter as fast as a human can sprint, and gallop faster still. Horses need to eat and drink at least once per day, and will feed automatically on nearby water and grass while not being ridden. When stabled, they'll pretty much take care of themselves; otherwise, they should be left near some grass and a river or lake. If you don't feed or water your horse for one day, it will refuse to run. If you don't feed or water your horse for three days, it will die. If you don't clean up your horse's manure, which it deposits by the side of the road every three hours, you will be fined 100 septims or arrested.

Immersive Dragon Bridge Bridge Dragon Overhaul: Replaces the dragon-themed bridge outside Dragon Bridge with an actual dragon. Instead of walking across her, for a small fee she'll lift you up ever so carefully in her jaws and deposit you on the far side of the gorge.

[pro-crastinate17]

hello!! so im going to try to make a disability inclusive picrew and id like some help making sure i include as much as i can!

the person would be seated and pretty much all of the body would be visible. ill post it when im done!

its mostly focused on phys disabilities, bc i so rarely can find picrews w good diverse mobility aid options, but ofc im including non phys disabilities as well! (sorry for clunky phrasing, im unclear on the preferred term for non phys disabilities so thats the term ive been using)

what i have so far is below the read more. be warned it is a very long list! (every option/category of option i could think of)

if you think i missed something, please recommend it!!! (related note: id much rather get recommended something that is already on the list than miss something!)

category: head

various jaw shapes 

missing jaw 

crooked/misaligned jaw

category: skin

wide range of skin tones, including white/extremely pale (albino) 

freckles, lots of scar variation (including burns), vitiligo, acne, facial hair, eye bags, other skin conditions (trying to make a list)

breathing tubes, masks, bandages 

bindis 

category: eyes 

blue, grey, green, hazel, medium brown, dark brown, black, red 

heterochromia options 

lazy eye options 

clouded eye options 

closed eyes that look like winking and closed eyes that don't 

missing eyes

category: mouth 

general expressions 

variations for color 

variations for cleft lip, scars, facial paralysis 

category: ears 

ear size, shape, missing ears, deformed ears

category: eye/ear accessories 

earrings, earplugs, hearing aids, bone anchored hearing aids, headphones, earmuffs (modifications for missing/deformed ears), cochlear implant

glasses, sunglasses, blue light glasses, eye patches, eye masks/bandages 

category: nose 

various shapes & sizes, bumpy noses, deformed noses  

category: eyebrows 

lots of expression options, thickness options, color options (including white) 

one missing, scarring, eyebrow slits 

category: body 

body types: very skinny, skinny, fat, very fat (options for muscularity too if i can figure out how)

body hair, scarring, freckles, tattoos   

range of missing limbs, deformed limbs, prosthetics   

diabetes patch 

category: hair 

wide range of hairstyles, bangs, and colors 

patchy hair, scalp scarring, receding hairline 

category: head coverings

range of hats, hair accessories, headbands, bandanas    

range of hijabs, turbans, kippot (+ more variation in cultural headwear if theres space)

head bandages 

category: clothes

range of styles and colors 

adaptable to body types (+ breasts), missing/deformed limbs 

category: shoes 

range of styles 

adaptable to body types, missing foot/feet 

category: hand accessories  

gloves, bracelets, rings, nails, wrist braces, splint rings

range of types, adaptable to missing/deformed hands 

category: pins 

range of queer pride flags 

pronoun pins 

animals, fandoms/characters (def muppets, feel free to recommend characters and i'll try to include some of the most popular ones) 

general disability pride, cripplepunk, madpunk, sign union flag, & pin (for systems), specific disabilities (need some help with these, send me specific flags and i’ll include them!) 

category: seat 

chair, manual wheelchair, power chair, spinny chair, throne, rollator, electric scooter 

category: mobility aids 

cane, white cane, crutches (underarm/axillary and forearm), rollator, walker (with and without wheels), electric scooter  

joint braces (shoulder, elbow, knee, ankle, back, others?), joint tape, compression garments 

category: other disability aids

AAC tablets, word cards, glucose monitor, sunflower lanyard, inhaler, medical id bracelet

stoma bag, central line catheter, picc line catheter, heart monitor, breathing tube, feeding tube (nasal and abdominal), tracheostomy 

stim toys/chewelry, stuffed animals, phone 

service animals

[boundinparchment]

STILL WATERS RUN DEEP - PART I

“You must never look upon his face,” the Dreammaster implored. “For he has looked upon Xipe’s true form. Trust in the Harmony to reveal order upon your union and on Penacony.” No one has ever looked upon the face of the head of the Oak Family. Not even you, his future wife. A promise must be kept. But you were never one to settle. [An attempt at a (loose) Eros and Psyche re-telling in three parts. Will converge with canon. Current wordcount: 5,381 Can be found on AO3 here. Rating is Explicit; MINORS DNI] Reblogs, comments, and kudos appreciated.

You met your husband precisely once before your wedding.

It was an otherwise rather uneventful day in the Dreamscape, one you spent weaving promise after promise, shifting a pathway here, pushing a set of stairs elsewhere.  Dawn always lurked over your shoulder as you pushed the edges of unknown memoria away and carved out something new.  You were good at it, a quick study.

But such was expected of you.  You came from a long lineage within the Nightingale Family and your parents did everything in their power to ensure you knew how to manipulate the Dreamscape as soon as you learned to walk.  You were a Level V on the Scale Degree and your peers considered you doomed; you were far too successful a Dreamweaver to remain among them forever and you would never be properly satisfied by those around you.  Some whispered daggers behind your back that you were nothing but leverage to your family, the subsidiary all but slaughtered into compliance when they did not agree to Gopher Wood’s offer.

After all, plenty of other branches tried and failed to make a connection, court you.  None met whatever arbitrary standards were set.

And as you stepped into Dewlight Pavilion, still dressed in your neat suit and finding your bearings after standing upside-down for several hours adjusting window frames, you finally understood why .

Your parents were already seated across from a figure you instantly knew as the Oak Family head, with a purple raven perched on the back of his sofa.  The young man’s face was entirely hidden by a beautiful veil the color of a starless night; it hung from his halo by an extra ring that moved only enough to allow access to his mouth as needed.

The fabric must have been translucent enough for him to see through, for he moved without issue, and always focused his attention right where it needed to be.  You could not make out the shape of his features.

Was he ugly, hideously deformed?  Did he lack a face entirely?  Rumors swirled about the Oak Family’s recent change due to Gopher Wood’s sacrifice that left him with only a metaphysical attachment to the world.  No one knew what Sunday of the Oak Family looked like, except for his hair and wing color.  His sister, Robin, once kept her visage a secret, too.  However, she renounced her official position as Chordmaster when she began her career as an interstellar singer; many speculated whether she and Sunday had the same eyes.  In fact, last you heard, there was good money in such debates.

The raven, you surmised, was Wood himself.  The one and only Dreammaster.  He spoke politely but it was Sunday who did most of the praise and admiration of your work, noting your potential for higher ranks, and your dedication to Xipe. After confirming your candidacy, Wood suggested leaving the two of you to speak privately, guiding your parents out towards the foyer lined with statues.  They were too enamored at the prospect of being with the Oak Family privately to care.

Around you, the silence seemed to only grow more deafening.   A knot formed in your sinking stomach as you realized this was not just a moment of recognition and appreciation.

As if sensing your unease, Sunday reached up and adjusted the contraption attached to his halo, revealing his lips and jaw to you.  You had never noticed the little bow in his upper lip before.  PIctures and videos of him speaking with his mouth showing never quite captured that detail.  His wings did not relax as much as they gave the appearance they were.

Neither of you expected this.

“I am glad for the progress at Dream’s Edge, and that it’s been stable thus far,” Sunday said, his voice soft.  “The Grand Theater’s renovations mean we must rely on other ways of providing new areas of the Dream to our visitors.  The amount of resources necessary, cognitively and otherwise, are not lost on me.”

Better to be scaling rooftops and shifting buildings than in a Dream Factory.  Nightingale and Iris members were relied upon for the structure and the small details of Penacony’s culture and arts, respectively.  So many of your coworkers began their career in the Factories and it showed, their imaginations simultaneously rigid and methodical and yet so uninspired.

“It is work I do gladly, sir,” you replied.  “But that’s not why I’m here, is it?”

Sunday conceded with a small chuckle and a nod, his smile easing a little as his wings shifted near the edge of his veil, attentive.  

“No, it is not.  Please, walk with me.”

He gestured to the rest of the grand hall, insignias of the five Branches emblazoned on the walls.  You descended without much thought earlier, wishing only to get this meeting over with, but now it was impossible to ignore just how the light trickled through, brilliant and well-positioned to highlight everything.  You rose and followed Sunday away from the sitting area and approached a model replica of Penacony.  At a glance, you guessed most of it was roughly eight hundred times smaller than the real Dreamscape, for it didn’t look all that dissimilar from the models used in planning committees and project teams.

You walked the perimeter of the sand pit model at a slow amble.

“I will be candid and admit the Dreammaster’s abrupt departure was not expected.  And judging from your general demeanor, you are unaware of your parents’ petition to put forward your hand for consideration as a marriage candidate.”

The idea of an arranged marriage was familiar, another expectation you balanced with everything else.  You had little time for love and romance on your own outside of the various suitors who dared come knocking.  But the startling realization that no one was good enough because no one else was the Bronze Melodia, Head of the Oak Family, the highest position one could achieve beneath the Dreammaster himself, felt like a slap in the face you should have seen coming from a mile away.

Surely, the distant relatives of the Nightingale Branch were rolling in their graves.  A great betrayal of all they fought and died for.

You brushed your fingers against the edge of the sandpit to ground yourself.  The room spun a little and you were more shocked that you were, in fact, surprised to begin with.  You were almost into your third decade by now; anyone else in your position would have been left to their work or pushed to settle as dreams collapsed.

“Forgive me for putting you in an awkward position,” you said.

Sunday held up a hand, palm facing you for the briefest of moments.  

“Actually, your lack of awareness of the matter is quite refreshing.  You are modest regarding your skills and achievements but it is a mark of true humility, not one burying themselves in an attempt to hide eagerness.  I do not want a spouse, my equal in all things, who seeks to put themselves above the Harmony in such a way.  You know what you are capable of and you have found your niche within the Family to put it to good use.”

Warmth crept up your neck and settled in your cheeks.  Most found it uncanny to talk to someone who kept their face and expressions hidden.  For you, it was no different than a mere voice call, where you could not see the other party.  He asked not about your other talents but about you and for lack of a better approach, you told a story from your childhood that made his laugh ring off of the walls, full and genuine, melodic in its joy. 

Your heart sang.

Sunday spoke again as you took what was likely your fifth turn around the table.  Maybe sixth.  Time in the Dream was difficult to gauge when you were not keeping your hands busy.

“It is important to me that my wife is capable of bearing the burden of the Oak Family.  We are shepherds in service of Xipe and the Dreammaster.  As the Bronze Melodia, it is my duty to listen and to guide.  I believe you are more than perfectly suited to the role and I…well, it has been a long time since I laughed wholeheartedly.”

He stopped, pausing in his musings to look entirely at the model.  You approximated where his eyeline might be but you had no idea what his focus truly was.  Hands behind his back, he was the picture of perfection that you knew too well.

“But how would you remain dedicated to the wellbeing of all of the souls under the Family’s care?” he asked.

A question no one ever posed to you before.  You had no way to gauge whether this was asked because you’d been doing well.  Regardless, you felt the room grow colder.  So many considered Sunday to merely be Wood’s mouthpiece rather than an individual in his own right.  Such ideations of the head of the Family were not further from the truth; even without seeing his full expression, his earnestness rolled off of him in waves and it was clear enough to you that he held his own ideals separate from those of his adopted father.

You felt a soft haziness, the kind that came with the sun on a warm spring day and what you were always enveloped in when Xipe watched over you.  Trust in the Harmony.

“Truthfully, I don’t have an answer that would not come off as contrived or as though I’m trying too hard,” you admitted.  “I can only say that I have dutifully served the Family with the hopes that I can pass on the generosity and kindness shown to me by my parents.  Xipe’s blessing is one full of grace and a sense of belonging.  I want others to know what it means to be loved and to belong.” You gestured with a wide arm to the sandpit. “That’s why I weave the Dreamscape.”

Sunday was quiet, your only indication that he heard you a series of slow nods.

“Then we are of the same mind.  I want the union I choose to reflect happiness in service to Xipe.”  Sunday turned to you, head first and then his body, giving you his full attention.  “And I think in time, we could make one another happy.”

Something loosened deep inside your chest as your hands trembled.  You smoothed your pants, attempting to ease the nerves that were suddenly very prevalent.  So many others were better equipped for the public presence such a union was expected to have.  Numerous women were undoubtedly more pious and selfless, wholeheartedly proselytizing that the Harmony was the way to salvation.

And yet…

The choice was yours.  Sunday was well within his right to leverage his position, convince you and assuage whatever dark clouds lingered.  Others might have.  

You would have been quite a fool to decline, of course.  And your parents would never forgive you for shattering their dreams.  All of your hard work, and for what?  Most wouldn’t have found it romantic in the slightest but it was practical, deliberate.  And that was a great deal better than fanciful ideas about a grand love like they showed in the cinemas.

 “I would be honored,” you replied, fighting the tiny quakes making their way up your arms.

Sunday extended his gloved hand, a silent request.  You placed your hand in his and you felt yourself grow warm from the touch.  You felt warmer still when soft lips met your knuckles and your lips tingled, stronger now with a faint itch inside your skull.  His halo gave off the slightest of auras.  You made a note to look further into Halovians and their qualities, for you wanted to be able to reciprocate.

The smile gracing his lips was like the rising sun, fresh and full of promise.

“As would I.  Xipe has blessed you with the qualities I wish to see continue on.  Together, we can balance the scales.”

Your wedding was a private affair, attended only by heads of the Five and their immediate families and leadership.  The Grand Theater would have been used for such an event but the Eventide achieved the same effect.  Most were enamored by the Blue Hour, where the Radiant Feldspar floated in the distance in the Sea of Dreams.

Your bridal party consisted only of Robin, who somehow managed to balance your comfort with her brother’s eye for detail in a way that sent a pang through you.  Siblings always had one another, even across systems and galaxies, across different life choices.  Something you never experienced except through the Harmony, through the partnerships and reciprocity of those around you.  Even then, you knew the sentiment to be different.

She never made you feel it, though.  For such a successful artist, an idol , she was incredibly in tune with the needs of others.  

“There’s one thing you need to be aware of with my brother,” Robin said, practiced hands opening a pin and pushing it into your hair as you held your veil in place.  “And it’s that he always takes on the responsibility around him.  It’s a reflex.  Whatever his reasoning behind this life change, please take care of him.  He needs a friend outside of Oak leadership.”

Robin finished fixing your veil and draped the front over your face.  It was nothing like Sunday’s, your face still partially visible through the mesh.  She gently brushed your skirt full of Charmony Dove feathers when you stood, nerves finally getting the better of you.

A knock on the door to your bridal suite startled you.  Robin’s security would have already cleared the visitor but the singer’s shoulders dropped a little upon the discovery of Gopher Wood himself, inhabiting the body of another.

“There is something important I must discuss with your brother’s betrothed,” he said, tone gentle.  “Would you please go check on him in the meantime, Robin?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second longer than you were used to from anyone else in his presence.  Everyone was quick to comply with the Dreammaster, one of the only surviving members who recalled the early days of Penacony’s founding.  Wordlessly, Robin took your hand, squeezed, and then left the dressing room.  The click of the door echoed in the depths of your mind.  

Through your own veil, you watched as Wood took a seat where Robin once perched.  He always unnerved you in a way you could not quite place.  Whatever happened to him that caused him to lose his corporeal form, it made your skin crawl.  It was difficult to feel at ease when you always felt like you were being watched.

You dared not let your voice betray you, ironing out every waver you could.  “Has something happened, Dreammaster?”

The smile you saw should have put you at ease but it only served to prod you, a shiver sitting at the bottom of your spine and never crawling.  Surely this wasn’t going to be some discussion regarding the wedding night?  Or the possibility that you were no longer going to be walking down the aisle?  Had you said something during confessionals that was thought to be unbefitting?  You swallowed and tried not to lick your lips so you didn’t mar Robin’s hard work.

“There is a condition that you must abide by from today forward, dear Dreamweaver.  It is imperative and you must understand that although you are to be Sunday’s wife , not even you are privy to them.”  He continued before you could ask, imploring you.  “You must never look upon his face, for he has gazed upon Xipe’s true form.  Trust in the Harmony to reveal order upon your union and on Penacony.”

You were thankful for your face covering but it did little hide you from one as in tune with the Harmony as Gopher Wood.  He sensed it, your desire to question, and he chuckled.

“My son carries a heavy burden but I chose him as my successor because he intrinsically understands THEIR will.  Betray this condition and the consequences will not just be yours to bear.  The future of Penacony relies on this balance and it must not be upended; I will know if it is.  Am I clear, Dreamweaver?”

The words were spoken with such gentleness that they almost passed for little more than a lecture.  It didn’t feel right, not because you sought entitlement to Sunday as a spouse, but because it did not quite make sense.  When has Xipe ever desired to encourage that kind of separation?  Other than Sunday, no other Family Head hid their face.  Then again, no others were in charge of all of the Branches, either.  But what else was there to say?  What other choice was there?

You would discuss this with Sunday directly, you decided.  Direct communication was often the best solution in private affairs.

“Of course.  I will honor these wishes, Dreammaster.”

He left with little more than Xipe’s blessing upon you; his words circled like carrion birds in your head all the way down the aisle.

Leaving the Asdana System, or even Penacony itself, was out of the question for a honeymoon.  You hadn’t actually anticipated one but how else were you going to truly have time alone together as a married couple?  Even after the few belongings you did have were moved into Dewlight Pavilion, the schedules of a Family Head did not just stop on a dime.  Work always continued for him.  But would it for you?  Could it?

Your hands idly went to your necklace, tugging the charm this way and that down the chain as you gazed out of the window, little more than stars to light the way.  The Moment of Midnight was an interesting Hour to be in for what was meant to be, well, romantic .  Here, the lights were kept low, if not entirely off, and you had to rely on your other senses to get an idea of your environment.  Wood’s words took on a whole new meaning.

A great many things needed to be ironed out while the two of you were alone, away from the eyes of the press and the ears of those with knives behind their backs.  

So far, things went well.  The ceremony and reception were exactly what you were prepared for.  Your hands were fastened during vows, rings exchanged over gloved fingers, and the kiss was gentle and chaste.  

Your first dance was not as awkward as you’d expected it to be.  You’d practiced, of course, but not with Sunday, for he’d been far too busy.  All you recalled was the warmth of Sunday’s arm beneath your hands as you greeted guests, their visages nothing but a blur despite your best attempts to match names to faces.  You knew of a great many of these individuals already, as most of the Family did, but meeting them in-person was a different matter.

Sunday was attentive, mindful that your water was never empty and that you had your fill of each course; you paid him the same respect in turn.  It was easy to, you found.  Perhaps Robin was wrong.

He ate only a single bite of your shared slice of cake, lips wrapping around your fork as you customarily fed one another.  When you asked if he disliked it, he shook his head.  His mouth was visible for most of the night and not just through meals; you wondered if that was for your benefit, given you were unaccustomed to a lack of visual cues.

“I quite enjoy it but it brings me greater satisfaction for others to partake,” he explained.

Your reply was instant.  “You only get one wedding cake though.”

“And it makes me happier to see your eyes light up than indulge myself.  Those are the memories I’ll have and that is enough for me.”

Sunday had taken your left hand and you could just barely feel the warmth of his skin through both your gloves and his.  You did your best to control your facial expression, burying your disappointment.  This was his wedding, too, why shouldn’t he enjoy what had been so carefully planned for both of you?

Hours later, here you stood, the afternoon and evening washed away and dressed in the white silk and lace laid out by an Intellitron maid.  The selection was tasteful but left the material’s intention unmistakable.  The air here was cool, soothing, and made the silk feel as if it was melting into your skin and accentuating every curve.  Your skin was sensitive, goose bumps dotting your arms and your nipples hardening from the chill.  Soft footsteps made their way over to you and in the faint light coming in from the stars outside, you only barely made out the vague shape of your husband behind you.  His veil shimmered slightly.  He had not yet changed for bed but abandoned his jacket, tie, and waistcoat.

His sleeves were neatly rolled up and your mouth grew dry at the sight of his exposed forearms.  Hardly a man who did any kind of manual labor but you found yourself curious about tracing your fingers up and down a particularly prominent vein.  Were you even able to touch him?

“We don’t have to do this.”  His voice was barely more than a whisper.  “It doesn’t have to be tonight.  Today was eventful enough.”

“It’s inevitable,” you replied, feeling a shiver run through you.  “There’s little harm in trying.”

You turned to face him, tentatively reaching out to rest your hands on his chest in the darkened room.  Although your eyes adjusted, your sense of spatial awareness was off.  When you didn’t quite make the mark, he stepped forward, his gloved hands guiding yours.  Sunday brought your hands higher, over the collar of his shirt and your fingers skimmed the hem of the veil, stopping right at his jaw.

“You were warned, were you not?” he asked, voice tight.

“The Dreammaster forbid me from seeing your face.”

“He was right to.  Your hands will go no higher, for one’s touch is just vision in a different form.”

“And what of a kiss?  Am I allowed that?” the question poured from your lips, a mix of insatiable curiosity and a demand to know the boundaries.  “Or am I left with only the seal of our union?  I want to know you, Sunday, even if I can never gaze on your face.  I cannot fulfill the role expected of me without knowledge.”

“Your dedication means a great deal.  Compromises can be reached, within reason, dear wife.”

Sunday moved your hand to trace his lips, soft and supple, breath hot on the pads of your fingers.  You felt the heat creep up with your arm and crawl into your chest, your own breath catching.  The silken nightgown suddenly felt much colder against the rising flush of your skin.  Slowly, he pressed his lips to your fingers and then your palm, turning your hand over to brush his lips against your knuckles.  With your other hand, you brushed your middle finger against the curve of his jaw, beneath his ear, mindful of the wing joint.

His hands fell to encircle your waist.  You stepped closer, not daring to close the distance entirely, but enticed by the heat radiating from him.  Sunday’s lips followed the path of your arm, ghosting across your skin, until he reached the curve of your shoulder.  His veil was firmly in place, its hem teasing you with every kiss.

“Is this to your satisfaction?” He punctuated his question with your name and you shivered.

You nodded before you swallowed, tongue heavy in your mouth.  “Almost.”

An unspoken question hung in the air but before Sunday could voice it, you brushed your nose against the fabric and captured his lips with yours.  You felt him freeze, your free hand feeling the muscles cord in his neck as his wings tensed, curling inward.  Your pulse rushed in your ears as you pulled away slightly, fighting the urge to deepen the kiss.  Had you gone too far?

He didn’t move but the skin of his neck was scorching.  Daringly, you closed the distance between your bodies, breasts pressed against him and hips touching.  Something hard prodded against you.  Sunday’s breath hitched, a gasp stolen right from his lungs.  

You’d never shared yourself with anyone but the mechanics were ingrained in your mind from years of education.  There had been little point to exploring it when other priorities were necessary.  He was enjoying this and you pretended not to feel the tiny thrusts against you, as though he was hoping a little friction would alleviate his own need.

“Like I said, I want to know you,” you repeated.  “ All of you.  Or almost all of you.  If you’ll have me.”

You felt his wings flutter, one of them curling to cup his own cheek, the feathers brushing your fingers.

“I…forgive me, I have never…”

“Neither have I.  We can figure it out together.”

Tentatively, you leaned forward and kissed him again, full of reassurance.  You trailed your hands back towards him, searching for spots that made him sigh and relax.  When you neared his wing joint, he gave a choking moan that sent a twitch through your core.  Trembling, you extended your fingers to stroke the wing bone and the hold on your waist tightened.  

The tops of your thighs were damp, an ache sitting between them that throbbed in time with your pulse as both of you explored, shifting to eventually tangle yourselves into the sheets of the waiting bed.  Touching became a process to map out one another’s bodies, finding dips and divets and curves as you undressed.  He was methodical but you didn’t mind.  This was a learning moment for you both.

You discovered that touching Sunday’s wings made him shiver, but that he instantly stiffened if you brushed his feathers; he’d pulled your hands away, mumbling pleas more to himself than to you.  He memorized the shape of your spine against his fingers and traced circles around your hardened nipples, kissing and sucking through the silken fabric until you hiked the nightgown up to encourage him to feel you, skin on skin.  His fingers grazed your folds and in turn, you took his shaft in your hand, his tip already leaking; he settled between your legs, uttering prayers into the curve of your neck, his veil cool against your burning skin.

Sunday inhaled sharply as you bucked your hips, obscene wet sounds filling the silence he left behind.  At least this was better than the alternative, you thought.  Your body’s cooperation and eagerness made it a little easier to push aside the dissonance at the notion that the man above you was both your husband and almost a complete stranger.

He started slow, for his benefit and for yours, you realized.  You’d felt him in your hand but without a comparison, without experience, you had no frame of reference.  He was bigger than you anticipated, stretching you slowly.  Your eagerness helped, of course.  Once buried, he stilled for a moment, allowing both of you to catch your breath and collect your thoughts.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, shifting slightly to hold himself up further.  “We can stop if you…”

The initial sting already ebbed away and you reached to rest your hand over his heart.

“I’m okay.  We can keep going.  I’d like to,” you replied.

Sunday’s rhythm was slow, his strokes long and gentle.  It reminded you of a song, soft and flowing, and briefly, you wondered if one day, you’d be able to resonate with the Harmony, and with him.  Properly, the way you’d heard Halovians could with one another.

Deep inside you, you felt a tug like a string being wound on a spool, amid a low-burning fire churning.  It felt as if you were floating among the stars themselves and you clung to Sunday, unsure of what your body needed but knowing he could provide—

He leaned down again, nestling his covered face in the curve of your neck as his movements became more erratic, hips almost snapping in their fervor.  Both of you were breathless, and the edges of your vision began to go white just as Sunday gave a shuddering final thrust, warmth spilling into you with a quaking moan of your name.  You brushed the backs of your fingers over Sunday’s upper arms before you reached around and held him, unsure of where, precisely, was safe to touch him.

You’d been on the precipice of something and it lingered in your mind, nagging.  Regardless, for a first time…

“That was messier than I expected, my apologies,” Sunday whispered.  “Allow me to help?”

You murmured an agreement and disentangled yourself, suddenly very cold in his absence.  You heard Sunday’s footsteps, soft against the plush carpet, and felt the bed dip when he returned, towel in hand.  He was gentle, attentive just like he had been earlier, if a little hesitant with the heat of the moment lost.

“I’ve been told it’s supposed to go…differently,” he said, brushing the towel against your sticky thighs.  

You stifled a giggle as his fingers found a sensitive spot.  “Ticklish there, sorry.  You were saying?”

He adjusted his approach and continued.  “Such moments are…intended to be a moment of convergence for two people.  They should…last longer, or at least not be as…one-sided…it’s selfish for me to have… finished when…”

Oh.

“Sunday.”

In the dark, it was difficult to make anything out but you felt his gaze on you, and you sat up, covering the hand on your leg with yours.

“Nothing is perfect the first time.  We can try again.  What’s important is that we communicate, right?”

You heard his swallow and imagined his Adam’s apple bobbing.  That was a spot you wondered if you could touch, could kiss if you promised to close your eyes and not peek.

“You’re very kind,” Sunday replied softly.  “I knew that, of course, but…thank you.”

“Like I said, we’ll figure it out together.”

A beat, and then as he finished drying your legs, you said, “I want to ask something but I don’t know if it’s…appropriate.”

“I will answer if I’m able to.”

“When you sleep…”

His answer was swift.  “I must remove my halo.  We won’t be sharing a bedroom.  Even here, I’ll be sleeping elsewhere.  I could not risk accidentally exposing you to Xipe’s wrath for such a transgression.”

It felt as if an icy wall had slammed against you.  You knew there would be hurdles in this new life you’d chosen, of course there would be.  You hadn’t gotten to where you were in life without a lot of them.  Shame snaked itself up your leg and you pulled away when he rose, tucking yourself under the covers.  In hindsight, it felt silly assuming you’d be able to fall asleep together.  All of that, and you would still be…

“Of course.  Forget I asked,” you replied, tone mild as if you’d asked about the weather.

You could still sense his presence in the dark as he silently gathered his things, the rustle of clothing somehow loud.  It felt like every pop of a button echoed in your skull.  You had no right to feel this way, you scolded yourself.  This wasn’t anything more than an arrangement, an agreement between two followers of the Harmony.  You’d entered this marriage knowing that it might never…

You heard the door handle and in the sliver of light trickling through, you caught Sunday’s silhouette, veil lowered and his figure clothed.  His wings were folded in, tucked behind the veil as if shielding himself.

“In time, perhaps a compromise can be reached.  We shall seek guidance on such matters when the time comes.  I shall see you in the morning.  Sweet dreams.”

Eyes stinging, and tongue thick, you pushed away your pride and your pain long enough to say, “Sleep well, Sunday.”

The door clicked shut and you pulled the covers over your head when you curled up onto your side.  You stifled your sobs with a pillow, wondering just what you’d gotten yourself into.

[eternal-gromnommer]

The last dragon the Targaryens ever hatched, according to the books, was described as a green female, "small and stunted with withered wings", and was said to be sickly, though laying five eggs which never hatched. A skull later displayed in the throne room was later described as being "no bigger than a mastiff's skull, and oddly misshapen", likely belonging to her.

I'd seen quite a few fanart of the unnamed last dragon and they usually depicted her with an aspect of majesty and beauty, which sounded odd for what was the dying gasp of a once-powerful empire. So my take on the last dragon is the opposite, an absolutely pitiful and grotesquely deformed freak of nature, with basically everything possible wrong with her, at a glance clearly something not bound to have lived very long. Clubbed feet, a kinked tail, a severely shortened upper jaw that caused painful breathing and eating difficulties, a crooked neck, and said withered wings being hideously disfigured, one berely functional as a forelimb to hobble around on and the other a useless appendage with tangled digits. Unable to breathe fire, fly, or be used for riding in combat, she is a perfect representation of the Targaryen dynasty in its final years: frail, impotent, and a mere pathetic shadow of the glory and fearsomeness of its forebearers.

[whateveriwant]

No thoughts, just Punk!Simon.

Punk!Simon who dresses like he shops exclusively at Hot Topic. We're talking band t-shirts, combat boots, leather anything he can get his hands on. His style is bold, accessories maximized, and his entire wardrobe can be condensed into one of three colors: black, gray, and dark gray.

Punk!Simon who likes to wear lots of jewelry. Thick chains, bulky rings, decorative pins pressed into his jackets. His pieces are mostly silver and always real, none of that fake, turn your skin green shit. Keep him far away from metal detectors because he will set them off.

Punk!Simon who listens to only the grungiest of grunge rock music. Ask him for recommendations and he's spouting off six or seven bands that are so underground they may as well reside in the Earth's mantle. Don't leave him in charge of the playlist when driving together unless you want a bad case of tinnitus for the next four hours.

Punk!Simon who’s tatted up to high heaven. You thought he only had his left sleeve done, until you saw him working out without his shirt on one day. Turns out it doesn't just stop at his shoulder, but continues downward, wrapping around his trunk like vines of black and gray ivy.

Punk!Simon who's sporting more than one set of piercings. You ask him how many he has and (with a smirk) he tells you six, and you try to take a mental tally of the ones you've seen. 1) eyebrow 2) industrial 3) nostril 4) snake bites 5) areolas 6) . . . 6) . . . . . Huh. Where's the sixth?

Punk!Simon who experiments with a little body modification. Not just the normal piercings and tattoos, but things many people would consider to be on the more extreme side. Stretched lobes, sharpened canines, . . . bifurcated tongue? 👀

Punk!Simon who, on an uncharacteristically unmasked day, grabs your attention as you enjoy a round of drinks with friends. One minute you were sitting there, chatting, just minding your business, and the next your gaze was locked onto Simon's tongue as it darted out from in between his plump lips. You tried not to let your eyes linger, but you couldn't help it. You'd never seen something like that before in person. A tongue split right down the center, cut with surgical precision from the looks of it. It had clearly been done on purpose, not an accident or deformity, but you hadn't expected to see it as you watched him lick away a bourbon droplet from the corner of his mouth. As you stare, said mouth then curves slyly, impish, into a grin just shy of wicked. The movement makes your eyes dart upwards, where they meet Simon's, and he's giving you a look that says one thing: Caught you.

With that taunting expression, Simon turns in his seat, plants his elbows on the table, and blocks out the rest of your group as he asks lowly, “Somethin’ the matter, sweet’eart?”

His tone makes you startle, eyes rounding in surprise, mouth fluttering open and closed like a flailing fish. “N-No, I was– I– You– I–”

“Wha's wrong?” His brow furrows, teasing. “Cat got your tongue?”

Oh, the bastard.

But the reminder has your gaze dropping back to his lips unthinkingly, almost like you secretly wish he'll grant you another peek for your sick fascination.

He doesn't, keeps that serpentine tongue tucked within the confines of his jaw, but it's like he can read your mind because his smile curves further, drawing even closer to you as he says, “Curious?”

It's like the rattling of a deadly snake's tail, the way he hisses out the question. It means to warn you of danger ahead, of expert predation, of total and utter annihilation should you let him take a bite.

You drag your eyes back up to his smoky ones, half expecting to find slitted pupils that speak of poison. There isn't, just a mirthful quirk to his brow, and a solitary nod is all you can offer him in return.

“‘S alright.” He tips his chin in encouragement. “Go on, then. Ask.”

Another glance to his lips as you rummage through the dense brush that entangles your brain. Plucking one of the first you find, you ask, “Does it hurt?” eyes moving back to his.

That earns a little chuckle from Simon, an even smaller shake of the head. “Not now that it's healed,” he tells you truthfully, cheek dimpled in amusement. A beat passes, him waiting for another of your questions, and when you don't conjure one up, he jokes, “That it?” Clearly, he expected a barrage.

You take a second, searching for another, then simply, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why'd you do it?”

Simon raises his shoulder in a shrug. “Dunno. Wanted to do somethin’ fun; different I s’pose,” his reasoning is as carefree as his voice sounds. He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Plus, ‘s more useful than you think,” he tacks on at the end, something mischievous glinting in his eye. Deception maybe. Bait definitely.

Useful, he says? You doubt it. Having a second tongue sounds like a burden honestly. You'd have to learn how to talk, eat, and drink all over again, just like when you were a small child. But if he said so, and with such confidence, then it begs the question: “How?”

How is having a second tongue useful?

Throughout your entire conversation, Simon's maintained steady eye contact with you, his focus never faltering from yours. But now, as your brow creases in confusion, Simon breaks away, lids lowering as he gazes down at the floor. He rolls a thought around his head for a moment, that cheeky look still etched into his face. When he huffs an amused breath through his nose, it only deepens his smirk that much more, and then slowly, painfully unrushed, his eyes rake up, up, up your body, until settling on yours once again.

The look he gives you now is dark, a grin like the devil’s as he peers up at you. The tip of his forked tongue pokes out as it makes another swipe across his bottom lip.

No thoughts, except for Punk!Simon who takes you back to his place and shows you just how useful two tongues can be.

[askmerriauthor]

Homie. Darling. Muchaco. Please help me. You're an animator. You've worked in the video game industry. When you get to That One Memory in TOTK (you know which one I mean and if you don't, you will),

Please help me figure out what the fuck is going on with Ganondorf's face rigging

Man, I didn't even need to look anything up: I knew EXACTLY what you were talking about as soon as you said it.

Short Answer: Need more polys.

Long Answer: It's simultaneously a case of limited model structure and potentially some degree of intentional design choice specific to Ganondorf's presentation in this particular game.

Discussion below the jump, just for the sake of not stretching out people's dashboards. No worries about spoilers: none of this is story-relevant.

So! To give a very broad strokes bit of coverage on the wide and varied nonsense that is 3D modeling, this is a case of Topology. The basic thrust is that topology is the overall structure and layout of the mesh that makes up the 3D model's various shapes. The lower the polygon count on that mesh, the more angular its structure and the less capacity for deformation it has. The higher the polygon count, the smoother its structure and the greater its capacity for deformation. The trade-off, however, is that low-poly models are easier for a game engine to render. High-poly models are a massive drain on processing power, to say nothing if they're built inefficiently with a bunch of wasted geometry bogging things down.

Here's an example of a low-poly model on the left and a high-poly model on the right.

So when you want to make a character emote, you're basically grabbing a bunch of those polygons around the face and moving them around to shape the face into the desired expression. If you don't have a lot of polys to play with, it causes folding and tearing issues where the model and its textures do some pretty wonky shit.

Something both BoTW and ToTK have going for them is that they're actually very low-poly games, which is extremely helpful in making the games run as smoothly as they do given the world size and seamless loading. The lighting and texture work do A TON of heavy lifting to make the game look as good as it does. Really look at these models closely and you can see how angular they are. Look at Zelda's outstretched hand or how sharply light falls across the character's features. In the bottom right, notice how you can see the sharp points that make up Zelda's shoulders? They're not rounded; they're angled just enough to give the general illusion of a curve at a glance. Same goes for her eyes; you can count the angles that make up the shape of her eye but, at a distance and at a glance, they look big, round, and doleful.

Something you can also notice is when characters talk, a lot of them have little to no facial deformation. Mineru, for example, basically has a one-hinge Muppet mouth outside of pre-rendered cutscenes. A lot of characters' eyes are basically painted onto their faces and switch between static texture shapes as opposed to being fully rendered and animated orbs modeled into their heads.

Ganondorf actually has a fairly complex character model, especially compared to Link or Zelda, but he doesn't have a lot of model deformation. Basically the only parts of his head that move are his eyes/brows and mouth/jaw. If you look closely around his eyes you can see they're rendered basically as triangles. There's only two or three points along their shape the model can deform at. Further, since the rest of his face doesn't really deform when he emotes, it means the only thing that really moves are those small key elements. Which yields moments like this:

The animators are basically pushing his expression as much as they are actually capable of with this model's limited structure. See the hard fold in the lower eyelid, or the fact that his teeth aren't attached to anything inside his jaw? It does the job though; it overall looks good and, in the moment this scene happens, really adds something to the unsettling nature of what's going down.

I mentioned before that there may be a certain intent as well. Something specific to Ganondorf in this iteration is that, more than ever, he's become an Oni. Ganondorf's character design has slowly been leaning toward more Japanese-specific visual concepts over the past few appearances but he's gone full yokai for ToTK. Not just in his build, but in his clothing and weaponry. Dude is swinging around a kanabo for the first time ever in the franchise.

In Japanese mythology and Noh theater, a Red Oni basically functions as the embodiment of all the worst parts of mankind. They're greedy, brutal, cruel monsters who revel in causing destruction. If you want to look at their good aspects, it's traits like passion, ambition, and a wild spirit. But, overall, they're the bad guys. Ganondorf is 100% depicted as a Red Oni in ToTK. So when you keep that in mind, add in the implications of what Ganondorf just did in that scene, and consider the traditional appearances of a Red Oni...

...then that face-breaking grin makes a lot more sense.