#this is not vagueing nor is it about anyone anyone in particular

[laqueus]

coming across a blog that's nothing but discourse with the user determined to take the most bad faith interpretation of everything

[sp1resong]

not to be the artificer discourse guy (tm) but i Cannot believe 'Collective Punishment Bad' is in any way a controversial take in this fandom

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

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im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

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Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[chibsandchill]

Simple pleasures (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (house of the dragon)

Pairing: Aegon II x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aegon, brothel, talking, wine, more wine, sex, that’s it. Need I say more?

MDNI 18+

Warnings: p in v sex, Aegon, canon typical themes, grammatical and spelling errors (english is not my native language), slow start, not proof-read

Masterlist

-:-:-:-:-:-

The room smelled better than most brothels. It was a welcome change, as was the surprisingly expensive and tasteful decor. It was homely; soft, comforting, warm even. All it was missing was a hearth and Aegon might have believed it to be someone’s home. 

“Remove your shoes please.” 

Aegon wanted to protest, for who were you to command him? The need to disobey, to dig his feet so far in the ground he could never be moved, was ingrained in his very bones. What would you do, he wondered, were he to step onto the pristine fur with his muddied boots? Would you turn red in the face as you screamed? Would you simply ignore it and move on, aware that any and all wrong steps may instead lead you to the black cells? He almost salivated at the endless possibilities. Alas, the carpet looked like it would feel heavenly under his feet, and so he kicked off his shoes. You thanked him with a voice dripping with honey, sugar and all things sweet. It made his teeth ache. 

He stepped further into the room, onto the carpet. He dug his toes into it. Heaven, just as he imagined. It is soft, and warm, and the strands feel like silk against his skin. Another step, like walking on water. There was not a stain on it, nor a patch of fur bent out of turn. Twas like wading through clouds. 

You pulled the drapes shut. 

“Please sit.” You made a sweeping motion to a group of furniture. “Would you like some wine?”

Sit? Aegon was here to get his cock wet. But he was parched, and so he nodded. 

You balanced two pristine silver chalices on an equally shiny silver platter in one hand and an overflowing silver flagon in the other. Expensive, for a whore at least. Did you have a set for each customer? There was not a scratch on any of it, not a spot of dirt or smudged fingerprints. 

“Dornish red,” you told him as you filled his chalice exactly half-way. 

His throat tightened. 

“In my experience Dornish wine is quite… bitter. Less suitable for pleasure.” 

You chuckled. He was pleasantly surprised by the sound. Most of the whores had rougher voices and were not as quick to laughter. 

“‘Tis an acquired taste, aye, but I do believe you’ll enjoy this one. It’s sweet and yet rich in flavor. Truly there is none who make wine quite like the Dornish.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were a whore, not a wine merchant.” 

 “I do not spend all day on my back.” You took a sip from your own chalice, resting a hand on a cocked hip. “A good whore knows her clientele, and well, mine prefer… simple comforts.” 

He looked at the room again. There were large tapestries nailed to the stone walls, though he was unsure what they depicted. Fourteen of them in particular, all in different colors and vague figures. Interesting choice, he thought, but at least it would serve to lessen the echoes of your pleasure later. If the other whores had half the taste and coin for interior decorating as you then perhaps his head wouldn’t ache like a horde of Dothraki screamers had ran him over, when he left the establishment.

Perhaps simple was not the word anyone would use to describe the would-be safe haven that you had created. Twas clear your clientele were highborn, and in Aegon’s experience they rarely longed for simple things, be it wine or decor. Even you were not simple; your hair was well-cared for and shone of oils and had strings of precious stones fell between strands, your dress was not of Westerosi make and clung to you. Even your perfume was nothing short of expensive. A silver necklace clung to your throat, and your fingers were heavy with rings. No, nothing about your craft was simple. 

“They pay you well for these simple comforts.” He said between sips of wine. You spoke true; he did care for it. 

As if reading his mind you spoke again. “I’ve already sent a bottle with one of your guards, it should be in your chambers well before you return.”

“The crown thanks you.” 

“Sarcasm is a family trait, I see.” 

You refilled his chalice with wine, voice as nonchalant as if you commented on the weather. And for Aegon, who’s very core dripped with debauchery, well, you might as well have. 

“As is the want for simple comfort, I assume.” 

Your smile is coy. “Aye, I’ve found that the more riches one possesses, the more they long for, well, simpler things. Comfortable furniture, conversations with a friend,” you move closer, your fingers brushing against his shoulders. Your breath is hot as it fans over the shell of his ear. “A hug. A…” your hands move over his shoulders, down his chest, “mother’s love.”

And then you’re gone. 

“Simple things for simple men.”

“I’m not a simple man.” Aegon scoffed. And he didn't long for his mother’s love. He’s experienced it plenty, as he had the back of her hand.

“No,” you say, “I don’t suppose you are. The blood of the dragon rarely is simple.”

Aegon drank the rest of his wine. 

“You talk a lot, for a whore.” 

“I’m not a simple whore.” 

“Perhaps not, but you end up on your back all the same.”

“And your coin ends up in my pocket. You claim not to be a simple man, Aegon Targaryen, and yet, you drink, whore, and sulk like any other man, only your features are not so plain.” 

“I could have your head for saying such things.” Aegon raised his chalice and gave it a wiggle. “If you insist on nagging my ear off I need to be far drunker than I am.”

You brought a different flagon. It’s decorated with green and red stones, and there’s words engraved along both the bottom and the top of it. It’s Valyrian glyphs, but Aegon cannot read it. He averted his eyes. 

The wine shimmers in the candle light. It’s gold in color and smells heavenly. 

“From the Jade Sea,” you said as you returned his chalice to him. “The Dornish are excellent wine makers but even their finest vintages taste like vinegar compared to the golden wines of Yi Ti.”

Aegon swirls the wine inside his chalice. Never had he seen a wine so… appealing; so mouth watering. He brought it to his mouth. It felt like silk as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, and a pleasant warmth followed it. There was none of the awful burn that came with the household wine back in the Keep, and neither did it feel like a stone in his stomach. 

“I assume a bottle of this will be waiting for me in my chambers,” he jested. 

“It’s already there. I had it delivered yesterday. A… preview of our evening of sorts, though now it will be a memory of it.”

Doubtful. Aegon would hardly have the time to reminisce on his one-off evening with the oddest whore in all the known lands whilst drinking his body weight in wine. No, the bottle of Yi Ti gold would be one of many bottles strewn across his chamber floors when he would inevitably be sent into another week-long bender. Besides, you served it in a flagon, and thus Aegon would not notice which bottle was which sober, much less drunk. Though perhaps it would soothe his body’s protests, as it was currently soothing him now. He sipped at the drink like a babe sucked at his mother’s tits, not that Aegon had much experience with the latter. 

“What wine did you give my brother?”

Your lips quirked into a smile. It fit you. Yours was a face made for smiling. “One that fit him.”

“That’s awfully vague.”

“You don’t last long in this business if you’re loose-lipped.” 

He chortled. “The one-copper whores beg to differ.” 

There’s a tightness to your smile. “You’d be surprised at the secrets they possess. Those one-copper whores could topple dynasties if they so wished.” 

“And you?”

Has his brother confided in you? His uncle? His father? Did you keep secrets that could rattle the foundations of the world as they know it? Aegon was almost tempted to give you more, to feed the fire burning under his feet until even he burnt. There were cracks in his family’s rule– of every rule– small as mice, but plenty big for secrets and deceit. 

“Perhaps if you behave I shall tell you some.” 

A hot flash of something rushed up his spine. 

“And if I do not?”

“Then you shall leave with nothing.”

“I could command you to tell me.”

“You could.” You inclined your head. “But as some of my… friends are also of noble birth then your command will simply be a waste of breath, and I would rather you save it for what is to come. You will need it.” 

There it was again. That thrill; that heat that licked at his insides. He should have you punished for your insolence. Whipped perhaps, or maybe he would have your tongue. But Aegon admired fire, but even more so he admired those who looked upon him as you do; as if he is more than a rusted sword fit to be wielded as his family saw fit.

“You’re bold.” Aegon pushed himself off the armchair. He walked up to you, moving as if to touch you. You glanced down at his hands, at his arms, then at his face. His fingers trailed up your arm, your shoulders, over your collarbones and the column of your throat. Aegon’s touch was gentle, teasing almost, he wanted you to want his touch. And judging by how your breath hitched when he reached your throat, his caresses are more than welcome. “I like it.”

His hand cupped your face. You were soft and warm. A healthy blush spread up your chest from the hem of your dress. 

How far did it reach, Aegon wondered. Were you as pink and lovely and soft and warm- 

You leaned into his touch. And then you were gone, leaving him cold with his hand still held high in the air. He dropped it quickly, but the feeling of you remained. Aegon adjusted his clothing but it did not lessen the memory of how you felt pressed against him. 

How odd, he frowned, to feel as such over a mere touch of his hand against your face. It was not at all intimate. Like a blushing virgin seeing a glimpse of a woman’s ankles he stared after you, which is altogether odd for a man such as Aegon who cloaked himself in sin and lust. He who had visited the brothels so oft even the whores’ whelps recognized him by the sound of his fancy boots. Scarce were the mornings he did not wake with one hand on a warm cunt and the other on a supple breast.  

“You’re eager,” you said to him with a slight smile. “I like it. It makes one feel wanted… desired, does it not?”

“Do you have more wine?” 

A flash of something passed through your eyes. “Of course.” 

“Go on then, fetch the next one.” 

You offered your hand to him. You didn't demand his answer, nor his thoughts. You took only what he freely offered. It left him feeling strangely full, and less like the hollowed out stranger he oft saw at the bottom of his bottles. 

He took your hand. Warmth flooded back into him. 

Pushed into a corner of the room was a large bed. It was similar to the one he had in his chambers, a bit too similar. Still, it looked comfortable enough. It certainly didn’t suffer from a lack of pillows, nor had you spared any expenses on neither the frame nor the make of the mattress. 

You gestured for him to sit down before you walked over to grab a third flagon of wine. Gods, Aegon was sure to be stumbling back to the Keep following your night together if the pace you were handing him drinks was to be considered. Still, Aegon sat fell down on the bed with a lack of grace most unbecoming of a noble. It was even softer than he imagined. 

He cared for conversation, he did, truly, but his cock had been aching for relief since you opened the door and any longer and he thought it might burst. Did you not see the lust in his eyes? Did you think to quench the burning desire in him with expensive wine? Nay, Aegon reckons his mother will have to collect his charred remains were you not to touch him. 

At last, after what felt like an age, you turned. Have you always walked as such? The sway of your hips were almost hypnotizing. A smile lit up your face, though he could not tell what kind of smile it was. He had no need for more wine, for his mind was buzzed and his hands longed to trace you. 

You didn’t bring the flagon you’d been observing. Mayhaps it was a bad fit. Aegon doesn’t care. 

“Are you familiar with how the wine merchants of Yi Ti make it?” You asked. 

He shook his head. Why in the hells would he know that?

You’re close enough that he could smell you again. Your touch is soft as you cup his face, thumb swiping over his bottom lip. “Wine is fermented grapes, as I’m sure you already know.” Your voice is a touch lower, more seductive. Odd, considering the subject, Aegon mused. You moved to straddle him, and he welcomed you with his hands falling onto your hips, his legs separating to bring you closer. ‘Tis a dance he is familiar with, finally. “The type of wood that is used is different with every maker,” one of your hands fell on his thigh. He swallowed a hiss when your hold tightened. “The merchants from Yi Ti? They use a very particular breed of tree to make the vintage I just served you. It is a known…” your hand released his thigh only to brush over his crotch, “aphrodisiac.”

“Uhuh.” Aegon nodded. So long as you kept your hands on him he’d feign interest in wine making. 

Pathetic. A brush of a hand makes him harder than he’s ever been before. 

The brush turns into a flat touch, which then turns into a caress. ‘Tis all teasing, in the end. Like the smell of a pie wafting out from under the gaps in the kitchen doors; ‘tis there, and yet, it is not. It’s a promise of a future reward. 

Aegon tightened his hold on your hips before pulling you forward until you sat as close as physically possible. And still did he want you closer. It’s a crippling need of his; a dark pit of emptiness that can only be temporarily filled with the closeness of another. It came back stronger, deeper, each time. Still, it gnaws at him, like a gnat buzzing in his ear. 

Closer, it whispered. 

Closer, it shouted. 

He would crawl inside your skin and live there, and yet it would not be enough. Nothing ever was. The voices would remain, and the abyss inside him growing ever larger, like a looming shadow spreading its rot to every interaction. Soon, Aegon would be as rotten as his thoughts, as his desires. He would be the failure of a man his mother believed him to be. 

You showed no signs of seeing his struggle for you pressed yourself ever closer until he felt your heart beat against his. Aegon surged forwards, slotting his mouth over yours in a dance that was oh so familiar to him. This, he knew how to do. If you’re surprised by it you don’t show it. 

You’re a whore, of course you’re not surprised by him kissing you. 

Briefly Aegon wondered who out of them were the best kisser, him, his brother or his uncle? How many Targaryens had warmed your bed? Had his father stumbled into your arms and sampled all that you had to offer? Had you woven tales of wine merchants and the likes to them as well? 

Did he kiss like his uncle? 

He knew he did not fuck like his uncle, for the whores spoke often of his uncle’s talents, and his obsession with taking them from behind like a hound. Aegon found he did not care for that, but he reckoned his uncle’s fancy came more from a desire to dream of fairer features than the pleasure of it. 

You pulled away from his lips. Strings of saliva connected the two of you together, and Aegon would never admit it, but he found himself chasing after your lips. 

“Undress.” You said and pushed at his clothed chest. 

He raised a pale eyebrow. 

“If you insist.” 

He shrugged off his tunic easily enough, but his trousers, well, he’d have to move you to remove those and Aegon found himself very reluctant to part from you or your body. Aegon tapped your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He stood from the bed and pulled down his trousers, kicked off his shoes and then fell back on the bed. 

“Fuck.” Aegon grunted. 

You laughed. 

“Lay back.” You told him. 

Aegon did as you asked. The pillows were harder than he thought, but in a good way. His head didn’t sink in, but rather rested on it. They reminded him of his own pillows. Strange, but he was too horny to care. 

He’s already hard when you grab his cock. Aegon gets nothing from your expression apart from desire. No surprise at his size, but neither disappointment. Not delighted at finding him hard and ready for you, nor dismayed. Curious. His heart skipped a beat at the uncertainty of it all. With common whores he knew how to act – where to touch, what to say. They swooned and gushed over every aspect of him, slobbered on his cock whilst moaning about his size and girth like they had never seen a cock before. But this? This silent appraisal, the almost tender hold of him as you swiped across his tip, as you traced the vein and cupped his heavy balls? This, this was unfamiliar even to him. 

“Are you ready?” You broke the silence. 

“W-what?”

It was an odd question. For as long as he had visited brothels, for as long as he had laid with others there had never been this out-of-place pause in… affairs. It all followed the same pattern; greetings, some petting, then sex, and then he’d leave. He didn’t know what to do with your question, what did you want? What answer should he give? 

Were you going to sit on his face? Many of his conquests enjoyed that, and while Aegon wasn’t overly fond of it and was prone to feeling trapped if it went on for too long, it was never a question asked out loud. It was the moving of hips, of knees closing in around his head and a warm, wet cunt dropped on his mouth. 

You swiped damp hair off his forehead, there’s a strained expression on your face. Aegon doesn’t like it.

“Are you ready?” You repeated. “Do you want this?” You clarified. 

Gods yes, he wanted to say. I think I’ll die if we don’t, he wanted to say. 

“Oh. Yes.” Aegon said instead. The odd expression on your face didn’t waver. 

Curious. 

You released his cock, and he shuddered. Instead you brought your hands forward and gripped his shoulders, leaning forward. Your eyes never left his as if searching for something. You scoured his face, watched his every microexpression. 

He just wanted to be inside you already. 

But he laid frozen beneath you. 

‘Behave’. Echoed through his mind. 

Then, your hand is back on his cock. You bring your hand up and down, loosening your hold and then tightening it. You seemed acutely aware of him – of his reactions. As if reading his mind you adjusted your hold, your speed, the pressure, even the angle as his pleasure ebbed, grew, and lessened. 

Odd as you were, you were a good whore. Skilled, certainly. But odd nonetheless. 

His toes curled, and a familiar warmth grew with your movements. Aegon wasn’t silent, he was a man proud of both the pleasure he felt and the pleasure he gave. And so he moaned, and he shuddered, and he groaned. It echoed far louder than he’d thought, and were it not for the gleam in your eyes he’d surely fall silent. 

He was about to tell you to stop; that he was seconds away from spilling into your hand, when you pulled away. 

Perhaps you were a mind reader after all. 

Your grip on his cock is loose but firm as you guided him inside you. Heavenly warmth enveloped him, and your walls felt akin to silk. Aegon knew little of love, but if he knew anything, it was that love surely felt like this. Like two pieces connecting. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you bring yourself down. By the time you’re flush with his pelvis Aegon has started to pray to all the gods to let him last a little longer. It is too much and yet it is not enough. His body ached for release; beads of sweat formed on his forehead from trying to stave off his orgasm. 

But you seemed like you were above it all, like something ethereal. In the throes of your pleasure – as you forced yourself to rise and then fall on him like it was your gods given duty – you shone, and Aegon had never seen anything more beautiful. Your sounds of pleasure are music to his ears, and yet it is whispered. 

Aegon pressed a thumb against your clit, and you trembled at the sudden touch. Then you moved ever faster, and Aegon tried to match your pace. He alternated pressure as you had before, he pressed circles and squares, and he spelled his name, and all others he could think of. 

Aemond. 

Daemon. 

Viserys. 

Jaehaerys? 

He’s soon lost to his pleasure as well, in the way you impale yourself on his cock and force him out of his thoughts and into the present. He knew not what names he pressed into your clit, not what names or family he used to elicit more and more moans from you. It is not enough. He ate up your pleasure as if it was his own. 

You batted his finger away from you before forcing his hands above his head where you held him by his wrists. 

“Behave.” You told him through your teeth. 

Redness spread across his face and a thrill rushed through his body. 

“You’re still dressed.” He realized. How he had missed that, he would never know. It feels like a sin to have been so caught in his own pleasure, or rather the chase of it, that he had neglected even that. 

Aegon blinked and you’ve ripped your dress over your head without missing a beat. 

He blinked again. Too stunned to react. 

Breasts. 

‘Twas like an out of body experience watching himself reach for your breasts, to feel the soft flesh under his fingers. He cupped them, thumbing at your nipples. 

He knew not what to focus on; your body, you, or the delicious torture of your hips slapping against his. Aegon felt in that moment like he was one and ten and he stumbled into his first pillow house. 

Aegon shook his head. 

“Focus on me,” you said as if sensing his thoughts. You tore his hands from your breasts and held them above his head again. It brought him back to you, and he gulped. He thought he might have felt small with the way you loomed over him, but he found that he did not. 

Fighting against the whirlwind of pleasure was a losing battle, and the hand you laid flat against the side of his face was his undoing. He burrowed his face in the crook of your neck as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. It’s not a quick affair. He feels as if there’s no end to the white hot pleasure that shot through him. You didn’t stop your movements, instead you slowed down until you rose and fell in slow languid strokes. 

Aegon’s eyes burnt. 

“Did you finish?” He asked whilst panting when he didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore. 

You looked as if you were glowing, like the mother unveiled smiling down at him. 

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” 

“Fuck.” He let his head fall back. “You didn’t. Fuck. Give me a moment and I’ll-”

“Nay, Aegon.” You laid beside him. He felt empty as he slid out of you.

Not close enough, the voices started again. 

“There will be other nights.” You soothed his bruised ego. 

“You truly are the oddest whore I’ve had the pleasure of fucking.”

You laughed. 

Aegon moved closer to you, though his skin crawled as the sheets below his sweaty skin seemed to tear at his skin. He pressed himself into you, resting his head almost tentatively on your chest. It felt good, he realized. And safe. Aegon melted into your embrace as you reached over to play with his hair. 

“So about that secret,” he glanced up at you, “what wine did you give my brother?”

“Myrish fire wine.” 

Aegon roared with laughter so loud that his chest ached. 

[bg-brainrot]

To Be Known (Astarion x GN!Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: Astarion reads a book and wonders what it means to be known.

Tags: Astarion's POV, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Comfort, Vampire Spawn Astarion, set in Act 3 but pre-Cazador, Astarion is Bad at Feelings,

A/N: Disclaimer up top: I'm not abandoning any of my other fic! Promise! Just trying to get over a tough month and get back into the swing of things :'D

Also, based on the quote: “To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved is like being loved by God.” (disclaimer: I’m not religious, and I know this quote comes in a few different forms, but google told me about this version so I stuck to it.)

Word count: ~2.1k

“To be fully known and truly loved is as if you are loved by the gods,” Astarion reads aloud, to no one in particular.

A silence follows, wherein his mind repeats the words he’s just read, absorbing none of them. To be fully known and truly loved… The words don’t seem to stick. 

Finally deciding that the sentence isn’t worth his effort, he tosses the book onto his bedroll with a groan. “What rubbish.”

Outside of this author's haughty approach to prose, Astarion doesn’t particularly care to think too deeply about what it means to be loved– especially by any godsforsaken deities. 

He has only just come around to the idea of love, not that he’s said the word ‘love’ to you just yet. It felt too much, too heavy a word to carry considering all of the other burdens the two of you bore between you. But the idea of it? Well, he was warming up to it. And with every moment shared between you, he believes he may be warming up all the more.

But what does being known have to do with love? No, that concept has him pulling his brows together, getting up from his bedroll and putting distance between himself and the drivel that Gale had recommended to him.

That’s what I get for listening to the damned wizard’s tastes, he thinks, shaking his head slightly. Some philosophical prattle, just as verbose as he is.

But even as he stands, brushes himself off, shoves the book away to the furthest corner of his tent before he makes to leave, the question of being known never escapes him.

What does it even mean to be known? he wonders, now lost in thought as he emerges from his tent. How could anyone know me, after all I’ve been through… do I even know who I am anymore?

The idea hangs over him, trails him like a storm cloud as he begins stalking about the camp you’ve all set up in the outskirts of Rivington. He’s not sure where his feet are leading him other than away– away from the distasteful book, away from away from your knowing gaze, which would only pry his thoughts out of him.

Much to Astarion’s disappointment, the trail he takes doesn’t stop the winding path his thoughts have taken.

Have I ever been known? he wonders, vaguely registering the breeze in his hair and the distant sounds of running water as he travels further and further from camp.

Perhaps I was once upon a time, but I could hardly be expected to remember now, could I? The thought is bitter and unwelcome, though likely true. He brusquely swats a branch out of his way and continues into a bramble unrepentantly. Gods, how can he bring himself to care about something as trifling as nature when he’s quite busily lost in thought right now, thank-you-very-much.

Astarion releases a sigh as he finally fights his way into a copse of trees. Secluded, finally. 

Alone. 

With his thoughts.

Which won’t seem to quiet despite the soft chittering of small animals, nor the sickly sweet smell of flowers in the air.

Why are some pitiful poet’s ‘words of wisdom’ even bothering me? he thinks as he lowers himself onto the trunk of a fallen tree. What’s even the use in being known?

Astarion crosses his legs in front of him, watching with narrowed eyes as his boots press into the soft grass, crushing it easily. There is no use to being known, he decides as he presses harder with one foot and the grass is further flattened. To wish that is…

His foot twists down even more firmly.

Pathetic, Astarion thinks, lifting his boot back up to see his handiwork. The grass lies flat, thoroughly smashed by him. This world is simply about being the one who tramples, and not the one being trampled.

That thought oddly comforts him. He knows the push and pull of power well enough– this dynamic is second nature to him. Like an old, threadbare blanket, it wraps around his shoulders, providing no warmth, but plenty of familiar reassurance.

It’s moments later that the blanket is wrenched from him and he’s laid bare once more, under the startling sunlight of your attention.

“Astarion?”

Your voice pierces through his thoughts, and his instinctual answering emotions are new to him. Surprise. Elation. Relief.

The vampire had been utterly unprepared to hear your voice, convinced he’d found a spot away from you all. Convinced that you wouldn’t be here with your thoughtful gaze– not now, while he’s still busy sorting through a myriad of questions. But he still can’t deny the way he welcomes your presence. 

He suspects that your perceptive gaze can easily catch that, despite the way his shoulder’s tense and the way his head turns away, his ears still tilt back toward you, ready for your next words.

“Astarion, there you are,” you say. He hears the same emotions he feels in your voice. How odd it feels to be mirrored by you. He can’t deny enjoying that either. “What’s the matter? When I couldn’t find you around camp, I thought the worst might have happened."

The man scoffs, trying his best to sound unaffected by your sudden arrival, refusing to meet your inquiring gaze. “And what, pray tell, did you assume could have happened?”

“We’re practically at the Gate, Astarion. Anything could have happened. Need I remind you what happened to Dribbles?” you respond, voice tight with worry. 

Ah yes. The dead clown. “It will take more than a shapeshifter to take me out, darling,” he retorts, still refusing to turn toward you, now dutifully inspecting his nails.

You let out a small huff of disapproval. “And what about Cazador?”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Astarion replies, though the thought of being caught unawares by Cazador bristles at him. If he did get caught, it would be entirely Gale’s fault for lending him that book… He shakes his head of white curls and continues, “Besides, I barely got more than a few dozen yards away before you came chasing after me. I could hardly be in any real danger.”

When you sigh, he finally turns to face you. The expression you give him then isn’t frustration, nor anger– it’s an unusual mixture of worry and… joy? “I couldn’t help but chase. Would it be pathetic to say that I miss you when you’re gone for too long?” you respond.

He’s not sure he has an answer to that.

Especially when he feels pathetic for how light his undead heart feels at the statement.

Astarion drops his head, avoiding your gaze, and hoping you don’t catch the startled happiness on his face.

When it’s clear he doesn’t have a response for you, you change the subject as you close the distance between you, “So, what brought you out here?”

“Nothing,” he replies, too easily. You know it’s a lie. He knows that you know it.

“Nothing, eh?” you ask, finding a seat next to him on the fallen tree. “What about that nothing has you running into the woods?”

“I was not running,” he defends, with a click of his tongue. “I was taking a brisk stroll.”

“Fine then,” you relent, elbowing his arm gently. “What about it led to a ‘brisk stroll’?”

There’s no use hiding from them, is there? he thinks, leaning back on the trunk. “I’ll tell you,” he begins, staring out into a bush. “But only if you answer a question for me.”

“Anything,” you say, and he can feel your shrug on his arm.

“Who am I, really?”

You still. Astarion had expected no less. After all, it’s not an easy question to answer– even for him. He’s putting quite a lot of undue pressure onto you with the question, it’s selfish really… but he can’t help but want to be selfish around you.

So he lets the question settle into the silence.

When you finally speak, your voice is crisp in the muted sounds of the clearing. “Promise you won’t care for me any less after I answer you?”

Astarion snaps his head back at you, his mouth turning down in a frown. “Well that depends, my dear. What are you planning to say?”

“Promise?” you press.

As if he could care any less for you– he would have done so already if he could. “I promise,” he murmurs reluctantly. “Now, please, the suspense is really too much.”

“You are Astarion,” you start, reaching out for his hand. He cautiously places his in yours, unable to hide the twitch of a smile as your warm fingers lock with his. “You’re a beautiful, elven vampire, with silver hair, and red eyes. You’re talented, witty, and…”

Your voice trails off, and Astarion can’t help but wonder why you’d been so hesitant to answer. So far, he is loving this answer.

“And you’re an absolute arse at times.”

“Excuse me?” he gasps, moving to pull his hand out of yours.

You don’t release it, but you do continue, “You laugh at the misfortune of others, you steal, you lie, you cheat at games, you can be incredibly selfish.”

“Darling, are we certain you care about me after all this?” he grumbles, giving up on fighting your grip on him as your words wash over him. He knows all of this, of course, has been entirely unashamed of it all before… but it feels different when you say it. When you lay it out plainly before him.

“Yes,” you answer quickly, tugging on his hand gently. “Because all of that makes you you. And, personally, I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

He blinks at you, confused on how you arrived at this conclusion.

“You are so unabashedly you, love. And I adore that. I know it might not feel like it after all you’ve been through… but you are still yourself. No one has been able to take that from you.”

Now Astarion stares at your intertwined hands, wondering if he deserves such impassioned, absurd words said in his defense. His voice comes quietly when he asks his next questions, “And how do I know that’s who I have always been? Who I was meant to be?”

You bring his hand up to your lips, pressing a soft, warm kiss before you continue, “Astarion, I don’t know what might have bothered you, but I want you to know that, no matter what it was, you’re amazing as the man you are. Whoever you were, whoever you think you were meant to be, you should be proud of who you are now. And… once we deal with Cazador, I hope you have the chance to rediscover that man.”

Astarion hadn’t meant this to be some kind of journey of self-discovery– really, he’d only been irked by the needless philosophy of the book Gale had lent him. But, hearing you say those words, it feels as if some weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

Worry, he realizes. Of losing who he was, of course, but also of being utterly, desolately unknown. Naturally he needn’t have worried because here you are, ready and willing to understand him. To accept and care for him, even while knowing him, flaws and all.

Maybe being known wasn’t such a burden. Not if it were by you.

“Yes, well,” he begins, suddenly unsure what to say to your earnest words. “Thank you for that, I think. Though, really, I could have done without all of the barbs. It feels like I've been struck by psychic damage.” Astarion gives a dramatic head loll, averting his flustered face.

You laugh and squeeze his hand. “Well, it’s a good thing I have no clue how to deal psychic damage, but I’ll be sure to get Gale right over if you need a good jostle to the brain.”

Gale’s done enough of that, Astarion thinks. But he doesn’t say so to you. Instead, the man simply shakes his head. “I’m quite alright. Speaking of the rest of those fools, they’ve likely begun to burn the camp down without us. Shall we head back?”

While the trek to the clearing had been filled with spiraling thoughts and matters of the self, Astarion finds that the journey back is filled with far more soft touches and kisses– Not that he minds.

In fact, he thinks with a smile, as you both walk together, practically falling into each others’ arms. Maybe this was who I was meant to be all along.

That night, once he’s settled back into his tent for bed, Astarion reads the passage once more, “To be fully known and truly loved is as if you are loved by the gods.”

Astarion is certainly no closer to believing in the gods’ willingness or ability to love him, but he could hardly care. No, he suspects that he knows what a god’s love is– after all, if you truly love him, fangs, scars, and all… well, that may very well be divine.

[quaranmine]

Obviously I can't be sure that AdieCraft is going to join Hermitcraft--nor can I even be 100% sure if Skizz, enough though I feel like there is strong evidence toward him joining. But as a general warning to everyone, do not get Too set on anyone in particular you like joining. I know tons of people want Joel, Lizzie, Fwhip, Jimmy, Marytn, Hbomb, etc and other large creators that are already closely associated with hermits. I have seen tons of theorization and speculation on them, they're definitely the most popular choices. But be prepared for that not happening, and be prepared to hype someone else up even if they're a small CC you've never heard of.

Everybody on my AdieCraft theory post from earlier has been nothing but nice about the possibility of him joining ofc, I just have a vague sense of worry when I see just how Sure some people on here are about other CCs. I just want people to be ready for the possibility they're wrong and ready to accept whoever the lucky person is! AKA feel free to theorize whoever you want but avoid getting your hopes up so much that you'll be disappointed or upset if the person you wanted doesn't join. That way we can welcome everyone <3

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hi , miss Raven

Their is something has been on my mind for while ;

In rook suitor suit vignette he Compose a flattering poem about Crowley

While Ace and Epel was talking about how rook would compliment anyone , rook insisted that he mean every word he say .

And there's this specific weird line

"if it weren't for your presence , I wouldn't be here"

Like what do you mean?????!!

Do you think this line is hinting at the fact that rook didn't join NRC via traditional way or he wasn't chosen by the dark mirror , since he is one of the light trio

Or To the fact that he transferred to another dorm smoothly without any problem?

For some reason I started suspecting rook recently 😭

The fact he was one of the reason vil overbloted by convincing him to watch neige performance and also he is the one who convinced vil to add Ace and deuce as part of VDC team while I thought lilia and cater was a better option

I would like to hear your opinion about it 👀

Ah, so if I'm understanding you correctly... You're theorizing that Rook might be an outside agent of some kind? One that Crowley intentionally brought into NRC to facilitate triggering overblots??

I’ll try to respond to one question at a time; hopefully this will make it easier to follow along! The post got quite long, so it's all below the cut~

Beginning with Rook’s poem, and, more specifically, “If it weren’t for your presence, I wouldn’t be here”. It’s funny that you mention this line, because when the vignette first came out (in JP; the terminology used is similar to “I would not exist/be here”), people interpreted it VERY literally. As in… “Rook is Crowley’s son because he literally could not be conceived without a father! They’re even both named after birds! They have to at least be blood related somehow!” Strange how in 2020, Crowley was suspected of being Rook’s father but now in 2024 Crowley’s being suspected of being Malleus’s father. The poor headmaster just can’t catch a break 😂

Personally, I don’t think that line is implying anything strange about Rook’s enrollment. As far as we know, he did not join NRC though any abnormal means, and nor did Silver. Of the “light trio” (a label that I must stress exists within the fandom but is not endorsed by TWST), only Kalim fits the bill. Kalim was originally homeschooled, but received an acceptance letter to NRC a month into the school year. Another month later, he transferred in. As far as we know, all students at NRC (save for Yuu and Grim) were chosen by the Mirror of Darkness, even the light trio. Again, I want to emphasize that TWST does not use “light trio” or a similar term to refer to or to characterize Kalim, Silverc and Rook. We’ve gotten no formal in-universe explanation as to why those three in particular have light cosmic magic instead of everyone else’s dark cosmic magic. (This is entirely separate from meta theories, which are out-of-universe explanations for why the “light trio” exists. The popular meta explanation is that it’s because Silver, Kalim, and Rook are not twisted from Disney villains but rather “good” characters like Aurora, the Sultan, and the Huntsman.)

On the subject of transferring dorms, the option is always on the table. We see mob students talk about transferring dorms as early as 1-14:

In 6-67 (part 20 with the Pomefiore group), Vil describes the transfer process as being tedious and involving a lot of “complicated paperwork and ceremonies”. Crowley also says the process is “burdensome” in 1-20, but this phrasing is quite vague and could mean any number of things. (Burdensome to whom, the staff or the students? Why exactly is it burdensome?) Overall, it seems like transferring dorms would take a long time and require various formalities, but not necessarily be full of problems.

As long as you’re dedicated and consistently complete what is asked of you to complete the process, transferring should be no issue. I don’t think it’s a given that you’d normally experience troubles in trying to transfer. It should be smooth by default (unless the student backs out, is uncooperative, and/or fails to complete the required steps). So following that logic, I don’t think the poem line is saying anything about Rook’s dorm transfer either.

While it’s true that Rook encourages Vil to watch Neige’s performance and advises that Vil pick Ace and Deuce for the VDC/SDC Tribe, I do not believe there was malicious intent behind these actions. It’s hinted throughout book 5 that Rook’s reasoning for doing these things was to help Vil recognize the value of his “beauty” is something he gains from himself, not from the approval of others.

This is most likely Rook’s motivation for suggesting Vil observe the competition or to consider freshmen for the team. It’s exposing Vil to the contentedness that can come with imperfection or not being at the very top, something Vil fails to recognize in himself until the end of book 5. Being as perceptive as he is, Rook would have realized that outright telling Vil the moral of the week would not sway his strong-willed friend’s mind. Thus, Rook devised a more roundabout plan and involved Yuu (who, at this point, has a reputation for settling dorm-wide disputes) and co. (unpolished and clumsy underclassmen that Vil could shape as well as potentially also learn from in a reciprocal manner). Maybe Lilia and Cater would have been more technically skilled, being members of a club band and all, but they wouldn’t have provided the same opportunity for growth that Yuu and Adeuce did.

Rook is someone who has always been portrayed as a supporter of Vil’s, a good friend and a trusted confidant. He does have a nefarious side and is 100% capable of deception (like the time in Endless Halloween Night when he quickened his heartbeat to convince Sebek he was also scared and therefore was not a traitor). However, I don’t think Rook would want to betray his friends by actively harming them and putting their lives in danger (both during book 5’s overblot and immediately after in book 6’s rescue mission); he truly cares for them and wants to see them happy and healthy. (One could argue he should have voted for NRC instead of RSA to help Vil achieve his dream instead of betraying him, but that’s another discussion entirely.)

There’s no reason why Rook would go out of his way to do innocuous things like helping Epel with his UM or imparting wisdom to Deuce unless he actually cared and wanted to see them develop. Beyond the scope of book 5, why would Rook do even more innocuous things like trying to make Epel feel welcome and assisting him with learning table manners? Why wouldn’t he go out of his way to provoke Vil more often? Did Crowley hypothetically have even all of these little details down and instruct Rook to do (or not do) these things??? It sounds too far-fetched to attach a hidden motive behind everything Rook says or does. It could be as simple as “he wants to be there to support his friends”.

Before we wrap up, I’d like to quickly touch on the suggestion that Silver and Kalim too were catalysts for Malleus and Jamil’s OBs, respectively. It’s true that they were, but I doubt Silver or Kalim were aware and did so intentionally. Both seemed genuinely ignorant as to the true stress that Malleus and Jamil were under, and Silver + Kalim do not present as toxic people who would want to inflame their friends’ negativity. Of course, there’s always the possibility that Puppet Master Crowley (™) is orchestrating everything from the shadows (but I’m not going to get into the “time loop to gather all the necessary information and learn what the correct choices are” theory here www). I just don’t think Rook is Crowley’s accomplice in all of this if the time loop + intention overblots theories overlap.

This is one of those instances where I see Rook as being very honest with his intentions and because of his… generally strange character (?), his peers and players alike still suspect there is a deeper meaning to his words. I interpret his poem as nothing more than waxing poetic to expressing gratitude to the one man that makes it possible for him to be at NRC as a student: Crowley. Rook states that he wanted to give an exemplary poem using a subject that both Ace and Epel were already familiar with, so he went with the headmaster. Furthermore, we know that Rook is able to witness many wonderful and beautiful things at NRC, as well as make meaningful relationships with interesting people like Vil. He would not be able to do any of these things were he not extended an invitation to NRC—and it is for this reason that it would make sense for him to genuinely be appreciative of Crowley.

Those are all my thoughts on this matter all for now ^^ Hope it was an interesting read!

[isogenderskitty]

it's so weird that we finally got a musical without any real romance yet you immediately need to ship the strong female lead who's happy on her own.

maybe something to think about

yeah ok let’s get into this! i understand where you’re coming from anon but i actually did have a more nuanced take on this i just hadn’t posted about yet so here it is

i really do appreciate the fact that they kept the nature of their relationship vague, and people can read it as romantic or platonic if they want. to me it read very flirty but i can see how others might not subscribe to that too!

plus it’s less of a “need” to do that and more the fact that shipping and romance are just what i happen to be passionate about?? and what i have the most fun with?? i’m not gonna Not Do the thing that’s most fun for me just because other people might not engage with the play the same way, that’s ludicrous.

also as if people immediately stop being able to be strong or their own people once they enter romantic relationships?? as if tadius would impede her in that?? her story is still about her becoming The Queen. i very much doubt that she would suddenly become “weaker” or less able to live her own life just because they were together, nor did i ever insinuate that

basically you can engage with it however you want anon and i agree that it’s important and worth celebrating that we have a play with a female lead where she doesn’t explicitly end up with anyone romantically!! that’s great and i really do love that!!

but also i just like romance and maybe it’s fine that that was the first very brief thing i said about the play on this one particular platform, because i never said it was my only feeling or thought about it 🙄

[niphix]

𓆩⟡ a thousand words i yearn to say, yet i remain silent. ⟡𓆪

﹒⪩ aki hayakawa.

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫ - now playing “watching the stars” // Øneheart

warning! all lowercase.

a hug.

…

that’s what he wants to ask of you. any form of intimacy whatsoever. 

your sparkling irises admire the starlit night sky, whilst aki’s own remain fixed on you. his gaze is unwavering and his thoughts are vague and far-off. little by little, his senses practically fade away along with any sense of awareness towards his surroundings. he can’t move nor speak. can’t feel anything other than the annoyingly nerve-wracking heat that spreads to each and every single fiber of his. cant hear anything other than his own racing heart. it’s as if it’s beating in his ear - given how torturously deafening it is. he cant look away nor focus on the rhetorical questions that fall from your lips every now and then, stating and solidifying your love for the ethereal display of almost other-wordly beauty that you behold above. 

“it’s gorgeous, isn’t it..?” 

you mumble with a small smile tugging at your lips as your unmoving gaze is filled with awe and admiration for the dreamy sky. 

oh how he wishes you’d look at him with those eyes.

despite your comment being nothing but a soft murmur, your voice cuts through and rings clearly in aki’s ears; like a wake-up call. contrary to all the other comments you’ve made, this one knocks aki back to reality; not for any particular reason.

his eyes widen in the slightest shortly before he tears his gaze away from you, subconsciously gritting his teeth behind his pursed lips as he regains all his senses again. his thoughts come running through his head at high speeds, overwhelming him with innumerable suggestions of what he should and wants to say. his mouth however, doesn’t cooperate. he struggles to form a coherent sentence in his head, that can convey his thoughts; his needs. when he finally does, the words only die down at his throat, becoming as meaningful as the void.

he never was good with words, and he never will be he supposes. therefore he can only cope with the frustration by sighing quietly, leaning his head back and bringing his cigarette up to his lips. the lips he wishes were on yours instead. 

maybe he can't bring himself to steal a hug, let alone a kiss, so perhaps he should just settle for appreciating the cozy nights like these that you share in comforting silence. those nights when power and denji are sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep like toddlers and you’d find yourself sitting beside aki, long past midnight on the balcony of his small apartment that was forced to house three more than it was made for due to makima’s command. 

with yet another sigh, aki closes his deep-blue eyes while trying to calm his agitated self. he’s far past the point of denying his feelings as his spiking heart rate and never-ending nervousness when it came to you deemed his earlier dismissed love for you very much real. 

his loose locks that are usually sat up in a tight, straight ponytail of sorts are now pushed back by his calloused hand running through his hair, before the strands fall back in place shortly after. 

he wants it to be your hand, though.

he wants you to stroke his hair lovingly, to hold him in your arms and never let him go, to reassure him that you’re his and always will be, to embrace him with the warmth he’s been longing for ever since he laid eyes on you and your damn smile that he’s so hopelessly smitten by. 

his indifference no longer exists around you. you make him forget all about his vows he made with himself. the vows to not grow attached. the vows to completely abandon the mere concept of getting close to anyone in his line of work. everyone around him are practically dead men walking; so why does he feel his heart skipping a beat when he feels the sensation of your cold fingers atop his blazing hand? why does his skin burn up so much more than it already did? why does he feel his insides bloom with a feeling that he had promised to seal away and never feel course through his veins? 

love. oh what you do to him.

“a penny for your thoughts?” 

you smile softly, waiting for a reply without sparing him a glance. in an instance, his throat goes dry. all you’re met with is silence, he can’t bring himself to speak. his lips part but his mind houses nothing but head-splitting chaos. he wants to be honest. he wants to break down his walls of fear, of nervousness and all the feelings that spiral up in his head as soon as he comes in a 10 meter radius of you. he wants to tell you that you occupy his thoughts more than he’d like to even admit to himself. he wants to break free from his thorns that wound him deeply and render him unable to express his undying love and yearning for you. 

“nothing special.”

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

[nostalgebraist]

declare

Read Declare by Tim Powers recently.

It had some really good individual bits, and was well-written throughout, but overall I found it kind of a slog.

Partly that was just due to pacing, or me not quite being in the target audience, or other similarly ordinary and boring reasons. But, on reflection, I think a lot of my troubles with the book come down to one big, uncommon flaw it had -- which is my reason for writing this post.

----

Declare is a hybrid fantasy/spy novel.

The spy stuff, which comprises most of the book by mass, is drawn from real history -- in particular, from the life of real Soviet spy Kim Philby -- and strives to be consistent with all particulars of that real history that are publicly known.

The book is a "secret history" as opposed to an "alternate history," intended to produce the impression: "for all we know, this really could have been what happened." It sticks to the historical record about the kind of matters that make it into said record, and only invents things in the blank spaces in between them.

As Powers put it:

I made it an ironclad rule that I could not change or disregard any of the recorded facts, nor rearrange any days of the calendar – and then I tried to figure out what momentous but unrecorded fact could explain them all.

You'll note that I'm being vague about what "the fantasy elements" are.

I'm doing that on purpose. Revealing much about their nature would be the kind of spoiler that actually spoils, because one of Declare's virtues -- and I really did admire this -- is the way it makes its fantastical secrets feel really secret. Like a secret doctrine, a mystery cult, an epistemic Rubicon that one does not cross lightly.

They are talked about elliptically, even among initiates (and Powers makes this feel naturalistic, not like cheap and pointless reader-teasing evasion). Before you know much else about these "fantasy elements," you know that encounters with them have a tendency to leave people scarred, broken, changed -- and disinclined to say much about what they saw.

The early chapters of the book almost feel like the opening of a "mundane" spy novel. Except they are dotted with stray glimpses, from odd angles, of... something else. Something that is clearly one single thing, with a coherent shape, only you cannot make out in full what that shape is. Something that feels, authentically, like it was not meant for your innocent eyes.

It's all very effective. Really great stuff.

But then, at least by the halfway mark if not earlier, the reader catches up with the characters. The shape of the thing comes into focus. You get what the deal is, insofar as anyone does, and insofar as there is a "deal" to get. The nature, if not the logic, of the hidden world is laid bare.

"The nature, if not the logic": this is the book's fundamental flaw. The fantasy elements of Declare eventually land in a worst-of-all-worlds no-man's-land between mystique and mechanism.

They are explained to the reader just enough that they lose their glamour; what initially feels like the mystic doctrine of a lost gospel, or the forbidden fruit of a Lovecraft story, ends up feeling more like a collection of "lore" passages accompanying tables of numbers in an RPG rulebook. Yet they are not explained enough that they make sense, the way a law-bound "magic system" makes sense; despite Powers' ambitions, they never quite become capable of explaining anything else.

To put the point a little differently, and set things up for my next one: Declare mixes together two ingredients which, on their own, are perfectly fine -- indeed, actively good -- but which absolutely cannot go together. Namely:

Mysterious, supernatural forces that feel properly mysterious, numinous, not quite bound by "our" human logic and thus fundamentally beyond our ken.

A secret-history version of bizarre and partially unknown real-world events, which supplies explanations for the weird parts and fills in the tantalizing gaps.

Why do historical mysteries draw our interest? It is not just that there is something we don't know. There are a lot of things we don't know, about history, and mostly they don't trouble us.

But there are some questions for which it does not seem possible to imagine an uninteresting answer.

When a real historical figure behaves in some bizarre manner -- as the real-world Kim Philby frequently did -- we know that, whatever cause moved them to do so, it must be outlandish in a way that matches its effect. When people act strangely, they do so for strange reasons. That is roughly what "acting strangely" means.

But! Once you allow "ineffable, partly unpredictable magic" to be a cause with effects, the link between interesting events and interesting causes is broken. You can now invent explanations which are less interesting than any real-world one could possibly be.

You can survey the historical record, note down all the intriguing gaps, and then sculpt an infinitely pliable magical putty into the precise shape of each gap, so as to fill it. These fillings do not have the shape of real things; they are made retrospectively, and modeled after the patterned obstructions marring our view, rather than the real patterns which are being obstructed. They do not have spiraling implications, as real things do; they plug the gaps they were made for, and do nothing else.

Human behavior has human causes, and human causes are frequently interesting, to us humans.

It is usually a virtue, in fictional depictions of magic, for that magic to feel nonhuman.

But it ceases to be a virtue when that magic goes on to become a substitute for the real human causes of real events. It provides answers to all our questions, at the cost of removing the reason we imagined we might want to possess those answers.

"Why on earth," you ask me, "did this bizarre historical event happen the way it did?"

And I respond: "a wizard did it."

You protest that this is not an explanation at all. You profess to be just as confused as you were at the outset.

You say, in exasperation: "it can't just be that. There has to be something more. Why did the wizard do it? Is it... the sort of thing that wizards do? Is there a 'sort of thing that wizards do'?"

In real life, you'd have a point. In real life, for every X, there is a sort of thing that Xs do.

But not for wizards. Remember #1 above? Wizards are beyond your ken. Perhaps there is "sort of thing they do," but if so, it is too subtle for your dull, unmagical brain.

Which is to say: they can do whatever the author, or the plot -- or the gaps in the historical record -- need them to do on any given occasion. And then they go back into their box again, until they need to be retrieved, in order to do something else entirely.

And worse: although the introduction of the wizard does not leave you any less puzzled, it frees you from caring that you are puzzled.

There is no longer the unscratched itch of an unsolved mystery about human behavior. You are not confused about a person, anymore, but about magic. And it is perfectly clear that you are never, ever going to understand magic. Your confusion is now expected, predictable. Everything is properly in order, as you can now see. You are free to go.

And yet somehow, you find, the book is not over. It will not be over for a while yet. You have other confusions, you see, which have not yet been stripped of their human interest and robbed of their allure.

(Not everything in Declare is like this, to be clear. I may be making too much of a few sore points in the plot, I guess. Still, there's no denying that I found the later parts of the book tedious, and this is at-least-sort-of why.)

[rotworld]

9: Good Neighbors

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

a cosmic freak accident sends you to bivium, a parallel world of imitation. being stuck here for the foreseeable future is distressing, but you're in luck! your neighbors have been keeping an eye on you since you arrived and they know just how to cheer you up.

->original work. basically explicit; contains non-con, surreal sex, environmental gore, threesome.

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“Ah, splendid. Still alive,” the Chief Inductioner says. You take a seat across from his desk reluctantly. You hate this dark, creepy office, barely lit and bathed in dull crimson like a photography darkroom. You can’t shake the feeling that everything in here is alive somehow. That you’re inside something, seated precariously in the redness of a mouth or esophageal tube. The walls seem to pulsate, spongy and shining with slickness in places. It’s probably just the shadows playing tricks on your eyes, but it might not be.

The Chief Inductioner is a solid black stripe against the red glow behind him, an enormous fish tank full of strange, spiny shapes darting back and forth. He’s mostly a silhouette, just the vague suggestion of a man in a suit, but you can see his mask with unnatural clarity. It’s the smiling one, painted arches for closed eyes and thin lips stretched in a cheerful curve. Gloved hands clasped together atop a scattered pile of paperwork, he sits straight-backed and frighteningly tall.

“I was wondering about my transfer request,” you say. “And why it’s taking so long.” 

You sit in silence for an unbearably long time. The Chief Inductioner neither speaks nor moves, sitting perfectly still. Something slithers along the bottom of the tank. You don’t see a head or tail, just coils that seem to wind around forever. A wall clock ticks to no particular rhythm. You glance around the room nervously, wondering if you should say something to break the silence. 

“Yes. Of course,” he says finally. He changed his mask somehow when you weren’t looking. The expression is subdued and contemplative. “Naturally, you have questions about this, being an incidental arrival.” 

‘Incidental arrival’ is just a fancy way of saying you didn’t choose to come here. You struggle with the idea that anyone would. “Right. So. How long should I expect it to take? Because it’s been almost a week now, and—”

“It’s no simple matter,” the Chief Inductioner assures you. He stands up, which isn’t good, because that means he’s about to start rambling and you really don’t want to be here any longer than you have to be. He paces back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “Think of fluid displacement. When an object is submerged in water, the water does not simply cease to be. It must move and occupy a new space to make room for what has just arrived. Transpositional events follow a similar logic. There is an inviolable balance at play, even for us.” He pauses, regarding you with a wide-eyed, curious mask. “Remind me, what were the circumstances of your arrival?” 

You frown tightly. You’d rather not think about it. “It was a dresser,” you say. That’s how it started; a tall chest of drawers in your room. One night, you noticed it was slightly further from the wall than it was supposed to be. It might’ve been gradual. It might’ve inched forward, day after day, until you noticed. It’s the kind of thing that makes you stop and stare and wonder a little, but you weren’t alarmed. Maybe it’d always been there. Maybe it got bumped somehow. After that, it started happening in the kitchen. You were missing some utensils. You had extras, things you’d never bought. A chair was the wrong color. 

Little things, one after another. Until, one day, you went to leave and you didn’t recognize anything outside.

“Ah, yes, that’s right! Quite the unusual case. Partial transposition of an apartment complex.”

You shift nervously in your seat. Did the heat just kick on, or is something breathing down your neck? Something large and tentacled presses up against the glass with its limbs splayed out and squirming, like it’s trying to taste you. “We already went over all of this,” you say. “I just want to go home.” 

The Chief Inductioner shakes his head. “Regrettably, you cannot. Not yet, anyway. It would be unbalanced. When your apartment came here, a similar apartment building necessarily replaced it—or at least replaced the parts that were transpositioned. I’m afraid your transfer is linked to the transfer of twenty-four individual apartment units, several hallways, and forty other inhabitants…” He pauses, leaning over his desk to examine one of the papers. “Pardon me, twenty-nine. Decedents are exempt. In any case, all of the individual forms have been processed and accepted. All we can do now is wait.”

“Is there anywhere else I could stay while I wait?” you ask.

“Anywhere else?” he echoes, tilting his head. The smiling mask is back again. “I don’t see why that would be necessary. You were very fortunate, your living quarters were transpositioned with you.”

“They were, but—”

“Doubly fortunate, considering the transpositioned units ended up in an apartment building. You’ve kept some of your old neighbors, but you have so many new ones! Have you tried introducing yourself?”

“That’s kind of the problem,” you insist. “My neighbors are—”

“I know humans are skittish. But many of us are willing to be accommodating. I’m sure your neighbors have even gone to the trouble of wearing masks.” He’s not listening. The Chief Inductioner goes on and on about traditional hospitality and rituals of welcoming. You never manage to get a word in, so eventually you give up. You tell him you’ll come back if you need anything and march out of the Department of Awareness offices feeling worse than when you entered. 

Nothing is quite as it should be. The sky is orange. The trees grow upside down, a tangle of roots stretching skyward while a mass of half-buried leaves rustles at the base of the trunk. Every now and then, some shambling, lurching thing will creep out of the darkness between buildings, its shape condensing into something more human the closer it gets. “Human? Human,” they call, their voices sickeningly sweet. “Come here. You can trust me. Let me see you. I just want to see a little closer.” You walk quickly and keep your head down. 

They call this place Bivium, the almost-world of almost-beings. Everything here is flexible and protean, indecisive about its own nature. Things like you—solid things, certain things, irresistibly alluring real things—are highly coveted in ways the human body is not meant to endure. Staying out of sight is your best bet so your apartment is the safest place for you to be.

At least, it was. 

You enter the building with some trepidation. In the lobby, the walls are bleeding. Darker, coagulated blood and bits of hair stick out of the mailboxes clustered in the wall. The Chief Inductor told you that some of this is your apartment complex, and some of this is the Bivium pretending to be one. It knows there were potted plants by the elevator, but the pot and the plant are a single, pulsating entity that throbs and oozes mucus. It knows there should be light fixtures, but it’s made them enormous eyes instead. There is an extra door in the ceiling. One staircase goes up to the next floor while the other goes in circles and eventually spits you out in a park a few blocks away.

You keep peering around corners and checking behind you. Usually, nothing is there. A dog or something vaguely shaped like one trots down the hall, gradually melding with the floor. Blood oozes from under several doors on your floor and through the peepholes. Some of these units didn’t come from your world. They were already here and already occupied, creatures of the Bivium occasionally cracking open their doors to leer at you as you pass. They used to call out to you and try to beckon you closer, inviting you in for things that sounded like food, but most of them leave you alone now. 

Like the Chief Inductioner said, there are some natural laws and tendencies that even they follow. Balance, for one. “Always a bigger fish,” for two.

You let out the breath you were holding when you reach your door unassailed, but you won’t fully relax until you’re inside. You stay alert while fumbling with your keys. They weren’t in the lobby today, or at the end of the hall. Sometimes, they hang around right outside the Department of Awareness offices but they weren’t there, either. Maybe they got bored. You’ve been neatly avoiding them for days now by changing up your schedule and using different exits. You’re inside the second you get your door unlocked, shouldering through, locking it immediately. You’re so tired. All you want to do is collapse into bed and wait for all of this to be over. You take off your shoes, setting them next to the other two pairs—

Your heart skips a beat. Two pairs of identical sneakers that definitely don’t belong to you. 

It’s already too late. You hear a soft sigh behind you and it doesn’t matter that they couldn’t have been standing there before, that there was nowhere for them to hide. Things like that don’t matter in Bivium. You turn and they’re both standing there in their unsettling masks, trying and failing to conceal their excitement with nonchalant body language. 

“You’re back early,” Nihili says. The taller of the two, he wears a gray turtleneck sweater with discolored stains crusted to the ends of the sleeves, stringy black hair hanging limp over his shoulders. His mask is blank. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, just solid black and reflective so you can see your own discomfort in place of a face. 

“You look upset,” Nemo coos next to him. His mask is missing everything but eyes and it has too many, seven of them drawn crudely in an arc across the top. His hands fidget restlessly at his sides, his fingers unnaturally long. His hair keeps changing length and color, morphing from red to blond to blue. “Did things not go well with the Chief Inductioner?” 

“How did you get in here?” you ask, trying hard to sound firm instead of terrified. “You’re not supposed to—”

“We’ve been worried about you,” Nemo says, inching closer. “You’re spending so much time in here, all by yourself. That can’t be good for you. Humans are social creatures, aren’t they? It’s a shame that so many of the ones in this building are dying. There’s hardly anyone left to fulfill your needs.” You back away from him—and right into Nihili. That doesn’t make sense. They were both in front of you before, weren’t they? Nemo closes the gap quickly to trap you between them. “What are you going to do, you poor thing? All on your own like this,” he sighs, his hands settling on your hips and squeezing. “No one to talk to. Or hold you. Or do all of those other human things…”

Nihili touches you, too, and it’s so much worse. He strokes your spine and it feels like his hand sinks through your clothes and skin and muscle and bone, all the way into something that’s not meant to be touched. You make a scared sound and they both coo like you’re an animal that just did something adorable. “I guess we could do those things,” Nihili muses, trying to sound like he hasn’t already made up his mind. “We’re not humans, but we know a lot about them. We’ve been keeping an eye on you since you got here.” 

“Just in case,” Nemo says quickly. “You know, if you needed anything.”

“Mhm,” Nihili purrs. He strokes up and down your sides, making you shudder at his strange, invasive touch. “And we think you need something right now.” 

“I don’t,” you insist. 

“Really? You don’t?” Nemo cups his hand between your legs and squeezes, grinding his palm into your clothed sex. Alarmed, you try to wriggle out from between them, but Nihili wraps his arms around you to keep you still. Nihili’s hands aren’t like yours, or even like Nemo’s. You aren’t sure they’re really there. You think you see an outline. A photonegative. The too-bright inversion you see the second you squeeze your eyes shut, the memory of a hand. He chuckles at the way you squirm in his grasp and rolls his hips in a slow, testing motion. 

You make a humiliating sound. It feels like sex. Like he’s fucking you through both of your clothes somehow. Your fingers sink into Nemo’s colorful hoodie and it encourages him, makes him stroke you harder and faster. 

“It’s alright. You don’t have to lie.” Nihili leans in, the cool surface of his mask brushing against your cheek. He thrusts again, dry humping you at a slow, rolling pace that makes your legs buckle. “We know all about humans. They need to be told what to do. They need to be controlled. Isn’t it perfect, being between me and Nemo? Moving your hips into him, into me…just like we want you to.” 

You try to deny it but Nemo’s long fingers slip into your clothes and then he’s touching you, skin to skin, hard and relentless. His hand works against your sensitive flesh, slicked with your leaking arousal. “I’m glad we found you first,” he says. “You have no idea what somebody else would do with a cute little human like you. Probably eat you. Rip you open for a peek inside. Take your skin.” 

“A waste,” Nihili hisses. He holds your hips to keep you still while he ruts harder and you swear he’s deeper somehow. Not in your entrance, not in your flesh at all, but something deeper. Every thrust makes it harder to think. “We’ll use you properly. We’ll keep you. We can appreciate what we have.” 

“So don’t worry about anything, alright? We’ll fuck you and take care of you and tell you what to do. Everything a human needs.” Nemo knocks his mask against your face gently in an approximation of a kiss. Nihili does the same, the smooth black surface nuzzling into your neck. The things they do to you feel as uncomfortable as they do pleasurable, as comforting as it is violating.

Just like everything else about Bivium, it’s close but not quite human. They don’t climax but they stop when you do, all soft caresses and praise. Nemo’s too big, spider-like hand grasps your shoulder. Nihili’s penetrative touch seems to sink through your cheek to the muscle and bone beneath, fingertips curling affectionately against the delicate tissue of your brain.

You wonder if you’re ever going home.

[matttgirlies]

Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

heavy warnings - SA!!, vague mention of drug use - if any of these topics make you uncomfortable the scene involving SA will be outlined and please don’t feel the need to read it, please take care of yourself🩷

y/nn = your nickname for anyone confused

Chapter 3

Time had become my enemy. Matt was due to return to the States on March 1, 1960. I had only a few months left to spend as much time with him as I could.

Every minute I wasn’t with him, I thought of him. My life was now dominated by him and yet there were times when I would be disappointed by him. One evening he told me he would call and didn’t. When I finally heard from him the next day, he said, “Hi, Baby. Do you think you can come over tonight?”

“What happened last night? You were supposed to call.”

“I was? Oh shit.” He had been concentrating on his karate lesson and had forgotten.

I had to learn not to take his words to heart. It was disappointing, but it was just his way.

Matt’s calls usually came after seven to let me know that I’d be picked up around eight. I had to dress quickly, trying to find some way to appear older than my age. His father was concerned about Matt being with a minor. My clothes were all young and unsophisticated skirts and sweaters. At times I’d borrow my mother’s clothes and hope everyone would assume that I was at least sixteen.

As I got to know Matt, I learned that when he wasn’t at the base, he stayed at home all of the time. He had little choice. The moment he stepped out of the door there was a giant mob scene around him. Even going to see a local movie required elaborate planning. Someone would drive Matt’s car in front of the house. He would then run out, hurdle the fence, and duck into the car before any of his fans could start begging him for autographs. There were always crowds after him, calling, standing outside the house, literally charging at him when he entered any public place. Many evenings when Matt had early morning calls it was either David Jones, a friend who Matt had brought over from the States, or James Sturniolo who drove me to and from 18 Hauptstrasse.

One particular evening when neither David nor James was able to drive me home, Matt had a “friend” who was called Pete take me.

THIS SCENE INCLUDES SA!!

if this topic makes you uncomfortable please skip.

Pete was driving me from Matt’s home back to Wiesbaden. I was tired and dozing off. All of a sudden, I felt the road get bumpy. I opened my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You’ll find out,” he said, turning his head away.

We had driven off the highway onto a dirt road. I could see the lights of one distant house, and the rest was all blackness. I began to get frightened. “What’s going on?” I inquired, confused. By then Pete had stopped the car and shut off the ignition.

I repeated my question, but Pete didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and grabbed me, trying to kiss me. I pushed him away, struggling. He threw me down on the seat.

Panicked, I begged, “Don’t! Leave me alone!” I started fighting. I kicked one door open and opened the driver’s door with my hand while simultaneously banging the horn, hitting the lights, and scratching at his face. Out of frustration and fear of being caught, he finally gave up.

The rest of the way home, he never said a word. I just sat there sobbing, disbelieving, praying that I would get home safely.

END OF SCENE

Three days passed from that night before I heard from Matt. My parents knew something was wrong; however, I couldn’t tell them Pete tried to attack me because I would never be allowed to ride with him again. If I didn’t, how would I get to and from Matt’s if David and James weren’t available? My imagination ran wild. I was afraid to tell Matt because I thought Pete was his friend. I began to think that perhaps Matt knew what Pete had attempted. Maybe I was just a plaything to Matt, someone to pass around to Pete, or anyone else who wanted me. I was tortured by my thoughts.

Finally, Pete called and said Matt wanted to see me. I had no choice but to go with him.

During the drive to Bad Nauheim, Pete made no mention of what had transpired between us, and neither did I. I said nothing. I was very apprehensive being with him. I didn’t know, when he removed his hand from the steering wheel, if he was going to try to touch me, or just what was on his mind. I had no choice but to tell Matt.

That evening, when we were alone in his room, Matt asked me if anything was wrong.

My voice was trembling. I could hardly get the words out.

When I finally did tell him, Matt went crazy. “I’m going to kill him,” he shouted. He paced the floor, cursing Pete. I was his little girl, Matt said, and he had never gone all the way with me. Now this other guy, this so-called friend of his, had tried to rape me. I listened as he shouted, secretly relieved at his response. How could I ever have doubted Matt?

Matt was so angry, it took me the whole evening to calm him down. I finally convinced him that we had to keep Pete’s attack secret from my parents, or I’d never be allowed to come back. Matt held me tightly, as if trying to take the painful memory away. He felt guilty for having put me in such a dangerous position.

From that time on, Pete was fully excluded from Matt’s life. I don’t think Matt ever told him why, but Pete must have known. He rarely came around after that.

I began to realize that Matt expected total loyalty from his friends. If he was betrayed, he would just cut that person out of his life.

James was now sporting a neatly trimmed mustache that, according to Matt, Angela Stanley had encouraged him to grow. Mine and James’s conversations in the car were somewhat boring, and I always sensed he’d just as soon be doing something else, like spending the time with Angela, who sometimes accompanied him.

These days when I arrived at 18 Hauptstrasse I’d often find Matt upstairs studying the ancient art of karate with his instructor or downstairs in the living room proudly demonstrating new moves to his entourage, who stood about interested at his mastery of this newly popularized art form.

Matt also spent hours with a half-mad German masseur who had him convinced he could rejuvenate facial skin with his secret treatments, Matt having always been self conscious about some large pores on his face started to see him. Nate Doe ribbed Matt, saying, “What the hell’s he doing that’s so special? You look the same to me.” Defensively, Matt shot back, “Well damn! He says it’ll take some time before you see the results.” James interjected: “Time? Yeah, probably enough time to bankrupt us all by what he’s charging. I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could throw him.”

Always a center of activity at the house was Matt’s grandmother, who he nicknamed Dodger. Matt had come up with the name when he was a small boy of five and, during a temper tantrum, had thrown a baseball, missing her head by inches. Matt jokingly said, “She dodged out of the way so fast.” He started calling her Dodger from that moment.

Grandma took care of the household, did the cooking, kept everyone and everything under control. She had the air of a person with a firm purpose in life, which, in Matt’s case, was to make sure he was very well cared for. When I sought quiet while Matt practiced karate, Dodger’s room was a place to escape to. We’d sit for hours and she would tell me about the old days, about Mary Lou and her boundless love for Matt, about the grim struggle the Sturniolos had waged for survival. She had been with James and Mary Lou from the time of Matt’s birth, helping out when Mary Lou took jobs to contribute to the family’s support. A strong woman, Grandma had prevailed when her husband had walked out on her, leaving her with five children. She wanted you to believe she held a grudge against J. D. Sturniolo, but Dodger was a forgiving heart and I believe she still cared for him.

She helped raise Matt as if he were her own son, somewhat spoiling him as grandmothers do. She always rushed to his defence when she felt Mary Lou was too stern. Dodger said to me, “Mary Lou always called me Mrs. Sturniolo from the time I first met her until she breathed her last breath. One day Matt came running in and said, ‘Hi, Minnie!’ I felt so sorry for that young’un. Mary Lou rose up, took her hand to that boy, and said, ‘Don’t you ever call her by her first name. That’s disrespectful. She’s your grandma.’ He cried for an hour. I went in and said, ‘Son, it’ll be all right. She was just doing what she thought was right. Now you go in and apologize to her.’ Poor little boy looked at me with those blue eyes. So pitiful. Oh, she could be hard on him. He was a good boy, though. Never really got into any trouble, always came right home from school and did his chores. Yes, and Mary Lou would watch over him like a hawk, so scared he’d be hurt. He wanted so bad to play football at school.”

Grandma rocked back and forth in her chair, seeing something in the past that made her start picking at the bobby pins in her hair. She reached for her little box of snuff, took a dip, situated it just right, and then continued to reminisce. “Yes, he loved sports.”

“Then why didn’t he go out for any, Grandma?”

“Oh no. Mary Lou wouldn’t have that. She’d tell me, ‘Oh, Mrs. Sturniolo, I couldn’t stand it if Matt got hurt. It would kill me. I’ve watched how they play out there in those fields. They get real rough. I think they enjoy hurtin’ each other. Matt isn’t like that. He’d get out there and he’d be like a wounded bird in a pack of wild dogs. Not my young’un.’” Mary Lou’s constant effort to protect Matt, I learned, was the result of her anguish over the death of Matt’s twin brother Joseph Aaron Sturniolo.

I came to love Dodger and what she represented, compassion and total devotion to her family.

My biggest problem in those days was that Matt and I never seemed to have enough time alone. People were always dropping by, standing around the living room talking and laughing, until Matt came down from his room. As soon as he appeared, the room would become silent until he revealed his mood. No one, including myself, dared joke around unless he laughed and then we all laughed.

Because I had to share the little time I had with Matt with so many others, I began to feel jealous and possessive. It was only late in the evening, when we were in his bedroom, that I was truly happy.

We had a nightly ritual. At about ten or eleven, Matt would glance at me and look toward the stairs. Then, naively assuming that nobody knew where I was headed, I’d casually proceed to his bedroom, where I’d lie on his bed, impatiently waiting for him to appear. When he joined me, he’d lie as close to me as he could. “I love you,” I whispered. “Shhh,” he said as he put his fingers to my lips. “I don’t really understand what it is I’m feeling. I’ve grown to love you, y/nn. Dad keeps reminding me of your age and that it can’t be possible . . . When I go home . . . Only time will tell.”

Each night that I was with him he entrusted a little more of himself—his doubts, his secrets, and his frustrations. It was a lot to expect an impressionable fourteen year old to understand, but I tried. I felt his pain over his mother’s death. I ached over his desire to become a great actor like his idols Marlon Brando, James Dean, Karl Malden, and Rod Steiger. I was concerned about his fears that he might not regain the popularity he felt he’d lost by serving in the Army. And I reveled in his laughter when he asked, “What if one day I end up back driving a Crown Electric truck? Wouldn’t that be something?”

I was there for him, to listen, to hold his hand, or to make a funny face that would turn his frown into a smile.

Sometimes Matt would enter his bedroom in high spirits. I longed for those nights when he’d shut off the lights and lie close beside me.

“Sweetness,” he would say, putting his arms around me. “You’re so pretty, Honey.” And then we’d kiss long, deep, passionate kisses, and his caresses would leave me weak with desire.

Nights when his mood was calm and peaceful, he would describe his ideal woman and tell me how perfectly I fit this image.

He liked soft-spoken y/hc with y/ec eyes. He wanted to mold me to his opinions and preferences. Despite his reputation for being a rebel, he held the traditional view of relationships. A woman had her place, and it was the man who took the initiative.

Loyalty was very important to him, especially on the woman’s part. He constantly reminded me that his girl had to be completely constant. He admitted that he was concerned about Nicole. She was a Boston beauty queen and television personality. Matt said that lately her letters had become very impersonal, and he suspected she had been with another man.

Despite his moralizing, I feared Matt wasn’t always faithful to me. His bantering with some of the other girls at his house made me think that he might be intimately familiar with them.

One evening he was playing the piano for the regular group, plus a couple of English girls. When he picked up his guitar, he looked around, but couldn’t seem to find his pick.

“Anybody seen my guitar pick?” he asked.

One of the English girls looked up and smiled. “It’s upstairs on the night table next to your bed. I’ll get it.”

All eyes, including mine, zeroed in on her as she made her way up the stairs, aware that she was now the center of attention.

Furious at his obvious betrayal, I turned to him, but he was avoiding my gaze by looking down at his guitar, plucking it as if it needed tuning. Then he burst into “Lawdy, Miss Clawdy.”

Without a pick, his fingers must have hurt badly, but no matter what, he wasn’t about to put that guitar down. He knew he was in trouble.

After he’d finished a medley of songs, Matt excused himself and retreated into the kitchen, with me right behind him.

“Have you been with her?” I demanded.

“No,” Matt insisted.

“Then how did she know where your guitar pick and room were?”

“She was over one night, and I mentioned how dirty the place was,” he answered, a boyish grin on his face. “She offered to clean it, simple as that.”

Despite his declaration of innocence, I was not reassured. He was the sexual idol of millions and could choose whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I quickly learned, for my own survival, not to ask too many questions.

As the weeks passed, school became an unbearable chore. After getting to bed so late, I found it difficult to rise at seven and almost impossible to concentrate. But I knew that if I ever complained about being too tired, or was late for school, my parents would use the fact to put a stop to my seeing Matt.

My study habits became worse. I was failing algebra and German, and barely passing history and English. At the end of the fall semester, I altered the D-minus grade on my report card to a B-plus, praying my father would never consult the teacher. I kept telling myself that I would do better, that I’d catch up, but my concentration was totally on Matt.

One night when I went to see him, I fell asleep while waiting for him to finish his karate class. When he came downstairs and saw how exhausted I was, he asked, “y/n, how many hours of sleep are you getting?”

After a second, I said, “About four or five hours a night. But I’ll be fine,” I added quickly. “I’m just a little extra tired tonight because we had some tests at school today.”

Matt looked thoughtful, and then said, “Come upstairs a minute. I have something for you.” He led me up to his room, where he placed a handful of small white pills in the palm of my hand. “I want you to take these; they’ll help you stay awake during the day. Just take one when you feel a little drowsy, no more than one, though, or you’ll be doing handstands down the hallway.”

“What are they?” I asked.

“You don’t need to know what they are; they give them to us when we go on maneuvers. If I didn’t have them, I’d never make it through the day myself. But it’s okay, they’re safe,” he told me. “Put them away and don’t tell anyone you have them, and don’t take them every day. Just when you need a little more energy.”

Matt honestly thought he was doing me a favor by giving me the pills, and I’m sure the thought never entered his mind that they could be harmful to him or me.

I didn’t take the pills. I put them in a small box with various items I had started to collect, such as cigar holders and little personal notes he had given me, and hid the box in a drawer.

Later I learned that the pills were Dexedrine, which Matt had first discovered in the Army. A sergeant had given several men pills to help them stay awake while on guard duty. Matt, who was accustomed to living the life of an entertainer and who despised rising at dawn, began taking the pills to get him through the long dreary hours of Army life. He told me he’d begun taking sleeping pills shortly before he’d been drafted. He dreaded insomnia and feared sleepwalking, which had plagued him periodically since childhood.

In fact, as a boy, he’d once sleepwalked straight out of his apartment, dressed only in his underwear. A neighbor woke him, and, embarrassed, he ran back into the house. Another time, he nearly fell out of a window. Consequently, to avoid accidents, he slept with his parents until he was grown, and he feared his sleepwalking habit for the rest of his life. It was one of the reasons he usually had someone sleeping with him.

Years later, I learned that someone had been employed in Germany to watch over him throughout the night.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - i know this was a deeper chapter so for anyone who skipped it i promise its not very important to the story however Priscilla included this in her book so i thought i should share that too. 🎀

[dutchdread]

What response do you have to that one quote(I think it's from an ultimania) where it basically says: "Cloud has complex feelings for Aerith, he had a bond with her that was different from the one he had with Tifa."?

Obligatory "spoilers for rebirth" warning. I think that is very accurate. One of the problems with the LTD is that it tends to equate all types of love. In particular it pretends that all love is romantic. I think a good starting point for answering this question is to read my article "what is love, baby don't hurt me". And "Do I think Cloud had romantic feelings for Aerith? Plot twist: Yes" if you want a bit more nuanced take on what I think about Cloud and Aeriths relationship. I think after Rebirth we can stop pretending that Cloud isn't romantically in love with Tifa, he literally kissed her. People can pretend it's optional but that is missing the point of these scenes, which are intended to give insights into the nature of the relationships between these characters. Regardless of which date you actually unlock, if you maximize your affection for all the characters you will have a Cloud who, if asked to go with any of the characters, would react the way he does in the high-affection version of that date. That means that even in the universe where Aerith asks Cloud on a date, and he decides to comfort her by holding her hand, that SAME Cloud would have kissed Tifa had she been the one to ask him to go with her. These are not two time-lines, these are two "what-ifs" concerning the same person with the same emotions. Similarly, the same Cloud who kissed Tifa would have held Aeriths hand for her. The reason this matters is because clearly Cloud is not the type of person to cheat, this is not that sort of narrative. Nor is he the type of person who would engage in actions that he'd think are a betrayal of his feelings towards some other girl. If Cloud loves Tifa he would not do things with Aerith that he would see as a betrayal of those emotions. Similarly, if he loves Aerith he would not do things with Tifa that he would see as a betrayal of those emotions. We see this several times in the game in fact. Cloud isn't fond of Aerith typifying their Costa Del Sol "date" as "a date", and is very unhappy with Aerith doing something similar in Kalm. And yet Cloud does kiss Tifa, without guilt or hesitation. He tries it in Gongaga, he does it at the Golden Saucer, and he continuously tries to advance his relationship with Tifa throughout the game in general. So given that that's the case, why would he grab Aeriths hand at the Golden Saucer, and in the dream sequence? Answer: because he doesn't think that grabbing Aeriths hand is romantic in the sense that kissing Tifa is. Because these are not the same type of feelings as the romantic type that he has for Tifa, and are therefore not at odds. And what they actually are....is complex. I don't think anyone could really accurately jot down the precise nature of Clouds feelings regarding Aerith, since that is precisely the point. That is why the word "complex" is used in the first place. You have to remember that the situation here is unlike any that anyone would be well equipped to deal with, or has ever had to deal with. We have a Cloud who is not himself, and who has a host of traumas and struggles and very specific afflictions he's working through. Aerith is the person he's bodyguarding, she's a symbol of the planet, she's a friend, she's a cetra, she reminds him of his mother, she's the girlfriend of his best friend, the girlfriend of someone whose identity he has in a vague sense taken on, someone he's having visions off. He finds her annoying, but also likable. But most importantly she is someone who is helping him, and whom he is helping. (continued)

[gojonanami]

Uh? It’s CANON Gojo and geto saw each other as BROTHERS.

alright I’m gonna answer this now lmao — I think with fiction everyone is entitled to their own take on things but with gojo and geto I believe the two to be soulmates — whether it’s platonic or romantic —

I personally see it as romantic, but if you don’t that’s completely fine and I’m not here to force my opinion onto you — it was in the tags — you don’t like, don’t read it! That simple.

I mean I could explain to you why I see it as romantic —

gojo calls geto his “one and only,”

the button left behind when geto defects is his second button that gojo ends up with — the button often given in Japanese culture to romantic partners / interests,

gojo literally says, when he sees kenjaku in geto’s body, “I know in my soul you’re not suguru geto” even in the English dub they localized is as “in my heart and soul,”

to add to that, kenjaku’s whole plan hinged on gojo freaking out upon seeing geto’s body — gojo is someone who is always very calm — he only gets emotional when it comes to geto. literally itadori dies and megumi got taken over Sukuna and he stays completely calm (for the most part), nothing in comparison in his reactions to geto’s defection or kenjaku

geto’s body literally fights back against kenjaku when trying to hurt gojo — and kenjaku has been alive since the heian era at least, and he says he’s never seen that happen before — what that says about their connection is pretty clear cut in my opinion.

the whole theme of jjk 0 is that love is the most twisted curse of all — where did gojo learn that from? Obviously there’s more than one type of love — but this movie was focused on romantic love in particular (between yuta and rika) but also was reflecting on geto and gojo’s relationship

gojo’s last words to geto are allegedly three words according to the VAs and what else could they be? Other than the theme of the entire movie — “I love you???” and then Geto literally blushes in the manga and says, “at least you could have cursed me in the end” — which gojo kinda did.

there’s a whole bunch of other things I could analyze and I’m not here to debate with you or anyone else! it’s fiction — it’s up to us to interpret things that are vague. And you are entitled to your opinion — but what I don’t like is you telling me that my opinion is wrong when it’s not!

It’s vague in the manga for a reason. never did they call each other brothers, nor did they call each other lovers — all they said is that they were best friends. And a lot of people are best friends with their brothers but also a lot of lovers are best friends so

you are allowed to have your opinion friend, just don’t tell me mine is wrong — if you don’t like the ship, read the tag and don’t read the fic!

[cozymochi]

Do you have any advice on how to emulate the twist style? I'm genuinely struggling to wrap my head around it.

NOPE! I wish I did! Because! I’m not sure how to describe what I’m doing in the first place. I just kinda… go. (And anyone who has watched any drawing stream of mine can probably attest to that. Assuming anyone watched them actively, I doubt it sometimes.)

I was just formally taught how to draw what I see (this applies to real-life stuff too, it kinda goes hand in hand), and I just have a nasty lifelong habit regarding stuff I like. If it looks a certain way, I wanna draw it the same way or at least as close as I feasibly can get to it. 😩 This is like…. Years worth of somewhat unrelated knowledge + training just being applied to this goofy stuff. I draw wildly different art styles as a habit hobby.

For twst in particular, I’ve mentioned it elsewhere a couple times, but I did spend a good 2-ish years just trying to acclimate myself into training my hand to get used to how it works at all. It really is just… 80% staring at their model sheets or generic renders, and 20% me just… GOING!

I think people can easily tell when I’m not staring at a model sheet vs when I am lol. I do really like Toboso and her staffs artwork, and I’d like to get closer to understanding it, but there are things that she and her staff know how to do that I still don’t know how to accomplish. And those “things” are elements that I’m currently not able to identify in theory or in practice. Let alone articulate in words either if my meandering and vague way of talking about it is any indication lol. (Im not trying to be 1:1, that’s literally impossible for any human to do)

All I do is just look at it. A lot. I just try to draw what I see and go. Though, I’m sure that’s not exactly helpful or even practical “advice”, especially in just typing. Believe it or not I also can only wrap my head around it so much. And even then, I’m still not satisfied nor confident with where I’m at. Mostly due to my own limits. It’s not easy.

….

Then again I also don’t know how to explain or give “advice” on the fly on something that broad just in general. I wish I could be more useful with a more satisfying answer but, I’m not sure how I would. I wanna be helpful but I’m genuinely drawing a blank.

[oldtowrs]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘 an aemond targaryen / reader fanfic

pairing—aemond targaryen / f!reader

tags—friends to lovers, fluff, love confession, couples' first kiss, other fluffy happenings such as aemond removing his eyepatch and the reader immediately worships his skin in the form of kisses and praise, vague meaning of flowers references, reader’s looks or house not specified, no use of y/n.

warnings—mentions of aemond's trauma and the effects it had on him

word count—~3.6k

—aemond had always understood what it meant to be a prince and the duties that came with it. duty became such a big part of his life that he had come to terms with it, and even begun to look forward to some parts of it. but then when his eye is taken from him, all of aemond's musings are for naught and all his dreams are taken away - including his hope of being loved by his future wife, and loving her in return. or, at least that's true, until you come into his life.

author's note—yay first aemond fic!!! this was originally supposed to be a little concept, that turned into a blurb, that turned into a kind of shitty one shot, that turned into a full fledged fic that i am actually quite proud of. this is not my usual type of fic, nor does it read like it, but i think i really like the concept and how some of it turned out. plus, who doesn't like seeing happy, in-love aemond? i know i do ! enjoy xx

gif credit—♡

masterlist | inbox | requests and inbox open !

aemond understood duty and sacrifice earlier than most did. his mother had sacrificed endlessly for him and his siblings, and it was through her that aemond learned how to go about his duties with grace and honor. he watched as his brother wailed and rebelled against his own, including those of his birthright, and how he continued to hurt their beloved sister helaena, the people of king's landing — even the servants that brought him wine and dinner — in the process. and so, aemond learned the importance of doing his duty without complaint. he had learned that as a prince, he had more responsibilities and duties to perform than others his age -- for the sake of his father and mother, his family name, the throne, the realm -- and there was nothing that he, nor anyone, could do about it. it was just his lot, and yet, it was still much better than most.

there was one duty in particular that he had thought long and hard about, however - one that he had come to take great comfort in during even the worst of his family’s toils. he knew the day when he would have to be betrothed to another was not far off, and that one day he would have to marry some young lady, and do his duty to her and her family, as well as his own. and though he would most likely have no choice in the matter, he had decided that he would not perpetuate the same pains his father impressed upon his mother, his siblings, and even upon aemond himself.

nay, he would treat his lady with the gentle care and the tender love that she deserved, whoever she may be. he would provide for her needs and be there for those of his children -- so contrary to the way his father was with aemond and his siblings sired by his mother. and though he may not have a choice in the course of his own life or which lady would spend it by his side, there was a little lingering spark of hope in his chest that maybe one day, his lady - whoever she would end up being - would learn to love him the way he had already vowed to love her.

but then his eye had been taken from him, and everything changed. almost all marriage proposals and discussions of possible betrothals stopped. it was as if his partial blindness - forced upon him violently and against his will - would burden the honor and reputation of any future wife's family the moment her hand was given by promise of betrothal to him — aemond, the one-eyed prince.

his mother had attempted to comfort him throughout it, but aemond knew the truth of it. his disfigurement had maimed him, robbed him of a normal complexion and — according to the rumors that followed him in the form of whispers and jeers thrown at him by the court — any masculine beauty he may have grown into through the dwindling years of his youth as well. it became painfully and quickly obvious that the mishap with his nephews an cousins had cost aemond that love he would've fostered so loyally. and so, he quickly found himself buried beneath the depths of a lonely abyss, with only vhagar, himself, and a  fury burning unresolved in his heart to keep him company.

but then you had arrived at court, and aemond couldn’t remember when exactly it had happened, but he soon found absolute pleasure in your company. you were, in his eyes, the embodiment of the summer sun, of soft rose petals and sweet dornish perfume. and you seemed so devoted to showering him in unrelenting and constant kindness. you, with all your golden jewelry hanging about your perfect neck, and adorning the loving hands with which you always reached to comfort him. you, who matched his intellect of the histories, and admired his mastery of the sword. you, who seemed to look past his disfigurement, who - if anything - admired the strength he mustered every day to face the world and the woes it threw at him with poised grace and elegance. you, who saw not a monster, a maimed crippled, or a besotten little boy that had grown into a bitter man. but you, who saw him for his worth, for his loyal soul and kinder dispositions, who tended to the ashes of his heart until a fire burnt anew amongst the cold catacombs in its depths.

aemond loved trying to teach you little bits and pieces of high valyrian amongst the quiet rustling of the giant wierwood's red leaves as the late afternoon breezes blew through the godswood. he secretly revelled in the way you would lay your head upon his lap and let your curls tumble across his thighs and cascade down his knees, giggling and blushing at his teasing when you mispronounced words here and there. he would love the late nights spent with you in the heart of the archives, before the raging fireplace, reading stories of old valyria to each other in hushed tones. and it would be his turn to blush as your delicate fingers brushed the soft strands of silken silver out of his face as he read, solely because you had convinced him to let his hair down for the evening, mumbling all the while about how you "adored seeing his wonderful face". he would look forward to the walks with you in the gardens, where every turn and loop was taken until the two of you would lose yourselves in the rows of flowers and beneath the canopies of the trees - all for the sole purpose of obtaining a few more moments of quiet, uinterrupted companionship alone with each other. 

it would be on one of these walks together through the gardens that you give him a handwoven crown of eucalyptus, baby’s breath and the occasional dandelion, and insist upon calling him "my king” despite his protestations that a wandering ear might find your words treasonous. but you insisted, and aemond found that he couldn’t resist the smile that continually pulled at the corners of his mouth. his face ached from the constant pleasure you pulled from him again and again in hushed murmurs and gentle teasings, his heart would ache alongside his face everytime you smiled at him, cheeks rosy and painted in the golden afternoon sunlight. you tell him you’d commit a thousand acts of treason if it meant you got to see him smile the way he did then. and in the sweet silence that follows when he looks down at his hands resting upon the pommel of his sword that he finds the confession lingering in the depths of his heart — he would follow you into a thousand deaths if it meant you were always this sweet to him in every life in between. 

aemond loses himself as the afternoon goes on. he becomes lost in the way you wrap your gentle hands around his bicep when he offers you his arm, and press your cheek into his shoulder in the aftermath of the fit of laughter one of his jests causes, cheeks red and chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. it’s as though he can feel his darkened and bloodied soul entangling irreversibly with yours amongst the warm summer air and the sweet scent of the blooming flowers. 

and it was there, amongst the blooming hydrangeas that the two of you had ended up, so close that your hands, which lingered on his chest, served as the only source of space that remained between you and aemond. it was there, hidden amongst the blooming hydrangeas, that his hands had settled upon the small of your back, pulling you close as he tangled his lithe fingers into the silken ribbons lacing up the back of your bodice in an attempt to keep them from shaking. his lips would inch closer and closer to yours until aemond could feel the heat of your blush radiating from your loving cheeks, and aemond’s name would fall from your lips, hesitant and so uncharacteristically shy that he could feel his heart ache with every beat in his chest. 

aemond could scarcely remember the longing that had lingered in your irises as he hesitated, longing that hid itself behind flickering eyelids and long eyelashes as you closed both your eyes and closed whatever distance may have remained, your lips falling upon his own and ending the tension that threatened to snap aemond’s very heartstrings. 

but how could he remember what came before, when it was what followed that was a thousandfold sweeter and more memorable? 

absolute relief would wash over him when you don't shy from him or the passion that burnt like dragonfire in his heart, but rather met each stroke of his swelling, pink lips and dutiful tongue with your own as though your heart was perfectly attuned to his. he could only remember the absolute elation when you respond with soft, tender fervor, as you meet him over and over again, fingers pressing into his chest all the while, burning holes through his tunic, through his skin and musculature and blood, straight to his heart. aemond could only remember feeling surrounded by the hydrangeas, which spilled their scent so readily into the summer air, and your sweet perfume (the one so captivating that he was sure it had to be from the most expensive source in dorne) — the feeling of your love and affection, suddenly laid out in its entirety, for him and him alone, overwhelming him slowly. 

aemond is so lost in his absolute elation that he doesn’t even notice when your hand falls gently upon his scarred cheek so reverently that even his nerves sing a song of comfort rather than their usual wail of pain.

in fact, it is only when you finally pull away, and your fluttering lashes reveal a gentle shine of pleasure dancing about your eyes, that he realizes. aemond would go to pull away frantically, wishing he could make his disfigurement disappear. and so he makes to leave, the wreath of foliage and the love with which it was woven sitting forgotten about the crown of his head still. a familiar chant rang like an alarm through his mind, growing louder by the second: shame, shame, shame. it shut out all else, as the feeling railed into him over and over: SHAME. 

but before he could make his escape, a soft tug at his wrist pulled him back to reality, the warmth of your kind hands against his skin slipping beneath the hem of his sleeve until halting, just there, above his pulse point. all thoughts immediately dissipated into blissful silence and that shame which constantly plagued his ego seemed to evaporate, and the strong urge to forever ally himself to you taking its place with reckless abandon and without a thought given to self-preservation. 

"do not run from me,” you whispered, desperation clear in the buzzing summer air. “please, aemond."

and oh, how his heart aches at that -- the soft calling of his name from your sweet lips, spoken in reverent tones that you seemed to reserve for him and him alone. he looks back at you, downright heartbrokenness clouding his remaining violet iris as if bracing for the insult and the collection of his shattered heart in the aftermath. another realization would hit aemond then: he was irrevocably in love with you. and a word from you could do just that — shatter his being into a thousand wounded splinters with just a few carefully chosen words, whether those words spoke of kindness or worse, it did not matter.

but then that worry dissipated into relief, one which had begun to feel more and more familiar under your loving instruction, as your other hand tucked a strand of silver, pulled free by the heated nature of your engagements only moments prior, before falling once more to the curve of his strong jawline and nestled itself along the strong ridge of bone there. your fingers would tuck themselves against it just so and aemond would melt into the touch you always gave him so freely and so sweetly. your thumb would trace the scar which he finds so abborrent, absolute adoration lingering in your irises before you lean in until your lips were only inches away from his once more. 

“you are so beautiful, aemond,” you murmur, words so saccharine he is surprised he can’t taste their honeyed residue lingering upon his lips in the wake of your kisses only moments prior. “i only wish that you could see it.”

aemond can’t help but fixate on you  in that moment, your fluttering eyelashes, and the impossibly heated dusting of rose decorating the bridge of your nose, and the faint birthmarks and freckles that dotted your face revealed themselves to him by your closeness. its then he notices how your lips shine with the combination of him and you, and how your eyes travel from the accented dip of his cupid's bow, to his strong cheek bones, and finally to the leather patch that bisects the the craggy pink scar, hiding the worst of the injury from view. 

“especially here.”

tears well in his eye, stinging with the unspoken promise that his heart would always belong to you, from this treasured moment on.

“hmm, you flatter me, my sweet girl,” aemond hums, the words ache in his throat and upon his tongue as he speaks them, regretting the little ounce of betrayal that seems to seep like poison into his words — evidence of his heart still preparing for the worst. “but there are many more men of greater beauty than i, who are more deserving of your heart than i could ever be.”

“what are you saying?” you ask, hurt now entering the stage of your beautiful eyes, as they held his gaze with such devotion as if you wanted him to see the glimmer that turned dark and cloudy with confusion.“did you not-”

“i am saying that you have been my greatest delight, my brightest joy and my most beloved companion these past years,” aemond begins, heart aching so profusely at the hurt that begins to well up in his heart alongside the wetness in the corners of your dazzling eyes. “but you deserve more than i could ever give you. i am not worthy of you, and i could never hope to be.” 

"but aemond,” you begin to protest, only for him to tilt his head down to capture your lips once more, his desperation bitter upon your tongue as he presses his lips to yours with such fervor and such sadness. 

“you deserve someone as beautiful and as kindhearted as you, who can give you all that you could ever desire and-” 

aemond’s voice is hoarse at this point, as though his vocal chords were just as strained as his heart strings. tears of his own began to cloud his own vision, throat constricting under their weight as he tries and fails to swallow down the pain in his voice.

“show me,” you say in the wake of his pause, perfect lips pouted as you try in vain to hold back a sob. 

it is aemond’s turn to be confused then. why would you, sweet, beautiful and kind you, wish to not only waste your time with him in the gardens, sharing kisses that tore aemond’s soul into shreds of contrasting regret and elation, but to gaze upon his life’s greatest horror as well? why would you wish to expose yourself to such offending ugliness?

“i love you, aemond,” you say then, the same desperation straining your voice the way it had aemond’s mere seconds ago.“and i can't pretend that you don't occupy my every waking thought, that you do not fill my soul with undeniable and unwavering happiness. i can't pretend that your beauty doesn’t rivals that of the stars themselves. so just show me.”

your name falls from his lips, but it is a mere whisper upon his tongue. 

“it is not pretty.”

“aemond,” you say then, “please?”

aemond finds he cannot bare to see the heartbreak in your eyes for much longer, and so he bends to your whim for what was likely to be his last and final time. he pulls the leather patch from his eye with careful, deft movements that wouldn’t allow for any lingering hesitation, to reveal the sapphire gleaming in place of his other eye.

a short gasp fell from your lips then, followed by a shaky exhale that had the tears burning in the corners of aemond’s eyes finally blur what remained of his field of vision. his sharp mind worked desperately to recount and commit the feel of your lips moving upon his to memory, as aemond feared he would no longer be the subject of your time and affections now that you had truly seen him — all of him.

the feeling of the leather sliding against his fingertips as it fell through numb hands to the ground by his feet barely even registering, the pain in his heart too great. he didn’t even feel the usual relief of his long platinum and silver hair falling in silken curtains as you reached and released it from the little leather cord that kept his hair neat beneath the strap of his eyepatch.

"i love you. unequivocally, unfailingly and wholly so," you say finally, your thumb roving the taught skin of his scarred cheek with holy-like reverence. his single violet eye dared to meet yours then, and aemond could feel his heart skip a beat. tears had begun to fall down the sweet slope of your cheek, and yet you still held his gaze with unwavering softness.“do not tell me that you are undeserving of my attentions. i will decide who i deem worthy of my heart, and i swear to you, aemond targaryen: not one man in all of westeros and the free cities combined could ever be more deserving of it than you.”

a silence falls then, and you press a hasty kiss to his lips once more - petal soft lips nestling into the curve of petal soft lips, teeth clasing against teeth, love pouring into each other’s hearts. an upward quirk of your lip has aemond’s self-loathing surrendering under your tender hand, and the fall of it back into quivering sadness has him swearing — to the mother, the father, the stranger, whoever may have been watching over him in that moment — that he would never do such a profound disservice to your loving heart for as long as he should live.

"my king of my heart."

the endearment fell into what little air kept aemond at bay from you with such ease, and yet, here aemond was — a fool trying to convince himself that you did not love him, that you couldn’t possibly love someone such as himself, despite your every effort to lay the intentions of your heart bare before him to prove the extent of your love, true and sweet and wonderful, to him. 

oh, the seven damn him.

"darling," he managed to croak, the endearment falling from his mouth with more emotion than aemond had ever shown in his life, the weight of his love heavy on his tongue. 

aemond couldn’t help but envelope you wholly in a hug right then and there. his sturdy arms ensnared themselves with your being once more, hands finding the base of your skull and the supple curve of your hip, hidden to him by the curve of your luscious skirts, to gently pull you into him before he buried himself into the most passionate embrace he could possibly muster, as though it would make you see that passion and devotion that burnt like dragonfire in his soul for you and the love which he too held in his heart of hearts for you, and you alone..

and when he finally releases you, with tears of happiness gleaming in his violet eye, the sun shining in the sapphire of his other, and a heated blush dusting the paleness of his sharp, aquiline nose and accented cheekbones, he can't help but smile and huff a laugh through the constriction his tears held upon his throat. he brushes away the tears of your pain and your hurt with gentle thumbs before placing the first of many reverent kisses to your forehead as a final realization hit him — as though it were an enlightenment gifted to him by the seven themselves. 

he couldn’t remember the last time he had ever truly smiled for anyone but you. 

you - his girl of flowers and sunshine, his darling who had tended to the flames burning hot in his dragon veins for years despite his lack of acknowledgment, his lady of kindness and sweet, unbowing reverence, his beauty, his most beloved friend — smiled then, and aemond swore he saw the stars themselves shining in your gaze, shining all for him.

you.

"marry me," he pleads then, hands wholly enveloping your own as he gently takes them and places a kiss to the very fingers that had woven him a crown of pure intention, everlasting love and the strength and power of your heart. "please, my sweet girl, i have been such a fool, all these years, and i… i -”

“yes. yes, i know exactly,” you laughed breathlessly. “i thought you would never ask, my dearest love.”