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honeydippedwaffles · 8 months

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Smallest Drop - Part 2

Summary: Seeing as part one went well, I present to you the continuation but this time, from Astarion's point of view. Thank you all so much for your support. It makes me so happy to know the fandom is enjoying my work.

He honestly doesn't know what Tav wants from him or why she keeps stirring weird emotions in him and she only further confuses when she presents him with a thoughtful gift.

There will be a part 3. Tav is not mentioned by name.

Content Warnings: She/Her Tav

Word Count: 2.2k words

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Astarion never considered himself particularly lucky but he knew how to adapt to situations beyond his control – keep himself alive and everything. He’d proven himself to be talented enough to seduce well, just about anyone.

Just about anybody it would seem but not a single member of the strangest group imaginable, also known as the one he’d chosen to travel with.

Because luck would mean the most frustrating woman in the world would be the one he aimed to… shall he say, convince about the benefits of staying close to his side.

Oh, she wasn’t exactly immune to his charms. He could see the effects when he moved close to her and her lips curled into a natural smile, attention flickering to him in anticipation of what he wanted to say. She brushed against his shoulder whenever she wanted to pass and laughed at his snide remarks.

All the things that he would usually consider a success; a sign he’d managed to win her heart in some form.

But then, she also went and did the absolute opposite.

Instead of pulling him aside in the camp when he offered and allowing him to drag his lips along her throat, she dragged him into the middle of the group to socialize. She leaned into his touches and then ran off to help save another puppy or whatever else caught her attention.

It annoyed Astarion because he knew she liked him but he didn’t know what she wanted from him. They’d spent one evening together and she appeared keen on more but then rather spent her nights teaching an owlbear how to sit.

Admittedly, a very cute pastime but still.

She ran a bath for him, washed his hair, and then promptly left him alone in the water instead of joining him for some fun. If he understood, he could easily provide but she made the first part infuriatingly difficult.

“Alright,” he said after she’d caught him staring into a blank mirror and spurned agitation in him by reminding him that he didn’t, in fact, know what colour his eyes once were. “Tell me what you see when you look at me. Surely you can describe my appearance well enough.”

She giggled and put a hand to her chin, as though considering. “I think we’d be sitting here the whole night if I did that. You’re so pretty, it’s unfair.”

Pride curled hot in his chest and his irritation simmered. Amazing how easily she managed to do such a thing. “Oh? Then name your favourite.”

She reached out to brush a strand of hair away from his face, freezing only when the action had already startled both of them. Astarion wondered why she stopped for only a second before he realised he’d shifted away from the touch, a movement done on instinct rather than thought.

Shit. That wasn’t going to help him.

She dropped her hand as though nothing happened. “I refuse to believe becoming a vampire changed you that much. There’s no way you weren’t this gorgeous before.”

She knew how to appeal to his vanity and the strangest thing about it was, he didn’t feel as though she did it on purpose. Her ceaseless flattery came naturally to her.

“It’s been over two hundred years since I last saw it and memories fade.”

A lie but not an important one. He remembered everything since the day he woke up in his coffin, panicked and struggling to breath though he didn’t need to. The pain of transforming, the agony of starvation, and unending confusion. Nothing slipped away and he hated it. Despised how the memories shoved their way forward.

But for now, he refused to think of them and instead waited to see what she thought of. She pressed her lips together tightly before she spoke.

“The first thing I noticed when I met you were your eyes. They’re red, obviously, but they’re also strong and piercing. You also get these crinkles beside them when you laugh.”

Again with the strangest compliments. Still, he took them in his stride this time. “That’s better. What else?”

“The way you smile. It’s dangerous and sharp but occasionally, genuine. It’s enough to charm anybody, I would say.”

He offered her a smile in response, pleased with the praise. He preened beneath her pretty words and happily took the knowledge close to heart. Meaningless flattery had always been one of his favourite things.

“Now just tell me I’m beautiful and we’ll call it a day.”

She laughed and tilted her head to the side. “You’re beautiful. I thought that much was obvious.”

But something in the way she said it ruined everything. She took the most boring compliment of the lot and meant it deeper than all the others. The teasing tone easily exposed the truth and the pride disappeared, replaced by something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now was there any real reason for you to make your way over here?”

She didn’t really want anything but he’d almost expected it. Everything she found on their journey eventually got shared with him and today, she spoke about some woman’s letter she’d found. Nothing important.

Astarion thought that would be the end of it.

He continued to flatter her to make sure she always preferred him above their other companions and was rewarded when she continued to seek him out first. An entirely selfish action truly but she offered him a path forward.

The others had their strengths but something about her united them the best. If a chance existed where he could retain this ability to stand in the sun, he had no doubt she would be his best way there.

Even if she did insist on carrying about so much nonsense she found whenever they went out and helped every person with the smallest problems.

But then she found an empty book lying on the floor somewhere and she immediately began staring at him whenever it was open, scribbling away inside but always staring at him over the edges. Every time he offered her a quizzical glance, she smiled and continued with whatever she was doing.

She showed it to Wyll and Gale a few times but never brought it over for him to see.

Of course, if Astarion really wanted to, he could find what waited in those pages easily.

The parasite provided an easy path forward but she would know he wanted something when he dug around in her head. He didn’t sleep most nights but she rested deeply; deeply enough to allow a vampire to drink from her throat without even waking her like the true fool she was.

She knew, even laughed when he complimented her the next morning, but never once complained, just told him he was welcome back whenever.

Originally, he thought she may be too trusting but he learned quickly how wrong that assumption was. She didn’t believe most of the people who tried to sway her to their side; straightened her back and glared when they tried to trick her and often even stood between them and her companions.

Which meant, somehow, he’d earned her trust.

Ridiculously stupid as it was for her to trust him, he didn’t want to lose the privilege and so he left her book alone until the next time she spent too long staring over its top.

“I do hope you’re writing something fun in those pages,” he said. “If you let me read them, I’m sure we can make them happen.”

She laughed at the suggestion. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just trying to draw you.”

He lowered his goblet a little in confusion, unsure how to respond to such a thing. “Draw me?”

“Well, you complained so much about not being able to see yourself in the mirror so I thought this would be the next best option. Come here and I’ll show you.”

She patted the spot on the ground beside her but Astarion didn’t move. Of all the things he’d expected from her, he hadn’t anticipated a recall of the strange conversation from before. Certainly not for her to have spent several days on such a thing.

“Come on,” she welcomed him. “I’m not horrible at art, I promise.”

He shook off the surprise and forced a laugh. “My apologies, I got distracted watching those adorable cheeks of yours flush. It’s absolutely delicious to see the way the sun burns your skin.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the sun,” she said. “If you’re talking about this.” She twisted a little so he could see a deeper red mark on her chest and where it curled over her shoulder. “You know the chest I kept fiddling with beneath the grove? Turns out it was trapped but don’t worry, Shadowheart promised it would fade with time.”

He honestly hadn’t been speaking of anything but he found himself annoyed at her for a reason he couldn’t pinpoint. “Well, I suppose that’s what you must deal with when you’re obsessed with looting everything we come across.”

“It’s profitable,” she teased. “Now do you want to see what I’m drawing or not?”

He took his time to saunter over and sink into a relaxed seat beside her. The sun had begun to set and its final rays danced over her skin as she shifted closer, leg brushing against his own as she turned the pages to him.

“It’s not perfect,” she warned. “You’re not an easy person to capture on the page but it’s something.”

True to her words, the book had been filled with sketches from the front to the back. Some crude and others detailed but every single one was of him. Close ups, full bodies, and even a few in action with daggers drawn. Had she truly drawn them from memory alone?

“I keep getting frustrated when they don’t come out right,” she said. She leaned back so she was lying against the grass, attention on the sky. “I’ve asked the others but they can’t tell what I’m doing wrong either. They’re just not right.”

He turned the pages slowly, not sure how he should respond to a gift like this.

Seeing his face showed truth to her words. He hadn’t changed awfully much in these years. The great care put into this though… she’d spent ages detailing his hair on others and even put dapples of sunlight over others from when they’d been travelling through the forest.

They didn’t have many hobbies to pass the time while travelling (not unless you counted Lae’zel who appeared to be collecting more and more heads as they continued on) but this must have taken so much of her waking hours.

The emotion that crept up his throat was unwelcome and difficult to recognise. It made his unbeating heart twist uncomfortably and he immediately snapped the book shut.

She nudged him to get his attention. “Well? What do you think? We can hire a professional when we reach a bigger city but it’s a temporary solution.”

He forced the smile and it felt wrong. “I doubt even a professional will capture me right. It’s as you said, difficult to capture perfection.”

She laughed. “I’ll try again tomorrow but with our plans, I think you’re going to be in a foul mood and I don’t want to draw you when you’re sulking.”

“Me? Sulk? I couldn’t possibly imagine why when you’re making me trudge through a swamp.”

She grinned and for a second, the briefest moment, he felt something tug on his chest when he looked at her. Fondness. His panic flared immediately and he turned his gaze away, uncomfortable suddenly with the attention she lavished upon him.

Curse her and her ridiculous book. Yet another strange aspect of her life – one that tempted him to flee in the middle of the night and never return to this group and their insistence on helping people.

But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t give up the safety provided by them yet.

“I’ll be happy to take this off your hands darling,” he said to her, holding up the book. “Keep it safe and make sure it doesn’t disappear in the night.”

“You will not. It’s mine until I get at least one drawing of you right and then you can have it.”

He leaned over her, placing one hand on the ground beside her hip. “Wouldn’t you rather the real thing? We can make some references for more enticing artwork in the future.”

She stared at him, briefly frozen as he drifted a faint touch over her thigh. The flare of lust in her eyes made him comfortable again. This was something he understood. An emotion he recognised. She still wanted him; she must if she spent all this time trying to draw him.

She moved closer and her breath brushed over his cheeks, her eyes locked on his.

He waited, about to close the gap, when she suddenly kissed him on the nose, grabbed the book from his hand, and rolled away with a laugh.

Astarion was left blinking as she tucked the book into her pouch.

“I’ll let you have it when I’m done but that does sound like fun. Unfortunately, this evening though, I managed to talk Wyll into giving me some dance lessons so I’m booked. You should join if you feel up to it.”

He huffed and tried not to let the strange jealousy return as she ducked away towards the others.

Taglist: @rosenightwings , @tragicdruid , @bloopthebat , @venus-wrts

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader

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malinthebodyguard · 19 days

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Young Royals is anti-monarchist propaganda (always has been)

I think it’s fair to say that most of the fandom was quite happy with the finale. However, I’ve seen a handful of posts by people who were unhappy, specifically those who were unhappy with Wille giving up his place in the line of succession. These criticisms range in everything from dismissing Wille’s choice (Wilhelm has made a harsh decision without thinking of the consequences, this won’t actually make the media circus around him go away), to those disappointed in how the monarchy in general was represented (Wille could have modernized the institution, no one in the show attempted to consider how the monarchy could be good, actually). I don’t want to invalidate anyone’s feelings about the finale. If you didn't like it, that’s more than ok and I don’t want to argue with anyone about their taste.

But when it comes to criticism about Wilhelm giving up the throne, I do find myself frustrated at what I see as a fundamental misunderstanding of what this show was trying to communicate. Young Royals, plain and simple, is a story that denounces the incompatibility of antiquated and hierarchical institutions (Hillerska, the monarchy) with equality and justice.

If you’ve had the displeasure of being my fandom friend you’ll know that I’ve spent the last 3 years yelling about how this show is about abolishing the monarchy. I even wrote a lengthy fanfic with the sole excuse of having Wilhelm arrive at this conclusion. Still, I knew that whatever statement the show wanted to arrive at, we’d only really be getting to it at the end of the show.

Seasons one and two were setting up all the characters on the chessboard for the end: Wilhelm is the Crown Prince, although he does not want to be. He and Simon are in love, but Wilhelm’s role drives a wedge between them. Erik’s legacy and August's spot next in line are keeping Wilhelm in his place.

From episode one, I think the show was telling us about the many things that are wrong with the monarchy, but I don’t think it’s until season three that these discussions become more explicit. Is this why some people were disappointed by the ending? Maybe so. Still, I wanted to look at how season three in particular answers some of the questions or issues people are bringing up regarding both the monarchy and the Wilhelm’s choice.

What do you like about the monarchy?

Season 3 Episode 4 is the first time we hear an explicit discussion about why the monarchy could potentially be a good institution. I’ve seen some people complain that the show didn’t give this idea enough thought.

I completely disagree with this take: the short conversation Wille and Simon have in this episode is succinct, but still effective at presenting both arguments in this debate. A longer and more drawn out conversation would have been a bit unrealistic and probably boring to watch. These are not academics having a debate, but two teenagers who are talking about what for them is emotionally charged.

There’s also no need for a longer, more detailed discussion. Wilhelm does provide a very good answer to the question: The monarchy is there to unite the people. To be a neutral party in situations when the government cannot or will not interfere.

A quick civics lesson: In parliamentary democracies, the monarch serves as the Head of State.

This role is predominantly representative, although in many places the government is formed in the name of the monarch. This could, theoretically, grant them some political power-- since they could technically reject the winning party from forming a government. However, in most parliamentary monarchies, the King or Queen simply has to accept whatever decision is made based on election results.

However, the value of the Head of State is precisely in its apolitical nature. Regardless of who’s in power, the head of state is a neutral ambassador of the nation, both in and outside of their country. Their job is diplomatic and representative, and one that is thoroughly divorced from politics. This is what Wilhelm meant when he said that the monarchy was there to ‘unite the people’. Whenever I’ve spoken to pro-monarchy folks about their beliefs, they cite this as the reason why they like it.

It’s easy to see why Wilhlem would latch on this as his main argument to defend the institution. I don’t think there is anything inherently bad about having a separate head of state that represents the country. I don’t think the major grip with this issue is the having a head of state, but the fact that the head of state is a hereditary position. Simon says this himself twice in this episode: the issue is not that the head of state exists, but that the head of state is not an elected position. Furthemore, the head of state is a role that is imposed on a person not by their talent as a public speaker or negotiator, but by a simple accident of birth.

The job’s legitimacy or importance should not be above any individual’s right to autonomy and self-determination. Furthermore, considering that taxpayers are the ones who finance this position, shouldn’t they be able to elect who it is?

Let’s imagine a scenario where a friend tells you they’ve gone into a career because everyone in their family works in that industry, and they simply had no choice in the matter. It wouldn’t even matter if they were good or bad, they had a job in this career guaranteed from birth.

Would you not be concerned that maybe your friend is unhappy for a rather unnecessary reason? Would you not think that perhaps someone who actually wanted the job would be better suited for it? Would you think it right for a company to hire someone simply because of their family history? Would you consider any of this fair? And what is so special about monarchy that makes us have a different answer for it than we would if the question was about law or medicine?

You’ll always be famous.

Another common criticism I’ve seen is that Wilhelm will inevitably regret his decision, especially once he realizes that public scrutiny will not be going away. This is true, Wilhelm will likely always be a figure of public interest. But to me, this has always been a negative consequence of the monarchy, and I have a hard time seeing this is a valid reason why he should stay in it.

From the second we meet him, we know Wilhelm is uncomfortable with both the public attention and the scrutiny placed on him. However, this goes a bit further than that. I’d argue than more than the scrutiny itself, Wilhelm is weighed down by having to keep a public image. Because, remember folks, Wilhelm is not merely an awkward teenage boy with acne and a crush. No, no, Wilhelm is the State. Wilhelm is going to be a publicly-funded representative of the nation . This means, of course, that there’s a narrative, as he mentions himsef, that needs to be put forward. One that’s generic, serious, and unproblematic:

From the get go, Wilhelm is uncomfortable with the inauthentic and performative aspect of his role.This is a constant we see with Wilhelm in seasons one and two: every ‘performance’ he has to do fills him with nausea, anxiety, or some sort of discomfort.

In season three, Wilhelm begins acquiescing to this performance. Uncomfortable as he may be, for most of season 3 he’s accepted that this is his role. However, the attention this season shifts from Wilhelm to Simon, who’s now the one facing public scrutiny. The difference is that, unlike Wille, there’s no role for Simon to play. Nothing about who he is or what he believes is compatible with the public image the monarchy is putting forward. The only thing he can do in this situation is disappear, and Wilhelm is tasked with having to ask that of him.

I know a lot of people were exasperated at Simon’s very bad and clumsy social media presence. I’m not gonna argue that my boy wasn’t being a bit cringey, because he absolutely was. But I think the larger commentary here has more to do with the expectation that these two teenagers have to censor and edit themselves to comply with a particular PR image.

Ultimately, the criticism that Wilhelm will always be famous leads us straight back to the institution. Why does an underage boy have the same PR expectations as a politician? Why is a teenager dating his classmate + being cringe online justification for doxxing him? Unfortunately, no abdication is really going to undo any of this, and things are certainly going to be crazy once Wilhelm announces he’s stepping down .

However, this time around both he and Simon will at least have the agency to decide what they want to do with their public image, including the decision to disappear from the public completely if that’s what they want.

Queer representation

This a sentiment that has been in the fandom for some time now. This was the main argument why some people wanted Wille to stay in the monarchy. Sure, the institution has always been about bloodlines and tradition. But wouldn’t it be so nice to have Wilhelm as a symbol for the queer community? I’ve always found this idea a bit shallow. I’m not sure how much of a symbol of a queer and progressive country Wilhelm could be, when the whole idea is predicated on absolutely no one having a choice in the matter. Is it really impressive to accept the queerness of the guy you already had no choice in accepting?

There’s three scenes in season 3 where the potential Wilhelm -and by extension Simon- could have for the queer community come up. Farima brings it up in the first episode, but the framing here is reversed. Wilhelm isn’t serving the LGBTQ community by being a queer Prince, but the monarchy is using Wilhelm (and his queerness) to appear progressive.

The show, however, does humor this idea with the May 1st photo. We see what Simon and Wilhelm could potentially do for the community by simply existing as who they are: they’re inspirational. It gives Simon, briefly, hope that maybe something good could come out of this.

But this moment is quite literally framed by politics. It doesn't matter that Simon is not participating in that manifestation, anything that is slightly connected with politics is a challenge to neutrality of the monarchy. This same idea is stated more explicitly int the next episode, when Wilhelm is reviewing the options for his charity.

Ultimately, any action significant enough to be truly impactful, would be bordering the limits of what could be considered political. He's got to stick it out with these quite frankly boring and limited themes, all for the sake of staying on the very narrow lane of things that are not political.

The weight of the crown.

Stories about Kings and Queens usually carry the same fundamental tension of duty vs self.

In order to rule, our protagonist has to sacrifice themselves, usually for the sake of their country and people. The Crown is an excellent example of this type of story. Sacrifice in that series is framed as something noble and selfless.

Young Royals started out with this same fundamental tension, but the main difference is that Young Royals has framed this debate as a question:

Why should Wilhelm give himself up, his happiness, the love of his life, and his mental well-being? What’s so important and valuable about this institution that requires this sacrifice?

Wilhelm’s journey is about accepting and voicing his answer. He doesn’t want to be Crown Prince, he doesn’t want to be King.

But by virtue of taking part of this journey with him, we’re able to examine this question from a different perspective: Is this institution valuable enough to justify all of this? I think the show is inviting all of us to evaluate this situation and arrive at the conclusion that it isn’t.

Even someone like August, who wanted this, is weighed down by the realization of just how much the crown weighs. Of course, a big part of the fandom probably doesn’t live in countries with parliamentary monarchies. Still, considering the worldwide popularity of the British Royals, for example, I still think it’s a worthwhile exercise to question the validity of these institutions. Are they really worth sustaining? And if they’re not, why should we continue to drag them on into the present, citing tradition?

#young royals #prince wilhelm #Wilhelm #wilhelm yr #simon eriksson #Wilmon #Politics in Young Royals #august horn #yr meta #my and

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hannibals-favourite-meal · 11 months

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Can you do prompt number 7 with Hannibal? Please?

Youtube Conspiracy Videos

Hannibal Lecter x plus size reader

Just a typical night in the Lecter household

Warnings: pregnant!reader, Hannibal is just trying to be supportive, fluff, conspiracy theories about the end of the world, reader is on bedrest

WC: 515

Minors DNI

3000 Follower Celebration

“Did you just say the world was ending?” You huffed and with a great effort on your part, lifted your head from the throw pillow you had been resting on. You opened your eyes to glare at your husband.

“Yes, yes I did. Can you please keep up?” Hannibal smiled curiously at you as you settled back onto the couch. “Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, yes the world is ending. Soon too. You see there’s this ancient order…” You began to ramble again, your hands absentmindedly coming to rest on your swollen stomach.

Hannibal was trying to listen, he really was. He respected your passion and adored the way you would obsess over these topics that went straight over his head. But when you looked so pretty like you were now, dressed in just an oversized sweater and fluffy socks (your legs over-heated very quickly apparently) with your pregnant belly on display, Hannibal couldn’t concentrate for the life of him.

The pregnancy was an accident, just one night where you both were a bit drunk and very frisky and didn’t bother with protection, but the baby was a blessing anyway. The house had been baby-proofed the week after you presented your husband with the positive pregnancy test and your little bean already had a wardrobe full of the most expensive and fanciest baby clothes you had ever seen.

As you entered your final months of pregnancy, Hannibal had insisted on bedrest until the baby arrived. You fought him, of course, but your husband had convinced you with an evening of absolutely spoiling you. And it appears that you had discovered your own form of entertainment in your solitude.

The video paused on the television showed the exact topic you were animatedly discussing, as it had been for the past several hours. The theories were, in Hannibal’s opinion, outlandish but they kept you from losing your mind.

“… and so we have maybe a year left, max.”

“Well that’s upsetting considering we’re about to have a baby.” You paused, your eyebrows scrunching as if you were only just now remembering that little fact.

“Oh, right. I guess we may have a little bit longer than a year, but not by much!” Hannibal just chuckled and slipped from his own chair. Carefully, he lifted your swollen legs and sat on the couch, placing them back onto his lap.

“Well that’s good, I would like to have some time with my girls before the world ends.” You sighed in relief as his fingers dug into the knotted muscles along your calves, sinking further into the luxurious couch cushions.

“I thought that we settled on them being a boy?” Hannibal shrugged.

“Just a feeling my darling. Now, why don’t you tell me more about this illuminati?” Your eyes lit up.

“I have so much to tell you!” The melodic sound of your voice settled over you both once more. Hannibal hoped that you would have more evenings like this in the future and hopefully soon, there would be another little voice joining yours.

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shadyvoxtruth · 4 months

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How ShadyVox Threatened Myself & Others For Years

My name is Martin Billany but I am also known as LittleKuriboh in the YouTube sphere/Yu-Gi-Oh fandom.

I am posting this here for posterity in case all of my other posts elsewhere about it are removed. Also because there has never been a single unified place to find all of this information presented in sequence.

Patrick, also known by his pseudonyms of ShadyVox or Scratch21's Matt Robinson or Blake Swift, spent the better part of 2019-2023 both threatening me and manipulating a group of real victims.

A brief history - for those who don't know, Patrick/ShadyVox and myself were heavily involved in the "abridged series" world in the late 2000s/mid 2010s. I myself started the whole abridged parody nonsense with Yu-Gi-Oh Abridged, and Patrick would follow suit by doing a Yu-Gi-Oh GX Abridged. We met through content creation and formed a friendship through it. Not best friends or anything, but friendly enough.

Patrick would later leave the abridged series stuff behind and start over making music, working in original animation for popular internet channels, etc. Stuff he was genuinely very good at. It was a strong choice to move away from parody content, as it likely would have held him back at some point.

At a certain point in 2018, I received a communication from him that requested I remove certain YouTube comments on my videos that featured him. These comments were demanding to know why Patrick was following various right wing channels and were calling him alt-right, etc.

I agreed to remove the comments because I considered him a friend and automatically assumed there was some big misunderstanding. As it turned out, he was subscribed to a few channels that caused me to confront him.

I was emotional and upset, admittedly. Things politically were at a fever pitch and I had been swept up by it. I have included screencaps of our conversation.

Later I would apologize to him for my outburst and try to make amends. You're probably wondering why I would include this since it doesn't seem to involve Patrick threatening me, and it seems if anything to suggest I got upset at him.

That is because I truly believe this is the moment Patrick decided he was going to find some way to come after me. I believe that Patrick had spent a lot of time creating a mask for himself, and had worn it very well, and the moment someone saw through it for even a moment he decided I had to be dealt with somehow.

At this point - mid 2018 - Patrick and I were not close. We hadn't worked on anything together in half a decade. We really only kept in touch in a cursory fashion. So I imagine this interaction stuck in Patrick's craw something awful.

I was, however, closer with the person Patrick had worked in conjunction with on his abridged series, X. These days X is my best friend. Back then, I don't know how close we were. But definitely closer than either of us were with Patrick.

One day in 2019, entirely out of the blue, Patrick messages me privately to inform me that X once slept with a girl who was 17 when he was in his early 20s.

My own spouse was sexually assaulted before I met them, and as a result I have a no tolerance policy on anything that even could resemble assault. So I immediately ended my friendship with X.

And as I was doing so, Patrick told me repeatedly that I was overreacting.

As you can see, by Patrick/Shady's own words, this was a long time ago. Just under a decade or so, by my count.

And most importantly, Patrick had been aware of this for the whole decade or so and chose this very moment to tell me that this happened.

I want you to keep that in mind, especially the fact that when I said I was ending my friendship with X, Patrick's actual response was "it was a long time ago, he's gotten better."

It was painful to end my friendship with X, but I did. I told him that if he could provide satisfactory proof that what Patrick had said didn't represent the facts of the situation, I could be his friend again. Until then, I cut off all communication from X.

A week or so later I received specific evidence that pointed to a situation wherein Patrick was intentionally misrepresenting what happened, or the alleged victim's story. The alleged victim VERY specifically disagreed with Patrick.

You'll note that I'm not including screen caps of these conversations - that is because the alleged victim, and other involved parties, DO NOT WANT to be part of any of this and have needed actual therapy because of Patrick's behavior in the past. Not just here.

Anyway.

I returned to Patrick/Shady and told him there had been a misunderstanding. I wanted to clear the air and give him a chance to say something along the lines of "oh okay, obviously I had my facts wrong." I mean, as you yourself have just read - he said himself that this was a long time ago. Maybe he got some wires crossed.

This is how Patrick actually responded:

The screenshots were taken on different dates, hence why his twitter icon looks different suddenly.

But yes. His response to me explaining that the alleged victim disagreed with his stance, was to insist that the alleged victim must be lying and that I should be absolutely infuriated.

After he'd tried to tell me that there was no point in being upset about this information that he had sat on for the better part of a decade.

Patrick continued to scream at me via dm, repeatedly requesting that I give him my phone number so we could talk about this. I assume this is because he didn't want any kind of text evidence of what he was going to say to me, or what he was doing.

He would later, mid-conversation, tell me that he was deleting all of his dms to me. Not sure why. It doesn't remove them from my side of the conversation, so I still have access to all of them. I have not shared the entire private message thread yet, because it's sensitive and involves people beyond just myself. But if the dms ever do need to be made public entirely, I have them.

I ended up blocking Patrick during this very conversation because he had begun screaming at me, behaving extremely unhinged and in a frightening manner. I honestly think he had hoped that I would initially try to defend my friend from his accusation, in which case he was going to fly off the handle then. But because I had genuinely believed him and removed my friend from my life, only to then learn Patrick's story didn't hold water, he had no choice but to lash out now. When it didn't make any sense to suddenly be irate about a thing he had told me about, and had literally just said "it was a long time ago."

Within 24 hours, Patrick had sent me a threatening email saying he was going to expose me for everything I was doing. I have attached the highlights of the email, parts that don't involve other people's names.

Some of the references in this email - specifically about how I've associated with others and ignored people calling me out for it - are related to a podcast I was on, alongside Patrick. Until recently I had indeed tried to move on with my life after a number of the people involved had revealed themselves to be toxic. I had made efforts to separate myself from those people. It had been years since I'd really had any direct connection to any of them.

I do indeed regret not speaking out about it sooner.

Having said this, Patrick himself was equally as guilty for not speaking out - and had in fact spent a significantly larger amount of time talking to/working with the people in question.

As such, I believe a lot of this is some form of bizarre projection on his part.

I ignored the email because I was a) worried that he had suddenly snapped, and b) I didn't think any of the content warranted a response.

A day later, I received this email from Patrick where his tone has changed entirely:

As you can see, this is more in line with the reality of the situation. He is apologizing profusely and insisting I didn't actually do anything wrong, and that he was the one in the wrong.

You'll also note that he signs this particular email "Patrick." That is because it is his real name, and I believe he was possibly appealing to my humanity and the part of me that might still have seen a friendship worth salvaging. Otherwise I could not tell you why he signed his real name - he typically hates using it.

I still did not reply because at this point I was confused and scared and wanted him to leave me alone. And to that point, he had specifically stated at the end of his email that he was the problem and he would not "involve himself in my life any longer."

The police were contacted and they told him to stop. I had hoped that my part in all of this was over.

Later that very month, Patrick announced on his ShadyVox twitter account that a new GX Abridged was coming out for April Fools.

When it is posted on April 1st - less than a month after he had sent his email saying he would remove himself from my life, and not long after the police have visited him - the video contains many references to our conversations, and specifically the fact that the police got involved.

Yes, after being told by the police to stop - and after writing an email that insisted he knew he was the real problem and would be getting help - he decides to make a mockery of the situation publicly, in a manner that nobody else will understand. Except the people it is targeting.

The tweets about this video are the only thing remaining on Patrick's twitter account, as he had purged it some time ago.

(An aside - I do recall someone attempting to call Patrick out for being toxic previously on twitter, and his response was to spam them with the words "PROVE IT. PROVE IT. PROVE IT." until they gave up. I would include screenshots of this, but like I said - he purged his entire twitter except for this specific GX Abridged video he'd thrown together in a week to respond to the fact that the authorities had intervened to get him to stop)

One other important element of this video - which is where, I believe, this whole thing veers into genuinely disturbing territory - is that it is interspersed with garbled footage intended to look like some sort of creepypasta/vhs effect. At the end of the GX Abridged video, it is clear that Patrick is using this video to allude to some upcoming song tracks he is producing.

Songs that are tailored to threaten me in cryptic, indirect ways that very few people pick up on.

But I'll get to those later.

During 2019, Patrick reaches out to actual victims of the toxic individuals from the podcast I used to be on more than half a decade before any of the stuff chronologized in this post. He tells them lies, and demonizes me to the point that it convinces them that I am still both defending/supporting the toxic individuals, and actively mocking their victims in private.

I am aware of this because Patrick tweets about it - before deleting the tweets entirely. He even attempts to throw popular abridging group TeamFourStar under the bus, which I assume was merely out of spite because they had absolutely nothing to do with any of this.

I wish I had screengrabbed the tweets when they were still up, but there is still remaining evidence that they did exist.

Here is someone posting on Reddit about it - he only references one tweet, but this was around the time Patrick was posting and then immediately deleting what he'd said. I honestly can only assume - but I think he was fishing for people to latch on to what he was saying and contact him privately.

Not to mention the fact that the police had specifically told him to stop, so that was likely in the back of his mind also.

Here is someone replying to a since suspended twitter account that was discussing what Patrick was saying about TeamFourStar. Obviously I have no clear way to prove it, but please know that I have no reason to make that much up and point to a random ass tweet.

I imagine Patrick (not the suspended person in the above screencap) realized the best way to not seem directly to blame or involved at all was to remove any and all posts he'd made. Admittedly it would have worked if I didn't have the dms and these emails.

Speaking of emails, I received a third one in late 2019 - as you can see, Patrick's promise of leaving me alone forever didn't even last a year.

You'll note that he's speaking as though the second email never even happened. He's also just plain lying through his teeth for a significant part of it, but I think it's most important to note that this email requires you to assume the second email never got written.

He has gone from pages and pages of "of course it wasn't your fault, I'm the problem, you're good, I'm bad" to "I told you..."

Also, I think the words "You tried to damage me" should be highlighted here as it reinforces my theory that all of this was about me insulting him for all the right wing channels he'd subscribed to. Which, to me, was barely even a thought in my mind at this point.

So I choose to ignore this email also. Because y'know, why would I even humor responding to the guy at this point? I decide that I will only speak on any of this if it becomes public conversation. Until then, anything that happens would be because of Patrick's actions.

I do let my friends know about all of this - including TeamFourStar, who through this entire thing have been blameless and didn't even do anything to Patrick to begin with. And every time Patrick does something, I make sure people in my circle are aware and to be cautious.

Meanwhile Patrick alludes to all of this indirectly in the songs he posts to his YouTube channel. Yes, a situation that involves actual victims and one alleged victim that Patrick hadn't spoken to in years. He chose to make reference to all of this in videos where he raps, amongst other things.

There are a number of songs that feature references to this, it's mainly these two that I want to focus on

Birdy Boy is a song that is explicitly referencing Patrick's issues with me, without actually going into any details about what the issue is.

It is so clearly about me that people pick up on it - and rather than confront the issue or have a dialogue, Patrick decides to pin the comment about it to the top of the comments page.

Of course, if Patrick made any attempt to directly describe the issue or explain himself, it would likely result in the police becoming involved once again.

So he sticks to singing about the whole thing.

This next song is the most upsetting one.

Patrick/Shady writes a song called "Joker" about a psychotic individual murdering someone who "used to be funny." This is, specifically, the song that he teases at the end of the GX Abridged Episode 21 video he posted earlier in 2019 for april fools.

He has teased it multiple times on his twitter, and elsewhere, with the words "Coming Soon." The very same words he used to title his third threatening email.

Here is the email, placed next to some lyrics from the song Joker.

He is seemingly very specifically trying to threaten me without anyone noticing, in plain sight. I was unable to watch the video in full until after all of this stuff came out into the public. It was only through reading people's responses and the lyrics that I realized what he was doing.

Again, at this point I am doing and saying nothing publicly. Just watching this behavior and waiting.

Meanwhile in 2021, a videogame based on the web series TOME gets fully funded and Christopher Niosi - the creator of TOME - reaches out to the voice cast to see if they'll return. I myself was the voice of Nylocke, one of the main characters, and Patrick was the voice of THE main character.

As such, I told Christopher no and explained my reasons.

And here is Christopher's response.

Please pay careful attention to the fact that Christopher Niosi flat out says he already knew Patrick was doing this stuff - it isn't just me imagining it.

As a result of this interaction, I do not reprise my role as Nylocke and Christopher Niosi chooses to just recast every single character. Please note that he could have just recast Patrick, but did not. As a result, I feel responsible for all of the original cast losing out on work. It hurts to think about. But at least I feel like I did the right thing.

One member of the TOME production staff takes it upon themselves to reach out to Patrick personally. They discover that he is planning to write more songs/raps that target me. They ask him nicely to stop. He insists that he has to do this. Y'know, make vague allusions to extremely sensitive topics that he lied about in the form of song. Has to do it.

The member of production staff tells Patrick he should seek professional help.

Patrick ignores them.

Patrick continues to engage in behavior that, while not openly hostile or even specifically targeting anyone, is very clearly intended as mockery at best and a threat at worst until 2023 when all of this comes to a head.

In August of 2023, the real victims that Patrick has manipulated make a callout post aimed at myself and TeamFourStar. It specifically cites Patrick's testimony and the songs he has posted. They have been misled, but their anger is understandable.

Within a week, it becomes apparent to all sides that this is Patrick's fault. The person who posted the callout takes it down and apologizes to everyone. Not just me. They apologize to TeamFourStar, and to X.

And only then do I speak publicly about what Patrick has been doing.

I share all of the screencaps I've posted here, and give context. It's all a little muddled as at the time, my cat was dying of terminal cancer and so all of my posts are somewhat scatterbrained and aren't in chronological order. But it's still remarkably clear to everyone that Patrick has manipulated this whole thing, starting in 2019.

And that's only the stuff I feel comfortable sharing.

Since the callout post first dropped in 2023 and I began pointing people's attention toward Patrick, Patrick himself has been entirely silent. He has dropped off the internet with nary a word in defense. Not a single person directly associated with what happened has attempted to dispute my description of events.

This isn't my word versus his. It is my word versus silence.

I have it on good authority that Patrick is alive and well. I am grateful for that much. My attempts have not been to hurt him, but to defend myself. My efforts have not been to hunt him down and crucify him, but to make people aware of what transpired - and what could have easily been undone by Patrick/Shady just choosing to stop.

Instead a number of victims, and people who never did a thing, experienced a considerable amount of trauma as a result of his thoughtless and spiteful actions.

Patrick is a remarkably talented individual, and it makes me sad I have to be the one to show people who he is. I genuinely think all of this could have been avoided. It's so meaningless. It's just pain on top of pain.

And Patrick stood in the center of it all, not just pulling people's strings but practically uprooting them and then acting like he didn't do a thing.

I'm not expecting an apology, and I'm not asking for his cancelation, whatever shape that would take. But I do think it's important that people know this happened, that he chose this.

He did this for almost no reason to a person he considered a friend, who worked on videos with him.

It just seems like the responsible thing, to make sure people are somewhat aware that he could do this to them if they aren't cautious and careful and super aware.

I'm sorry to anyone disappointed and hurt by all of this information.

Believe me, I understand.

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rainbowsky · 3 months

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Perspectives on a debate

I see a lot of people still steeped in the debate about GQ.

There are a lot of claims being spread around about GQ, including:

They are huge GG antis

They posted hateful slander about GG

They were one of the primary agents of 227 and GG's cancellation

They boycotted GG

They keep bringing up 227 to hurt GG

Here are the primary pieces of 'evidence' of these claims:

Two articles published by GQ, one in 2020 shortly after 227, and one a year later. Both consist of interviews with a media/culture scholar who specializes in danmei and fan culture, discussing the phenomenon of 227 and some other related sociocultural topics.

I urge every fan to read these articles and draw your own conclusions about whether they constitute 'anti-GG slander'.

Initial article

Follow-up a year later

Once you've done so you can read on if you're curious to hear my thoughts on the issue. (Please don't read my thoughts until you've read the articles and formed your own perspective.)

My thoughts

These articles are overall pretty rational, intellectual and inquisitive. The conversation primarily revolves around fandom and fan culture, and GG isn't even the central focus. Particularly the second article, which only mentions him briefly at the beginning.

Instead, the articles cover a broad range of entertainment business and cultural topics, and ponder the factors that played into 227.

They are not critical of GG, so much as they are critical of his fans, which is why his fans are so angry about the articles. It's not 'slander against GG', it's a critique of fandom and fan behavior.

I suspect this is why XFX have been so vocal about spreading the rumor of a GQ vendetta against GG. Because saying, "GQ has been critiquing XFX" wouldn't garner nearly as much sympathy or outrage.

Most people don't actually bother digging into or examining these claims. Instead, they take it all at face value and assume the claims to have at least some merit, and buy into the narrative that GQ is out to get GG. They in turn spread the word about GQ's supposed vendetta against GG, thereby doing free XFX legwork.

The reality is that 227 was a very big deal at the time. A massive cultural phenomenon. Of course those interested in culture would reasonably want to discuss and examine it. It's been discussed all over the world, not just in China.

It's not unreasonable for a magazine to do this type of examination. We can agree or disagree with some of the opinions presented in the article, but they're not anything unusual for that region of the world. However, in my view, characterizing them as anti-GG slander is just a bridge too far.

#ggdd controversies #fandom reflections #rumor mill #solos belong to moling su sect #bxg fact checking

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tossawary · 4 months

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One of my other strongest hopes for future seasons of the live-action "One Piece" is (and I am aware that this is hugely subjective, feel free to disagree) that I kind of hope Chopper is actually a youngish and short actor in make-up (with CGI touchups? whatever the fishmen had going on) rather than a fully CGI creature.

I mean, I won't mind if Chopper is a CGI creature. I thought that the special effects in OPLA were overall pretty good. The News Coo was very cute. The Sea King was fun. But most of the time, the show was real people interacting with other real people, and I thought that this atmosphere was hugely beneficial to this adaptation. I think that they'll probably do a pretty good job if Chopper is a mostly CGI creature, it's definitely doable, but I also think having a much more expressive and reactive speaking character around constantly and casually is much more difficult (and expensive) than a silent, blank-faced bird present for a few minutes, and I would rather have more Chopper than less Chopper if redesigning him to be more humanoid would give us that. (He can be fully CGI during transformations, obviously.) I really like seeing these actors inhabit these characters! I've seen some really cool Chopper cosplays.

My other argument towards making Chopper more of a human in reindeer make-up is that, while I think adorable babyish Chopper is extremely cute and the humor of him being so small and cute most of the time (while being a very talented doctor and able to transform into more beastly forms) is funny, I would... also like to see Chopper taken more seriously as a teenager and as a character. I think fandom, and maybe the story itself, has a tendency to give Chopper less attention because he does seem to fit more of a funny mascot appearance. (I also saw a Chopper post-time-skip redesign that made him more a lanky teen, both more like a human and more like a reindeer, and I liked it a lot more than how he apparently became even shorter. And it made him being mistaken for a tanuki even funnier.) I don't think anything truly important about Chopper's character will be ruined if he's allowed to look a little older and be a little taller. He's fifteen years old!

If we end up with Canonical Babyish Chopper, identical to the manga, that'll be fine! But I will think it's a missed opportunity for the live-action show not to explore and present a different side of Chopper's character, to an audience who might take him more seriously as a hero and as a person if he's allowed to appear more like a humanoid reindeer and another teenager / young adult crew member, rather than looking like a gag character. Yes, ideally, we SHOULD all take Chopper seriously even if he looks like a gag character, but I think the reality is that a lot of people don't.

#tossawary one piece #tony tony chopper #opla

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gingerylangylang1979 · 10 months

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Male identity: Carmy and Richie

I’m finding that a certain demographic of fans have a much harder time relating to Carmy but very much relate to Richie. Granted, a lot of this has to do with what fandom platform you observe. I actually kind of hate The Bear subreddit but continue to browse it periodically because it’s super interesting to hear what “the others” are talking about. I rarely engage anymore because it’s mostly nonsense and a totally different vibe than Tumblr. The contingent is definitely very anti-Carmy x Sydney and seems to hate Sydney. I’ve also noticed that while there is a lot of love for Carmy there is even more love for Richie. I’m very intrigued by this perspective.

This season Richie was definitely a standout. I think Ebon is an amazing actor and am glad he is finally getting nominated for his role. I thought he got robbed with the non-Emmy nominations. But even before S2 I noticed that Richie was the most favored character among the Reddit demo and perhaps a big part of the general audience. That’s fine, people can favor who they like. I know that doesn’t represent everyone but I do think that speaks for what I consider general audience and makes sense considering how society still views manhood despite social progress. This season even a lot of the reviews were kind of meh about Carmy. I get it, I initially was writing him off too, was pissed, and thought he had the worst arc. Then once thoughts settled he went back to being my hero. Deeply flawed, but I just relate to him so much and he’s fascinating to watch. I’m a woman, so maybe that helps my empathy. I also don’t think The Bear would work with Richie as the lead as some have suggested.

The thing is Carmy is a more difficult character because he has multiple layers of trauma, his work is so specialized and niche, he is a sensitive soul, he’s artistic, and he doesn’t fit the mold of the working class male models he was surrounded by. Your typical man can’t relate to him. And most likely your typical conservative leaning woman can’t either. At the Christmas party he was appalled at how the other guys were talking about Claire. And this is a woman he had a crush on and is present day attracted to. He could have easily been superficial and macho and laughed at the jokes as expected. He didn’t let Richie get away with calling Syd sweetheart. Richie says he’s “woke”. He employs a woman in a leadership role. He’s built different.

He is struggling in many ways that are hidden and he also lashes out. The hidden ways and the lashing out are interpreted as whiny and annoying by people that can’t relate. He’s been cited as not growing but people can’t acknowledge that his healing won’t be linear. But how can it be when his trauma was collected in overlapping seasons for most of his life? The pain didn’t develop in a linear path. He had a stutter when he was young. There are hints that there is a learning issue of some sort (I’m not going to try and diagnose). He was always the “different” one in the family. The other guys call him “weird”. His father was absent. His mom has mental health issues and is an alcoholic. He witnessed the traumatic incident at Christmas and I’m sure it wasn’t the only such incident. His brother was an addict that pushed him away, then killed himself. He went into a chaotic, highly demanding field that required him to isolate to excel. He is shy and has trouble forming close bonds. He had a mentally abusive boss. He was always super competitive. He comes back to own The Beef and it’s problem after problem. How are people expecting him to be “fun” and have an easy comeback like Richie?

Richie has issues, too. Stagnant in mid-life, spent years devoted to an addict, failed marriage, feeling disillusioned and displaced, also an absent father. But when we meet Richie he’s not as wounded as Carmy. Carmy is literally sleep cooking, almost starting fires, dissociating, having panic attacks. Richie is sad but it mostly manifests as him being kind of nasty and grumpy. He’s like a sour old man with dated and offensive jokes. His behavior is dismissed because he’s grieving. Which yes, he deserves a pass. But why does he deserve a bigger pass than Carmy who is dealing with so much more or Sydney who seemed to bear the biggest brunt of his outrage and was also struggling? Carmy is literally on the verge of a breakdown and has the weight of trying to keep the staff, the business, and himself afloat. Despite all this Richie gets a lot of indulgences for his bad behavior that Carmy isn’t.

Richie is easier for a lot of people to digest because he’s funny, he’s the working class representative, he’s tall (yes people have height bias, especially with men). Carmy is viewed as the pompous prodigal son that’s trying to ruin Richie’s delicate ecosystem by gentrifying and kicking out “the working man”. There are people posting in disgust that he dare change The Beef despite it being a hell hole money pit.

It’s just so interesting that in reality we are dealing with an unprecedented numbers of men who report extreme loneliness, depression, hopelessness. Richie and Carmy both fit that profile. Yet, a man like Richie is broadly understood and accepted and a man like Carmy isn’t. It goes back IMO to the continual coding of masculine/good vs feminine/bad. Richie is the stereotypical red blooded American male. He wants the stripper’s panties. He has a gun. He needs to be alpha. He views anything outside the norm as a threat. He wants to preserve tradition at all costs. Carmy is his foil. Carmy is viewed as feminine.

I see it even on Tumblr with the persistent identification of Carmy as somehow feminine. Like he can’t be soft and traumatized and just be a man. So what does that say when even people who would probably consider themselves progressive still classify a man in feminine terms if he isn’t a MAN? We accept all types of gender identities but still struggle with a man not fitting the correct paradigm. Society still has issues accepting that men can be vulnerable and struggling without being feminized. People also make assumptions about Carmy’s gender identity and sexuality based on his trauma. Like, of course he has to be XYZ because well, look at him, he’s sad an pathetic. What does that say about men’s sexuality and identity? Are only queer men accepted as sad? Carmy could be a queer character, cool, representation matters. But I just find the semi-automatic equation of queerness with an atypical male to be odd and a bit regressive.

Edited to add on above: I hope what I’m saying doesn’t get interpreted as dismissing queer people who identify with Carmy. I get it, I support it. What I’m speaking to is the insistence that canon Carmy is queer because of his interests, aesthetic, and mental health as if that is the only identity option. Granted, he could be bi. I also think some people are insistent on this, just as they are on Syd not being into men, as a way to negate the possibility of them being romantic. Again, I’m saying some people. Also, proximity and shared struggle doesn’t equal identity. This makes me think of once when a white gay male bestie claimed we are the same because I’m a black women. I had to kindly correct. We share the same haters, we are both marginalized, but he will never know my experience just like I will never know his. We can bond on the commonalities but we aren’t exactly the same. IMO, it would be a disservice to both of us to claim different.

I’m really rambling, but just thought I would share my thoughts and open a conversation about this.

#the bear fx #carmy berzatto #richie jerimovich #men in cinema #men in tv #masculinity #male identity

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virgo-dream · 11 months

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One of Their Own 🏳️‍🌈✨

dreamling / queer joy / fluff / first kiss / 3,6k words

summary: Hob Gadling invites Dream to a meeting of the uni's queer clubs at the New Inn. Dream learns more about his own gender identity, and that he's very much in love with his best friend.

author’s note: this fic, this pairing and this fandom all mean the world to me, so I thought it was fitting to bring it back for pride month!

I’m incredibly thankful for finding Sandman when I did. Since joining this fandom, I’ve made wonderful friends and became part of a community of bright, kind, loving and loyal queer people that I would not trade for anything. I’ve learned more about my community and about myself, and I wave my ace/agender flag proudly now. This fic was written in a moment in my life where I felt hopeless and alone. Now, things couldn’t be more different. Happy pride sandfam! 🏳️‍🌈✨

read here or on ao3

Dream doesn’t get it at first. He never really did get it, but only attributed it to the need humanity had for labels, for packing things into boxes and saying this goes here and that goes there. Sometimes, it leads to this goes to heaven and you go to hell. It seemed to be a very common one, too. He was beyond that; his name said it all, Dream was endless. Not he nor she, not man nor creature, he was all there was to be and the nothingness beyond it. Gender and sexuality need not apply.

Still, it meant so much to Hob, that he’d have dreams about it. Nightmares too, for nights on end, and even if Dream begged Hob to allow him to take them away, Hob always declined, always braving through them. “If you take them, I’ll forget how much it all means. I’ll forget why I’m still fighting.”

They sat at the New Inn one afternoon, while Hob graded papers and Dream had a cup of chamomile tea, but his eyes couldn’t help but focus on a shiny pin on Hob’s jumper shaped like a flag, the shades of pink, purple and blue a spot of proud colour in Hob’s otherwise earthy colour palette.

“It’s the bisexual pride flag.”

“Hm?” Dream’s eyes darted up to meet Hob’s, tilting his head slightly. He wasn’t sure if he should feel bad for being caught, because he wasn’t sure what he was looking at in the first place.

“The pin. I wear it for my students, but also for myself. The kids feel safer I guess, knowing they have at least one of their own in the faculty. Can’t say it doesn’t make me feel good too.”

Hob has a particular tone to his voice that makes Dream’s heart sing in tune to its melody. It’s a fuller sense of self, maybe more than Dream ever had in regards to his own identity. “…one of their own?”

“Oh, I– Sorry, those are pretty recent.” Hob straightened himself up (ha) on the chair, his lecturing posture taking over. Dream liked when he did that. He liked to hear Hob speak of things he had deep knowledge of and passion for. “This one was created in 1988 by a queer activist called Michael Page. Had the pleasure of being there when it was first unveiled, but clearly it took a long time until I was able to wear something like this out in public and not be decked by some bloody homophobe.”

It was starting to sink in.

“…I’m afraid I was not present for these developments.” Dream saw the look on Hob’s face, like he was ready to apologise. He raised a hand to stop him, waving his concern away. “As far as I can remember, queer was not a form of self identification, but only a way to shun out those outside the established norm.”

“Ah, yes. We reclaimed it, though. Or are reclaiming it. The 80s were crazy. All of them were, for me.” Hob smiled at Dream, at their shared secret and at their years of now reestablished friendship.

“I think you’re lonely.”

Could it have been….? Could he have meant…?

“What does it mean for you, then?” Dream asks in a way he hopes sounds inconspicuous, pointing at the pin. He was hesitant to ask, afraid to be getting it all wrong.

“For me? It means I love whoever I love. Man, woman, either or neither.”

The pride coming from Hob’s words filled Dream with hope, something he had not felt in a long, long time. The look in his face then shifted onto something else, something he didn’t quite understand. “…what about you? That is, if you’re okay with talking about that. I don’t want to overstep. Last thing I want is for you to walk out–”

“I won’t, Hob.” Dream knew Hob had reason for feeling that way. “I don’t believe the terminology you have could define my experience. I have laid with mortals and gods alike, and have worn many faces and names. It is beyond human comprehension.”

Hob seems to take a moment to think about what he’d just heard. Dream feels like he might have thrown too much at his human friend. “…I think I get it. But, and tell me to bugger off I’m wrong, do you prefer to be a particular way? To be with a particular sort of being?”

Dream. Didn’t have an answer.

He never thought of what he preferred. He’d never felt in need of any sort of outside validation, but. That was a lie. He needed it. He just never cared to look for it.

Hob’s smile was what broke him out of the spell of his own self doubt. “It’s okay if you don’t have an answer. It takes people a long time to get it, it took me nearly 600 years! Ah! You know what? I’ve got an idea–” He reached inside his brown messenger bag, pulling out a colourful piece of paper, handing it over to Dream. A pamphlet for a meeting. “We’re having a meeting for the uni’s LGBT clubs here at the Inn. I want this to be a safe space for the kids, and to get them to connect with other folks in the community, share their experiences. It’s tomorrow, and I’d love it if you could make it. I’m sure they would too.”

Dream took the pamphlet in hands, looking at the bright colours and bold fonts, taking in every bit of information Hob was giving him and trying to fill in the gaps of the questions he wouldn’t dare ask. After a moment, he looked up at Hob, allowing himself a small smile. “I shall be in attendance, then.”

—————

Dream stood outside the New Inn, hands tucked safely inside the pockets of his coat jacket. He watched as groups of young adults arrived, greeting each other cheerfully. The hair colours and outfits reminded him of his sister, Delirium, but they all seemed to be more in line with her previous self; delighted to be there, happy to meet their friends. A flag danced in the light summer breeze on a pole next to the window, the stripes of colours brightening up the already lively scene. A rainbow, Hob had told him the day before, was the most recognizable symbol of the queer community. It now was accompanied by stripes of light pink and blue, white, black and brown. Dream enjoyed good symbolism, and he could feel the meaning of those colours to all who were present from their daydreams alone.

He, however, still felt like an outsider. Like he wasn't really meant to be there, save for Hob's generous invite. Dream was not defined by the same standards humanity aligned itself with; in fact, he wasn't defined by anything at all. He was not an individual, but the safe arms in which those dreamers rested every night, the common thread in their hopes, in their restful slumber. It would be silly to think that he'd need to identify as one thing or another, really. He was there for Hob . Because Hob invited him. Because he wanted to know more about the everyday life of his dearest friend. Because he wanted to hear him talk, see him inspire others with his tales, wanted to hear the sound of his voice, the gentle way in which he made people feel welcome, cared for, loved, he wanted–

Dream thought it best to wait it out, at least until most people had already arrived, until he had an idea of just how many young, hopeful minds would be in the vicinity. After escaping the Burgess Manor, Dream was faced with a considerable raise in the amount of dreamers under his care. He would not admit it to anyone but himself, but at times, it became too much even for him to bear. The idea of willingly walking into a space with so many people was daunting, to say the least. So he waited, watched as the New Inn became packed with dreamers, feeling his palms dampen inside the pockets of his coat.

Taking the first step towards the door was difficult. Pushing it open was even harder. Dream stepped in, careful not to bump into anyone or to even get too close. The sound of the little bell that was supposed to announce his arrival had no effect, as it was overtaken by the sound of chatter inside the Inn. It was better that way, Dream thought. Not having Hob rush to greet him. That way he could take a moment to adjust to his surroundings, maybe even blend in, become invisible. In hindsight, his usual choice of attire did anything but blend in there. He was a dark little cloud in a sky full of bright colours, like a multi-coloured sunset on a tropical beach. And of course, every sunset had its monarch, shining brightly, commanding the attention. That, of course, was Hob.

"Hello there, kids! Glad to see most of you could make it!" The cheerful, gentle register of Hob's voice filled the room, filtered by the small but potent speaker he'd rented just for the occasion. Dream could hear his voice clearly, and it helped him tune out everything else that wasn't his beloved friend. "This is the first of hopefully many meetings of our beloved Queer Clubs here at my beloved New Inn. I want you all to know this is a safe space for you all no matter what part of the gender and sexuality spectrums you fall on. The only things I won't accept here are discrimination of any kind, and anyone that thinks Lawrence Cheney shouldn't have won season 2 of Drag Race UK. Are we clear on that one?"

Laughter filled the room, and Dream couldn't help but allow his lips a small smile. Hob truly was a marvel. How anyone could shine so brightly was beyond even the dream lord's knowledge, but he was glad to be able to bask in that glow from time to time. He wished he could do it more often.

Hob was saying other things, Dream thought. Instructions on seating arrangements, subjects to be discussed, discounts on food and drinks. All Dream could do was watch as Hob did more than just make everyone feel welcome, but inspired them with hope and joy, a gentle breeze of acceptance, the embrace of a parent, the empathy of an equal. There was much to work with here, much to inspire new dreams. Dreams of comfort and love, of community and pride.

"Dream? You in there, love?"

Hob's voice broke the spell he himself had cast over Dream, who could now see his friend's palm waving in front of his eyes. He'd become lost in thought, it seemed. Dream's nose scrunched up at the interruption, looking at Hob with his usual look of curiosity. There was still much he needed to catch up on when it came to non verbal communication. "Aye. I'm here. Have I not fully manifested my presence?"

Hob chuckled, and his eyes wrinkled at the corners. "Oh, yes. Physically, at least." Dream's brows furrowed in worry, and he was glad Hob was quick enough to notice when something had gone over his head. "Just a joke– hey, I'm glad you could make it. The kids will love meeting you."

"Meeting me? There are far too many people here for you to make introductions. Besides, I know them all, and they all know me. They just do not remember it during waking hours."

This felt like a plausible enough explanation to keep Hob from actually introducing him to everyone in attendance. But Hob was far too optimistic to be dissuaded so easily. "I'm not talking about introducing them to Morpheus. I'd like them to meet my friend, Dream."

"I do not see the difference." He shouldn't say why he couldn't bear the idea of being introduced to so many people. Shouldn't burden Hob with his problems, that wouldn't exist had he just not been captured in the first place. Dream had been good at hiding his discomfort so far, and he'd continue to do so.

…well, maybe he was not so good at it. Not when Hob's eyes so clearly conveyed the worry that had just settled in his heart. It was difficult to deny Hob the truth when his warm, calloused hands took Dream's into his own so carefully, squeezing gently, as if saying you can trust me. I've got you. "It's okay if you'd rather not. I know it can be overwhelming sometimes."

"...thank you." Dream replied with a murmur. Hob gifted him with a smile. It seemed a lot could be said with just the eyes.

————

Even if Dream didn't intend on actually joining in on the conversations being held, he was glad to follow Hob along and listen to the discussions. It was amazing seeing just how bright the kids really were: they spoke of justice and equality, of inclusivity, of respect and love, of family and religion and sex and responsibility. It was a wider range of topics than he'd expected, an awareness of self he didn't think humans would ever possess, and now, he was glad to be proven wrong. He listened to their shared experiences, to the kindness in their eyes as they lifted each other up, the melody of their laughter and the bravery in their voices as they spoke of injustices they'd lived. It was fascinating, really.

What Dream was truly surprised to find was that people had, after all, an understanding of self that went beyond just physical. Hob brought him closer to a group of kids who were in a long discussion on gender identity. Some of them felt comfortable with the gender they'd been "assigned with at birth", others did not feel any affinity for it. Some of them had changed their bodies to fit with how they felt on the inside, and Dream couldn't help but feel enormous empathy for them, for the way they had to fight to exist in a body that didn't feel like a trap. It was something Dream always took for granted, until he himself felt the horror of having no agency over himself. The pain they went through to guarantee they'd have the right to live authentically. Dream's body had never been limited to an exclusive physical manifestation; he was as he felt like. Fluid , as one of the bright colour haired people had pointed out while explaining their own experience. They reminded Dream of his own sibling, Desire. Someone else brought up how they didn't particularly feel like they had a gender, and that the language surrounding it didn't particularly bother them. Agender, the girl said proudly. Dream wondered if there was any right or wrong way to declare oneself fluid or agender. Then he realised the tightness in his chest when the thought occurred to him.

"Are you alright?" Once again, Hob's voice brought him back to the Waking. Dream could now feel Hob's hand on his own again, but he wasn't sure what exactly had warranted it.

"Your hands were shaking."

Once again, Dream's physical form betrayed him. It was also clear how the conversation surrounding them had gone quiet, and more eyes than he would have liked had landed on their linked hands. He didn't like being watched. Like that.

"Oh, Mr. G, is this your boyfriend?" one of them asked, teasingly. "Would have never guessed you had a thing for goths!"

"Marissa, stop!" someone else said, poking the girl on the shoulder apprehensively. The next thing they said was soft as a whisper. "They are clearly not feeling well."

They.

Dream had never considered himself as they. But this person, whoever they were, preferred "not to assume" his gender. And the empathy displayed for his discomfort was something he wasn't expecting either. Hob seemed to be about to say something, but Dream was quicker.

"There is no need to worry for my well-being, but I thank you for your kindness." Dream allowed himself to smile once again. These children were going places, he knew it. "You may address me as he , if necessary. I would not oppose her or them either." It felt liberating to say it, and Dream didn't really know why. He did know, however, that he suddenly felt brave. "I am not Professor Gadlen's boyfriend , but I am honoured to call him my dearest, most cherished friend."

Dream looked at Hob, who seemed to be awestruck by his words. It was amusing to see him like that, and it lit something else inside him. This meeting was making Dream experience a range of feelings he'd forgotten about. He showed Hob a smile, and Hob smiled back at him, warm and gentle as ever. Their hands were still linked together. Dream had no intention of letting go. "Ah, yes. This little prick here is indeed my dearest, oldest friend. I did want them to meet you guys. I'm glad I was right about it."

When Hob said it, it made Dream's heart sing.

"...so you're fuckbuddies?"

" Marissa! "

————

After a few hours and many, many rounds of different conversations, Hob gathered the group once again, thanking them for coming and congratulating everyone on the success of their first meeting. Dream couldn't help but notice how Hob seemed unable to stop smiling. He could feel the pride and relief radiating off of his tanned skin and kind eyes. Dream wished he could have it all directed at himself, that gentleness.

Hob's boyfriend. Now that would be something.

Dream sat on the booth table behind the bar where he and Hob usually held their meetings and waited for everyone to leave. He wanted some time alone with Hob, even if just to hear what his beloved friend had to say about what he thought of the meeting, just to hear Hob's voice, the only music suited for Dream's ears.

He also had so many new feelings inside himself to explore. Those he could tend to later.

"Hey there, handsome stranger." Hob said as he sat across from Dream on the table, taking Dream's hand in his as if it was just the way they always did things. Maybe it could be. It wouldn't hurt (too much) to hope, would it? "Come here often?"

"Only when I'm in search of an epiphany." Dream couldn't bother to hide the fondness in his own voice, nor the relief he felt to have Hob's hand cradling his own again. "I am impressed, Professor Gadlen. You have gathered a group of exceptionally bright minds. It gives me hope for a better future for humanity."

"Wow Dream, that is… that is really high praise, especially coming from you." Hob seemed flushed, and Dream wondered what else he could do to cause that reaction, to see Hob shy and pretty like that again and again. "I learned a long time ago that I have to build the future I want to live in. But in all honesty… I'm more interested in the present right now."

"Oh, is that so?" Hob's optimism was infectious, it seemed. Dream too could only focus on the present moment. "I am glad to be able to share it with you."

There was a short silence shared between them after that. It was as if neither of them were ready to say whatever it was they clearly needed. Dream tried to take comfort in the feeling of Hob's hand in his, rubbing the back of Hob's hand with his thumb.

His mistake was looking up to meet Hob's eyes.

"There is much I have learned today." Dream decided he'd be the one to break the silence. He'd be the one to take the leap, because he knew Hob had made sure he'd make a safe landing. He knew that no matter what happened, no matter how much he could get hurt, he was safe. He could trust Hob with his heart, even if there was a chance that he would break it. "I often make the mistake of thinking there is nothing more to my existence than what I have already discovered. I contain all conscious minds throughout the universe, their lives, hopes and dreams. Yet, I forget that the tales of others cannot substitute one's own experience, only enlighten it."

Hob listened to Dream's words attentively. He looked anxious, but would not interrupt. Dream knew he wouldn't. He knew how much Hob cherished the moments where Dream felt ready to share something new. "Today, you have once more shown me there is much I have to learn. For that, I am grateful, Hob Gadling.”

How could Dream not fall in love with someone that treated him like he was the moon? How could the moon not love the sun?

"I'm grateful for you too, you know. The kids loved you. I'm sure I'll be getting asked about you for the rest of the semester. Maybe even longer." Hob's eyes were so fond it made Dream want to cry.

"And how would you like to answer their inquiries?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you like to tell them of your dearest, oldest friend…" Dream leaned in, bringing Hob's hand to his own cheek. He pressed a soft kiss to Hob's palm, and watched as Hob's eyes followed his every move. There was no turning back from this. "...or would you prefer to tell them about your lover, Hob?"

For a moment, time stopped. Their eyes met, and before Dream could get anxious or regret his words, Hob was already standing and leaning over the table, locking their lips together.

Dream thought he'd heard the sound of people cheering outside one of the windows of the New Inn. Hob would certainly be getting many questions from his students come next monday.

#virgo dream writes #dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #dream x Hob #Morpheus x Hob #pride fic #dreamling fic #the sandman fic #remember when I used to write?

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luna-rainbow · 1 month

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I'm sorry if this is an odd question. I'm new to the Steve/Bucky fandom and only recently started reading fics relating to them. How come most fics tend to favor Peggy and write her to be a sympathetic character? Most of the fandom that I've interacted with agree that Peggy isn't a good person (SHIELD and Hydra as well as her behavior with Steve in CFA) and wouldn't be a good match for Steve. I've loved all the fics for the love b/w Steve/Bucky but the sympathetic writing of Peggy has irked me

Thanks for the ask!

I came into fandom pretty late so I missed a lot of that, but I’m told Peggy has always been pretty popular in the Stucky fandom.

I think her popularity comes from a number of reasons — 1) lack of other female characters at the time, 2) easy to project onto, 3) a reluctance to tackle her negative traits.

At the time when Stucky’s popularity exploded, there weren’t a lot of female characters in the MCU. There were Pepper and Jane, both of whom were passive watchers and “civilian counterparts” to the main character's heroic enterprise. Peggy was a rare Phase 1 love interest that seemed to be present and at least somewhat handy with a gun. People were more forgiving of unfavourable character moments — and just coming from the movies alone, you could bend the narrative to ignore most of those unfavourable moments.

Which leads me to the second point, which I think is the most important one. The vagueness with which Peggy is written makes her an incredibly useful “blank” character to project onto. Firstly, her mannerisms are forceful and assertive, and the superhero genre target audience is one who likes to watch things being resolved by fights. As I said above, at the time there really isn't any other female character (apart from Nat) for the female audience who likes action heroes. Secondly, Peggy and Nat form the madonna-whore dichotomy (especially with Whedon’s characterisation), and a lot of people would prefer to project onto the fandom madonna than the whore. Thirdly, she has very little character traits within the movies apart from “strong-willed” and maybe “ambitious”, which gives a lot of flexibility to how writers can play with her character. Fourth, the fact that her appearances in the movies only ever occur in Steve’s company (except the later cameos) gives a misattribution of narrative proximity, with a lot of fans believing (especially if they haven’t revisited the source in years) that she was a more important narrative force than she actually was. But that same narrative proximity is appealing if you want to project onto a female character who can participate in Steve’s adventures and you don’t like Nat or Sharon or an OC.

And the third point I think is the trickiest part. Does fandom misogyny exist? Of course it does, especially in the MCU. But misogyny is also flung around as an accusation against fans who make genuine critiques of a character or want to write a nuanced female character that acknowledges her negative traits. Someone once dumped a 1500 word rant in my comments because I omitted Peggy from a Stucky meta, so you can imagine how much her rabid fans would arc up if you are actually critical.

Besides, writing a nuanced character takes effort and planning and a lot of hard work. I know for myself unless I plan to tackle Peggy as a fully-fledged character, I'd either omit her from the story or give her a very minor role that is not overtly critical, because it's just not worth the effort of the argument in the notes.

#anti peggy carter #asks

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bramble-scramble · 5 months

Text

Hello everyone!

Super Mario RPG has been in my life for over 15 years, but it wasn't until the remake came out that I gave it significant space in my brain. Both the absolute joy and love that the remake invokes, as well as the renewed fandom around it, have gotten me obsessed with some of these characters like never before.

Even so, I've been a bit hesitant to write or put some of my ideas out there... it's a very old fandom, one in which I feel so many interesting story ideas and philosophical angles to these characters must have already been explored, since the days of forum roleplays and the heyday of sprite comics which I remember from my earliest years online. It makes it somewhat intimidating for me to write down my own ideas for fear of retreading old ground that I didn't even know had been trod. Or perhaps just not being nearly as interesting as fanon that has existed before.

....But I'm also really obsessed and I need to get some stuff out of my brain. So I'm just gonna try some things! For fun!

And therefore I present to you, my first ever SMRPG writing. Let me know if you like it, and there will be more!

PS: the way I'm resolving the name discrepancy between some of the characters mentioned here, is that I take their remake names to be the names Smithy gave them, and their "original" names to be the names they eventually take for themselves. That just feels right to me. But that is not yet relevant to this story.

So, without further ado...

The Forging

This one wasn’t much to look at. Yet.

Smithy had given this project days of nonstop planning and engineering- then hours upon hours of heating, hammering, grinding, polishing, the bright sparks flying ceaselessly in his workshop, the sound of his hammer ringing out like a song on repeat. Everything was calculated to ensure just the right amount of sturdiness and strength while maintaining a lightweight flexibility. The perfect incarnation of a spear.

But what it all amounted to, as far as an untrained eye could see, was an unassuming wire-frame of spindly limbs, attached to a cauldron-like lower belly for some weight. The inert body lay stretched out on the slab like a stick figure, more like the beginning sketch of a piece of art than its end product.

That was alright. It was only the beginning, after all. He still needed details: the flourishes of red that would bring his design to completion, the cape that would serve as the dramatic curtain to cloak his form. More than anything, of course, he needed life. He needed movement.

Of course, he didn’t have a head yet, and that didn’t help matters.

The head alone had taken Smithy a day in itself. But when finished, it was truly a masterpiece. The long and deadly point gleamed in the light of the forge, the very essence of both elegance and danger; below it, the “cheekbones” were two sharp and threatening downward curves, masterfully forged in their grace and symmetry. In between them, the eyes: open and blank. No thoughts stirred them just yet; but soon, there would be more than enough to animate them. This one was to be a thinker, after all.

He heated up the bottom tip once again, just enough so that it glowed, but didn’t melt - and using his tongs, pressed the final touch up inside what looked like the creature’s open snout. The red fibers of the mustache fused and glued themselves to the inner metal. There- the upward-pointing curves that reflected the downward ones above them, the spot of color- now the whole piece was perfection of both craftsmanship and design.

...And it made him look mature. Dignified. Adult. With Bowyer and Claymorton running around, they could certainly use a bit more of that around the place.

Smithy held the head at arm’s length, to admire it for a moment- and then approached the body on the slab. He slotted the head expertly into the joint where the spine arched back into what became a plume, clicking and snapping it into its place; it was meant to be removable, after all.

As he stood back again, the smith noticed that the yellow eyes had closed. Smithy smiled- there had been some reaction; good. He had not failed in his designs. Now his creation slept its primordial sleep, and would awaken when he commanded.

In the meantime, he would work on those final touches. He turned to his workbench to retrieve the accessories that had been created and set aside in advance. He slid and buckled the belt around the creature’s lower body- an unnecessary accoutrement, but a pleasing one. Two red “socks”- really, more like braces, around his ankles, attaching just so, to provide extra cushioning from leaps. And then- well, why not? He picked up the large red plume, which had been-

A scraping and rattling caught Smithy by surprise. He turned quickly, and saw that the Spear was moving his right hand. The skeletal steel fingers, as yet ungloved, scratched at the slab on which they rested. A drumming, a grasping- as if eager.

Suddenly the creature’s entire arm jolted, as if electrified- and his eyes flew open. As Smithy reached his side, the spear-being blinked, looking around groggily- and then he pulled himself up, resting on his elbows, his thin but supple spine curving into a more upright position. He blinked again, and turned his head- the movements of his eyes had already grown restless, darting around the room. They lit on Smithy, still holding the plume, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Well! You’re here early,” said the blacksmith in amusement. “You aren’t finished yet.” Hungry for life, this one.

The creation pushed himself upwards to a full sitting position. He looked down at his fingers, his shoes, his body… and then back at the other figure in the room.

“Who am I?” were his first words.

Smithy took a moment to respond. In his head, he was reacting to the question, comparing it to the others he had received. “What am I?” Boomer had asked. “Where am I?” was Claymorton’s question. “Who are you?!” was the inquiry from Bowyer, with a nya or two thrown in. And now…

“Your name is Speardovich. You are the sharp and shining spear of my army, who strikes with cleverness and cunning. You are a weapon.”

Feeling a bit silly with the plume in his hands, Smithy took hold of the wire that bent out from behind his creation’s head, and affixed the crest to its place. The activity seemed to startle the newborn being, and when it was done, he shook his head back and forth, feeling out his the new balance. He reached backwards with one of his clawlike hands and ran his fingers through the plume, as one might admire their own luxurious hair. He seemed to like it indeed.

“...What is a weapon?” he asked when he was satisfied with this, looking Smithy in the eyes again, curiously.

“Hmm! Good question.” But this would be easy enough, the blacksmith thought- it was long ago now, but he could still recall the essence of what he had told Boomer.

“A weapon is what we make here- what I make here. My name, by the way, is Smithy- your creator.” He turned back to his table, and came back a moment later with a red glove. He lifted the right wrist of his creation - still limp, weak, confused - and gently slid the hand inside. “Some would say a weapon is an implement designed to cause damage,” he said, as he fitted each finger delicately into its place; surprisingly deft with his own massive hand. “To hurt, to maim, to kill. To destroy.”

He stepped away, and came back with the glove’s left-handed counterpart. “Others would say,” he continued, as he again slid each wiry finger into where it belonged, “That a weapon enables self-defense. To defeat so-called evil, to allow people to live safe and free.”

Finished with the gloving, Smithy held his creation’s smaller hand in his own for just a moment- the one, long-fingered and designed for dexterity, atop the other built for strength. “But either way- a weapon is power. The very idea of power, distilled and manifested into an object. And that, my Speardovich, is what you are. Now- move your hands. Tell me, do those gloves fit well?”

The creation raised his hands, gazing at them, and wiggled and stretched his fingers. He did not answer for a moment.

“So?” prompted the smith. “Is something the matter?”

“I… don’t think it’s the gloves,” said the weapon at last, shaking his head. “It's- it's my hands themselves. They feel… incomplete. They…” he made a grabbing, clutching motion with both of them- he suddenly seemed pitiable, like a child needy for a parent, a role in which Smithy was clearly deficient. “I- I’m sorry, My Lord Smithy. I don’t have the words. I don’t understand-”

“Ah,” said Smithy. “I know what you need. Hold tight.”

He turned yet again to retrieve something, and in a moment returned holding a long rod with a shining steel point at one end. Wrapped near the tip was a bold ribbon of red fabric.

“This is yours,” said the smith. “Of course you yearn for it. It’s part of you.” He stretched out his large hands, presenting the object to his creation.

Said creation’s eyes had grown huge. “My spear,” he said, in awe. He did not need to ask what it was. Not this.

He took it, with desperate swiftness- and closed his eyes. He clutched it across his chest, in both his hands, and something spread across his wiry body, releasing tension he did not even know he had. He did not know the word just yet, but later he would look back and realize it was joy.

Suddenly, in an instinctive movement, he took the spear in his right hand and deftly twirled it, over his head, and to the side of the slab on which he had been born and still sat, pointing it downwards. His eyes opened and he sprang up, his young knees bending like a spring, and he stood upright, pointing and thrusting the spear before him in a series of expert stabs.

Smithy grinned, giddy and foolish with pride at his work. “Yes!!” he cried. “There you are!! You know who you are, after all!!”

“Indeed,” said Speardovich, looking down from his great height at his creator. His voice had lost the slow, innocent wonder of his early questions- it was now rich and resonant with confidence. “I know who I am.”

“Come down here,” ordered Smithy, and the gangly outline of a figure obeyed, jumping nimbly to the floor. The weaponsmith carried over from the work-table the last accessory, the one that had taken up the vast majority of the space. He took the red-flowing cape and draped it over the back of his newest pride and joy. Speardovich bowed his head, resting the bottom of his spear on the ground, as Smithy proceeded with the cape, buckling the horn-shaped epaulets into the sockets he had forged for them.

“Now, my Spear,” said Smithy, “let us waste no time. I have so much more to tell you- of me, and you, and what you shall do for me. And of course, you will meet your colleagues.”

Speardovich raised himself to his full height- he was taller even than his maker- and hesitated. He tried to suppress his surprise and disappointment- colleagues. Just how many of them were there?? Would they compete for the glory their mutual creator had thus far lavished upon him? Or would they show him the respect and deference he so clearly deserved?

Well, there was only one way to find out- and he would maintain that respect with force, if need be.

He was, after all, a weapon.

“Lead the way, my Lord,” he said with a nod. Then he followed the heavy plod of his creator, his cape and his plume flowing behind him, his spear in his hand, his head held high.

#super mario rpg #smrpg #speardovich #yaridovich #smithy #smrpg smithy

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year

Text

The Silver Dragon (22/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 7312

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: To prevent Daemon from contesting their marriage, Aemond and Arianwyn proceed with the Bedding Ceremony.

Warnings: Adult content, minors DNI.

Series Masterlist

Taglist: @thelittleswanao3 @trap-house-homiecide @50svibes @literishdegree99 @dc-marvel-girl96 @henriettadreaming @multiple-fandoms-girl @gyuxmilk @somemydayy @kittykylax

Author's Note: This is my first time writing smut, so be gentle with me!

The Bedding

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

Aemond had dreamed of saying those words to Arianwyn for nearly six years, though he had desired her kiss for even longer.

Her sparkling silver eyes fluttered closed as he brought his hands up to cup her face, careful not to aggravate the purple bruises forming along her soft jawline. She was the very image of the Maiden – pure, innocent, and celestially beautiful.

He thought that with all the fairy tales they had read together, he would know what true love’s kiss would feel like. It was the kiss shared between the hero and his lady love as they left danger far behind. The kiss that broke curses and conquered evil. The kiss that began a happy ending.

This was all that and more.

Arianwyn’s lips were deliciously soft and thrillingly cool, sending a shiver down Aemond’s spine. He felt, more than heard, a slight sound leave her as he pressed further into her, the tip of his nose digging into her flushed cheeks. Her mouth opened slightly, her arms lacing around his neck and into his hair as she pushed forward, kissing him back.

Aemond would have gladly spent the rest of his days beneath the weirwood tree with his mouth on hers, his hands on her face, and her fingers in his hair. But they were not the only ones present in the Godswood, he had to remind himself as he pulled away from her sweet lips.

She leaned toward him as he withdrew, enthralled by the heat he had poured into her with his kiss. The sounds of scattered applause from their sparse audience seemed distant as all she could hear was her ragged breath and pounding heart.

When the clapping faded, Aemond turned to Septon Eustace. “What do we do now?” he asked.

There was no feast prepared, no wedding gifts to receive or toasts to hear. All that remained…

“The bedding ceremony,” Maester Orwyle answered, though he could not bring himself to look at the new couple. He had practically raised them. The idea that it was now his duty to ensure a consummation was uncomfortable, to say the least. “If you should wish it, my Prince – and Princess.”

Suddenly consumed by timidness, Aemond looked anywhere but at his new wife. He cleared his throat before speaking. “It has been a trying day for all of us. I think it best – ”

“Yes,” Arianwyn interjected – her first act of disobedience against her husband. “We want… the ceremony.”

Aemond looked down at her. She was nervous, that much was clear from the way her chest heaved and her hands shook. “Aria,” he whispered, “We don’t have to… if you don’t want to, that is.”

What was he doing? Had he not imagined taking her to his bed for years? Why was he fighting this?

But the answer was simple: because he loved her, and he would never force anything on her that she did not want.

Arianwyn placed a hand on his chest, and he had to take a deep, steadying breath to keep himself from kissing her again. “We do have to, Aemond. If the marriage is consummated, it will make it harder for my father to fight against it.”

She did not say that her fingers were tingling with the desire to touch his warm skin nor that her lips ached for his. Not here, before so many others. Instead, she let silence hang over the Godswood as Aemond stared reverently at her.

“Whose rooms shall we go to?” she asked when he did not object.

“If you’ll forgive my intrusion,” Ser Criston said as he stepped forward, “I believe the Prince’s apartments in the Holdfast will be more secure come the morning.”

While he hated that their protection was a concern on their wedding night, Aemond had to agree.

“Well,” Brynna said with a clap. “As I am the only woman present, it seems as though you’re coming with me, Prince Aemond.”

The memory of his terrified expression at that moment would bring Arianwyn laughter for years to come. As would the stiff way he moved in response to the poking and prodding he received from the boisterous lady’s maid as she herded him out of the Godswood.

As the stifled chuckling from the assembled guards faded, Eustace yawned. “It would seem that my responsibilities have concluded,” he said. “If you will excuse me, I will now happily return to my bed, my Lady – ah, apologies! My Princess.”

The old Septon did not wait for a reply before he strode from the Godswood, leaving Arianwyn alone at the base of the Heart Tree, save for a dozen guards, Ser Criston Cole, and Grand Maester Orwyle – not quite the procession she imagined for her bedding ceremony.

She had always expected that Aegon would be the one leading her to her husband’s chambers, laughing through his usual drunken haze as he watched an assortment of equally intoxicated young lords tear her clothing from her body. Never once did she picture being led to her marriage bed by two men who had taken vows of celibacy and twelve knights, most of whom had been protecting her for the majority of her life.

Though as she considered the alternative, she decided that this was far more appealing.

Indeed, Ser Criston’s touch was gentle as he offered her his arm to lead her from the Godswood. “I hope you will forgive us if we do not behave in the… traditional manner,” he said, actively avoiding meeting her eyes.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Arianwyn replied, wrapping her arm around his, grateful for the stability he provided. “At least not from me. Though I do believe Aegon will be inconsolably jealous that you took his rightful place as my escort.”

Cole, Orwyle, and all the Runestone guards chuckled quietly at her words, the joyful sound echoing off the stone as they entered Maegor’s Holdfast.

“I doubt Prince Aegon would have ever had the chance,” Orwyle mused. “I am only aware of him mentioning it once, and Prince Aemond hit him so hard in return that I had to place several stitches in his brow.”

Another round of laughter went through the party, and none tried to stifle it this time. After all, the bedding ceremony was supposed to be a time of joy and excitement; why shouldn’t they laugh?

“As I understand it,” Arianwyn said, turning back to face the knights who had guarded her for so long, “You are meant to make lewd jokes and tell risqué tales of your own conquests, to prepare me for what I will face once we reach our destination. Or are you all as cloistered as these men of vows?”

She pushed into Ser Criston, his face flushing, and grinned mischievously at Orwyle, who only raised his brows suggestively.

“Our pickings have been slim as of late, my Lady,” the youngest of her guards, Ser Trevor Wren, replied.

Another man from Runestone, Ser Adrew Dutton, smacked the side of Trevor’s helmet. “She is not just our ‘Lady’ anymore, you dimwit. She is our Princess!”

The young knight, hardly older than Arianwyn, blushed beneath his helmet. “Apologies, my Princess,” he muttered.

Arianwyn smiled back at him. “Don’t apologize, Trevor. It will take me some time to get used to as well.”

“Thank you, my Princess,” he said with a smile in his deep brown eyes.

“I doubt Wren has any tales to tell, Princess,” Ser Colren Shett chuckled. “By the time he got to Dragonstone, what few fair women there were knew to avoid bronze armor all too well!”

Several of the knights joined his laughter, surprising Arianwyn. “I had no idea my sworn protectors were so notorious!” she giggled.

Ser Warren Crayne, the eldest among them and commander of her household guard, sighed heavily. “Only the least respectable among us, Princess. Give me time, and I’ll find worthy wives to settle them.”

The words did not sit right with Arianwyn, especially not on the night of her wedding. “Is that the purpose of a wife?” she asked. “To settle an unruly man?”

“Of course not!” he responded, stuttering as soon as he realized he had upset her. “Though, in my experience, it can certainly help. When a man loves a woman, he has not only reason to fight, but to survive and return home. A married man will therefore carry himself with more dignity and honor than a bachelor.”

“That was surprisingly romantic, Ser Warren,” Arianwyn sighed. Her desperate desire to return home to King’s Landing – to Aemond – had prevented her from doing anything to upset her father for the years she was confined to Dragonstone. Though she was often tempted to contradict him or spit insults back at her stepbrothers, she could never risk extending her confinement.

Remembering the long years they spent apart darkened her mood, and the procession again fell into silence as they walked through the empty stone halls. How would things have been different had they not been so cruelly separated?

A thousand different scenarios raced through her mind.

By now, they could have already been married in a ceremony that befitted their stations. They could already have a child, and perhaps another on the way. They would be living peacefully at Runestone, away from the chaos of court and the reach of her father’s influence.

Or they could have drifted away from each other. It was likely that they both would have been betrothed to a different stranger as part of their family’s diplomatic machinations. They would be hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles apart, once again relying on nothing but letters to sustain them.

The road that had led them here, to this night, had been long and not particularly kind to either of them. But so long as it ended with them together, Arianwyn could not bring herself to regret any of it.

A smile had just returned to her face when she realized they had come to a stop – at Aemond’s door. She could barely make out the runes he had carved into the wood, as they seemed worn down over the years, as though he had touched them every time he entered his apartments.

She tightened her grip on Ser Criston’s arm. “I believe you were supposed to have me completely undressed by now.”

Cole smirked, his eyebrows raised in amusement. “Prince Aemond shall simply have to do the honors himself.”

The thought of Aemond’s long, nimble fingers unlacing her dress sent Arianwyn’s stomach churning. Then, as she struggled to control her breathing, she looked into Ser Criston’s dark eyes. “Have you ever… loved a woman before?”

It was a silly question. He had been only a young man when he was chosen as a member of the Kingsguard and taken a vow of chastity. Which made his answer all the more surprising.

“Once,” he whispered, ducking his head in either sadness or shame. “It did not end well. At least, not for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Arianwyn said. Ser Criston was a handsome man who had always been kind to her. She could not imagine that any woman would reject his love.

“It will not be that way for you, Aria,” he said as he lifted his head, looking down on Arianwyn with such a look of pride that she was taken aback. He had never used the diminutive form of her name before. He had always been resolute in maintaining that boundary between himself and the royal family. But he had been there all her life, and next to the King, he was the closest she could come to having a true, caring father.

“Aemond loves you,” he spoke as though preaching a sermon, delivering a message that Arianwyn needed to hear. “He loves you so very much. All he has thought about for the last six years was how to bring you home. I have not a single doubt that he will treat you with all the devotion and respect that you deserve.”

She knew he spoke the truth, and it brought a warmth to her heart she had not felt in many years. “Thank you, Ser,” she said, “for everything you have done for me. And for Aemond. I never had the chance to tell you, but he fought very well on Driftmark. From what you saw, I know that it may not have seemed so, but I think you would have been very proud of him, even then.”

“He put himself in danger to protect you when you could not defend yourself,” he tried to maintain his serious demeanor, but he could not help but beam as he replied. “That is all he ever need do to make me proud. But I thank you, nevertheless.”

Ser Warren cleared his throat, “I believe the Prince is waiting for his bride.”

Oh. Of course.

Arianwyn released Ser Criston’s arm. Her entire body was tingling with excitement and fear as he reached around her to remove the white cloak from her shoulders.

“There,” he said. “Now I have undressed you, and fulfilled my duty.”

But she was far too anxious to respond to his quip as he reached forward to open the door.

Aemond was not in his solar, though Brynna was. She sat on his plush couch before the roaring fire, the Prince’s leather jacket in her hands.

When the maid saw Arianwyn staring at the garment, she stood and handed it, neatly folded, to her mistress. “It was all I could get off him before he threatened me.”

“Oh, Brynna, I’m so sorry! You must know he would never – ”

“I know, darling,” Brynna laughed, kissing Arianwyn’s forehead. “But I also know better than to rile a man on his wedding night.”

Orwyle glanced around the room, “And where is the groom?”

Brynna stepped away from Arianwyn, taking both the Maester’s and Ser Criston’s arms as she led them out of the apartments. “He is in his bedchamber. Do not worry. I am sure the Princess can find her way. But, for now, we shall leave them be. You can ensure the consummation in the morning, Grand Maester…”

Her voice faded as the door shut, and she shooed most of the procession away. Though by the faint sounds of clanking armor, at least four guards were posted at the door.

Arianwyn was alone in her husband’s chambers.

Though she supposed they were now also her chambers – or rather, theirs.

Not quite ready to enter the bedchamber, Arianwyn hugged the leather jacket closer to her chest. It was still warm. Aemond was always so warm, even in the cold of winter. She had fond memories of pressing into his side while they read in the library, far from any hearths or stoves. Perhaps now, she would never have to feel so cold again.

She was turning over the leather absentmindedly when she saw a scrap of periwinkle silk. Hastily, she unfolded the jacket until she found what she was searching for and let the dark leather fall to the floor.

From a pocket sewn into the breast of the coat, she had pulled out a small square of heavily embroidered silk. The black, silver, and bronze thread had not frayed but had lost its stiffness over the years. Now, each of the Runes was as soft and pliable as the silk it was sewn to.

For all these years, Aemond had kept it. Arianwyn had only ever intended it as instructions for the lapidarist at Runestone, for both the color of the stone and the engravings on each facet. But Ser Gerold had delivered the cloth along with the jewel, and Aemond had saved it.

Not only that, but he kept it with him, close to his heart.

The thought had her feet carrying her to the bedchamber door before she knew she was moving. With the silk still in hand, she raised her fist to the dark wood and knocked twice.

There was a long moment of silence before she heard Aemond’s voice.

“Aria? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

His brow was furrowed when he emerged, though he was relieved to see Arianwyn was still fully clothed. He, too, was fully dressed save for his jacket, his white cotton shirt untucked and hanging loosely around his lean form. “Why did you knock?” he asked.

“I…” Arianwyn looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “I thought it the right thing to do when approaching one’s bedchamber.”

Aemond only smiled. “It is very courteous of you, but I think we are well past such formalities… wife.”

Her eyes met his, a giddy grin on her lips. “I don’t know which title feels stranger, ‘wife’ or ‘Princess.’”

Aemond took her hand and led her slowly into the bedchamber. “If you prefer, I will keep calling you simply ‘Aria.’”

“I would like that very much,” she replied, looking around the room.

It was different than she remembered, the decoration sparser. All that hung on the stone walls was a simple mirror directly beside the eastern window. Only candelabras and a few plain ceramic dishes were on the tables and drawers.

But there was no lack of books. Six massive shelves were placed against the walls, each bursting with hundreds of tomes. What could not fit on a shelf had been neatly stacked on the floor, with some piles reaching nearly as high as the torches bolted to the wall.

When she had thoroughly inspected every corner and had nothing else to distract her, Arianwyn looked back at her husband.

Aemond stood only inches from her, his breath nearly as heavy as hers. He clenched and unclenched his fists, at once desperate to touch her and terrified by how she would react. She had kissed him back in the Godswood, but did that mean she really wanted him?

Carefully, he stepped closer, until their chests were just touching. He brought one hand to the side of her face, lifting her chin towards him, and the other to her waist. When she did not flinch or recoil, he leaned down and kissed her.

As fast as he had kissed her, he pulled back, turning away from his wife.

Arianwyn was left breathless, her arms hanging on to the empty air where he had just been, her scrap of silk falling to the floor. Had she displeased him already?

“Aemond?” she asked, afraid to approach as she watched his chest heave with each breath.

He dropped his head. “I am so sorry, Aria.”

“I don’t understand.” She stood in shock as tears began to sting her eyes.

At last, he turned back, his violet eye shining wetly in the firelight. “I am sorry it had to be this way,” he whispered. “You deserve so much better. You deserved a wedding as grand as you are, with more than just your guards in attendance.”

He ran a hand down his chest, refusing to meet her gaze. “You deserve … to do this with a man you truly love.”

Her heart nearly cleaved in two. Didn’t he know? Had he not felt it in her kiss?

“Aemond,” she breathed, daring to bring herself closer to him. He stood unnaturally still, even as she brought her hand to his face, cradling his sharp jaw and tenderly running her thumb along the end of his scar. “I love you.”

His eye flashed to hers, wide with shock and brimming with hope.

“I love you so much,” she continued, tears finally spilling over, “that I don’t even have the words to express it. I love you, and I think I have for a very, very long time.”

Without reply, he kissed her again. Harder, deeper, and more earnestly than he had before. He poured all of his love into that kiss, along with all of the desperation with which he had longed for her.

When he had to pull back to catch his breath, one hand tangled in her hair while his other arm held her to his chest, he smiled ardently against her lips. “I have loved you from the moment I learned the meaning of the word,” he sighed.

It was Arianwyn who kissed him then. Her heart was full to bursting, and the only thing she could think to do was kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

But more was expected of them than that.

Reluctantly, Arianwyn pulled away, instantly missing his warmth. She had to press her hands on his chest to prevent him from catching her lips again. When he finally relented, a questioning look in his eye, she gave him a confident smile to mask her nerves.

“Tell me what to do,” she said.

Aemond sighed, stroking her cheek. “I told you, I will never command you.”

She put her hand over his, turning her head to place a kiss on his palm. “I am not asking for your command,” she replied, her voice teasingly soft. “I am asking what you want.”

Gods, she was the most tempting creature in the world. He wanted her so much it hurt. He wanted to press his lips to every inch of her skin, to kiss her so deeply that her taste would never leave his lips. He wanted to claim her, body and soul, until not even the gods could separate them. He wanted to hear her tell him that she loved him. Again, and again, and again.

But before that, he had one simple request.

“I want to see you,” he said, “all of you.”

Arianwyn smiled and turned around. She lifted her tangled curls over her shoulder, giving him access to the ties of her dress.

Just the sight of her bare neck was intoxicating, and Aemond could not resist nuzzling into her as he slowly began to unlace the silver ribbon. She leaned further and further into him with every tantalizingly gentle brush of his fingers. By the time the dress finally fell to the floor, her head was resting on his shoulder as she pushed her nose into his neck.

Though she still wore her silk chemise, Aemond thought he would lose himself at the sight of her peaked nipples and the swell of her breasts through the thin white fabric. He wrapped an arm around her waist, resting his hand against her belly while the other came up to cup one of her breasts.

Arianwyn sighed at the feeling, at the sheer intimacy of the contact, even through her chemise. No one had ever touched her like that before, and the sense of closeness was overwhelming. She whined when Aemond removed his hand to slip the thin straps of the garment off her shoulder, and the silk puddled on the floor beneath her.

Then Aemond stepped in front of her and, after a long moment staring hungrily at her naked form, dropped to his knees.

He wrapped his hands around her thigh, nimbly unbuckling her garter. Even as he rolled the stocking from her leg and moved to the other, he never looked anywhere but into her eyes, letting her see how fervently he desired her.

Once he had rid her of the last of her underclothes, he pressed a chaste kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath her navel. Arianwyn moaned helplessly as pleasure surged to her core, and she felt an unfamiliar but exquisite heat pooling between her legs.

Before the sound had finished leaving her lips, Aemond rose to capture her mouth with his own. He hooked his hands around her head and neck and kissed her passionately, possessively, unyieldingly. All Arianwyn could do was hang onto his neck and try to answer his passion with her own.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured between kisses. “Only the gods themselves could have crafted something so divine as you.”

She blushed at his praise, running her fingers through his silken hair and hooking her thumb into the strap of his eyepatch. “May I return the favor?”

Aemond dropped his eye and wrapped his hand around her wrist, “Are you sure you want to see?”

“I was there when it was lost,” she replied. “I did not run from you then, and I will not run from you now.”

He laughed, “You may not have run, but you did faint, as I recall.”

“That was only because of the blood!” she shrieked as he chuckled mischievously and began tickling her bare waist. “It’s not still bleeding, is it?”

The thought seemed to genuinely unsettle her, but Aemond shook his head and let his laughter fade. “Not for many years.”

“Then I want to see!” she said, returning her hand to the eyepatch. “Don’t I deserve to see my gift?”

“Of course you do,” he finally relented, dipping his head to make it easier for her to slip the leather off his head and expose the scar.

Though he was still fully clothed, no one had seen him without his patch for many years, and he felt entirely naked.

But true to her word, Arianwyn did not recoil or react at all to the gruesome sight.

To her, it was not gruesome. Tragic, yes, to mar such a beautiful face with something so brutal. But it was not gruesome.

It was beautiful.

The scar was deep, its color dark and tinged with red. It ran from close to his hairline, through his brow and eye, to the base of his cheek, but an inch above his jaw. Unfortunately, the cut had not been clean, so the mark was jagged and wavered across his skin. But the Driftmark Maester and Orwyle had done well to ensure that it healed properly.

His eye had not fared so well. The skin surrounding the sapphire was grey and wrinkled, so heavily scarred that it did not move when his other eye fluttered closed. As Arianwyn looked closer, she could see where a portion of his lower eyelid had been completely torn out, leaving a ‘v’ in the curve of the eye. The upper eyelid seemed to have been removed entirely, the delicate skin wounded beyond repair by Luke’s knife.

Still, the sapphire sparkled brilliantly, and nothing could ever detract from his ethereal beauty.

For Arianwyn, it was not only a reminder of one of the darkest days of her life, but a testament to Aemond’s unparalleled bravery and strength.

She ran a finger down his jaw, coaxing his good eye open. “It’s not quite the right color,” she whispered coyly, “but it is beautiful nonetheless.”

Aemond looked at her, brows pinched in disbelief. His eye was pleading, do not lie to me.

“I mean it,” she said, desperate for him to believe her. “You are gorgeous, Aemond. So painfully gorgeous that I cannot stand it.”

Arianwyn kissed him again, slipping her hands beneath his loose shirt and running her cool fingers up the hard muscles of his chest. If she still desired him after seeing his scar uncovered, her sweet words must be true, Aemond reasoned as he fiercely returned the kiss.

His hips instinctively rolled forward as he raised his arms to let her slide his shirt off. If he was not already achingly hard and straining against his trousers, the blissful chill of her touch on his skin would have brought him there instantly.

She had seen men bare-chested before – on the docks of Dragonstone, in the training yard, or in the streets of the city – but she had never seen any man as glorious as Aemond. He was thin, but every inch of him was taut with hardened muscle – the body of a warrior.

Curiously, she ran her fingers back down his chest, exploring each rise and crevice until she found herself gripping the waist of his pants. She hesitated with her hands over the laces.

“Go on,” Aemond encouraged, laying gentle kisses on her temple.

She tilted her head up to look into his eye – his eyes, as she began to untie his pants. She let herself stare longingly into not only his lovely purple iris, but into the scar-rimmed sapphire as well. Every part of him was beautiful, and she needed him to know it.

At last, his trousers slumped over his hips. Arianwyn froze, her hands hovering over him. She had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Fortunately, Aemond did. Though this was already infinitely better than his visit to the Street of Silk on his thirteenth birthday, he was grateful that the – admittedly traumatizing – night had left him with the knowledge he needed for this night. He bent down to remove his trousers himself, relieving his innocent wife of the responsibility and stood fully naked before her.

Her eyes were wide as she stared at the hard length of him. While she was innocent, as proper Ladies are expected to be, she understood the general concept of sex. What she did not understand was how he was supposed to fit that inside of her.

Tentatively, Arianwyn wrapped her fingers around his impressive length and ran a curious thumb across one of the large veins crossing the surface. Aemond sucked in a harsh breath, nearly doubling over as he closed his eye and buried his face in her hair.

At his visceral reaction, Arianwyn swiftly recoiled her hand and pulled away from him. “Did that hurt?” she asked with genuine concern.

Aemond only laughed, pulling her chin up to take her in another slow, passionate kiss. “No, my love,” he whispered as he pulled away. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Though he wanted her to take him in her hands again, an even more tantalizing prospect entered his mind. He bent down, wrapping his arms around her thighs and lifting her.

“Let me show you.”

He carried her to the bed, reaching down to throw aside the blankets and furs atop it. Arianwyn felt a thrill in her core when she realized how strong he was, that he could hold her aloft with only one arm.

Playfully, he tossed her onto the bed, lustily admiring how her breasts moved as she bounced on the mattress. He had grand plans for those, but for now, he was on a mission. He climbed onto the bed, straddling Arianwyn on his hands and knees.

Gods, it was so hard to keep himself from her mouth. He caught her in another kiss, savoring the heat of her swollen lips and the blissful feel of her tongue against his.

“You were going to show me something?” She asked as she pulled away to take a breath.

“Hmm,” he moaned as he moved his mouth to her collarbone. “Yes, I believe I was.”

Aemond leaned on his left side, still suckling at her skin as he traced his long fingers down her chest, between the mounds of her breasts and past her navel.

His touch was so light, so tauntingly slow. Arianwyn felt heat pool between her legs as her hips instinctively rose, begging his fingers lower and lower.

He happily complied. Pride surged in his chest as he felt the wetness of her folds. She was so eager for him as he was for her. His cock twitched as he imagined how it would feel sliding into her.

Not yet, he reminded himself.

Instead, he ran two fingers against her entrance as his thumb rose to her clit.

He knew he had found it when she let out a desperate whimper, her legs squirming and toes clenching as she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

“That,” he said into her hot ear, “is what it feels like.”

She whined against his throat, “Do it again?”

“Gladly.”

He began to grind his thumb in slow circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves as he ran his fingers up and down her slick folds. The gasps and moans escaping her lips were sweeter than he had ever imagined, and he captured each and every one with a kiss.

Arianwyn was entirely lost in the bliss of his touch. The feel of his hand on her breast was nothing compared to this. It felt as though there was nothing in the world but Aemond, his fingers, and this feeling of inescapable pleasure.

But Aemond was only beginning. Once his fingers were thoroughly soaked in her juices, he began to press the tip of his index finger into her entrance.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her ear, “but this may hurt a little. Just try to relax, and I promise it will start to feel good.”

She had absolutely no clue what he meant. Not until the pressure began to eclipse her pleasure. This couldn’t be right. That can’t be how this was supposed to feel. Gods, if that was just his finger, what would it feel like when he put his cock in her?

Aemond’s heart clenched as he listened to her whines of pleasure fade swiftly into whimpers of pain. He froze his fingers and laid kisses to her temple, pressing harder on her clit to try and drown out the discomfort. “I know, I know it hurts,” he said, “but it will hurt more if I try to enter you before you are ready.”

“You said it would feel good,” she cried, “when will it start to feel good?”

“Soon, Aria,” he kissed her through his reassurance. “But you have to relax. Just focus on what feels good. Focus on this,” he stroked her clit once for emphasis. “If it hurts too much, tell me, and I will stop.”

She nodded into his neck, signaling him to begin again. He went slower this time, making sure to move only when she was ready. Though her eyes squeezed shut every time he pushed deeper in, she never asked him to stop or pull out.

When he was deep enough, Aemond curled his finger forward within her, searching for the pressure point he knew would be there.

“Aemond!” she shouted, digging her nails into the back of his neck. Whatever he had just done had her seeing stars.

He chuckled at her reaction, pushing against that spot again. At least Aegon had taught him something from all his bawdy tales.

“I told you,” he teased, kissing the sensitive skin behind her ears.

“Am I ready now?” she asked, her apprehension completely vanished.

How had she ever doubted him? He had always tried so hard to please her. That much was clear from the gifts he had given her over the years. He would not fail her now.

“Not quite, my love,” he whispered. “Give it time.”

Aemond kissed her again, gently, savoring every moment. But where his lips were slow, his hand was not. He began to pump his finger in and out of her, brushing that magical spot within her each time, and never neglecting her swollen clit.

Her tantalizing moans of pleasure returned, growing louder and louder until not even his kiss could keep her quiet. Finally, he pulled himself from her lips, reveling in the sight of her in the throes of pleasure and the sounds that escaped her.

When he was sure Arianwyn was feeling only pleasure and no pain, he slipped another finger inside her. Her walls clenched, and he could imagine how blissful she would feel around his cock. But he was determined to wait until she was ready, not wanting her first time to be as painful a memory as his.

He continued to finger her, applying pressure both inside and out as she raised her hips higher and higher, arching her back into his sheets. With every passing moment, she was sure it could not feel better. But with every passing moment, it did.

The pleasure grew and grew, until all she could see was the sparkling of Aemond’s sapphire eye, and her entire body pulsed with an overwhelming wave of bliss. Every muscle in her body relaxed as relief washed over her, and she laced her fingers through his silver hair to pull him in for a kiss.

“What was that?” she asked breathlessly.

He finally withdrew his soaked fingers and pulled her against his chest. “Release,” he whispered.

“Does it mean I’m ready?”

Aemond smiled against her lips, “Perhaps, but I would like to be sure.”

With that, he lowered his lips to kiss down the column of her throat, ever so gently across her cuts and bruises. He continued down her chest, between her breasts, and across the plane of her stomach until he reached her core.

What he had said was true. Only the gods could have crafted something so divine. He had planned to tease her until she was begging for his tongue, but he had not the patience for that. He needed to taste her.

And taste her he did, hungrily, greedily diving between her legs. Her cries resumed, her hands burying into his hair so deeply that she snapped the thin leather strap holding his hair from his face.

The long silver strands fell in a curtain around his shoulders, but he did not slow. Rather, his pace quickened as he plunged his tongue into her, valiantly reaching for the spot he knew would undo her as he suckled on her slick folds. He knew he could not reach it with only his tongue, but by the gods, he would try.

Arianwyn felt simply sublime. She could feel her heart beating in her core, her racing blood carrying heat throughout her entire body. Aemond was a fine warrior and scholar, and by all accounts, a truly gifted dragonrider, but as he ravenously drank the pleasure from her, she was sure that this was the reason the gods created him.

It was not long before she felt that great wave of pleasure, the ‘release’ as Aemond had called it, approaching again. With her hands still entangled in his hair, she clenched her fists and cried out, “Aemond!”

But then he pulled away, leaving Arianwyn feeling cold and empty, hanging over the edge of her release.

Aemond glanced up at her through a lidded eye and gave her a wicked grin. Then he dove back down, wrapping his lips around her clit, and sucked.

Arianwyn thought her vision would never return as the world went white and release swept through her once more, more intensely than before. She did not know how long she lay there, arms splayed and chest heaving as she recovered from the extraordinary feeling.

When the world reformed around her, it was Aemond’s grinning face she saw first as he lay on his side next to her, smiling blissfully and tracing shapes around her breasts with his pinky.

“Now, am I ready?” she asked.

Aemond hoped so, for he certainly was. He had never been so hard in all his life. “I believe you are, my love.”

He rolled on top of her, propping himself up on his elbows as he kissed her and ground his hips against hers, savoring the slick friction. All night, he had been so singularly focused on her pleasure that he had neglected his own, and he would gladly do so again.

Once Arianwyn was moaning against him and writhing her hips to try and draw him closer, deeper, he gave her one last kiss before he pulled away. He reached down to line himself up with her entrance but never looked away from her shining silver eyes.

“Say it again,” he breathed.

She cupped his face, fingers trembling against his skin. “Say what?”

“Say you love me.”

Her face softened, though her grip on his jaw was tight. “I love you, Aemond Targaryen.”

And he slid in, pushing past her maidenhead in one eager stroke, sheathing himself to the hilt in the tightness of her velvet folds.

She cried out once, pressing her forehead against his as her mind swam with equal pleasure and pain. The feeling was all-consuming. But as he stilled, she could whisper only one thing, over and over and over again:

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He loved her so much. His body cried for him to move, to fuck her with abandon and fill her with his seed. But he held himself still, knowing that he had gone too far too fast. Her eyes were still shut tight, and her whispering grew quieter.

“It’s alright,” he said as he burrowed into her neck, grounding himself in her smell of smoke and cold sea air. “Relax, Aria, just like before. I won’t do anything else until you tell me to.”

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, holding him close as she continued to whisper, slipping into High Valyrian. “Avy jorrāelan.”

They stayed like that for long moments, even after her whispering had faded into silence.

“Aria,” Aemond moaned against her throat as his self-restraint waned.

A curious whine was all she could muster as she adjusted to the sensation of him filling her.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered, caressing her face, “but I need to move.”

Indeed, he trembled with the effort it took to remain still. He did not want to hurt her or cause her any more discomfort than he already had, but he could only restrain himself for so long. He could – and had – practiced in the training yard for hours without needing even a moment to catch his breath.

But this?

He did not have the strength for this.

Still, he did not move until she nodded against him. Even then, he began slowly, rocking his hips ever so slightly to ease her into the feeling.

Much to his delight, she let her head fall to the bed and began to cry out again – with pleasure, not pain. “Avy jorrāelan.”

“Avy jorrāelan,” he whispered back, letting his thrusts go deeper, longer, faster. In mere moments, he was losing himself in the sensation of her tight walls surrounding him, more wonderful than he had ever let himself imagine.

Arianwyn, too, was lost in the feeling of his great length slamming into her over and over, faster and faster. She was sure that they were crafted by the gods specifically for each other, for this, for their joining perfectly as one.

As his pace heightened, Aemond again caught her lips in her own, claiming her just as much with his mouth as he did with his cock. The pain was completely gone, replaced only with pleasure as he stretched her magnificently with each thrust, brushing against that magical spot inside her and sending stars bounding through her vision.

“Avy jorrāelan,” she murmured again as he began to rut into her wildly, drawing moan after moan of pleasure as the pressure in her core built higher and higher. She was not going to last much longer before her release.

But neither was Aemond. Not when he had been dreaming of this for so long. He groaned into her mouth as he felt his hips twitching out of his control, “Aria!”

Desperate for her to cum with him, he brought his hand between them, furiously working her clit until he felt her walls clamp down around him. Only then did he let himself lose control, burying himself entirely within her as he spilled his seed.

Arianwyn felt absolute euphoria. Muscles she didn’t know she had tensed and relaxed as her third release of the night swept over her. Not since her first flight on Emrys had she experienced such bliss so deep in her soul, nor such exhaustion.

He was still inside her, panting heavily as he came down from his high, lazily planting open-mouth kisses to the base of her neck.

“Aemond,” she whined, pulling on his hair to draw his gaze back to hers. His violet eye was hazy with contentment, and the sapphire fogged by the heat of their joining.

“Mmm?”

“Do it again?”

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