#women proprietors | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoursweetheartsrevenge · 2 months ago

Text

When You Were Mine

Summary: You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter, the proprietor of one of the most frequented pleasure houses on the street of silk. On Prince Aemond’s thirteenth name day, you strike up a friendship that is everlasting, developing into something far more sweeter as you grow into adults.

Read on Ao3

Warnings: smut (p in v sex, oral- f receiving, female masturbation), mentions of sex work, loss of virginity, angst, talk of character death, MINORS DNI, 18+

Word Count: 8K+

Author’s Note: First time writing in second person. I always felt a little unsettled on how Aemond lost his virginity. This is a more tender take on it. This also got a little away from me, so the length is just a bonus. I may write again in this world if anyone is interested!

Dividers done by: @firefly-graphics

You are the daughter of the madam.

Everyone in the pleasure house has respected the presence of your tender life running about the house asking for sweets and spinning about in your silk dresses. You have many mothers here who dote on you. You are a prize, a little sweet prize pulled from your mother’s womb when she was just aging out of tending to the needs of the gentlemen in this place of pleasure..

Your mother makes sure you are in bed before anything truly lewd begins during the evening, but as the years weigh on she can not keep you still. You are too curious about the work she does. Of course she keeps you safe in her chambers. Her services have not been called on for many many years, whatever that is to mean.

You play alone at times, though the younger girls seem to be keen to keep you company between their little dances and performances. Your mother checks in on you making sure you are fed and well taken care of. That you have enough toys to play with or sheets to color on.

You are brushing your doll’s hair under your mother’s bed. Sometimes the candlelight is too bright and warm. Underneath the bed feels like a little cave for you to hide yourself.

The curtains flutter, you can see it from your cozy position. You can hear the soft music drift through. The curtains expose the darkness outside your mother’s room. Part of you wishes you could watch what happens outside these walls, but you know it isn’t safe.

She has said it is not safe.

The boots are heavy on the ground, dragging like the steps of boys. Your mother’s delicate laced up flat sandals also peak through, stopping steadily in the room.

“I shall return soon, my prince.” You can see her lean close to the black clad leather studded feet. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

The curtains flutter again as your mother’s quickened steps leave. You are left alone with the shifting boots and the prince attached to them. You lay on your stomach tucking the doll with pretty knotted hair close to your heart as if shielding her from the dirty feet. You try to control your breathing so as not to alert the boy who now is pacing back and forth at the side of the bed. He settles on the bed, close to you swinging his legs nearly hitting your forehead.

You give out a small whimper when he does make contact with your curious skin.

He stops.

He settles to the floor.

He looks under the bed lifting up every silken sheet.

He is a Targaryen prince.

He is the very definition in the stories the young women have told you when your mother is busy entertaining and you require a bedtime tale.

He has pale freckle peppered skin. His hair is a blinding white blonde that is nearly silver. You can see one eye, a lucid liquidly blue, but the other eye is covered with a brown leather eye patch.

This is Prince Aemond Targayen.

“What are you doing under here?” He demands in a voice most princely.

You are annoyed by how he is treating you in your home.

“What are you doing here?” You hiss with narrow eyes. You hold your doll closer.

Immediately you see him flush. His face reddens bright as the summer sun. He stammers, but can not seem to muster words that make sense. His grip on the sheets speaks for him.

He is nervous.

“Come under here. You can hide from her.” You say pulling at his shirt feeling only a little sorry for him.

He folds into the suggestion quite quickly.

You suspect he does not want to be here.

He perhaps would like to be anywhere else in the world.

The young Targayen prince shifts closer to you under the bed. His breath is hot and bothersome. It smells like cake, sweet strawberries and strong vanilla. It makes you wish you were a princess. They must get all sorts of sweet treats every day.

“I didn’t want to come. He made me. My brother.” He nearly pouts, tucking his hands under his head as he lays on his side looking at you. “Is the madam your mother?” You merely nod. “Did she forget you were here?”

You look over the prince.

The young prince is your age.

Perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age.

You smile as you shake your head.

“She knows I’m here. She never brings anyone here.”

It takes a moment for him to realize what it all means because he does not know your mother as you do.

He is meant to be your friend.

“Hold, Nymeria.” You thrust your dark haired doll at the prince as you crawl further under the bed.

There is a small stack of tomes you have kept here. You pull one forward tickling the well worn pages full of colorful illustrations about war, love, and dragons. You pull it to the princeling who is running his fingers through the doll’s knotted hair.

“Will you read to me? Or better yet teach me to read for myself? I want to know what’s in these books.”

His eye brightens, exchanging the doll for the tome. He struggles to open it under the bed, but manages. He thumbs through it as you watch with rapt curiosity. Many of the women that work here do not know how to read and make up tales from the pictures inside. You know this because the stories are different then when your mother opens the tomes.

She can read quite well.

“Yes, of course.” He looks over the words and begins to open his mouth. He squints at the page. “It is dark down here. Perhaps,” He looks upward then to you with a small glimmer of happiness in his bright eye. “We can read by candle light. Above?”

The question is one of asking. He wants to know if it is safe to return to the world outside your secret cave. You are so desperate to hear the stories your mother has not told you yet that you scurry to leave the darkness and head into the light.

You both settle on top of the bed.

Sometimes you forget how hard the floor is when you are on the dipping mattress. The princling takes off his boots slowly, careful to put them side by side. Before he settles on top of the bouncing bed as you eagerly await him and the tome, he pauses.

“I am Prince Aemond Targaryen.” He holds his hand out to you very formally.

You shake it stating your name. When he hears it he smiles.

Perhaps he would like a friend as well.

He crawls to the bed, settling the book heavy between you, spread out wide in yellowed dog eared pages. He runs his fingers over the words indicating to you that it is a table of contents meaning it is a list of all the stories within the book. He reads out all the story titles to you, making sure you see each word and letter. He speaks slowly as well, not in a way that is to make you feel inferior, but a way to ensure that you may soon be able to read along.

He is teaching you.

He is allowing you to select a story to read, together.

“That one!” You declare when he reads out a title about an ancient warrior queen. Your mother always told you that tale was too violent, but you always secretly looked at the pictures. They were red soaked images featuring bodies being ripped apart or drowning in sea battles.

“I thought you may like that one.” He smiles as you hold your doll close to your chest, the namesake of the tale Prince Aemond is about to tell.

He turns to the middle of the book. The pages are heavy, but he seems not to struggle. Perhaps he reads all the time. He seems very good at turning pages and reading the words on each page. Even the most difficult ones you do not know the meaning of and ask about each time. He seems to have an explanation ready at hand. He seems very happy to explain the words to you.

You decide you like Prince Aemond very much when he does not mind explaining to you the meaning of ancient words for different weapons. You even grab some paper to allow him to draw what they look like. He seems very engaged and elated to draw you a morningstar. You decide that if you were going to go into battle that would be your weapon. It is very pointed.

Page after page you are taken over by the story and transported to ancient times with long fought battles. The prince interjects his own insight as he has begun to train himself. You are convinced he will make a fine warrior someday. He down plays himself saying he is still learning.

“I will not be as grand as Nymeria.” He flushes a bit running his fingers over the beautiful illustration of the fair and fierce queen.

“But you have Vhagar.” You point out. “The largest, oldest dragon, nothing would stop you in battle. You have fire at your command.”

He blinks at you swallowing.

You wonder if you have said something wrong.

Perhaps he does not want to be reminded of the dragon. Maybe he is afraid of the beast. She is quite large and fierce. She can not even be contained in the confines of the dragon pit; she is so cumbersome.

You think that could easily be a lonely life for her.

“Does Vhagar get lonely?” You ask tilting your head so your hair falls sideways. “Like us?”

“I am not lonely!” He starts to close the tome, but you stop him.

“Wait, apologies, my prince.” You pull the cover open. He does not stop you. “I didn’t mean to think you were lonely, I was merely wondering if . . . well . . . Vhagar is different. She is large, too large for the dragon pit so perhaps she is sad without other dragons.”

“She has me.” The princling confirms pressing the pages flat. “And I have her. We are not lonely because we have each other.”

You think that is sweet. That a dragon and a boy can find comfort in each other. You look to his eye, the one covered in leather. There is a rumor that the Gods took Prince Aemond’s eye and replaced it with a dragon.

“Do you miss it? Your eye?” You are thirteen and do not care if you are asking too many questions. You are truly curious.

“Sometimes, yes.” He shrugs. He runs his fingers over the bottom of the patch, over the reddened scar. “Hmmm,” He looks at you. “You won’t be scared I think.”

You are not confused by what he means. You immediately know. He holds the patch itself. The prince hesitates as if thinking better of himself, but then continues. He pulls it off revealing the scar fully. It travels through the eye socket in a red meaty scar. In the eye’s place is a perfectly reflective blue sapphire. You blink, a smile spreading across your face as you shift closer.

You do not think it grotesque as many maidens would.

Instead you think it -

“It’s beautiful!” You say it louder than you meant to. Your heart warms at his tender and relieved smile.

“You really think so?” Prince Aemond asks so tenderly you are sure they are the sweetest words any boy has ever formed together.

“Of course. It suits you.” Your fingers twitch to feel.

“Yes, please, go ahead.” His words stumble out.

You are unsure. You suddenly remember yourself in this moment.

You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter.

You are not meant to intermingle with princes. To ask to be taught to read. To listen to his perfectly crafted voice. You are not meant to demand things like seeing his worst moment etched in a devilish scar. You are not meant to be so taken by the placement of the sapphire in his missing eye you feel giddy.

You certainly should not be touching his face.

But he asked.

He begged you to touch his scar.

So you do.

Your fingers run softly like a ghost, a whispering wind over his brow. The wound is deep. It is healed in ridgid places feeling like little bumps and tears. The skin feels cool under your fingers. Your pads are about to fully trace the dip to his socket when the curtain flutters.

Your mother says your name with a shout.

“You should not be touching the prince!” Your mother pulls her robe tighter around herself marching to the bed.

“I asked her too. She was only obeying me!” The prince is quick to defend you.

His new friend.

Your mother looks between you then at the book on the bed. There is a ghost of a smile that comes to life fully at seeing you and the prince behaving as children should.

“Have you found friendship in each other?” Your mother sits in front of you on the bed looking at the pages of the story you should not be reading. You flush in apology, eyes downcast. “I am not mad. You are thirteen. You will know of violence in this world. That I can not shield you from my precious dove.” She plays with your hair, sharing a soft private moment with you.

“Prince Aemond was teaching me to read.” You say fluttering your lashes innocently. Your mother continues to stroke your face, contentment on hers.

“Is that so?” She asks and gives you, her precious daughter, a sweet kiss on the forehead. “It is the young prince’s birthday. He is now thirteen. His brother believes him to be a man today.”

You see your mother purposely not looking at the prince, but you do. You see him look down shifting uncomfortably. He plays with his fingers, lacing them then unlacing them, together then apart.

“Is that why you smell like cake?” You ask with a tilt.

It seems to melt his nervousness.

“The maids made me strawberry and vanilla. A small one just for me. Mother forgot I do not like chocolate. Aegon likes chocolate.” He is ready for an explanation.

“I like strawberries and vanilla too.” You declare exchanging a smile with the prince.

“Madam Sylvi?” The princling asks lacing his fingers together.

“I will tell your brother lies. You only need to confirm it.” Your mother says.

He nods.

You are unsure what it all means, but you know you will understand this someday.

“I shall stay with you two a while longer to keep up appearances, but please, my prince, continue to read to my darling daughter.” Your mother brushes her fingers through a chunk of your tangled hair. “She has a sharp mind that is not meant for this life.”

There is a sadness in your mother’s voice as she looks upon you.

She has always told you she wishes for a better life for you.

She wants you to read, to explore, to be doted on by someone special who loves you.

“What shall we read next, little dove?” Prince Aemond shifts closer to you.

You smile at your new friend as he smiles back proudly showing his unclothed eye.

“Read me a tale of dragons.”

Aemond is a frequent visitor of your mother’s house of pleasure as the pair of you grow into adults. His brother thinks he has clung to the taker of his virginity when in truth the middle prince has not lost it.

He did not lose it that night to your mother like so many whisper over. He does not lose it anytime he comes to the pleasure palace. The prince remains chaste and a gentleman. Instead he comes seeking a different kind of pleasure.

He comes seeking you.

His little dove.

At first he would bring books and ancient tomes from the library in the Red Keep. He would read you stories about ancient battles and prophecies. He would teach you how to read out the simplest words aloud and sound out the more difficult titles. When you have mastered the skills of reading he listens to you read aloud. He is prone to putting his head in your lap as you play with his growing long straight strands. Most nights he falls asleep listening to you name dragons and their riders aloud sometimes sleepily listing them along with you.

When you have mastered the common language, he begins to teach you High Valyrian, the ancient language of Old Valyria. It is a difficult language to learn especially since it takes you so long to learn how to roll your tongue with the exotic words. He has squeezed your face so many times to assist you in the language that your jaw has begun to hurt.

You began to learn a few words and even some phrases.

Every time he hears you speak in the ancient lanaguage he swells with pride.

It is much like every time you read a story to him.

He has taken to removing his eye patch every time he enters the room, your mother’s room which she keeps you hidden away in. It has become your hide away with Aemond. He has only recently insisted you drop the prince title when referring to him.

“The whole world sees me as a prince, little dove.” He touches your face as he says this. “With you I wish to be Aemond. Only Aemond if it pleases you.”

You are not sure he knows, but it does please you.

It pleases you greatly to be his friend.

It pleases you greatly that he wants to share his singular name with you.

While Aemond has grown into a talented, well educated and well trained noble prince, you have developed into a lively beauty prone to intelligent conversations and feeling music enrapture you. Your body is now well settled from growing your lush curves and bountiful bosom. You know yourself greatly and have confidence in your looks. It causes some patrons to ask your mother for you.

“My daughter is not a whore.” Your mother tells them.

They keep asking hoping for a different answer.

One day the prince hears someone ask for you.

They offer a hefty sum, a giant coin purse.

“She is mine.” Aemond tells the man asserting himself forward in a way you have never seen him.

He pulls you quickly into the privacy of your mother’s quarters. There is bubbling rage that makes his fists open and close. It is similar to when he was a boy, lacing and unlacing his fingers.

“Aemond.” You call out settled on the bed.

“No man will ever touch you.” He says through gritted teeth.

He is pacing. The anger makes your body hum with gratitude. He has protected you. With his declaration he has ensured that no one will ever ask to bed you again. You are still pure. Your mother has made sure of that and now so has Aemond. Your prince.

“Someone will touch me someday.” You inform him.

His head snaps to you. His eye is wide with sudden realization. You are not an innocent little dove anymore. You are a woman grown. A beauty that is sure to bring a kind and gentle man to your door. If not your beauty, your beautiful curious nature is too sweet not to have a man falling in love with you so surely he would do anything for you.

“Do you want to be touched?” He looks you over. There is a shiver that runs through your body to your core.

You want to say you want him to touch you.

“I want you to touch me, Aemond.” You were never good at keeping your thoughts to yourself.

It is like the first time you met.

You forget yourself.

You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter.

You can not demand to be touched by -

“Where?” You see him. You truly see him now. His living eye begins to tear. The joyous kind of an echo of a tear reflects in his eye. His sapphire eye nearly comes alive as well as he kneels before you. “Where do you want me to touch you?” It is a near panic as if you will change your mind.

Your heart is caught in your throat as you hear his needy question.

You do not know.

You do not know the answer, yet it floods out of you like a possession.

“Everywhere.”

The panic rolls off of him still. He does not know either where he wants to touch you. You part your legs for him wearing a lovely white silk gown that looks nearly grey in the fiery candlelight. He slots his head and torso between your thighs. Aemond’s hand moves the soft fabric on your right thigh up to reveal plush dips and curves of your skin.

He runs his hands over it squeezing you gently before he dips his lips to kiss you.

There.

On the softest part of your legs you feel a prince’s lips, your prince’s lips tickle you.

They are wet.

You are wet.

“Aemond.” You say his name as his kisses trail upwards. He is giving your thigh open mouthed kisses as he kneads your flesh, hungry and thankful.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon.” You are taken over by how good his kisses feel running up your thigh. It pierces straight to your core that your mind struggles to translate the phrase.

My love.

It is not right.

But it seems so very right.

Feels so very right.

His fingers tease the crease between your thigh and pelvis. He is so very hot and heavy in breath, licking at the peak of your mound. Your small clothes cover you there. You can not think if you prefer them clothed or if you would rather Aemond peel them away from your sweat drenched body.

“Ñuha dārilaros.” My Prince.

Your pronunciation is not quite right as you feel so many emotions and physical sensations right now your High Valyrian pronunciation is the furthest thing from your mind. You are trying to stop from falling back to the bed, legs spread like the whore your mother claimed you not to be.

Perhaps you are only a whore for Aemond Targaryen.

“Renigon nyke.” It is better. It is desperate.

Touch me.

“I would spend the rest of my days obeying that order.” He says smoothing his hand on your upper thigh. He peers up at you. He watches you try to catch your breath. He watches how much you want him. How much you have always wanted him.

You realize that now.

There has been a growing infactuation starting from that very day he peered under your mother’s bed. It started out as simple friendship. Two lonely little children misunderstood by the overarching world. With the years, with understanding each other, it has churned into more. It has become something grand and wide spreading, a warm feeling in your chest that is now spreading between your legs.

“Hmmm . . .you are wet.” He hums.

“I am sorry -” You flush embarrassed but his lips are on your soaked small clothes suckling before you can respond.

Instead you shutter and feel like someone has taken your breath from your body.

You have never had so many goose pimples in your life.

“Wet is good.” His fingers are now palming your core through the fabric of your small clothes.. “Wet means you enjoy what I am doing to you.” You nod.

You remember a book he brought to you about bodies, sex, and arousal. You had been too nervous to read it in front of him, but he had kept it close to his chest. You realize now he probably studied it for a moment such as this.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Your heart flutters at the question on your lips.

Surely a prince would not like -

He kisses you before you have a chance to change your mind.

You never would.

He holds the back of your neck threading his fingers through your beautiful locks. His lips are so soft and inviting. Your lips part in a little gasping breath. He moves his lips, opening and closing them to take you in. He’s so warm. His other hand remains on your trembling thigh as he kisses you with the need to never stop. You welcome him trying to meet his passion tenfold.

It is not a prince you are kissing in this moment.

It is your friend.

It is your Aemond.

Yours and yours alone.

In that moment you belong to each other and nothing else matters.

You welcome his small touches.

The pair of you are not as intense as the night he claimed you as his, when he kissed your thigh and kissed you with such need and fury it made your lips ache and burn red. Both of you had kissed so hungrily that night your lips were too sore to do anything else. You and he just laid side by side watching each other, giggling at the giddiness of the moment.

You hold hands as you read to one another. He takes care to stroke your cheek gently when he looks upon you. He whispers words you do not know but begin to learn in High Valyrian.

Gevie. Beautiful.

Ñuha prūmia. My Heart.

Ñuhon. Mine.

You wonder if he has always been this taken with you.

He tells you truthfully when you ask.

“I have always loved you a little. It has grown so deeply since that first day.”

Perhaps you understand this more than anyone.

He leaves you in small chunks of time when he is overtraining his body to show off to his nephews who are to return. The nephews who belittled him and gifted him a pig as a dragon. You have not ever been teased, but can imagine his pain. You see his pain in the form of a missing eye. An eye one of those nephews took from him.

You understand his desire to be as sharp as a knife.

He wants his body to be ready should they ever try to belittle him again.

You are happy to give him over to the training.

But so very sad when you do not see him for months.

You are more sad that you are missing his touch.

Instead you experiment for the first time. You attempt to touch yourself as he touched you. You start by journeying up your thigh. You trail soft kneading touches. You imagine they are his hands.

Where else would you want him?

Everywhere. You remember saying

You can not fathom him on any other part of your body that would feel better than his lips sucking on your small clothes. Perhaps maybe on your core directly. You blush thinking as you stroke over your small clothes. You bring your fingers to your lips sucking on them. It will make it easier to pretend it is his tongue on your core.

You dip your fingers under the fabric on your core laid back spread on the bed missing your friend, hoping the next time you see him you can ask for more. You stroke yourself, finding the wetness of your fingers causes you to sigh. You find a small bud between your core and tease it gently.

You arch your back at the feeling it gives you. You leak wet hot arousal between your fingers.

Your mother shouts your name entering through the curtains.

Your face flushes embarrassed as gravity settles you down from your high.

You wipe your wet fingers on your dress and squeeze your thighs together hoping it will ease the pulsing you still feel.

It helps very little.

“Do not be embarrassed of pleasuring yourself, daughter.” This perhaps makes you more embarrassed. “It is a natural thing to wish to feel pleasure.”

You look down at your fingers slightly pruned from your desire. The release you felt was incredible and exhilarating. Perhaps she is right. Feeling good, as good as this, is a marvel.

“I have come to share some news. Your prince is looking for Prince Aegon. He was just at the door now. He said he would visit soon.” She pauses looking at you, taking your hands softly. “There is a rumor the king is dead.” You feel saddened. Aemond did not speak much of his father, but the loss will surely devastate him in some way. “They speak of putting Aegon on the throne.”

You slip your hands from your mother’s. You know what this means. There is to be a war. The king’s firstborn would not stand to see her half-brother on the throne.

Battle lines will be drawn.

Houses will be fought for.

Marriage pacts . . .

He was not betrothed.

Young, dashing Prince Aemond Targaryen was a free suitor.

A pawn to be used should houses need a push from one side to the other.

It is not the thought of Aemond going to war that frightens you, but the idea that he may share a bed with another woman.

That he may take a wife.

“Oh my sweet girl.” Your mother wipes tears that you did not know were there from your face. “Come here, my little love.” She embraces you as silent tears fall from your sweet innocent face. “It is troublesome to fall in love with a prince.”

You think this is true.

Days after King Viserys’ death, Aemond arrives on a stormy night.

You are on the bed propped up with pillows. You read through a book on Aegon the Conqueror considering how he took two wives, both sisters. He arrives in your mother’s chambers, to you, soaked to the bone, water running off his leathers and through his long flat hair. His eye patch is already abandoned, the sapphire reflects the flickering candles.

“Aemond.” You whisper closing the book.

You have known him too long not to notice the sad confusion in his face.

“I did not mean it.” It is the boy you hear. The one who laid with you under your mother’s bed. The one who taught you how to read. That boy is scared.

“Come here, my love.” You shift to welcome him onto your lap. He crawls onto the bed in damp clothes.

“I did not mean it.” He grabs onto you as an anchor. The soft part of your thigh is so warm and welcoming that he nuzzled his face there.

“What didn’t you mean? Tell me, ñuha jorrāelagon.” You are done chasing away how you feel about him. You love him, it is too plain to see. You stroke his hair in the most loving way you know how.

“Lucerys.”

You already know what has happened.

You already know blood has been drawn in such a short time.

You do not pause as you pet his damp hair. He nuzzles you close.

“It is alright. It will be alright.” You assure him. You must assure him. Not because it is your duty as a smallfolk to bluster your prince, but it is your honor as his friend, his love. Whatever he is to you.

Your heart.

“It will not be.” He holds onto your thigh as though you might stop your sweet embrace as he speaks. “I am to be married.”

This causes pause.

Lucerys’ death was not devastating to you. He had hurt your prince so you felt nothing for the boy but disdain. It is no matter to you that he is dead.

But a marriage . . .

Your heart grieves for a future you were never meant to have.

“I do not wish it.” He says snuggling you close. He breathes in your scent. He clings to you for comfort in this miserable moment. You ease him. It is what you know how to do. It is what you want to do by petting his soft hair and pulling him closer to your body. “I want you. I only ever want you.”

Out loud he appears to be a grieving boy in need of physical affection.

In your heart, you hear it differently, you hear true undying desperation to have you.

“I want it to be with you.” He turns to lay on his back looking up at you. “My first time. I do not want it to be with the Baratheon girl. I want it to be with you, ñuha prūmia.” He reaches up to stroke your face. His thumb trails over your lower lip, plump and ready for him.

You could never deny him.

You will never deny him.

You are his heart.

He is your heart.

You reach down and kiss him. His lips are wet with need and hunger to finally take you as he wants. You want him too. You have envisioned this moment in your deep sleep. Dreams of Aemond nude and wanting before you make you wake with your hand between your aching thighs. He pushes upward, entangling his hand in your hair and one hand at your waist.

You whisper his name, eyes floating over him as he kisses you lightly then deeply as if his survival depends on making you feel so incredibly good. He strokes your hip, lifting up the side of your pale green layered silk gown. His hand strokes your backside feeling the wide curve of your ass. He presses flush to you against the soft mattress and propped pillows.

It is when you feel him.

Between his legs is a sword at the ready.

“You. Are. Hard.” You say each word with small gasps as he kisses your neck laying on top of you.

“I am.” You can feel his lips curve into a smile at your collarbone. “It means I desire you.”

You feel your body shiver at this thought.

He wants you.

You find his hand at your hip guiding it with yours to your aching core. It is as soaked as his heavy leather coat.

“I want you too.” You show him. He strokes you there and you feel too much pleasure soaking you more. “Let me undress you.”

His coat falls to the side. Your fingers slip against the buttons of his tunic. He helps you in frustration, nearly ripping them off in a harsh pull. You stifle a laugh at his eagerness. He lavishes you with kisses, open mouthed and needy. You feel his tongue slip inside your mouth. It is so hot and so is his skin. It is as if he is burning up from the inside with desire.

“I need you, my darling dove.”

Your hand palms his hardness through the leather pants. You admire his torso for a moment stroking the length of him. He is well toned, muscular. His wide pecs and deep abs make you gasp. He leans forward threatening to kiss you again, but you lean back marvelling at the site knelt before you on your mother’s bed.

“You like what you see then? I have been hoping that when we were ready to make love that my body was to your liking. It is another reason I have been training so hard.”

You feel a deep devotion to him in this moment.

That he would spend so much time on his body to please you.

Just you.

“You were sculpted by the Gods.” You trace your fingers over his abs stroking along the dips of his hips.

“I was sculpted for you and you alone, my little dove.” He cups your cheeks seeking your kiss again. He is sweet and well practiced now with how to kiss you.

He is so happy now after being so taken with guilt over the death of his nephew you wonder if he is truly okay.

You feel selfish kissing him back.

You feel wrong for wanting him to never stop wanting you even if he is to marry another.

“Say you want me ag-”

“I want you. Jaelan ao.” He says before you can finish.

You press down his trousers. He stands to reveal his naked body to you. You have never seen a nude man before, but you are sure no other man looks as Aemond Targaryen does. He stands proudly as if he knows his body is a work of art. You have already been admiring his torso.

Why not admire the rest of him?

You sit on the bed letting your eyes fall to the part of him you had been too bashful to lay eyes on. You are in the midst of exploring him fully. You must look at that part. His hardness stands straight, long and thick. You see he is smooth at his base where his balls hang low. He strokes himself proudly, smirking. The tip of his cock is leaking.

You think it is because his body needs you so badly it is weeping.

On instinct, you spread your legs.

He watches you nearly panting.

“Would you like to see me?”

It is a question you know the answer to.

You watch his cock twitch, up and down as if an invisible force is causing him to stir.

He steps forward eager, but cautious in case you are nervous about revealing yourself fully. You are nervous. You have never been naked in front of a man before. You ease yourself looking to his sapphire eye. He has exposed himself time and time again to you.

Surely you can show him your tits and not flush?

You stand and turn away from him. Your neck bends forward as you shift your hair exposing the clasp around your neck. You feel the pads of his fingers there. It is there you realize he is trembling. Uneasily with a few fumbled tries, he undoes the clasps letting the bodice of your gown fall forward exposing your tits to the cool air.

Your nipples peak to life in the coldness. You instinctively go to cover them, but he stays your hands. He is easy with them, a gentle kind of ease. He moves to knead your breasts. You say nothing because his hands, while cold from the rain, are so good squeezing at your fleshy fat before rolling your peaked pink buds between his fingers.

“Aemond,” You sigh, leaning back into him. You touch his face from behind bringing him closer as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Take the rest off.”

He kisses behind your ear, a lingering beautiful kiss.

His hands move from your well massaged breasts down further. He glides them down your torso to your hips. They still hug the silk dark green dress with little gold lace. He pulls it down over your wide hips. He pushes himself at the curve of your bottom and you feel that he is harder than you remembered.

The dress pools to the floor.

You are as exposed as he is.

You are the same in this moment.

You feel his face from behind you as he continues to kiss your neck and hold your body to his.

“I want you to be my first too.” You tell him. It is a secret you have kept close to your chest. “I dream about you, Aemond. I . . .” You can not bring yourself to say it, but you do. If you do not say it now it will fester inside you until you leave this world. “I love you, Aemond Targaryen.”

He does not stop kissing you.

He only whispers.

“Avy jorrāelan tolī.”

You turn in his arms. Tears edge his bottom eyelid. You kiss them away holding his face. You repeat the words in High Valyrian, the same tone and cadence as his confession. He leans forward kissing you. He can not stop telling you he loves you, in either language.

“Make love to me.” You instruct him feeling that his kisses are suddenly not enough. You hold his face seeing how his desire matches your own. “I want you inside me.”

He lays you down gently on the bed. His kisses press to your lips. His tongue continues to explore your mouth. Yours is eager to explore his. You are eager as you spread your legs for his member to slot between your thighs. You feel the leaking head caressing your core.

“Will it hurt?”

You do not like pain. You know that your core is tight and his thick throbbing length is supposed to fit inside you.

“It may be uncomfortable.” He strokes your hair softly. “If you need to stop, just say so. I would never do anything to hurt you, my little dove.”

You believe him.

You nod feeling ready for him.

“I . . .” He pauses looking down at your face, your body, your cunt. He teases you with long lithe fingers, stroking your slit making you whimper. “I should like you a bit wetter before I enter you.”

His face moves downward trailing feathery kisses between your breasts then further down making you shudder with anticipation. He looks up from kissing your belly as if asking for approval to journey further. You bite your lip and nod. It takes all your power not to push his face where you need him.

He is at your sex.

He is between your legs.

Aemond licks your slit long and slow. It has the desired effect. You grow wetter letting out tiny pleased gasps. Your sex pulses with need. He kisses you there where he is needed most. His tongue pushes past your folds letting his lips suckle and drink you in. The slurping noise is quite lewd, but it makes your body soak around his lip. Your hips dance upwards as his hands grip your thighs in place. He presses little circles on your soft inner thigh.

“Aemond . . .” You grip the sheets never wanting him to stop. You have never felt this good or loved in your life. You fear you will never feel this good again. “Don’t stop.” You want to beg him to keep his tongue inside you, but instead he finds that bud.

Your body quakes. The tip of his tongue swirls around the bud. You can nearly feel it throbbing. It needs friction. He wraps his lips around the little pearl suckling.

You can not see. Your eyes screw shut.

The pleasure.

The pleasure rides through your body, from core to toes to head. You cry out to the Gods. You cry out in undeniable euphoria.You feel yourself come undone and back together again. Your legs shake. Aemond holds you to the bed, grounding you as if you might float away to the heavens. He continues despite the unending pleasure you feel.

“You enjoyed that.” He is smiling proudly, his tongue still lapping against your core despite how you feel yourself coming down from the euphoric high. You simply nod. “I am glad. I believe you are ready for me.”

You shift to rest your head more firmly on the pillows. Aemond helps. He fluffs the pillows and makes sure you are comfortable. He strokes your core making sure you are slick and continues to kiss your lips alternating between sweet and searing passion.

You are ready.

You want him.

You need him.

His tip brushes the hairs at your core clustered wet in your arousal. You sigh feeling the girth of his tip. You know it may feel uncomfortable, but there is nothing more you have ever wanted in your life then Aemond Targaryen’s cock rutting itself to completion inside you.

“Hold me for comfort. I am here for you always. You are mine. Ñuha jorrāelagon.”

He is careful when he enters you. There is much discomfort, but no pain. The stretch is easy with how wet he has made you. His tip squeezes inside your core making you gasp with perfect desire. You hold under his pits to grasp his shoulders as he continues to push inside you.

He watches your face to make sure you are alright before pushing in further.

You feel him.

Gods, do you feel him.

He can not help, but ease himself further until he is flush with you. His magnificent well defined torso is crushed against your soft womanly figure. You hold him for dear life. He nuzzles his nose into your hair and neck. He bottoms out inside you.

You feel all of him now.

You nearly cry with how good it feels to smell him, to touch him, to taste him, to have him inside you.

“I love you.” You say again. “Always.”

“I love you.” He says looking upon your sweet face, innocent and in love. “I wish to move. To truly make love to you. Tell me if -”

“Yes, please, fuck me.” Your words are not sweet, but desperate.

You want him to know he can be a bit rough if he likes.

You think you may want him to be.

His thumb wipes across your bottom lip, a loving gesture.

He begins.

Aemond moves inside you thoughtfully. Out half way then easing back in. His eye is settled on your face, watching for any signs he should stop or signs of true pleasure. You know all he sees, all he hears is your pleasure settling inside you. His breath is soft and needy against your neck as he slowly fucks your cunt.

Your hips rise to meet him.

Want him.

More.

He takes the sign. Aemond begins to rock his hips deeper. His cock is moving at a much quicker pace. You stretch. You feel yourself expand around his cock. It feels like nothing else you have ever felt. You hold him close as his hips begin to snap, pounding into you. You can feel you may bruise, but you do not care. His breath is heavier now, panting as he fucks you. You cry out louder moans of pure bliss.

“Yes! Please!” Gods, he feels good. So very good.

His cock twitches inside you.

He is moaning now.

It is as if he has silenced himself this whole time, but now can not control it.

“I am there.” He calls out with a grunt.

You feel your core pulse pulling him in deeper.

“Fuck, you are milking my cock! I can not hold on. I can not hold on!” He grunts out snapping his hips like the beating wings of a dragon.

You cry out hearing him let out a loud noise, a mixture of your name and cries of passion.

He spills his seed inside you.

You feel warm as you rake your fingernails across his back feeling the wetness spill from you. You call out his name as you feel undone underneath him.

His name is like a prayer.

If you say it enough he will be yours.

He tenderly says your name against the shell of your ear as you feel him grow soft inside you.

You lay as one, he deep inside you.

You draw circles across his back in comfort.

He nuzzles against your hair. You can feel his wet lips against your neck in small kisses.

“You are mine.” He whispers to you. “Even if I am to marry another. You will always be mine.”

You think that is true. You think that has always been true.

You have experienced something special with him. You have taken the virginity of Prince Aemond Targaryen. He has taken your flower. You will never forget this moment.

As you lay there in each others’ arms you know soon you will part. Perhaps he will never return to your bed. Perhaps he will constantly return to you. He is to be married. He may be. He may break off the engagement.

It is a future not yet set in stone.

You know that you will savor this moment in time.

When you were his and he was yours.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x ofc #madam sylvi #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #smut #yoursweetheartsrevenge fic #ewan nation #ewanverse #ewan mitchell #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #aemond x reader

225 notes · View notes

giuliettagaltieri · 8 months ago

Text

One of Them

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Lovesick!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: Rafe, middle name: SIMP, Cameron, at your service

Warning: None

Word Count: 1196

Ficlet from Lovesick Little Thing

As young men of Outer Banks are to inherit the family names of their fathers, to become the sole proprietor of their multi-million businesses, possibly run for office, to someday become the leaders and catalyst of change, they made sure to become acquainted with each other and to never fail to attend the meeting they hold in a random house they elect every first Friday night of the month. And there was only one single rule that none of them can ever break. No girls allowed.

It started with their fear of cooties, and then their fear of hormonal mood swings of budding women, and none of them got over it as they grew older. It was the leader of the pack, Rafe Cameron, who came up with the stupid idea. He was so strict with it that he threatened to kick out anyone who tries to bring a chick to these meetings.

They were to wear formal clothing, completed with ties, polished shoes, and crisp suits like the fine gentlemen that they are. Anybody who fails to come in the expected outfit shall be refused a seat at the table.

Imagine the look of surprise when they arrive in Tanneyhill with you sleeping snugly, cuddling with Rafe, who is dressed in linen pants and opened button down shirt, with his bare feet visible for everybody to see!

They all halted their steps. Eyes wide and questioning as they look at you and then at Rafe and is that a plushie tucked under his arm?

All of them stood by the doorway, some struggling to stick their heads in to see what’s holding everybody up.

“Is the monthly meeting canceled?” Somebody asks and Rafe rolls his eyes.

“You guys coming in or what?” Rafe snaps, making you stir in your sleep but Rafe puts a hand behind your head to let you rest against his arm again. You hook a leg over his and as soon as you’re knocked out, Rafe turns to the huddled men over the doorway. If it isn’t for Topper, nobody would have dared to cross the threshold.

It was uncomfortable for them. There was music playing but they didn’t have the usual Vivaldi and Paganini that boomed around the room. It was some stupid lullaby that Kelce played, because Rafe would have their heads rolling if they dared to disturb your sleep.

They weren’t used to the usual hushed way of talking but Rafe glared daggers at anyone who wasn’t whispering. Nobody played billiards or cards in fear that they might get too excited and wake you up.

But like a good host, Rafe let them drink Tanneyhill’s stash of alcohol.

Problem was he made Topper and Kelce the fucking baristas. No more than two crystal glasses of the vintage liquor.

When you finally stirred awake, they were relieved, finally they could get the party started.

Or so they thought.

You were suddenly craving fries and sundae.

Rafe had to go.

Of course, you felt bad, and even insisted that you go alone. His guests nodded at Rafe, hoping he’ll listen. As much of an asshole Rafe is, they didn’t feel like partying without him.

But everything you say goes over his head as he gathers his keys and wallet.

You were still talking when he put a hand on the small of your back, you were looking at his guests apologetically and the jackass didn’t even spare them a glance.

“What an asshole.” Somebody in the crowd murmurs sadly and all of them nod in agreement, the dampened mood worsening. “I even brought his favorite cigar.”

Kelce glances at Topper and they sigh in unison. They’ll have to excuse Rafe. He has been without your attention for a while, he just had to hog you for himself.

“Rafe, that wasn’t so nice. You are hosting the party, you should stay behind.” You refuse to get inside his car and he looks at you blankly while he keeps the door open for you. “I can go to the diner by myself.”

Rafe rolls his eyes and before you can say anything else, he is lifting you up on the passenger seat. You talk his ear off, lecturing him as he works on fastening your seatbelt for you.

“You will leave a bad impression.” You fume, cheeks slightly bubbled, and he sighs, bowing his head before glancing at you, his corded arms are gripping the sides of your seat, trapping you in. The atmosphere suddenly grew thick, making your voice die in your throat.

Gulping, you shut your mouth and averted his gaze.

“You done?” He spoke lowly.

Not able to find your voice, you just nodded at him, eyes busy studying the gems on your watch. Rafe nods back and heads over to the driver’s seat. He looks at you one last time before revving up the car, roaring the engine just the way you hated before speeding off.

You weren’t talking to him and Rafe decides to leave you for now. But he does place a warm hand over your knee to let you know he’s willing to talk as soon as you are.

The trees are getting pretty boring, so are the enormous mansions in your neighborhood.

“Should we get them burgers?” You spoke softly, nimble hands playing with the seatbelt. You eye his pretty hands and reach for it but he had to move the gear shift. A pout formed on your lips but Rafe places his hand on your bare thigh now. His grip makes your heart beat uncontrollably.

“If you want, baby.” He says while he rides his hands upwards.

His hands were getting dangerously close to your heat that you had to clear your throat. Rafe grins and lowers his hand back to your midthigh. He doesn’t make a comment when he hears you breathe out a sigh of relief.

The downturned faces of Rafe’s guests brighten up at the sight of you and the bags and bags and bags of burgers you insisted on carrying just for them.

Rafe saunters behind you, face passive as he twirls his keys on his finger. Rafe’s eyes are trailed on the back of your thighs as you pass around the burgers to the now grinning men.

They didn’t like your intrusion at first but you got Rafe wrapped around your finger and they can for sure use that to their advantage.

“Oh man, I’d love to have something sweet after this.” Somebody sighs as he looks at his burger. You perk up at that.

“Should I get Rafe to order dessert for all of us?” You wonder out loud, a chorus of cheers echoes around the room and Kelce taps Rafe’s shoulders in sympathy as the latter groans but fishes his phone out of his pocket anyway.

Topper swings an arm over Rafe’s shoulder. “Yeah, you definitely should, Y/N. Tell him to get us those overpriced cookies they sell on the other side of the island.”

Rafe accidentally jabs an elbow on Topper’s rib but as soon as you heard, your eyes lit up and Rafe knew he just had to do it.

“Anything for my girl.”

Lovesick Little Thing • Coming Soon

#rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron #outer banks #outerbanks rafe #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey #rafe imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #lovesick!reader

442 notes · View notes

shivvroy · 8 days ago

Text

she's a neuroscientist and a middle manager and a fraud lactation consultant AND a fake new age shop proprietor...women really can have it all

#severance #severance spoilers

121 notes · View notes

thewritetofreespeech · 6 months ago

Text

Night 162: Children

words: 1131 rating: G pairing: Gale x Tav summary: Gale & Tav return from the Reunion for an afternoon of tea and interrogations from his mother.

Ao3 - 1000 Night Series

---------------------------🟣----------------------------------

Summers in Waterdeep were some of the most beautiful and peaceful in Faerûn. Or so Tav had come to realize.

Baldur’s Gate was nice, with its coves & sunlit ports, but it was nothing compared to the cool breeze off the ocean. The smell of salt in the air. And, of course, the spontaneous evening trips to the shoreline to dip ones feet in cold water and warm sand her husband.

Not that Tav didn’t miss her old home of the Gate. She enjoyed visiting and catching up with old friends. Extending the trip for the party to stop in on the way back to catch up with those who had not been able to attend. The couple had actually just gotten back from their vacation a few days ago, and Gale was regaling his mother on his latest find at Sorcerous Sundries.

“Can you believe it mother?? A real, genuine first edition Arcana Archivist Annals. Practically mint condition!”

“I suppose it helps to know the proprietor, and have his life indebted to you.” Morena remarked as she finished pouring the tea and handed Tav the first cup.

“The 10% educators discount doesn’t hurt either.” The two of women chuckle as Gale huffed and flopped back into his mother’s patio chair with a ‘no one understands me’ sulk.

“And how was the rest of your trip, dear? Surely it wasn’t all books.”

“If Gale had his way….” The man in question glared playfully at her. “But no. It was good to see how the city has grown after the rebuild. It’s odd. It’s all brand new in most cases, but strangely the same. Wyll and his father have done a splendid job of reworking the internal structure of the city as well. He’s done well as Grand Duke.”

“Good to have friends in high places. Not just book shops.” The trio laughed at Gale’s quip this time. Not just at him.

“And there’s…..nothing else to report?” Morena asked inquisitively. Which peaked Gale’s interest.

“No. Unless you want to know more about the weather.” He remarked before collecting his tea. “Is there something specific you wanted to know about our trip, mother? It’s not like you to be coy.”

“Very well. I was hoping while you were away for some time, you might return to tell me your pregnant.” Gale choked hard on his tea and floundered with the fine china for a moment. “I guess not….”

“Pregnant!” Gale replied aghast. “Why would you think we’re pregnant!?”

“Not really thought so much as hoped.” Morena clarified. “I’d very much like a grandchild.”

Gale turned to Tav in a manner for some sort of help, but she was too stunned as well by the conversations to offer any. “We…We haven’t been married that long…”

“Your father and I were married about as long as the two of you when you came into the picture.” The older woman noted. “Besides, it’s not just that. The Dekarios family needs an heir. Surely, you’ve thought about the future of our line.”

Gale shifted from flabbergasted to embarrassed. “Well, I uh….”

“Gale!”

“Well, I’ve been a little busy mother. Saving the world from an Elder Brain and trying not to turn into a mind flayer. Now trying not to get my head blown off by pre-teen wizards. Teaching children does not really rally one to the experience.” Tav had to agree there.

Gale sighed and sat back in his chair again. “What brought all this on mother? This is a lot to…spring on a person.”

“Well, I was thinking about it while you were away and thought I’d ask about your future plans. Neither one of us is getting any younger, dear.” There was a lot of secret conversation going on between the Dekarios kin in that moment as Morena sipped her own teacup. “The two of you should really start thinking about it. Children are a blessing.”

“I agree with Mr. Dekarios.” The people at the table turned as Tara floated onto the patio. Landing delicately on a pillow that was clearly always there for her. “Children are loud, destructive, and impatient little creatures. Like imps, but with better table manners. Or at least one hopes.” The Tressym licked her paw as if to make a point. “You shouldn’t have them.”

“So the Dekarios line just ends with Gale?” Morena asked as a counterpoint.

“Certainly. Better to go out with a bang. Oh, apologies. Was that insensitive?”

Gale groaned and stood up from his chair. “If this conversation is going to continue, I’m going to need something stronger than tea to get through it.” He walked back into his childhood home and straight for the bar.

Tav followed after him while Morena & Tara talk. Her presence in the discussions of their futures seeming not to be a requirement at all. “Are you ok?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. I’m fine. A little taken aback though.” Gale commented as he inspected one of the bottles and sat it back down. “Don’t worry. I’m not rattled enough to be driven to drink. Just needed to get away.”

“I can certainly sympathy.”

“But my mother….Gods! Springing that on us like that. To force our hands to make a such a decision over biscuits. I never realized she was so cunning.”

Tav chuckle at his remark, but then got serious for a second. “You know….we’ve never talked about it….”

Gale turned to her with an inquisitive, then surprised, look. “Oh…I mean do you want…do you want to….”

She shrugged. “I’m not against children.” What seemed like eons ago, the former adventurer thought about a life long in the future where she would be settled with a family, including children. With everything that happened that dream was lost until she could catch her breath. Now that she had, Tav wondered if it might be time to take that dream off the shelf again. “I don’t think right now. But….yes.”

Gale seemed taken aback for a moment, but only a little. He then seemed to think on it, nod, then gave her a smile. “I feel that way too. Not now, of course. But not never.” The two of them reach out to take each other’s hands. “I quite like that it’s just the two of us right now.”

“I do too.” Tav agreed.

“That is not what I meant at all Tara! You are twisting my words!”

“Your words are already twisted with that harpy’s tongue of yours Morena!”

Gale sighed as he looked towards the open door. “Well…almost just the two of us….”

Tav snickered and squeeze his hand a little tighter. “Come on. Let’s break them up before they say something they don’t mean.”

“Tara just implied my mother was a harpy. I think that ship has sailed.”

170 notes · View notes

gayboysteve · 8 months ago

Text

Marty's toxic masculinity passive-aggressive metaphor about thinking Rust is putting the moves on Maggie (also stemming from his own insecurities surrounding his own cheating) also being one of the methods that Childress used to scope out victims. There's something there about the masculine nature of propriety and ownership over the autonomy of others and the spaces men consider their own, and the two of expressions in which it can come out.

Marty signifies his ownership over his wife Maggie through the metaphor of their lawn care and does not want another man to encroach upon it. Childress uses his contracts and businesses (all of which fall under the traditionally masculine purview) as a place to scout out victims, women and children, to prey upon them. Both are displays of dominance and ownership; viewing the bodily autonomy of others as their own to dictate.

The initial confrontation between Rust and Marty happens early within the same episode of first meeting Childress, not only as a display of the toxic masculinity that resonates within Marty's character and the friction between Marty and Rust as characters but also as a subtle foreshadowing of who the killer truly is.

And this of course aligns both Marty and Rust as parallels to Childress in this manner, as Childress is both the proprietor of the business with the "right" to enter the space and is the man encroaching upon another's territory with the intent of dominance, ownership and the stripping of bodily autonomy away from his victims.

Interestingly, though, Rust is not purposefully entering Marty's domain with the intent of anything nefarious. It's just a thing that he does, either as an act of thanks for allowing him use of the lawn mower, or simply to distract his brain as he's known to get lost inside it. Rust has his own brand of toxic masculinity that is certainly displayed within the show, but here he is not acting in that nature. It's something that sets Rust apart from both Childress and Marty who do their acts with intent. This makes the final showdown between the three particularly interesting when it is Rust who is told to take the path of the bride (possibly another way Childress viewed his victims) and it is also Rust who is finally able to best Childress in the end when Marty failed.

#true detective #true detective season 1 #rust cohle #marty hart #errol childress #maggie hart #true detective meta #true detective edit

183 notes · View notes

pellaeas · 1 month ago

Text

tbh it is the duty of any proprietor of a facility with gendered restroom to cut that shit out posthaste if they give any kind of shit about their queer patrons imo. we are past the point of well just whatever you identify as :). if your business/school/community space continues to tie basic human needs to criminalization by sex segregating toilets, it is not an inclusive space. i frankly don't give a shit about cis feelings about this anymore. they can keep choosing Stalls Only. we can put a decorative curtain around the (always uncivilized, tbh) gender free urinals. (and put some squat friendly ones in while we're at it!) but cis allies need to get their shit together Quickly about being actually for-real cool with sharing a goddamn restroom with a person who they think is Other instead of pretending that "whichever you identify as :)" is still sufficient

this is the only way to solve toilet inequality for cis people, too.

cis women, you ARE systemically discriminated against with restroom access too. this IS how to solve it.

#personally i don't identify as Piss In A Communal Trough #but that is secondary to preserving my right to the Trough

56 notes · View notes

goodqueenaly · 4 months ago

Note

Do you think that Saera Targaryen became a slave owner? A lot of the fandom takes it as a fact that she was a slave owner because, well, Volantis. But I don’t know, wouldn’t Gyldayn point it out if that was the case? He never pulled any punches when it comes to Saera

Yes, I would say it's very likely. As I’ve noted before, Volantis as a society is thoroughly drenched in slavery - and that includes its sex workers. The tears forcibly tattooed upon the faces of Volantene sex workers do not simply reflect their “profession” (to the extent the term can be used, at least) but define them all as slaves, visibly and bureaucratically classified by Volantis as lesser than those who are not so marked. Nor do we need to look far for an example of a Volantene brothel populated by enslaved people: think only of the brothel in the Volantene town of Selhorys, with its tear-tattooed "slave girls" as Tyrion refers to them (including the unnamed "sunset girl", whose enslavement is reflected not just in her place at this brothel but the scars of whippings on her back). I don't know that it's necessarily impossible for freeborn women or freedwomen to be sex workers in Volantis, but I would say it's probably likely that at least the majority of sex workers in Volantis are enslaved people (as, indeed, the vast majority of people in Volantis generally are enslaved people).

So if Saera did in fact become "the proprietor of a famous pleasure house" in Volantis, then I think it is quite likely that she owned enslaved people - for herself, as sex workers, or both. Saera would have already encountered, and likely become familiarized with, slavery both generally and specifically in the context of sex work before she came to Volantis, given the years she spent in Lys - a city-state where not only do "bondsmen outnumber the freeborn three to one" but also where the people are "great breeders of slaves mating beauty with beauty in hopes of producing ever more refined and lovely courtesans and bedslaves". If Saera was not herself enslaved in Lys (though her actual legal status may have been somewhat vague, as a foreign royal voluntarily serving as a sex worker), I would guess most if not all of the other sex workers at that "pleasure garden" where Saera worked were enslaved people; likewise, I would also say that same pleasure garden was likely staffed for non-sex work labor by enslaved people (much as we see with Illyrio's manse in Pentos, fully staffed by enslaved people despite the official ban on slavery). While I certainly disdain Gyldayn's (and by extension GRRM's) portrayal of Saera, openly criticize Alysanne and especially Jaehaerys for their failures as parents with her, and hesitate to assume that Saera had the same personality and attitude for her entire life, it is worth noting that, as portrayed by Gyldayn/GRRM, Saera in her youth seems to have had very little empathy for others, including those of lower social position - not only her septas but most infamously "the king's half-witted fool, Tom Turnip", victim of several abusive "pranks" dreamed up by Saera. Therefore, Saera may not have seen slavery as the evil institution it was (and is), but viewed it as simply a way of life in Essos which distinguished the upper classes (in which she had been so highly born) from the lower; if so, Saera may not have been particularly bothered by participating in the ownership of enslaved people once she decided to establish herself and her pleasure house in Volantis.

Nor do I think it odd that Gyldayn would not have mentioned Saera's ownership of slaves. Indeed, Gyldayn spends very little time detailing Saera's post-Westerosi life, providing only the briefest snippets. In reference to her time in Volantis, Gyldayn only notes that at roughly te turn of the section century AC "Saera still lived, somewhere in Volantis (she had departed Lys some years before, an infamous woman but a wealthy one)", and adds as a parenthetical a bit later that "Princess Saera herself was still alive and well in Volantis, and only thirty-four years of age", quoting her statement that "I have my own kingdom here" to the question of "if she meant to return to Westeros". The fact that Saera ended her days as "the proprietor of a famous pleasure house" comes from Yandel (who provides no other information); Gyldayn does not bother any further with Saera beyond those notes, even to say when, where, and/or how she might have died. For Gyldayn - and I think for GRRM - the importance of Saera post-Westeros is not Saera herself as a character but the impact the memory of Saera had on Jaehaerys and Alysanne; the day-to-day running of her life in Volantis (or, indeed, in Lys) was not worthwhile to record (except as typically salacious additions from Gyldayn, like Saera portraying herself as a Faith novice in Lys).

Ultimately, I think the takeaway here is that two objective statements can be true at the same time without either lessening the truth of the other. Saera can have willingly engaged in the evil of slavery and still have been a victim of one of the worst fathers the series has presented. Saera would have been no less a victim of Jaehaerys' cruelty and abuse because she owned slaves, nor would her awful treatment by her father in any way justify or lessen the evil of slavery (and by extension her participation in it).

#asoiaf meta #saera targaryen

118 notes · View notes

metaborderlines · 3 months ago

Text

THX, fanfic writers [repeating myself, end of year]

Inspired by the post from @saygoodnightlove about fan fic recommendations, I want to know as @juli-81 asked, “Whatfics made you fall in love with Outlander in a new way this year?” My first answer was “Power Jam” by @isthisclever and I’ll stick with it, because of the way this writer uses detail to make things new, especially the love story that never gets old, Jamie meets Claire, this time at a roller rink in Edinburgh. The other nine, in no particular order, sprinkled I see with many WIPs:

#2, “Wee Herbs” by @jesuisprest. OK, I have a problem with feisty Jenny, always barging in to “protect” Jamie. In “Wee Herbs,” Jenny is none too pleased to find that her brother has married the proprietor of a weed shop [it’s medical marijuana,Jenny] in California, and that California Claire has a child (Fergus, age 6, blooming nicely in West Coast soil). Claire fights fire with fire, beats Jenny at the primal battle of “family first.” WIP.

#3 “Lovers in a Dangerous Time” by @sassenachthroughtime. Is there a more romantic scene in fan fic than the one in this story when Claire, unwilling trophy wife to Fronk in oppressively staid South Carolina society, helps new next-door neighbor Jamie with clean-up after his housewarming party and he whispers, Scottish burr on fire, “Dance wi’me?” WIP.

#4 “Game Changer” by @the2ofusnow. Jamie’s the rookie of the year with the NY Mets; Claire is the team doctor, written with emotional intelligence. WIP.

#5 “Atonement” by @smashing-teacups, for its quiet scenes in the hospital when horribly-injured Jamie and compassionate-nurse Claire get to know one another. The writer gets the most out of dialogue, small moments like the one when Claire washes Jamie’s hair.

#6 “Market Price” by @desperationandgin. Both Jamie and Claire are witty and strong, despite (of course) having weathered some life-challenges, and they’re funny and sweet, unable to keep their hands off one another.

#7 “Saorsa” by @scapegrace-74. Jamie escapes Black Jack by touching the stones, lands in the midst of WW II at Lallybroch whose chatelaine is a pregnant widow, Claire, the legatee of the Randall estate. The way the two come together, inevitably, is told with grace and verve—a description that fits “anything by” @scapegrace-74, especially the stories in the “Metric Universe.” Thanks also to @scapegrace-74 for pointing to a perfect novella, “The Stars Will Sing for Us” by @fallofrain. No drama, just strong characterization when Dr. Claire moves to Broch Morda and falls in love with, guess, the sweetest, hottest guy in town; he’s good with horses too. No bland inevitability: the writer allows the reader to discover the characters as they discover one another.

#8 “Loving Jamie” by @JillianK, an 18thcentury story in which Jamie has lost inheritance when he’s rendered mute from an axe blow (Dougal?) The MacKenzie brothers arrange a marriage to Claire. The story has a fairytale quality leavened with humor, e.g ch 7 when Jamie wonders if his new wife loves him and Clarence nudges him not to get maudlin. “Christ. Now he was taking life lessons from a mule.”

#9 “Something to Believe In” by @caitrinwrites. Claire is a chef in Santa Fe and when a Scottish distiller turns up to purvey his wares at her resto, he very much resembles her daughter Brianna, age 5. WIP. This story of introducing Jamie to his lost child shows signs of rising to meet the top of the class in the genre, “Downhill” by @wickedgoodbooks (who can forget five-year-old Willie on “The Puffin Trip” with his reunited parents, Claire and Jamie?) and “Flood My Mornings” by @bonnie_wee_swordsman (Jamie’s observations about the mores of America in the 1950, all the tut-tutting about working mothers, and his comment about how the Pope can just get out of women’s way when it comes to reproductive choice). And “Written in the Stones” by @lenny9987, one of the best father-and-child reunion stories in which Jamie arrives at Craig na dun and reclaims Claire and ten-year-old Brianna, in part when she teaches him to bake chocolate chip cookies at Mrs. Graham’s house during a thunderstorm.

More than a top ten, I can’t omit “One Summer” by @missclairebelle, the glorious variant on Jamie and Claire as a bantering couple who would give Hepburn and Tracy a run for their money in their heyday. And “Jimjeran” by @betweensceneswriter, which manages to convey new love in the most heated yet nuanced fashion. Jamie and Claire are Peace Corps volunteers on a Pacific island, which shows among other things that this story is truly universal. And then there’s “In My Daughter’s Eyes” by @preciouslittleingenue, Jamie as a riding therapist to autistic Faith, four-year-old child of Claire and Fronk, who rejected his “imperfect” child. And You’ll Be in Mo Chridhe by @CrossingInStyle. Claire goes to Africa with Uncle Lamb and meets Tarzan, who is, guess ... Another good one by this prolific writer, “First Time Here?” Jamie is a bartender in Inverness who asks the question of Claire on her sequential bad dates. Nice past-present cross-stich. And “Back to You” by @balfeheughlywed. Claire is Leery’s roommate at Edinburgh U…but the writing is good. Jenny is the Worst. And “Queen’s Gambit”by @AbbeDebeaupre. Lord John is private eye, Jamie trains polo ponies… And the “Basia Mille” series by @JRC10…

This list is threatening to exceed top 20, so many good stories. Thank you, writers!

67 notes · View notes

grayintogreen · 10 months ago

Text

I bet in a feat of irony, the proprietor of Chastity’s Nook was listening to the Complicated Women podcast episode about Astrid Becke when all this shit went down.

#critical role #cr spoilers #dimension 20 #fantasy high

114 notes · View notes

wish-i-were-heather · 6 months ago

Text

HATE IS A STRONG WORD ⤵ ROHAN X JAMESON HAWTHORNE

ABOUT: 1766 words

STORY: chapters 40-42 of the brothers hawthorne but... different

WARNINGS: none that i can think of

A/N: forgive me 😔🙏 also im getting really uncreative with the titles and just using quotes from the fic my bad guys

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Avery scolded Jameson as they walked. She was holding him up on one side, her arm around his waist, while Zella had him from the other. The latter had made it very clear that she did not want to be there.

He only shrugged, which made his whole body hurt.

She rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t have raised your hand to fight.”

“But it worked,” Jameson insisted. “The Proprietor, I got his attention. He watched me, and he told Rohan to stay down. Which means-”

“He let you win,” Avery finished for him, her eyes widening. “Which-”

“Gives me a better chance at an entrance to the game, I know.”

“Do you guys always do this whole finishing each other's sentences thing? It’s weird,” Zella interjected.

Jameson grinned. “What can I say? Great minds think alike.”

“And this mind says no more fighting strangers in foreign countries,” Avery said firmly.

He didn’t argue back. His mind was half fuzzy anyway. Everything hurt everywhere- there was blood dripping from his temple, bruises littering his entire form. His nose was also bleeding, and he was certain that he’d broken at least three of his ribs.

But Jameson tried not to let his mind linger on the pain for too long. He focused on staying upright, feeling grateful that he had the two people keeping him that way. He wanted to do more- he needed to get into the game. And today was the last chance he had.

For now, though, he let them walk him up to an area curtained off, in the Lust section of the Devil’s Mercy.

He laid down on one of the grand beds, back against the pillows, and took a deep breath. Which, of course, hurt his ribs.

“We need to clean you up,” Zella began, surprising him. He didn’t think she cared enough. “The Proprietor wouldn’t appreciate you leaving a trail of blood across the Mercy.”

Jameson closed his eyes and let her and Avery do what they had to do. Antiseptics were used, bandages were applied, and each time someone's hand brushed against his injuries, he tried not to flinch.

It hurt.

But soon enough, they were finished. He didn’t open his eyes. Avery propped herself next to him, taking his hand in hers.

“You’re the most reckless Hawthorne,” she told him gently.

“Have you met-”

“I’ve met all your brothers, Jamie. Rest assured, you are the most reckless.”

Jameson didn’t argue, and squeezed her hand. Avery moved forward, sitting closer to him on the bed, but still careful of his injuries.

Their moment was interrupted.

“Avery,” Zella blurted impatiently. “May we speak?”

Jameson’s eyes snapped open and he frowned. “What do you need to talk to her about?” But she didn’t look at him. The two women held eye contact for a few moments and Jameson struggled to tell if they were having a silent conversation with their facial expressions or if they were just staring.

But then Avery stood up.

“Heiress…” he practically pouted.

“You’re fine. Just don’t get into any more fights while I’m gone, yeah?”

She gave him a look that promised she would tell him every detail of their conversation, and squeezed his hand one more time before walking out. Zella, of course, also had to give him one final side eye.

The room was silent and cold. To him it felt like it had been hours since Avery left, but Jameson knew it really could have only been fifteen minutes. But what was there even to talk about?

He closed his eyes again and tried not to focus on the injuries. He was alone now, no one to distract him from his thoughts and the pain that assaulted him with every breath.

“You’re bleeding on the sheets.”

Jameson opened his eyes, but fell back when he saw who it was.

Rohan was standing at the entrance, having pushed aside the curtain and staring at him with a certain look in his eye that Jameson didn’t like. He wasn’t shirtless anymore- an observation that surprised him. Instead, he was back in a suit.

He didn’t even look like he’d just been in a fight. Any injuries were well concealed.

Jameson suddenly felt self-conscious about the fact that he was sitting there on the bed alone, his face probably half swollen, and a poorly applied bandage being the only thing covering his top half. But he forced himself to look back at Rohan.

“And you care why?”

“I don’t,” Rohan said. He stepped forward, the curtain falling closed behind him. “But you’re making a bloody mess and I quite enjoy being on the Proprietor’s good side.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with me?”

Rohan eyed the bandages. “I’m the one who injured you. It’s my responsibility to… undo that damage.”

“Aw, how gentlemanly.”

“Shut it.”

He walked to the side of the bed, his eyes never leaving Jameson’s. There was something in his expression, something hidden under the layers of indifference. A look of concern, and some other unidentifiable tension that had been between them since the fight.

“You shouldn't have won,” said Rohan. “You’re in no condition to be in the game.”

Jameson scoffed, though it hurt his chest. “Yet you allowed me the victory.”

“I didn’t want to,” Rohan sighed. “But some things are worth sacrificing.”

“Like your dignity?”

“It’s getting really difficult to want to help you, Hawthorne.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Rohan shook his head as his eyes scanned Jameson’s battered body. Some bruises were his doing, while others were the fight he’d won before. Either way, it was clear that whatever first aid was applied earlier was not enough. And Rohan needed to clean any mess, cover his tracks.

That’s the only reason he was there, of course.

“The pool of blood you’re sitting in says otherwise,” Rohan noted. Jameson rolled his eyes.

“If you’re so insistent on fixing me,” he told him. “Then go right ahead. Be my guest, Mr. Factorium.”

He narrowed his eyes, but instead of arguing, Rohan stepped forward. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small case.

“Are we just carrying around first aid kits now?” Jameson laughed. “Is that normal here?”

“Does it hurt you so much to be prepared?” Rohan asked, opening it and from it taking a roll of gauze.

Rohan set it on the bedside table and turned to face Jameson. Without a word, he reached for the edge of the bandages around his abdomen and began to unwrap them. Jameson inhaled sharply.

He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected to feel Rohan’s cold hands against his unusually warm skin. He hadn’t expected to uncover all the visibly painful injuries. And he most certainly hadn’t expected to let Rohan essentially rid him of covering his top half.

Nor had he expected Rohan’s eyes to linger there for just a moment too long.

“The wound wasn’t properly staunched.” The sound of his voice snapped Jameson back to the present.

He only managed a small “oh” in response.

Rohan’s hands got to work, doing who knew what. Something to stop the bleeding, but Jameson only felt the touch of his fingertips, Rohan’s skin against his own. Pain was brought back every time he put too much pressure on the injured area, but at least that helped him stay awake.

Maybe he’d lost too much blood, because this was strange. This was wrong. This was… Rohan. Rohan, who thought he was so much better than everyone else. Rohan, who spoke with that stupid accent. Rohan, who was the most insufferable person.

Rohan, who made it very clear that he hated him.

And that hatred was very mutual.

Jameson’s breath suddenly hitched as Rohan pressed a little too hard against his broken ribs. He tried not to react, but keeping his body neutral was impossible.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Rohan muttered, his eyes focused on wrapping him up again. “Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before throwing yourself into a fight.”

He managed a shrug. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a second thought in my life.”

“Clearly.”

Jameson opened his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t escape. Rohan’s hands had moved, now finishing wrapping the fresh gauze around his ribs, careful not to press too hard. The touch was surprisingly gentle and it stunned him more than any punch or tackle ever could.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked finally. Rohan had said it was because of the Proprietor, but he knew it had to be something more. “You hate me.”

Rohan hesitated for half a second. “Hate is a strong word.”

“Is it?” Jameson pressed, ignoring the pain as Rohan tightened the wrappings to keep them in place.

“I can’t say I hate you. I’ve barely met you. You’re simply… very hard to like.”

Jameson furrowed his brow. “Right. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m doing this,” Rohan explained. “Because I don’t want to get in trouble with his lordship.”

“You say that title like he’s the most important man in the world,” Jameson remarked.

“I don’t think he’d appreciate you talking negatively towards him,” Rohan warned him.

He shrugged again, but this time it hurt. “Negative attention is better than no attention at all.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m a Hawthorne.”

“Same difference.”

Jameson grinned despite the pain. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You take that however you want,” Rohan sighed. His lips tightened into a line as he finished the bandaging. His hands hovered over it for a moment, before stepping back. “There, you’re all patched up.”

“Appreciated,” Jameson said reluctantly. Rohan nodded, recollecting the items into his strange, pocket-sized first aid kit and slipping it back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Jameson watched, keeping his eyes on every little movement.

He nodded and began walking out, back to the closed curtain. A small part of Jameson didn’t… didn’t want him to leave?

But before walking away, Rohan turned around.

“Hawthorne?”

“I thought we were on a first name basis, Rohan.”

He ignored that comment.

“Your nose is horribly swollen. You look like a blobfish.”

Jameson lifted an arm and very clearly flipped off the insufferable Brit. He simply flashed him a snarky smile before turning around and leaving. Jameson sighed, leaning back against the pillows again as his mind wandered, questioning what kind of interaction he’d just had.

Though he was confused by how the Factorium was acting, Jameson couldn’t help but smile.

Rohan was a puzzle, one he had every intention of solving

TAGS: @littlemissmentallyunstable @gretag13 @lanterns-and-daydreams @whatsamongus @alwaysthefangirl

@emelia07 @f4iry-bell @low-caloriesmonsterultra @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @maybxlle

@xoxo-vee @elysianwayy77 @midiosaamor @sheisntyou

@averyiconthequeen @blocked-zombieartist

#im embarrassed to tag this but oh well #jameson hawthorne #the inheritance games #the grandest game #the hawthorne legacy #the final gambit #rohan tgg #rohan tbh #tig #tgg #tig fanfic #rohan x jameson #jameson x rohan #<- man i never thought id type those tags #mightier than your sword𓂃🖋

92 notes · View notes

apas-95 · 2 years ago

Text

On Authority

A number of Socialists have latterly launched a regular crusade against what they call the principle of authority. It suffices to tell them that this or that act is authoritarian for it to be condemned. This summary mode of procedure is being abused to such an extent that it has become necessary to look into the matter somewhat more closely.

Authority, in the sense in which the word is used here, means: the imposition of the will of another upon ours; on the other hand, authority presupposes subordination. Now, since these two words sound bad, and the relationship which they represent is disagreeable to the subordinated party, the question is to ascertain whether there is any way of dispensing with it, whether — given the conditions of present-day society — we could not create another social system, in which this authority would be given no scope any longer, and would consequently have to disappear.

On examining the economic, industrial and agricultural conditions which form the basis of present-day bourgeois society, we find that they tend more and more to replace isolated action by combined action of individuals. Modern industry, with its big factories and mills, where hundreds of workers supervise complicated machines driven by steam, has superseded the small workshops of the separate producers; the carriages and wagons of the highways have become substituted by railway trains, just as the small schooners and sailing feluccas have been by steam-boats. Even agriculture falls increasingly under the dominion of the machine and of steam, which slowly but relentlessly put in the place of the small proprietors big capitalists, who with the aid of hired workers cultivate vast stretches of land.

Everywhere combined action, the complication of processes dependent upon each other, displaces independent action by individuals. But whoever mentions combined action speaks of organisation; now, is it possible to have organisation without authority?

Supposing a social revolution dethroned the capitalists, who now exercise their authority over the production and circulation of wealth. Supposing, to adopt entirely the point of view of the anti-authoritarians, that the land and the instruments of labour had become the collective property of the workers who use them. Will authority have disappeared, or will it only have changed its form? Let us see.

Let us take by way of example a cotton spinning mill. The cotton must pass through at least six successive operations before it is reduced to the state of thread, and these operations take place for the most part in different rooms. Furthermore, keeping the machines going requires an engineer to look after the steam engine, mechanics to make the current repairs, and many other labourers whose business it is to transfer the products from one room to another, and so forth. All these workers, men, women and children, are obliged to begin and finish their work at the hours fixed by the authority of the steam, which cares nothing for individual autonomy. The workers must, therefore, first come to an understanding on the hours of work; and these hours, once they are fixed, must be observed by all, without any exception. Thereafter particular questions arise in each room and at every moment concerning the mode of production, distribution of material, etc., which must be settled by decision of a delegate placed at the head of each branch of labour or, if possible, by a majority vote, the will of the single individual will always have to subordinate itself, which means that questions are settled in an authoritarian way. The automatic machinery of the big factory is much more despotic than the small capitalists who employ workers ever have been. At least with regard to the hours of work one may write upon the portals of these factories: Lasciate ogni autonomia, voi che entrate! [Leave, ye that enter in, all autonomy behind!]

If man, by dint of his knowledge and inventive genius, has subdued the forces of nature, the latter avenge themselves upon him by subjecting him, in so far as he employs them, to a veritable despotism independent of all social organisation. Wanting to abolish authority in large-scale industry is tantamount to wanting to abolish industry itself, to destroy the power loom in order to return to the spinning wheel.

Let us take another example — the railway. Here too the co-operation of an infinite number of individuals is absolutely necessary, and this co-operation must be practised during precisely fixed hours so that no accidents may happen. Here, too, the first condition of the job is a dominant will that settles all subordinate questions, whether this will is represented by a single delegate or a committee charged with the execution of the resolutions of the majority of persona interested. In either case there is a very pronounced authority. Moreover, what would happen to the first train dispatched if the authority of the railway employees over the Hon. passengers were abolished?

But the necessity of authority, and of imperious authority at that, will nowhere be found more evident than on board a ship on the high seas. There, in time of danger, the lives of all depend on the instantaneous and absolute obedience of all to the will of one.

When I submitted arguments like these to the most rabid anti-authoritarians, the only answer they were able to give me was the following: Yes, that's true, but there it is not the case of authority which we confer on our delegates, but of a commission entrusted! These gentlemen think that when they have changed the names of things they have changed the things themselves. This is how these profound thinkers mock at the whole world.

We have thus seen that, on the one hand, a certain authority, no matter how delegated, and, on the other hand, a certain subordination, are things which, independently of all social organisation, are imposed upon us together with the material conditions under which we produce and make products circulate.

We have seen, besides, that the material conditions of production and circulation inevitably develop with large-scale industry and large-scale agriculture, and increasingly tend to enlarge the scope of this authority. Hence it is absurd to speak of the principle of authority as being absolutely evil, and of the principle of autonomy as being absolutely good. Authority and autonomy are relative things whose spheres vary with the various phases of the development of society. If the autonomists confined themselves to saying that the social organisation of the future would restrict authority solely to the limits within which the conditions of production render it inevitable, we could understand each other; but they are blind to all facts that make the thing necessary and they passionately fight the world.

Why do the anti-authoritarians not confine themselves to crying out against political authority, the state? All Socialists are agreed that the political state, and with it political authority, will disappear as a result of the coming social revolution, that is, that public functions will lose their political character and will be transformed into the simple administrative functions of watching over the true interests of society. But the anti-authoritarians demand that the political state be abolished at one stroke, even before the social conditions that gave birth to it have been destroyed. They demand that the first act of the social revolution shall be the abolition of authority. Have these gentlemen ever seen a revolution? A revolution is certainly the most authoritarian thing there is; it is the act whereby one part of the population imposes its will upon the other part by means of rifles, bayonets and cannon — authoritarian means, if such there be at all; and if the victorious party does not want to have fought in vain, it must maintain this rule by means of the terror which its arms inspire in the reactionists. Would the Paris Commune have lasted a single day if it had not made use of this authority of the armed people against the bourgeois? Should we not, on the contrary, reproach it for not having used it freely enough?

Therefore, either one of two things: either the anti-authoritarians don't know what they're talking about, in which case they are creating nothing but confusion; or they do know, and in that case they are betraying the movement of the proletariat. In either case they serve the reaction.

- Engels, 1872

#on authority #engels

617 notes · View notes

darlingshane · 2 years ago

Text

Let it rip, Coach

Pairing: Michael Berzatto x F!Reader

Summary: Searching for a new sponsor for the soccer team you coach leads you to meet and quickly fall in love with Michael.

Content/Warnings: Friends to lovers, Fluff, Crack, Alcohol, Eating, Kissing.

Word Count: 3,2k

— You can read below or at AO3.

“Hey, Cousin!” Richie taps on the frame of Michael's office door. “There's a woman here to see you.”

“Oh? Is she a health inspector or something?” He swivels in his chair, putting a pen down on the desk.

“No. Though, if she’s looking to inspect something, I’d be the perfect specimen to study.”

“That hot?”

“Smokin’ hot. Total knockout. Banging body,” his track suited friend remarks frivolously. “But as usual, she didn't want to do anything with me, cause I'll never stand a chance against the great Mikey Bear.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself, Cousin. Girls love those baby blues. It's when you open your mouth what makes them run in the other direction,” Michael taunts. “What does she want? Did she ask for me specifically?”

“She didn’t mention your name exactly. She requested an audience with the proprietor of this fine establishment.”

“Wow, those are big words, Cousin.” Michael rises from his chair, adjusting the waistband of his jeans.

“Well, I'm a big guy… If you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do know what you mean.” Scoffing, Michael palms his friend's back and walks out of the office.

They both head out of the kitchen, and Richie points him to the table with the woman, you, who asked to talk to the owner of the sandwich joint.

As he rounds the counter, he counts four young girls sitting around the table with you, ready to dig into the food they just got served.

“Hi, I'm Michael, the owner of this place,” he gestures vaguely with one hand in the air. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

After introducing yourself and the four pre-teens that came with you, one of them being your niece, you explain to Michael that you're the coach of the girls' soccer team. The reason for your visit is that you’re searching for a new sponsor for the team after losing the one you had.

Michael listens closely as you add a little more information, telling him that grew up in this neighborhood, and thought of asking a few businesses of the North River area.

“I dunno, girls… I don't know the first thing about soccer,” he runs a palm over his beard and then pushes his hair back.

“That’s okay, you don't really need to. You'd only have to cover uniforms. Think about your name being on every jersey. And I promise to bring the whole team here after every game. Right girls?”

They all respond in unison positively with mouths full of food.

“See? They love your food already. Think about the publicity. The games are always packed, let me tell you. Women's leagues are booming right now.”

“I don’t doubt that. What's your team's name?”

“The comets,” one of the girls responds.

“That's a great name. Are you guys good?”

“The best,” your niece boasts.

They're actually pretty good. Most of them have been playing for a couple of years before you started coaching them, and the new additions are quickly catching up.

“Okay, let me think about it.”

Michael goes back into his office, crunches some numbers, and by the time you've finished your food he's made out his mind. He accepts your offer, and you exchange numbers to stay in contact.

Two days later, you return to the restaurant to finalize the details. You show him a handful of the designs the girls, and you came up with, and go over a list of print shops in the area to choose one that meets your needs. You type all the details in your phone and head up together to the shop.

It's surprising to see him so invested in just a few days. When you place the final order for the jerseys, he adds one more to the bulk in his size, so he can wear his own to support the team.

You text occasionally for updates, but in between you've found yourself texting back and forth casually talking about your day, the restaurant, your other job… Michael is easy to talk to and quite the charmer, you’ve realized. It has made you wonder at times if he’s hitting on you or not, especially face to face. He’s always flashing a smile, or an innocent wink when you leave, that utterly dismantles you in ways you never thought possible.

When the new jerseys arrive, you make sure Michael gets his. You deliver it personally to the restaurant one night after he’s closed shop.

Your new friendship is strangely familiar. Michael slips into your life as if he'd always belonged there. He has an open heart. A big, contagious laugh; and a sweet smile that could make what's left of the poles completely melt. He's easy on the eyes, too, regardless of what he says. Much as everyone else on the planet, he has his faults too and one of them is the self-deprecating jokes he makes about his appearance, which are completely unfounded. The sharp angles of his face might not be up to classic beauty standards, and that's what actually makes him stand out in the crowd.

You adore his passion about food and his business, and how much confidence oozes out of every pore of his body. It's really disarming. And despite the fact that he almost never shuts up, he's a great listener too when it’s your turn to share.

Quiet has settled after everyone has left the restaurant, all the lights are down except for the ones coming from the neon sign above the counter and the vending machine. He sits backwards on the chair across from yours and slides a beer along the table. You stay right there, swapping life stories, sap anecdotes, fun moments of your life, anything, and everything in between like two old friends hanging out.

A couple of hours go by like nothing, while the table collects empty bottles.

“Last one,” you pick up your third beer, hold it to your lips and take a long swig as the chef timidly nods at your statement.

“Can I ask you something?” his tone mellows from its usual volume.

“Shoot.”

“Would it be unprofessional to ask you out?”

“No, I don't think so,” the corners of your mouth curl up nervously as your nails try to remove the sticker on the glass of your beer. “We don't really work together.”

“That's right. Would you say yes if I asked you out, though?”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Don't give me — maybe. Yes or no only, sweetheart,” his head tilts to the side, trying to capture the truth behind your eyes in the faint neon lighting striking across your face.

“I guess I wouldn't mind if you did.”

“I guess — is not an answer either.”

You take a deep breath and let him hang for a second while you put a couple of thoughts together.

“Not everyone is as confident and decisive as you are, Berzatto. Some people need a little time to process things,” you pause to gather some insight. “And you already know that I like you and wouldn't be asking if I didn't. So yeah… If you asked, I'd say yes.”

“That's all I needed to hear,” a grin splits his face as he tilts his beer up to take a gulp.

“Sooo… are you going to ask me now?”

“Eh, not right now. I just needed to know,” he quips.

“Suit yourself, but don't wait too long,” you say casually, as if it didn’t care as much whether he asks you out or not. You do. And it’s a relief to find out that he likes you back and that he's open to pursue something more than a friendship. It's hard to click with people that fast, but with Michael, it has felt too easy. They say you find love in the most unexpected places. You definitely weren’t looking for it when you came into his joint just a few weeks ago, and now it’s hard to imagine your life without him.

When you pull your phone out of your pocket to look at the time, it's way later than you thought.

Michael walks you to the L, and before the train arrives, he asks you right on the platform if you'd like to have dinner with him sometime.

Obviously, you say yes.

As the train slips into the station, you lean in and kiss his cheek goodnight, letting your lips meet the edge of his beard. His mouth takes the form of a pleased grin, and as you step inside the car, he tucks his hands in his pockets and watches you occupy a seat by the window. You stare at him for a long moment behind the glass as the doors slide close until the train is set in motion.

Texting the next day, you set up your date for the following week on a day you’re both free.

Before that day comes, you have also a very important event on your schedule that is the first game of the season.

Though the chef initially wasn’t going to come, Michael decides to surprise you by showing up on that day.

“Hey, Coach,” you hear his lively voice from behind while the girls warm up on the field.

You turn your head to see him wearing his jersey, and a blue baseball cap set backwards that shows his hair sticking out behind his ears. It’s impossible to stop the corners of your mouth from pointing out automatically as he walks up to you.

“Hey, Chef. Didn't know you were coming.”

“Yeah, it was last minute. You made it sound so good, I wanted to see you in action.”

“What about the shop?”

“Left Richie in charge for a couple of hours.”

“Are you sure that was a good idea?”

He balances his head from side to side, “as long as he doesn't burn it, I think it'll be fine.”

“Well, I'm glad you came. You should take a seat before it's too late,” you gesture at the bleachers, almost packed.

“Yeah, I’ll leave you to it. Let it rip, Coach,” he winks at you, and takes a seat in one of the middle rows on the bleachers.

You still have a dopey smile plastered on your face when the game starts. On occasion, you glance over your shoulder to see him cheer and root for the girls when they have the ball. His enthusiasm, and voice, increases during the second half when the team dominates the game, earning their first victory of the season.

As promised, you take the whole team to The Beef for a celebratory meal afterward.

During Michael's absence, Richie has set up a few tables together to fit the full team, and while they eat their food you park your butt on a stool at the counter, so you can chat with Michael.

“I need to run something by you,” he's on the other side of the counter, propped on his forearms.

“What?”

“It's about our date. I was thinking that I could make you dinner instead of going to a restaurant.”

“Here?”

“No, we already spent too much time here. I thought maybe you could come over to my place, or I could go to yours and just… chill.”

“Chill, huh?” you lift a french fry from your plate and take a bite.

“Yeah, but not like that,” he bashfully scratches his neck. “It’d be just dinner with no strings or expectations. Maybe it’s unusual for a first date, but just wanna spend a nice time alone with you and cook something you’d love. Have a couple of ideas that you’d… but if you wanna do something else…”

You stare at him while he rambles. It's refreshing to see him nervous for once.

“What do you say, sweetheart?”

“What if I had some expectations other than dinner?” you playfully raise an eyebrow.

“I guess I wouldn't be opposed to that.”

“You guess? That's not an answer,” you echo back his own words from when you gave him a similar response.

He presses his teeth on his bottom lip for a beat, “no, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to take it farther.”

“Which it's what you wanted all along,” you tease.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Coach. My intentions are just making you dinner. That's it. Anything that happens after, it's really up to you.”

“Say, Richie,” you call for his friend's attention as he comes out of the kitchen. “What would you think if a guy invited you for dinner at his house on a first date?”

“I’d say he’d only be interested in wetting his whistle. Why? Are you going on a date with this puto?” Richie claps Michael’s shoulder.

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow, you must be special. He hardly ever invites anyone to his place. Last time he did, it was-”

“Shut up, Cousin,” Michael cuts him off, annoyed by the fact that's actually true. It's been a long time since he's wanted to actually bring someone home that felt right.

“Like I said, I never stood a chance against Mikey Berzzato,” Richie nods at you and circles outside the counter to check on the tables.

“Aww, am I that special?” you wonder once Richie is out of hearing range.

His gaze falls to look at his hands, as he tentatively extends one to caress your fingertips with his,“I think you are really, really special.”

You stare at those fingers, brushing softly the inside of your hand, making your stomach flutter.

“Did it bother you that I involved Richie in this?”

“No, sweetheart. It didn't. Well… Maybe a little.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It's just… I love Richie, but he knows a lot of stuff about me that could change your opinion about me, and I don't want you to get the wrong impression, you know?”

“Michael, I already got a pretty good impression of you. Especially after showing up like you did today. There's nothing he can say that would ruin that.”

He lets out a small snort, “give him time.”

“You know what? I'd love to have dinner at your place.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

You don't have many rules when it comes to dating. Common sense and your gut are what guide you most of the time. When something feels muddy, you back up immediately. And when something feels good, nothing can stop you from pursuing that, you're off to the races. The latter hasn't happened that often, admittedly. Hopefully, this is one of those times.

In the short time you've known Michael, you've only gotten a deep sense of longing for him, growing eager every passing day. It's hard to ignore it anymore.

Following that desire, you dress up, do your hair, put some makeup on, and take the train to Michael's apartment with no hesitation. There is some natural anxiousness rumbling in your stomach, of course, but that doesn’t stop you from chasing that thrill.

When you knock on his door, Michael welcomes you with the most beautiful smile you've ever seen, splitting his freshly-groomed beard. He’s out of his usual work clothes and has chosen a casual outfit that consists of a dress black shirt, half unbuttoned, and a pair of jeans.

“Shall we?” he offers his hand, inviting you in. You take it and let him walk you inside.

As he closes the door, you take off your jacket, scanning every detail of the modest apartment. The lights are dimmed, and he's set up the dining table with two lit candles in red-tinted glasses, and a small centerpiece of flowers. There's light music playing on his phone that's hooked to a speaker system next to the TV. The delicious smell of the food incites your appetite as he moves your chair back, like a gentleman, so you can sit.

“Fancy,” you hum as you take your seat.

“Glad you like it, sweetheart.”

He then leaves for a moment to collect the food from the kitchen and returns with two plates filled with paella. As appetizing as it looks, it tastes vastly better. He really has absorbed a lot of information about you during those casual hang-outs. Not only knows how to please your stomach with Mediterranean food, but you're also granted the best conversationalist, as usual, he's a downright delight to be around.

For dessert, he keeps outdoing himself by bringing out a homemade tiramisu he made earlier. He serves one big serving on a plate, and lays it down in the middle of the table to share with you.

“Do you like it?”

“Hm, this is the best thing I've ever had in my mouth. You'll have to teach me how to make it someday,” you request, picking another spoonful. “Would you?”

“Sure.”

“I'm torn,” you say, enjoying the delectable alcohol-soaked bottom layer on your tongue.

“How so?”

“Because – I really want to kiss you right now for making all this, but I don’t think your mouth can’t top this.”

“You’ll have to try me,” he snorts, scooping his way through the other half of the tiramisu.

“Hm, we’ll see,” you grin. “You really outdid yourself here, Chef. You shouldn't have made something so delicious.”

“I'll take it down a notch next time.”

When dessert is over, you make a quick trip to the bathroom to empty your bladder while he puts the dishes away to wash later.

He has sat down on the couch when you come out, and you stop for a beat in the middle of the hallway before deciding to sit sideways right on his lap.

“Excuse me, Sir. Is this seat taken?” you ask right after plopping your ass on his thighs.

“It is, now,” scoffing, he links an arm around your waist. “Is it comfortable, ma'am?”

“Best seat in the house,” you can’t fight the smile taking over your lips.

“You're really something else, sweetheart,” he hushes oh so softly, as his free palm lands on your denim-clad leg.

“So are you,” your head leans forward, touching his forehead.

Biting your bottom lip, eyes locked, you both go silent for a long moment while you get used to feeling his hands on you, and vice versa. His thumb absentmindedly draws circles on your leg while you play with the hair of his beautiful beard.

“I think I wanna make out now,” you whisper.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Drawing a breath, he brings one hand to frame your jaw, letting a thumb swipe across your lip slowly. Then, his tongue juts out to wet his lips, his face leans an inch closer to capture your mouth. Your stomach flutters and your skin buzzes at the firm grip of his hand on your hip while you taste the waters without fully diving into the deep end. You let your mouths bounce together and get used to that little intimacy you’ve just created with him. When you’re ready to fully dip further, he opens his mouth wider, and so do you, and before you realize it, you're devouring each other's faces. Firmly but sweetly, your tongues play together with ease as the tight seal of your lips shuts every change for air to escape or intrude. You close your eyes and free yourself of any thought, so you can enjoy this right here, right now, with him.

#michael berzatto #michael berzatto x reader #the bear fanfiction #the bear #the bear fx #jon bernthal #jon bernthal fanfiction #darlingwrites #fluff

441 notes · View notes