#time lapse carving

[claypigeonpottery]

I fucking love how this turned out. unfortunately it cracked along the rim. I’ve done my best to fix it, but it’s up to the pottery gods now

if it doesn’t survive I will be making another one

[proshippersstimming]

Teacher x Shiva with tea, flowers, woodcarving, and books in black and white for anon!

⚫️ ⚫️ ⚫️ / ⚪️ ⚪️ ⚪️ / ⚫️ ⚫️ ⚫️

[artchloeellis]

A brief time-lapse of carving out my new project!

[iii-days-grace]

Activities for today:

- tidy bookshelf

- prepare apples for pie

- print off pumpkin carving pattern

- go get pumpkin carving knife

I got a sack of apples and a pumpkin at the farmers market the other day and I want to do something with them 🍎 🥧 🎃 maybe I’ll roast the pumpkin seeds as well

[avocado-writing]

Could I request headcanons for Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Halsin, Dammon, Rolan, and Zevlor react to his gn crush who is so oblivious that they told him with confidence that no one would be interested in them romantically?

yes of course lovely, it’s always a pleasure writing your prompt lists 😊💕

Astarion

definitely thinks you’re joking at first.

laughs, then sees the defeated lag of your shoulders, the way you can’t tear your gaze from the ground.

wants to do his usual blasé retort, but is torn because well. he really cares for you.

I think, after a moment of silence, he reaches out and takes your hand. threads his fingers through yours.

“darling… there is so much of you to love, it’s mesmerising.”

he can’t look at you while he admits this of course, but he feels the way you squeeze his hand in yours and his dead heart skips a beat. 💕

Gale

utterly baffled.

of course someone would love you romantically?

from a practical point of view he just starts listing things off: you’re kind, a good leader, big-hearted, have a strong moral compass…

and then he just lapses into the things he likes about you.

that you’re so lovely. so good-looking. that your hair is nice and your eyes are spellbinding.

only realises he’s gone off on a tangent when he sees you grinning at him, then gets a little embarrassed…

gives you the confidence to press a kiss to his cheek though, and after that he’s beaming for the whole day 🥰

Wyll

shocked. shocked and appalled that you think that way about yourself.

takes you out for a stroll, just the two of you, and ends up waxing lyrical about all the things you have going for you.

he tries not to turn it into a confession but my man is a romantic, and soon he ends up spilling everything.

the way every time you smile at him his heart speeds up and his cheeks get hot. how you deserve someone who’ll be by your side through everything, and he’s not afraid to be that someone despite everything you’ve faced on the road.

he’d keep going if you didn’t muster up your courage and pull him into a long kiss 💕

Halsin

is old enough to understand self-doubt doesn’t just go away in one day. he’s admired you for a while so he tries to start actively courting you.

little gifts appear for you. carvings of your favourite animals, flowers you’ve mentioned liking the perfume of.

he finds a reason to be by your side every day. always tries to make you smile and laugh.

and eventually you realise… oh, what you believed before? about nobody ever feeling romantic love towards you? that was totally wrong. because there is your Druid and you’ve just realised his heart is totally devoted to you.

when you have this moment you immediately run to find him and throw yourself into his arms rom-com style lmfao ❤️

Dammon

“that’s… that’s not true! there would be plenty of people who’d love you.”

you look up into his eyes. they’re soft and sweet, and there’s a desperation behind them as the words come tumbling out of his mouth, too late to stop them.

“I’d love you. I do love you.”

a moment passes. he’s worried he’s messed up.

then you stride across the room to bring him into a kiss and his face gets hot enough to rival his forge… 🔥

Rolan

”don’t be so foolish.”

you’re utterly gobsmacked, because you were being so vulnerable, admitting your worry. “excuse me?!”

he tries to backtrack and make it look like he didn’t just insult you, lol

”there’s nothing wrong with you. you’re… wonderful. anyone would be lucky to have you.”

cheeks a bright crimson, and he’s so bad at hiding his emotions that you clock what this is instantly. it’s a confession.

“oh…” “don’t worry, forget it, I didn’t say anything—!” “rolan, would you like to get a drink tonight?”

he might combust. but he squeaks out a “yes.” because honestly? he was worried about the exact same thing you came to him to confide…

Zevlor

is firm in how silly you’re being, but kind.

holds your face in your hands to get you to look at him.

swears how lovely you are, his words like a pledge. like a prayer.

and when this paladin tells you all this? how could you believe him to be wrong.

maybe someone would love you romantically. gazing into his warm eyes, maybe someone does.

[19burstraat]

Random SOC Trivia I Gathered On My Reread

I'll be using this for fics, but it's fun just to read!

Jesper does not hold alcohol well (though this is according to Kaz, who is not exactly impartial)

Wijnstraat, Nemstraat, Havenstraat, Ammberstraat are all street names if you want em

Van Eck has been involved in trying to clean up the Barrel; pious. (Allegedly pious, I doubt he really is)

1/5 Van Eck (or general Kerch trading?) vessels are lost at sea

Kaz arrested three times at ten, twice at eleven, once at fourteen. Does stints in jail but it does not say prison (ppl assume he's been to Hellgate / another prison but I don't think so. He'd never have shut the fuck up about it if he had; I assume the Stadhall Jail)

Kaz's cane is lead-lined. I wasn't sure if this was canon or fanon

Kaz runs book on prize fights, horses, and chance games. Floor boss at crow club since fifteen-ish. Youngest to run a betting shop and has doubled the profits.

Gambling halls: Treasure Chest, Golden Bend, Weddell's Riverboat, Silver Garter

West Stave brothels: The Blue Iris, The Forge, The Obscura, the Willow Switch, the House of Snow

Van Aakster is the widow mercher who sees Nina to ease his grief

Inej likes orange cakes in white paper

Black Tips tattoo is a hand with first and second fingers cut at the knuckle, Razorgulls is 5 birds in wedge formation

Nina Jesper and Kaz definitely all have the crow and cup; the others don't

Jordie seems to like books

ridderspel and spijker are arcade games

Bilge, clams, and wet stone smell in the Barrel (per Retvenko)

Kaz definitely is partial to dogs; Smeet's hounds and the grey dog the Hertzoon household had, the windup dogs, the metaphors. He loves a dog metaphor sorry ur not real babycakes you'd have loved thematic web weaving posts

Geldspin is the cotton mill in Zierfoort, Firma Allerbest is a cannery. Both in Alys' name

Wylan was 8 when Marya 'died'

the black veil tomb is carved like an ancient cargo ship

3 flying fish on a grave: government. Palm trees and snakes: spices.

Inej's mother braids her hair with orange ribbons (colour of persimmons)

University a series of buildings built around the Boekcanal and joined by Speaker's Bridge (where people debate and/or drink). Boeksplein four libraries built around a central courtyard and the Scholar's Fountain

Shipping container at third harbour is a Liddie hideout; Jam Tart House is an old hotel near the slat that the Razorgulls use

Long scar across Kaz's right knuckle

Violating contracts and interfering with the market can get you hanged in Kerch; same sentences as for murder (this is. Insane)

Haskell holds court with his mates at the Fair Weather Inn every week

Belendt is the second oldest Kerch city and sits on the Droombeld River

Jesper was 7 when Aditi died

Inej has an uncle (who seems to have some sort of ringmaster role) and cousins; Hanzi and Asha

Kaz convinced a locksmith in Klokstraat that he was the son of a wealthy merchant who highly valued his collection of priceless snuffboxes, and that's how he knows what locks the rich are using

Hubrecht Mohren, Master Thief of Pijl, who Kaz doesn't appear to think much of; one of Haskell's old cronies

Martin Van Eck, Wylan's great great grandfather, was a ship's captain, brought back a big shipment of spices from Eames Chin and started the Van Eck fortune

Kaz and Jesper (+ other Dregs boys) taught Inej to fight

Kaz and Jordie are from a town near Lij, as per the 'Johannus Rietveld' exposition, but Lij is seemingly the closest major city/county so it's easier to just say they're from Lij lol

The last time the Council of Tides appeared in public was 25 years prior to CK

Kaz found Filip running a monte game on Kelstraat; he also got the clerks who turned over fake info, the fake attorney, the man who gave them free hot chocolate

The spelling of Zentzbridge lapses to Zentsbridge, not sure which is right or if they're actually separate bridges or if there's a lot of wrong quotes floating around lol

Dryden house symbol is the golden wheat sheaf bound with a blue ribbon; Van Eck is the red laurel but we knew that

Kaz taught himself finance and gambling hall rules

Church of Barter roof is copper and long has turned green

Church of Barter built around the First Forge / The Mortar, which is a flat lump of rock that's supposedly Ghezen's altar

Ghezendaal Hospital is. Idk. a hospital. Just thought ppl might want the name

[nariism]

Cyno never tasted defeat until he met you.

It wasn't a particularly scary feeling— the General Mahamatra was rarely shaken. But the plummeting of his heart to the pit of his stomach was something he was unprepared for, and only you could be to blame.

He found himself in utter submission in your arms, surrendering to you like he was worshiping an oasis in a desert. A drop of water in a bowl of sand; a momentary lapse of the moonlit sky above his head keeping him sane.

No matter how much time passed, he continued to surrender to your every whim, unable to stop himself so long as there was a smile on your face. He was willing to abandon all rational thought if it were you.

"Climb the Divine Tree with me," you demand with your lips against his. He has no choice but to accept— if you started pouting he would just want to kiss you over and over until he missed his regular duties.

"Let's carve our initials!" You light up, handing him the broken tip of your polearm. He indulges you, gently hacking away at the trunk until your names are both etched there eternally, sealed with the promise of a heart. (His heart, he realizes, when you laugh and it feels like the earth has opened up to swallow him whole.)

"Kiss me," you whisper. He yields without question.

"Again." And again.

"Once more?" He could do this until he drew his last breath.

"Be mine," you murmur against him.

Cyno would always concede to the soft upturning of your lips.

"I am already yours," he tells you.

And he is. His entire being is yours. If this is what defeat is like then he never wants to win again.

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

[professional-yapper]

Proximity pt. 5

Neteyam x Olangi! Reader

Warnings: anxiety, lots of it, dad jake, kiri being an arranged-marriage-victim advocate, soft smut, kuru bonding, minor kuru play, reader is a virgin and neteyam is undisclosed

SMUT MDNI

“Tuk, hand me that,” Neteyam’s sister Kiri said distractedly to their other sister, who was currently sitting in the corner with a sulky expression for reasons that remained a mystery to you. Kiri was more focused on making your braids neat and tight and getting the bone braids in all the right places, painted a glistening white and red for the occasion as opposed to the natural off-white of the bone they were painstakingly carved from. 

Your chest tightened at the memory of sitting next to your three older brothers, all of you sitting in silence, the only sound the soft rasp of their knives as they each carved the beads that you all knew you would wear in your hair on the night of your union. You still remembered their expressions. 

Alni, the youngest, closest to your age, still frowning at the idea of losing you. Zutxu, second oldest, trying to crack jokes about murdering your future mate so you wouldn’t have to go, but lapsing back into silence when none of you laughed. Ru’pa, without his stupid, incessant smile for once. You had all been so sad. You and your brothers had never been apart, and now you might never see them again. 

It had almost felt like you were going to your death.

You had always thought it would be your mother to help you braid your hair for your big night, but instead all you had was sharp-tongued, dreamy Kiri and practical, calm Neytiri, sitting either side of you, braiding away quietly while you sat and fiddled with your top absentmindedly.

Tuk merely stuck her tongue out and turned her face away.

“Tuktirey,” Neytiri said severely, shooting her youngest a warning look, and Tuk deflated, gathering the bowl of beads and pushing them within Kiri’s reach. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you at her annoyance, which earned you a startled, lopsided smile from Tuk, so like Lo’ak’s smile, and a little like Neteyam’s, with the openness of it.

“You do not seem excited,” Kiri said, with some hidden note of purpose behind her voice, glancing at you, hands stilling on your hair.

You blinked, looking up at her. “I am happy to mate with your brother.” You didn’t dare say more for fear of giving away just how happy you were. 

This newfound love you and Neteyam had for each other might not hold under the test of time, but it was enough for now.

“It’s unfair to force you to mate with Neteyam. Barbaric, and outdated.”

“Kiri,” Neytiri said with the same severeness as before. “It is the will of Eywa. I will thank you for not speaking in such a manner.”

Kiri looked like she wanted to further challenge this on your behalf, but didn’t, just rolled her eyes and kept braiding steadily.

The tension was palpable. Tuk was annoyed for some reason, though Neytiri had murmured to you earlier that Tuk had recently turned 13 and had plunged headfirst into being a difficult, stroppy teenager. You suspected there was more to it but didn’t question Neytiri.

Kiri was obviously displeased with the whole arranged-marriage thing, and you wanted to reassure her properly you were perfectly happy with Neteyam, but in truth, you were too nervous to comfort anyone, let alone yourself. 

Soon enough, the braids were done, having taken all morning, and you left their home, thanking Kiri and Neytiri alike for their help, returning to your own home to apply your ceremonial paint.

Kneeling, careful not to crumple your ceremonial outfit, handwoven by your father with such love for his youngest, for his baby, that it hurt a little to look at it, you took the pots of paint in hand.

Dipping your fingers in the white paint, you took a minute to breathe and steady yourself. This was it. Tomorrow, this would all be over, and you and Neteyam would be mates. 

No going back now, you told yourself, mostly to put any stray thoughts of making a run for it out of your head, and you began to apply the paint to your face first, not able to see your work and working blindly, trusting your years of practice of putting it on others to guide you.

Neytiri had offered to do it for you, or even have Kiri do it, but you had refused. You simply couldn’t trust them to do it correctly. It was too important to mess up. The paint was cool on your cheeks, drying quickly in the warmth of the afternoon. 

The scent of cooking floated in through the open windows of your hut, no doubt in preparation for tonight’s celebration.

You wondered what Neteyam was doing. No doubt getting ready himself, or maybe spending a few moments of peace with Lo’ak. Not that Lo’ak was ever a bringer of peace or serenity, but still. No doubt Neteyam’s chaotic younger brother would be at least a little subdued, given his brother would no longer be living with him anymore.

Not that that would stop Lo’ak from visiting, you knew. You also knew you wouldn’t really mind. As irritating as Lo’ak could be, he had grown on you. Perhaps because you missed your own brothers so badly.

Never mind.

You wondered if Neteyam was as nervous as you. You couldn’t keep your hands from shaking as you shifted to painting your arms and legs, leaving yourself starkly white, almost glowing in the dimming sunlight. Purity in solid form. 

Not that you were all that pure, anymore, after kissing Neteyam in such a fashion. It was such a little offense and yet it nagged at you constantly. You wondered if you were lesser in the eyes of Eywa for it. Neteyam was your future mate. Surely it was better that you’d kissed him than just anyone. You were going to kiss Neteyam eventually, what was the harm in doing it a little early?

You hadn’t realised it was getting so late.

The ceremony would be soon. You wished your family were here. Even just your dad or mum or one of your brothers, to walk you there, so you wouldn’t have to go through the crowd of eyes alone. 

A knock sounded on the wooden frame of the entrance to your hut. You looked up and found Jake standing, partially hidden behind the beaded curtain. "Neteyam wanted me to walk you there," he said gently. "He was worried about you having to go alone."

"Oh," you said in a small voice, standing up, brushing your delicately woven loincloth out, letting it swish about your ankles, looking up at the olo'eyktan, unsure of what to even say in response to that.

Jake held out his hand to you after a moment of hesitation, and, once you took it, led you out into the balmy evening.

The village was empty. No doubt everyone was gathered at its centre, waiting with bated breath for you and Neteyam, or maybe just enjoying the promise of a joyful night of partying and carrying on.

You tried to walk quietly, ears flicking back and forth at every sound, gripping Jake's hand tight enough to crush it, trying to pretend it was your own father walking you to your fate and not Jake, who you were sure was lovely but hadn't spoken more than two words to you before this.

The feeling of being a scared little kid was overwhelming.

Jake picked up on it, no doubt, glancing down at you and taking note of your troubled expression. He stopped, turning to you, and took your shoulders in his hands. "Relax, honey," he said gently, giving you a rousing little shake. "You're okay. You look fine, you're gonna be fine."

You stared silently up at him, waiting for what else he might have to say. Jake was reminded of Lo'ak, with that big-eyed, silent stare of yours. It had been so long since Lo'ak had given him that kiddish look, and even Tuk was growing up now. It was nice to be able to act all fatherly again, even if you weren't his.

"I know it's scary. But Neteyam's a good boy. He's gonna look after you, okay?" Jake assured you.

"Okay," you agreed, releasing the breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

"Atta girl," Jake said warmly, taking ahold of your hand again and approaching the crowd of Na'vi, which parted before you both to let you pass by, eyes attached to you like you were Eywa made solid. "Come on, let's get this over with. You allowed to drink? Think I see a bottle over there with your name on it," he joked.

You rolled your eyes, grinning. "Of course I'm allowed to drink! How old do you think I am?"

You were both still chuckling as you reached Mo'at, who took your face delicately in her wrinkled hands and examined you, though you noticed she was careful not to smudge your paint. "Radiant," Mo'at murmured, making the word sound almost like an insult, and you couldn't squash the resulting smile.

Jake stepped to the side of Mo'at, tsahik and olo'eyktan side by side.

Neteyam was quick to join you, but he walked alone, eyes on you. Hands once again fisted in his loincloth, earning a disapproving look from Neytiri in the crowd, who had probably spent days or even weeks on the beautiful piece.

"Give me your hands," you murmured to Neteyam as he reached you, earning a puzzled look.

"Wha-"

"Just- here." You took his hands in your own, noting how they shook badly for a few seconds before he mimicked your tight grip and they stilled, but if you loosened your grip even slightly the tremor set in again.

At least you were both equally anxious.

The ceremony began, and you honestly absorbed none of it as Mo'at stood before you both, uttering what were probably ancient Omaticayan rites of union. You were more focused on Neteyam, both on keeping his hands from shaking, and sneaking little glances at him every so often, taking in his sheer beauty in the evening light and the light of the torches lit around the area.

It was admiring him that kept you from dying of boredom. You had no idea Omaticayan ceremonies were so long. Or maybe they weren't, and Mo'at was just a slow talker.

Whatever it was, you were relieved when Jake finished up by giving you both his blessing, and suddenly it was all over.

You looked to Neteyam, unsure of what to do now as Jake rejoined the crowd, clearly in search of Neytiri and probably also a drink.

"I think we go to the Spirit Tree now," Neteyam said, bending his head to whisper in your ear, suppressing a smile as the Omaticaya began to celebrate, not really because they cared all that much about the union, but any chance to celebrate and party was seized with both hands.

You nodded and let him guide you away from the noise and light, deeper into the jungle where it was cool and quiet, the sun having slipped away wordlessly not too long ago.

"We don't really have a Spirit Tree," you explained to Neteyam, voice a little pitchy with nervousness as you both made your way through the bioluminescent undergrowth. "I mean, we have one, but we can't exactly bring it with us when we travel, so a couple years ago my dad had the idea to take its seeds and plant them at the spots we usually make camp at year round, so that we can always connect with the ancestors and with Eywa-"

"Yeah?" Neteyam replied distractedly, eyes searching for the way to their Spirit Tree amidst all the flora and occasional fauna.

You nodded, even though he wasn't looking at you, then subsided into silence.

What else could you say? He'd put a plug in your nervous rambling pretty quick, so all that was left to do was try not to crawl out of your own skin with apprehension.

And desire, you realised, feeling the first flicker of heat in your stomach as you stared at Neteyam's broad back, pushing his way through the surrounding plants.

After all, weren't you supposed to consummate your union with him at this Spirit Tree?

And it wasn't like before, when you'd kissed him. You were allowed to kiss him now and not feel like a total disgrace.

So you did.

A swift tug on his hand, your forearm pressed up against his equally broad chest, shoving him back up against a tree, and your lips found his.

Fucking finally, was all you could think, drawing on your limited knowledge of English curses, brought into existence by none other than Lo'ak, who was incredibly helpful when it came to that sort of thing.

Neteyam's hands found your face, tilting it upwards, curving over you, hot mouth pressed to yours, his hunger making your heart race.

But it was over far too quickly, and you had no way of suppressing the whine that left you when he pulled away.

"Not yet, paskalin," he breathed, still cradling your face, resting his forehead against yours. "Wait a little more. Not here."

"I'm fine with here," you insisted, though there was no real heart to it.

"I can do better for you than here," he fired back, lips curving in a smile. "C'mon, paskalin, we're close."

You sighed and let him continue to drag you ever further.

There it was. The Spirit Tree of the Omaticaya, it's branches curved over almost protectively, glowing a pale purple.

You let go of Neteyam in favour of walking underneath it's canopy, letting the branches brush against your skin softly, gliding through your eager hands. "Beautiful," you murmured to yourself, looking around in rapture, almost breathless with excitement. It had, after all, been a while since you'd been to the Olangi Spirit Tree, and while impressive in it's own right, couldn't compare to this.

"You like it?" Neteyam murmured, coming up behind you and laying a kiss on the back of your shoulder, hands on your hips.

"Mhm," you replied, turning to face him, looping your arms around his neck.

He kissed you, slow and sweet, like he was trying to carve this moment into his memory, hands stroking up and down your back. You felt his fingers hook under the strings of your top and stiffened in anticipation, but he paused and pulled back.

He tilted your chin up with a finger, his eyes hazy and hungry as he looked down at you. "Wanna make love to you, paskalin. Can I?"

You couldn't manage anything more than a nod, kissing him again wordlessly. His tongue slid between your lips, licking into your mouth, the sensation so dizzying you didn't even notice he'd untied your top and cast it away somewhere until his fingers were on your chest, calloused thumbs rubbing over your nipples, making you arch and moan, mouth falling slack, allowing him easier access.

His fingers continued to tease at your nipples as he walked you backwards, never once breaking the kiss, swallowing every desperate noise you make, backing you up against the Spirit Tree's trunk. His thigh slides between your legs and presses up, flush against your rapidly dampening loincloth.

You gasp, head falling back against the tree, desire unfurling in your belly at the contact.

Neteyam attaches his mouth to your neck, nipping and licking at the soft skin there, and once again you feel his hands on the strings of your clothes, this time your loincloth, fiddling with the knots like he can't wait another second to see you bare before him. "You want this?" he mumbled into your neck, hands stilling briefly.

"Please," you whined, fingers digging into his back.

"Shh, shh, paskalin, I got you," he murmured, untying your loincloth and letting it drop, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he fumbled with his own. His hands were beginning to shake again and he couldn't manage it.

"Who's got who?" you wanted to know, covering his hands with your own, steadying them and helping him to finish undressing himself.

He snorted and pinched your nipple, making you squeak, then smack his chest.

He caught your hand in his, pulling it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, then reattached his mouth to yours, practically consuming you as his hands slid down your sides, your hips, then your thighs, nudging them further open.

Your hole clenched around nothing, but all he did was trace a finger around your opening, teasing you, smiling against the side of your head as you huffed and grumbled.

Then he pressed two fingers into you, slowly, slowly, and you exhaled raggedly, head falling against his shoulder. "There you go, that's it, paskalin," Neteyam soothed, curling his fingers inside of you and grazing a spot that made you arch again, thighs locking around his hand.

Still moving slowly, gently, he began to pump them in and out of you, encouraging strangled little noises from you as he did, laying hot, wet kisses along your shoulder and neck.

Something in your gut began to tighten, and you gripped his shoulder, vision blurring at the edges. "Nete- fuck, I'm gonna-"

He pulled his fingers out, smiling down at you when you hissed at the loss. "Not yet, paskalin. C'mere." He kissed you, reaching behind you, and you felt his fingers curl around your kuru.

You shuddered at the contact with the most sensitive part of you, but he was gentle as he pulled it over and tucked it into your hand, pulling his own braid over his shoulder, holding the end out to you, the pink tendrils curling and flexing in the open air.

You brought the end of your own kuru forward, looking up at him in a brief moment of hesitation.

"S'okay," he murmured. "I'm here. I want you."

You nodded, shifting forward, sucking in a breath as you accidentally grinded down on his thigh, bringing your kuru closer to his until the delicate fronds intertwined tightly together.

Neteyam brought his other hand to the back of your head, pressing your foreheads together as he shuddered, eyes rolling, a low moan escaping him, his hardened cock shifting and pressing against the inside of your thigh.

The sensations that flooded you almost made you come on the spot.

You whimpered, eyelids fluttering as your thighs tightened around his knee, inadvertently squeezing his cock and forcing a choked noise out of him.

"Teyam," you gasped, releasing your joined braids and locking your arms around his neck once more. "Need you-"

"Yeah, I got you, baby-" he grunted, shifting an arm around your middle, hoisting you up a little as he lined himself up, then pushed into you, painfully slowly. "S'okay, paskalin, just breathe, I got you, you're so good for me, so fuckin' good," he babbled, veering wildly between English and Na'vi as you clenched around him.

Neteyam was so close to losing it inside of you and coming within seconds, but resisted, gritting his teeth and thrusting as steadily as he could, huffing raggedly against your neck as you mewled, lifting one leg to hook over his hip, allowing him to reach new depths inside you.

His cockhead bumped against that same sweet spot inside you, wrenching a strangled cry out of you. The best sound he'd ever heard, maybe. Every little noise you made was, in his humble opinion.

He wished he had one of those sky demon things his dad had been talking about- a camera or something- so he could record this moment and replay it over and over until every last second of you writhing on his cock was seared into his brain.

But Neteyam was approaching his peak far too quickly. He just couldn't hold it, not with how good and how tight you were, especially now as you were reaching your own high, gripping him like a vice.

"I'm- I'm gonna come, paska- paskalin, fuck-" he moaned, tightening his arm around your middle, holding himself up so he didn't collapse against you, hips beginning to buck up into yours almost painfully as he chased his high.

"Me too-" you choked out, clawing at his back, stars dancing before your eyes before the tight thread in your stomach snapped and you came all over his cock with a sobbing, breathless cry.

Neteyam followed you over the edge, hips stuttering, burying himself deep inside you without a second thought, his seed flooding you, pressing his face to your shoulder, gasping as his vision whited out.

It took several long, searing moments for you to come down from your high, trembling against his chest, twitching around him occasionally, making his cock pulse inside you.

"You're so fuckin' perfect, baby," Neteyam managed finally, kissing you sloppily, stroking your braids, pressing his sweaty forehead against yours. "So fuckin' perfect and all fuckin' mine."

"All yours," you echoed dazedly, taking in the sight of him, slick with sweat, hips snug against yours, chest heaving, and smeared with red and white paint, on his arms, his thighs, his chest and stomach and almost every single part of him that had touched you, hovering over you, the light of the Spirit Tree making a halo around him. He looked like a god.

Your god.

And screw Eywa if she had anything to say on the matter.

writing smut can be something that is so fun and can also be so mindnumbingly dull (me when i have to figure out five hundred different ways to say he fucked them real. good a proper dicking down if you will)

Taglist: @luvv4j4ybe11 @ikeyniofthetayrangi @rivatar @lunamochii @mochamochimoch1015 @dutifullyannoyingfox @oakbuggy @abcm18339 @atokirina-tsuki

Anyways part five gang enjoy! Please tell me what you thought I love knowing people's opinions on my work! A longer chapter to make up for the dismally short PT. 4

[podcastenthusiast]

I dunno why I wrote this instead of like a nice lighthearted story about Astarion getting a sunburn or something.

Anyway here's the aftermath of the night Cazador carved the Infernal binding into his back. Lots of sibling interaction.

--

Pain is a strange thing. Given a long enough span of time, it can become almost pleasurable, or at least a neutral sensation. You feel the hot sharp sting of Cazador's blade cut into your back over and over. But you are disconnected, floating above it all.

You're quiet now, tears running down your cheeks. You loathe giving him the satisfaction of seeing you weep but it is beyond your control at this point--an automatic physical response to prolonged, overwhelming agony.

Your body is motionless under his hands. If you move, he will have to start over again.

"I suppose that will do. You may return to the dormitory, boy."

He sounds vaguely disappointed. A poem, he'd told you. Somehow you have failed as a canvas for his artistic mutilation. Too much avoidable editing, perhaps. You wonder why he didn't simply paralyze you, but you suspect he enjoys finding reasons to punish you. Perhaps this was a punishment? Whatever the cause, if any at all, you are relieved to be spared the kennel.

"Yes, Master," a hollow voice replies. You realize it is your own. Just like the blood on the carpet. You wonder if you will be made to clean it later.

Dismal gray light mocks you through the wondows. Dawn. He spent an entire night engaged in bloody composition, your pale skin vellum for his creative vision.

You stagger, legs shaking, to the room you share with your siblings. It is a miracle you manage the stairs without falling. Or you assume you do; there is a momentary lapse of consciousness and you find yourself curled up tightly in a ball on one of the bottom bunks, your back to the wall as if that could protect the tender flesh from anyone wishing to do you further harm.

Yet even in suffering you aren't afforded any privacy. Your sister's soft voice drifts in like the tide.

"My last mark was an alchemist's apprentice. She... well, I have a healing salve. It's yours, if you'd like. I owe you for stitching up my arm."

She is clever to disguise her kindness, although you both know better.

"You're my favorite, Dal," you say, barely more than a whisper. It hurts to speak. Your throat is so raw from screaming.

"Mhm. I need to assess the damage."

You hear Dalyria stifle a horrified gasp when she sees what he did to you. You feel disgusting. Ashamed.

Always a doctor, you think with admiration. It must be nice to know yourself. Your world has become so small, the person you once were such a distant memory.

The brisk professional detachment in her tone is oddly comforting. With great effort, you maneuver yourself onto your stomach. You are already shirtless, which is fine; just the idea of fabric touching your maimed back, or what's left of it, makes you feel a bit faint.

"Brother... gods..."

Her voice sounds brittle, choked: the air of unshakable physician's confidence is suddenly gone. There is only your little sister here, teetering on the edge of tearful. You can't bear it. You've cried more than enough for yourself tonight already.

"Come now, darling, none of that," you soothe, all false cheer. "No sense letting some--frankly probably mediocre--poetry upset you, hm?"

She's seen you wounded before, obviously. They all have countless times. You wound each other and yourselves, on his orders or sometimes just because you csn, because you're starving or viciously bored, and that's only when the master and that bloody skeleton can't be bothered. Dalyria no doubt contended with worse injuries in her mortal life, too. She can bear the sight of your blood easily enough.

Why, then, is this particular instance so different? What does she see etched on your flesh?

"Tell me, Dal, be my mirror. Is it... Am I hideous?" you ask, terrified to lose the one asset of real value you have anymore.

"Of course not, brother," she says. How bizarre it feels for you, an expert in deception, to be the one lied to. "But...this might be beyond a salve."

"Try," you plead with her, hoping it sounds more like a command. You are desperate for any relief from the waves of nauseating pain breaking over you.

"Okay."

The healing salve is cool against your skin and somewhat numbing, easing your aching muscles, but it is not itself magical. The deep cuts do not mend. You suspect Cazador's blade probably was enchanted to prevent effective healing. He wouldn't want to risk having his hard work undone by a pilfered potion.

"It will scar, I'm afraid," she says, as if you aren't painfully aware of that fact.

"As he intended."

She hums whilst she works. Sometimes you like to imagine there are simple things like that Cazador can't take from you all. But the truth, you know, is that he could if he desired it. Could render you mute, mindless thralls if he didn't relish the sound of your screams.

"Oh hells, what's Astarion done now?"

Great. Petras. There is a voice you wouldn't mind never hearing again. Just when you were beginning to believe you might be able to rest a little.

"Shut up," you snap. Your nerves are frayed. He would be wise not to test your extremely limited patience right now.

But wisdom has never been your brother's strong suit.

"Just saying If you didn't give so much lip maybe the master wouldn't have to beat you too badly. Even dogs can learn that eventually."

"Thank you, Petras, as ever a bastion of wisdom," you say through gritted teeth.

"What did you call me?!"

"Enough, you two! Please don't fight," Dalyria begs, like always.

"I deliver twice the marks he does," Petras insists, which you doubt is true given his everything. He'd have to knock out half of his targets and drag them here. "Still struts about like he fucking owns the place only to roll over for the master--"

"Look at him, brother! His back..."

"I'm right here, you know," you say, but it doesn't matter.

Your siblings fall silent. A heavy silence, tomb-like. He has seen Cazador's masterpiece. Finally something shuts him up.

"Oh. Fuck," Petras breathes after a moment. He's verging dangerously on sympathetic. It's too much.

"Damn it, what?! Haven't you ever seen a man flayed before? Is his poetry really that awful? Gods, it's a tasteless limerick, isn't it."

You laugh, bitter and dry, because otherwise you think you'll fall apart. You wish they would all stop looking at you.

"I don't know," your sister says. "I can't read these symbols. Perhaps Aurelia--"

"Must we show absolutely everyone?" you protest.

"Well, I've never seen anything like it," your idiot brother adds unhelpfully. "Seriously, what did you do? Leon, come look at this!"

Wonderful. You're starting to feel like a sick art exhibition. Exposed. It would be funny were it not tragically happening to you. You don't think your siblings would actually harm you in this vulnerable state, not without a direct order. Well, maybe that oaf Petras.

"Master carved him up like a goose," Petras explains to your newest brother once he, too, has beheld the gruesome spectacle that is your tattered skin.

"Why? I mean, there must be a reason. Did you break a rule? Were you caught reading again?"

"He doesn't need a reason," you remind your brother.

Leon is not stupid; he's just scared. He still believes this torture was justified somehow, the logical consequence of failure or willful disobedience, that any sense can be made of the master's capricious moods. He needs to believe it can't happen to him--or especially not his young daughter. You let go of such silly notions a century before Leon was born.

"What does this mean, then?" he wonders quietly. "For the rest of us?"

Even with your face pressed into the pillow, you know what their expectant silence means. They are looking to you for answers. Guidance. How to protect themselves. You understand the master's cruelty as well as one could, having endured his sadistic whims longer than any of them.

"This hasn't ever happened before," you admit. "I don't know why he did it or what he might be planning next. And no, I didn't disobey. I doubt it means anything at all."

"I know what it means."

Violet, right on cue. Mischievous eyes and that stuffed owlbear clutched to her chest, you're certain.

"What?"

"Astar-ion has been cho-sen," your sister declares. Sings, really. Her voice is sickly sweet. Sugar laced with poison.

"Chosen?" Petras scoffs. "Sure. Perks of being the master's special little bitch--"

You spring up from the mattress completely without thought, like you've been compelled to act, but it is only rage driving you to grab your brother by the throat and pin him roughly against the wardrobe. It all happens so fast Dalyria doesn't even scream.

"Say that again," you snarl. "I dare you."

You recognize the briefest flash of fear in Petras' eyes. Perhaps he has a shred of respect for you after all, deep down. He clearly envies you, the deluded fool.

"Get off me!"

He pushes you away from him and, still weak, you stumble and fall flat on your back. Your vision goes white with seering pain; a wretched keening whine escapes your lips. You don't move to get up. You're not entirely sure you could. Dalyria rushes to your side, wringing her hands.

Violet, standing in the doorway, giggles and takes off running down the hall. Petras storms after her, furious, with Leon trailing uncertainly behind them.

Dalyria sighs--such a profoundly tired sound you feel it resonate in your bones.

"You look like a dying animal," she says affectionately.

"I feel like one."

She offers a hand. Helps you up from the floor.

"Ignore him. Please. At least until you heal," she implores you. "I won't have you undoing my efforts. You shouldn't let Petras get--"

"Under my skin?"

"I was not going to say that," she says, glancing away, sheepish. You don't know how she lures anyone back here when she can't lie to her own family.

"You were."

"Was not."

"Were."

"Not."

"Yes."

"No."

You both switch from Common to Elven, then you trip her up with Orcish.

"You're impossible!" Dalyria pouts. But your sister is smiling. A rare sight indeed. You tuck it away somewhere deep within your dead heart, for safekeeping. "Now please rest. Doctor's orders."

You feel cold. Afraid. Slightly delirious with pain and exhaustion, you ask, "What if I'm dying?"

Her expression softens. She isn't smiling anymore.

"You're not going to die," she says. Then, quieter, as you slip away into a trance: "Death is a mercy not meant for us."

[oftenwantedafton]

Kismet - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapters 7 + 8 (finale)

Rating - Explicit

CW - sexual content, graphic blood and violence, child character death(Charlie Emily)

Also available on AO3 Chapter 7 | 8

Chapter 7

It is pouring in the dream.

He knows it is a dream, because he recognizes how much newer the pizzeria looks: the paint still fresh, the colors vibrant, the plaster and tiles and lights all in place and the latter in working order. The parking lot is clear of debris and weeds and potholes, the tar only a year old, recently paved again.

It is late, and he is not meant to be there, but destiny has made him forget the papers he needs to work on the budget, so he is back again, for what is intended to be a quick in-and-out venture.

He was not expecting to find his business partner’s daughter weeping at the side of the building—another intervention on fate’s part, as he’d parked in back but had forgotten to bring the keys to the restaurant with him, strange how many things he’d been forgetting, his mind constantly lapsing—and was cutting across to the front of the building to use the main entrance when he’d quite literally run into the young girl, standing atop a stack of shipping pallets, balanced precariously, trying to peer into the window of the kitchen, seeking a way inside.

“Uncle Bill,” she greets, sniffling.

“What are you doing out here, Charlie?”

“The mean kids locked me out here.”

He frowns, oblivious to the growing lateness of the hour, to the rain now pelting him, staring at Henry Emily’s daughter with a strange expression on his features. “You shouldn’t be out here. Alone.”

He reaches a hand out and she takes it, so tiny in his own, nearly tumbling from the wooden slats she’d been balancing on, but he catches the girl before she can fall, his other hand grasping her by the waist and setting her down.

She has been crying for some time, her eyes red and puffy, a trail on snot leaking from one nostril that she keeps attempting to inhale back into place. The rain plasters her hair to her scalp and she looks more like a half-drowned rat than a small girl. Pitiful. Yet he doesn’t feel pity in that moment. Instead, he sees an opportunity. A little payback for the slights he’s endured because of her father. Thinking he could just take over the Afton family, as if his having his own wasn’t enough. Replacing him when he wasn’t even gone.

And then there is the research. Those elusive details that his old college roommate comprehended but didn’t see the value of; that wasted knowledge, gifted on someone who didn’t even deserve it. He needed a push in the right direction, and this would be one hell of a shove.

He’s carried a knife with him of some variant since childhood, since camping trips and wilderness training with the scout troop, always a useful tool. He reaches into his pocket for his keyring and the girl stands there watching him with those same guileless, trusting eyes her father has. Was he really going to do this? She was innocent. None of this had anything to do with her.

But it does, he argues back in his mind. It has everything to do with her. Carving out a new path. He lifts her up under the pretense of carrying her back inside where it’s safe and warm and dry. The hand holding the knife tucked alongside her ribs. Shoved between them. Her mouth falls open in surprise. Just that, no sound as he repeats the stabbing motion again and again, punching into the fragile flesh. The downpour dilutes the crimson lifeforce painting his fingers, muffles the ragged gasps for air she’s making.

The body falls. He stares down at his victim. The keyring drops from nerveless fingers. He falls to his knees. The restaurant withers and decays behind her crumped form.

Dave Miller opens his eyes. You’re still sleeping, curled up beside him. He strokes your cheek gently. You stir, eyes lifting drowsily to regard your lover. A lazy smile curves your mouth.

“Is it time to get up?”

“No. You can sleep longer. As much as you want.”

“Did you get any rest?”

“A little.”

Your eyes are losing that gauzy appearance, clearing as you become more alert. “Are you alright? You look a little…I don’t know. Upset.”

“Bad dream. It’s alright. I have them from time to time.” He pauses. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” You turn to lie on your back and he rests a hand on your abdomen, softly stroking the skin.

“I still owe you breakfast. A debt I can’t seem to clear.”

“Mmm…I still want to eat outside.”

“We’ll do both today.”

He’d come home late the night he’d killed the Emily girl. Spending a long time washing at the sink in the downstairs bathroom. Scrubbing at the blood staining his hands until his skin was red and raw looking. Sitting stiffly on the living room couch. Intending to sleep there, though slumber never came. Still upright, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, waiting for dawn. Walking into the bathroom and entering the shower with those same vestments covering him. Stepping beneath the spray of water and letting it soak him. Oblivious to hunger, the start of his weight loss. Under eyes smudged from lack of sleep, a new feature that would forever mark his flesh. An end, and a beginning. Walking hand in hand.

It is a little past noon in the present and he has you, his second chance, trusting and affectionate, kissing his mouth and caressing the scars, oblivious to the sins of his past, helping him carve a new future.

Downstairs in the kitchen you cook side by side. Sausages. Pancakes. Evan’s favorite. A Sunday tradition, back before things had gone so badly, before life had soured. His youngest had a habit of drowning hot cakes in maple syrup. Somehow managing to spread that sticky substance everywhere. Never able to clear the plate he’d insisted on filling comically high.

It’s warm in the kitchen after cooking on the griddle cook plate on the stove. Warmer still outside. Beneath the trees that offer shade it is tolerable. Being with you making it more tolerable still. But he longs for a return to the indoors, to the darker, cooler interior of his home. Bringing you back with him into the shadows.

***

Dave has that look again.

That faraway look like he’s lost in some past memory. An occasional occurrence when you’re together with him somewhere else, a more frequent one when you’re both at his house, as if the past haunts him strongest here. You’d seen it that afternoon when you’d first woken up. Again in the kitchen while cooking together. You want to ask. You don’t want to know. Caught between the two.

You lend a hand in clearing things after a breakfast that has become lunch, hastily sliding the doors open so Miller can carry the tray of used plates and cups inside. You help him clear the counters, cleaning up the mess left from preparing the meal. You wrap your arms around his waist and press a kiss along his spine.

The faucet shuts off. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I know I must sound like a broken record, but…” He turns and you step back, allowing him space to move. “I just want you to know.”

“I’m glad to be here, too.”

“Want to go for a ride?”

“Okay.”

You follow the older man into the garage. Remembering suddenly you still aren’t dressed appropriately. You really needed to do something about that.

“Maybe we should go pick you up some proper gear first.”

“Funny, I was just thinking about that.”

“Well, you know what they say. Great minds think alike.” He moves to the passenger door of his sedan, unlocking it and pulling it open partway.

“Thanks.” You rest your hand on the frame, intending to pull it open but he halts you, pushing against you, the door closing again.

“Maybe a little more of this before we leave,” he murmurs, nuzzling at your neck.

“That can definitely be arranged.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement. We get along so well…” His fingers are already on the fly of your shorts. “Maybe we should get in the back, or…no.” He tugs on your hand, pulling you closer to the hood. “Right here. Bent over for me.” Back at your shorts, dragging them and your panties down. Not all the way, just clearing your buttocks, leaving them somewhere over your thighs.

You let him guide you into position, turning you, pushing you gently down over the hood. The metal surface is slightly cool. Dave’s hand warm on your hip, the other unfastening his own fly before guiding his cock into you.

The air leaves your lungs in a hiss as he fully sheathes himself inside of you. You didn’t need the foreplay. You’re already dripping wet. Craving him. It’s still a stretch, still aching from last night. But you find yourself pushing your buttocks back against him, meeting each thrust with a lewd sounding slap of flesh.

It feels different in this position. Like he can hit you deeper. Your hands squeak on the alloy surface you’re resting on. Readjusting. You can’t move your legs much, still shackled by your clothing. A playful smack on one cheek. You make a sound somewhere between a giggle and a moan. Another slap, firmer this time. His hand snakes around to your front, stroking over your clit.

You curse, allowing him to lift your torso up, bringing you partly upright, massaging that bundle of nerve endings as he continues the push and pull into your canal. You’d thought the temperature in the garage was comfortable at the start but you’re getting hot already, leaving behind smudged streaks of condensation on the hood. Your head lifts and your eyes catch sight of a panel set into the wall beneath one of the workbenches. It looks like a door of some kind, well concealed but visible at this angle. You frown but it’s already out of your thoughts. Those expert fingers know exactly how to pull the orgasm out of you now, aided with the feeling of his prick pounding into you.

“That’s my good girl. Cum for me. That’s it…” You’re already there, quaking against his fingers, shuddering over the cock sawing in and out of you. He bends to kiss your back through your damp shirt. You reach back and find the hand still resting on your hip, squeezing it, willing him to follow you down the same path of pleasure. As much as you enjoy this position you miss his mouth, miss kissing him, miss staring into those hungry eyes of his. They must be nearly black now, just completely blown wide as he fucks into you fast and hard and you feel the instant he climaxes, that hot seed spurting into you, the ragged sigh of a moan leaving his lips.

You’re upright again, turning and dragging a quick, sloppy kiss along the corner of his panting mouth, sharing his crooked grin. “I had every intention of taking you out today,” he manages.

“I know. I don’t mind. We can go out another time.”

“Want to take a bath?”

“You have a tub? I thought you just had the walk in.”

“Different bathroom.” He nips at your bottom lip. “Come with me.”

“I just did.”

“Oh, I’m defiantly wearing off on you already. Let’s go get cleaned up. And then get dirty again. And then…”

He helps you tug your shorts and panties back into place. You can feel his load dripping back out of you. Amazed at the man’s stamina. Guys half his age were never able to keep up this pace.

You’re at the foot of the stairs when you think about the panel in the wall again. “Hey, Dave?”

“Hmm?” His arms around you again, his mouth at your throat.

“Never mind. Not important. Let’s go get in the tub.”

***

Dave Miller is supposed to be meeting you on campus.

That had been the plan, anyway, before his bike had suddenly decided to have its first issue since he’d bought it. Dying when he’d just gotten back into the city proper. He makes it to the side of the road, kicking the stand with more force than necessary. The worst possible timing. And now he’d have to leave it here. No service stations would be open at this hour.

He jerks the leather gloves off his hands and shoves them in his pocket, securing his helmet to the rear of the bike. It was much too hot to be wearing it. Hopefully it wouldn’t be stolen. He unzips his jacket, draping it over the seat of the motorcycle, then dragging aside his shirt sleeve to look at his wristwatch. He’d left early, so he shouldn’t be too late. He’d get a cab to take him the rest of the way.

Miller’s sweating by the time he’s finally in the back of a taxi, grateful to be in air conditioning. He tosses the first bill he finds in his wallet towards the driver—more than enough to cover the fare and a generous tip for him to wait—and starts the trek across your campus. It’s getting dark out. The temperature still oppressive. He needs something cold to drink. The iced tea he keeps in the fridge. Or a beer. He’s not a heavy drinker. He doesn’t like having his judgment impaired. But it sounds perfect right then. A cold beer and a cold bath with you.

His pace quickens. Yeah, definitely stopping for beer. That cab driver was going to make bank tonight. There. That was the building where the photo lab was.

You’re not outside, by the statue of the school mascot where you’d promised you’d be.

His steps slow. Still inside, maybe. Working.

Except he knows you’re not. He can feel it. Something’s wrong. His eyes dart around the grounds. No one else around. He shouldn’t have let you come by yourself. Not at night. He reaches in his pocket for his keyring.

For the knife that’s never left his side.

***

Your boyfriend is late.

You reposition your book bag on your shoulder, pacing a little in front of the statue you’d agreed to meet Dave at. It got dark a little earlier now, the season already changing, though you’d never know it with the intense heat that still lingers. You debate about retreiving your portable cd player from your bag. You hate wearing headphones in this heat. Dave would be here soon. You just needed to be patient.

A hand closes over your mouth and you’re jerked backward.

You instinctively rake your nails against the assailant’s hands and forearms, but they don’t budge. Your keys are in your backpack, meaning you don’t have access to your kubaton. Your mace is in there as well. Might as well be at home, for all the good it’s doing you now.

Stupid. So stupid to be so lax.

You shout for help but it’s muffled against the fingers barring your lips. You can smell motor oil. Sweat. Body odor. One of your tennis shoes is dragged off. You’re in the park next to the school. Pushed down next to a gazebo. It was still summer. Surely people would be there. Someone, anyone. The heavy weight of a pair of legs drops onto your own. The man is wearing a black ski mask. Hand still clamped over your mouth. Ignoring your flailing upper extremities.

A moment of terror as the man reaches for his belt and then he’s gone. Yanked clear of your prone form. You struggle to sit up, scrabbling backwards. Dave. It’s him. One arm curled around the man’s jaw. A knife—the one you’d seen in the laundromat, maybe—pressed against the side of the man’s neck. The temporary relief melts back into fear.

“Dave!”

“Run. There’s a cab waiting out front. Go!”

You’re afraid to leave him. Afraid of something else you don’t even consciously understand.

“Go,” he growls and you jerk to your feet, stumbling, running unevenly with one foot still bare, leaving the close cropped grass and finding the pavement again. Begging the man behind the wheel of the cab to get help. The police. A couple walking on the sidewalk stop, looking alarmed. You wonder if the words are even coming out in coherent sentences. Pleading again. You hear the man on the curb say something about a pay phone. You turn back in the direction you’d run from.

Dave.

***

“You’re lucky that I’m letting you live.” Dave digs the knife into the man’s thigh and twists. A muffled shout against his hand. Another futile struggle. There is no escaping the thin man’s grasp. “If you’d harmed her in any way, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.” A stab at the soft abdomen. Not hitting anything vital, not going particularly deep, but still puncturing all the same. Adults’ bodies were sturdier than children’s. He’s learned that the hard way.

The man’s blood is leaking over the security guard’s fingers from the laceration he’d gifted on the side of the attacker’s neck. He’s still so, so tempted to end this scum’s life right now. But there will be police. Questions. An investigation. He doesn’t want that much attention. So he forces himself to leave it at that, wiping the blade on the man’s shirt before sliding it closed, returning it to his pocket. He’s drenched in sweat. Shaking. If he hadn’t been there in time…

But he had been. Fate intervening once again. Spotting your shoe. Following the trail. Reaching you before you’d gotten hurt. He hears the sirens and his grip relaxes. He’s well versed in dealing with the authorities. He knows exactly what to say. How to behave.

Miller’s eager to return to you.

His hands cup your face when he’s by your side once more. The criminal apprehended. There are statements to be made. But right now all he wants is this frail creature he’s got between his hands. Cradling you. Seeing you alarmed at the sight of blood staining his skin, his clothing.

“It’s okay. It’s not mine. You’re okay. We’re okay.” A mantra to soothe you.

To reassure himself.

***

After the incident, you return to looking over your shoulder. Wary of the dark, of the shadows.

You know the stalker is behind bars. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t others. You make certain to always have your self defense tools in ready reach now when you’re alone.

Much of the time you’re with Dave.

The older man even more protective of you now. Clinging. You welcome the attention. You’re safe with him.

You don’t dwell on the memory of him holding the knife. On how easily he’d shifted someone twice his weight. Adrenaline, you think. Lending him extra strength. He’d done what he’d had to to protect you. You know how strong he is. You’d felt it. You know how gentle he can be, too.

You're at his house now. Morning. He’s going to be heading to bed soon. You’re going to attempt some schoolwork later while he sleeps. It’s become a routine. You here or him over your place. At the pizzeria. Behind the shelter in the back of his car. On the back of his bike once he’d gotten it fixed.

Always together.

Chapter 8

Dave Miller is lying in bed, fresh out of the shower, watching you with lidded eyes as you approach his naked body.

You crawl on the bed, working your way up to his mouth, planting kisses that start from thigh to hip, teasing just shy of his erection, sweeping over his stomach and chest, collarbone and neck and jaw before finally meeting his lips. He feels something when you kiss him, more than that hot flutter in his stomach or the throbbing between his legs. Something new. A kind of ache he’s never known and he’s reluctant to label. He has a sneaking suspicion of what it is. He just doesn’t know if he’s wants it. If he’s allowed to have this.

Your mouth departs his and you’re moving back down again, lapping at the liquid oozing from the top of his cock, watching him when you slide your lips down over him. His fingers twitch, burying in your hair. He feels words pressing against the back of his teeth. Not the usual filth that issues forth when he’s intimate with you, but something of a very different kind. You’re perfect. He’s told you this before. More than that. You’re for him. His. You’ve no idea how afraid he had been that night you’d been attacked. Losing you would be like losing himself. He couldn’t go through that again.

He can only rebuild his soul so many times.

Dave watches as you suck his dick, enjoying the feeling of your lips and tongue, the suction that drags the soft flesh of your inner cheeks, the narrowed opening of your throat, that pulsing gag as you force him deeper, abusing yourself with his length. His hand on your head is merely a gesture of affection. He doesn’t have to guide you, doesn’t need to force you. You take him as deep as you can, just like you do when he’s fucking your pussy, shoved in to the hilt, battering your cervix.

He doesn’t need to warn you when he cums, because you know his body so well now, already prepared for the next load, humming encouragement against him, working faster, eyes locked with his, pleading. He won’t deny you, spilling into your mouth, watching you gather it on your tongue, still holding that collection of fluid as you rise, letting him see you gulp it down, licking your lips to catch any stray drops that may have escaped. He knows how it tastes; doesn’t like the bitter flavor, your own is so much better, but he welcomes your kisses afterwards, sucking your tongue until the taste lessens, feeling the drowsy pull of the sleep he needs making each movement more languid.

”Stay with me until I fall.”

He means asleep, or maybe he means something else, that other thing, that feeling you’ve been steadily dragging him towards.

***

You shut your notebook with a sigh.

The words for your psychology paper won’t come.

You stand up and stretch, looking around the living room. Empty, of course. Just like the rest of Dave’s house. And with him asleep, you’re suddenly realizing how little there is to around here.

You’re bored.

The garage is probably the most interesting place you’ve seen thus far. The sketches and drawings on the workbenches. The strange metal contraptions. At least it would be give you something to stare at besides blank pages or empty shelves.

You turn the doorknob and descend the staircase. There’s a pull chain nearby for the light that you tug on as you walk towards the nearest table.

Cluttered. Dusty. He hasn’t touched this anytime recently. You don’t understand what you’re looking at. Too technical. Maybe not what you’d been expecting. You stub your toe on a box beneath the workbench and it jolts another memory. That weird panel on the wall beneath the desk.

You crouch down, reaching, your fingers falling short. You’ll have to crawl underneath. The garage is pretty clean as far as garages go but it’s still unpleasant kneeling down on the concrete. Your fingernails sink into the seam and you tug, finding the panel shifts easily. Dark inside. There had been a flashlight on the table. You crawl back out and retrieve it, switching it on and shining it into the hole.

It’s deep. Far larger than you’d expected. Piles of something. Journals? A box. And beyond that…you can barely make it out. You crawl closer, lifting the beam again and nearly cry out.

One of the animatronics. Except this one is in a terrible state. A rabbit whose color you can’t discern. Yellow? Green? Somewhere in between the two. Rents in the fabric and fur. Exposed wires. Rusting metal. An ear torn clean in half. The headpiece detached from the rest of the mascot, perched on the lap, facing you.

You shouldn’t be doing this. There had to be a reason why Dave has this stashed away, though you can’t think of a single one. But morbid curiosity has you in a vice grip. You reach for one of the journals. Dusting it off. Lifting the cover.

You know this handwriting. You’d seen it on the diagram the security guard had drawn for you when you’d been studying the cardiovascular system. Cramped cursive. The pen boring deeply into the pages so that they have texture you can feel as you turn each one, almost like a type of braille. So much writing. You see the name Henry Emily mentioned often. Dated entries. He’d kept a diary? They were all diaries? You close it and select another, digging further down into the pile. The writing rougher. More frantic, as if he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Names you don’t recognize. Ranting about his family being stolen. Something called remnant. It’s as confusing as the things he’d left on the work station.

Now for the box. You hold your breath, listening. No sounds of movement. Miller was still asleep. You drag it into your lap as you settle on the floor next to his car.

Don’t do this. There’s no going back from this.

You don’t know where the warning comes from. You’re still not overly alarmed yet, just confused. But there’s a nagging feeling that’s about to change once you discover the contents within.

Cover removed. Framed photographs greet you. Nothing familiar. Children. Three, of varying ages. An attractive fair haired woman. Dave’s family? A token and a flyer from the restaurant announcing a grand opening. Newspaper articles reflecting that same announcement. You dig deeper. A wedding band. Plain gold. A man’s ring. More clippings from the news. A missing child. The date stirs a memory. Around the time your parents had stopped taking you to Freddy’s. More missing children. A laminated card with an obituary for a young boy. Another news article about the police investigation progress. There had never been any. A bearded man with glasses looking uncomfortable. The co-owner. The other a heavyset man with dark hair holding a hand in front of his face, blocking his features from view. Both interrogated. No evidence of foul play discovered. Both cleared of any wrongdoing.

You frown. Why on earth would Dave have all this? Had he worked there previously? Did he have some sort of strange fascination with Freddy’s? You’d always wondered about that relationship he had with the owner. As if they were friends. Another obituary card. Henry Emily. That was the end of the contents.

You begin replacing things, halting when you reach the grand opening article again. Squinting at the black and white photograph. You know who one of the men was, now: Henry Emily. The caption identified the other as William Afton. The heavyset man with dark hair. You bring the yellowing newsprint closer to your face. It wasn’t the clearest picture to begin with and the aging process made it even more difficult to discern. You’d have to magnify it. You could do it in the photo lab at school.

You carefully fold the page and put everything back, retreating to the living room. The news article is tucked between the pages of your psychology textbook.

You suddenly feel foolish. You should just ask. There had to be an explanation for all of this. You shouldn’t be going behind your boyfriend’s back.

But the way he’d hidden it. The mascot suit. The collection of manic ramblings. How to account for any of that? How would you even broach that subject? Hey, funny thing, I was in your garage looking through the stuff you have hidden in the wall—cool rabbit, by the way—and I was just wondering what the fuck all of this is? Care to shed a little light?

Dave’s nearly to the couch before you realize he’s awake again and you jump. “Oh my gosh, you scared me. I thought you were still sleeping.”

“Evidently.” He stops, glancing at your notebook sitting on your lap. “Making any progress?”

“Some. Not much.”

He tips his head to one side, one ear touching his shoulder and a large cracking sound issues forth, repeating the process for the other side. “Want some help?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe later.” You pause. That uneasy feeling hadn’t left. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

“Not unless you were playing around in the garage. I thought I heard something. You know the master bedroom is right above it.” Miller yawns and you give a nervous laugh.

“No. Nothing in there that would interest me.”

“Quite. Well, I’m awake now. Do you want to go out? Go do something?”

“I’m actually going to go to the library. Do some research for the paper. And maybe develop some prints while I’m at it,” you add.

The security guard shrugs and nods. “Okay.”

You put your notebook back in your pack, tugging the zipper shut. Dave’s still standing there, as if waiting for something. Kissing him isn’t the first thing on your mind right then, but you know you’re already acting suspicious as it is. You set the bag back down on the couch and twine your arms around his neck. “I had a nice time.”

“Mmm-hmm.” His mouth finds yours and your body responds as it always does, a flame beginning in your core. “You sure you don’t want to stay a little longer?”

“I do. Always. But I’m trying to be good about not proscatinating. I really want to make some progress on this paper today.”

“You’re a good girl. When can I see you again?”

“Tomorrow. I’m doing a quick four hours at the shelter in the afternoon.”

“I’ll come get you, then.” He kisses you longer this time, his hands sitting on your waist. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Dave,” you plead.

“Okay. Tomorrow. Go get some work done. I’ll try to take another nap, maybe. Call me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

“I don’t want to wake you up.”

“Call me,” he says again. “I insist.”

You nod, grabbing your backpack from the couch, hardly daring to breath until you’re back inside your car. You’d felt so safe with Dave. Especially after that incident at school. Now, though. Now you’re remembering the feeling you’d had that day you’d fled the security office. There was something off. Something wrong. And you were on your way to find out exactly what that something is.

***

The attempt to magnify the newspaper article is a flop.

The image quality is just too poor. You need an original. And that reminds you of going to the library. Microfiche reader. They were bound to have the file there. You haven’t used it that often, maybe once or twice in your entire life, but the clerk that’s working that afternoon is a kind, middle aged woman who’s only to happy to offer guidance. Cheerful until you mention what you’re looking for specifically.

Then her face darkens. “Why would you want to see that awful man? He’s gone now and Hurricane is better for it. It would be better still if they just tore that eyesore down, but the bastard won’t budge and sell. Sorry, dear, for the profanity,” she apologizes. “There are just a lot of us in this town that have bad memories of that place.”

You wave away her concern. “Did you ever see him in person? William Afton?”

“I’m sorry to say I did. It’s not a face you forget. He was a larger man. Tall, carrying extra weight. He was handsome in the early days. Charming. Easy, generous smile. Soft voice. Everyone liked him and his wife. Their kids. Then when things went south, well…he changed. And we saw him for what he really was. The absolute devil, that man.” She shivers. “Maybe the trouble started when he lost his youngest in the accident. Not that I’m excusing his actions, mind you. It was supposed to be a prank with his eldest, gone wrong. He was always causing trouble, that one. The typical rebellious young teenager. Showing off to his friends. Stuffed that poor boy’s head right inside one of those horrid anima-watchits. Bit it clean off.”

You cover your mouth with your hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you. Like I said, it’s not something you really should be researching. Find another topic for your project.”

“I can’t. It has to be this.”

She shrugs. “Well, this is it. The date of the newspaper matches what you gave me. This dial moves the image from left to right. This one zooms in. Shouldn’t be hard to find. When you see a man with pale eyes that pierce through your soul, you’ll know it’s William Afton.”

“Wh…what?”

“His eyes. Definitely his most striking feature. Such a contrast with that dark hair of his.”

It can’t be him. “I think I’ll be good for now. Thanks for your help.” You suddenly need to sit down, a wave of nausea rolling through you. That nagging feeling you’d been having since you’d discovered the things behind that hidden compartment in Dave’s garage wall was getting stronger. No, you’d had it longer than that; since the first time you’d met him in the laundromat. That sense of danger.

And still you’d pursued him.

The older man had been nothing but good to you. You enjoyed spending time with him. The intimacy you shared unlike anything you’d ever known. You were falling for him and that feeling in particular had muted all of those doubts and misgivings, burying them under layers of affection and lust. But that was before. Before you had seen the things Dave was hiding.

If he even was Dave Miller at all.

The machine is warm in front of you. Your hands rotate the dials but your eyes don’t focus until a familiar picture skates by and you hurriedly reverse the slider. There. The same one. You can see the face more clearly now.

For a minute you can almost fool yourself into thinking it’s not the same person. The build is so different. All those sharp angles and lines you’re accustomed to softened. But the eyes. There is no mistaking those eyes. Those eyes that watch you. When you’re cooking together. Doing homework. Playing in the arcade at Freddy’s. Making out in the car, yours or his. Making love in the shower, in your bed, on his couch, in that master bedroom above the garage that you wish to God you’d never gone exploring in. Innocence is bliss, isn’t that what they always said? Now you were anything but.

Your eyes well with tears. The hands on the machine shake, your heart pounding. It’s him.

Dave Miller was really William Afton.

***

You struggle to fit your key into the lock on your apartment door.

Still fighting tears, still nauseous and afraid, you find the simple task nearly impossible.

“Need some help?”

You gasp and turn to see Dave—William—standing there behind you.

“Dave.” The other name. You can’t force yourself to say it yet.

“Couldn’t sleep. Was hoping you’d be home. Timed things well, apparently. You’re so jumpy today,” he murmurs, reaching for the keys in your hand. You relinquish them, shrinking back against the door.

“Yeah. I um…I think I’m just stressed from school.”

“Sure.” You hear the sound of the door unlocking behind you. “There you go. Dave to the rescue again.”

You try and fail at a smile, turning and pushing the door open. You don’t want to let him in. It’s the very last thing that you want.

“I was going to take you out, but maybe it’s better if we stayed in tonight. What do you think?”

Hesitating on the threshold. You might be safer in public. Assuming he was going to bring you somewhere with people. Maybe he wouldn’t.

He’d had so many opportunities to hurt you. He never had. He’d saved you from being raped, maybe worse. Maybe he wasn’t William Afton anymore. Maybe he really was Dave Miller. Your boyfriend. The man you’d been falling for.

“Yeah, let’s stay in.” You move forward, setting your bag down. Miller—Afton—you no longer know who to think of him as—follows, the door closing behind him. Deadbolt drawn. Locked inside with him.

“How did it go at the library? Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes.” You realize you’re backing away and force yourself to stop, allowing him to close the distance between you.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“You’re sure?” He lifts your backpack, unzipping it and thrusting a hand inside. Flipping first through your notebook, then your textbook. His eyes darting back to you. “Where is it?” He tosses the bag aside, the notebook and textbook falling to the floor.

“Where’s what?”

“You know what. Let’s not play games.”

“I don’t…”

He’s on you before you even have a chance to react, a hand at your throat, pinning you back against the door you’ve just passed through. He shoves the other hand inside the pocket of your jeans, dragging the folded newspaper article out of it, waving it in front of your face. He hasn’t begun squeezing yet, just keeping you pinned in place. “This. What you stole.”

You swallow loudly. “Dave, I…”

“Why did you do it?” He lets the paper fall to the floor. “Why did you have to go looking? I would have told you, in time. When I was ready. Why did you…”

“I was just bored, I didn’t know I would find that. Any of it.”

“Boredom. That’s your reason? Why you just destroyed everything we had?”

“I wasn’t trying to…Dave,” you plead.

“Do you have any idea of how hard I’ve worked to keep this a secret? I trusted you. Let you into my restaurant, into my home. Into my heart,” he whispers. “How could you betray me like this?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. I would never tell,” you say hastily.

“I’m falling in love with you.”

”Dave…” The tears that have been threatening to spill finally begin leaking, tracking down your cheeks.

“I did everything I could to make you happy. To make you feel safe. Wanted. Loved. The things I’ve never had. I didn’t think I’d ever experience them. Until you.” He swipes at the tears on your face. “And now you’re taking it all back. You don’t really feel the same way at all.”

“I do,” you shakily respond. “I’m falling for you, too.”

“I sealed William Afton away in that box, in that wall. And you let him back out.”

“You don’t have to be him. You could still be Dave Miller. We could still...”

“How? How do I trust you, how do I…” His voice trails off, his face tucked against yours. “All I ever wanted was you.”

You reach for the fingers still resting against your throat. Not pulling them away. Merely lying them along his. “Dave,” you say. Waiting to see what man will answer.

What path destiny will lead you down.

[claypigeonpottery]

I’m really excited/terrified to see this piece fired. the shading could be great or it could be a disaster lmao. yay pottery

[lele5429]

I know I’m supposed to be doing work but

Here’s a time lapse of the main art for Retired Assets

This is actually the first art I did for this fic, but I’ve not yet found enough time to finish inking it. This is also where I finalized the character designs for RA Link (Legend) and RA Ravio for the very first time.

It was conceived as a 9x12 inches linoleum block print but guess what, I cannot carve this many details so I retured the block and got my refund. I did two smaller prints of the characters instead.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for carving my crush’s face into a living figurehead?

I (50+NB) have carried a torch for my best friend (35M) FOREVER. It’s kind of like an open secret between us. We’ve been through so much and he’s the most beautiful person I know, but he has a lot of emotional baggage and really isn’t in a place to give and receive love, and even though it hurt me a lot, I actually ended up moving out of the country for over a decade to give him space to heal. Honestly, for awhile there I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see him again (this is important for later). After I moved, my career kind of exploded (I work with wood) and I got this super exclusive contract to do a restoration project on a one of a kind living ship. The ship’s figurehead told me to give him “a face I could love”, and, well… I kind of blacked out. I carved my crush’s face, and the resemblance is uncanny. They could be twins (other than eye color, the ship’s eyes are blue and my friend’s are dark brown). I even gave the ship some accessories that reminded me of my best friend, to complete the look. It’s my best work to date, and even though it was a risky move, I was super proud of my work. Plus, this ship is on the other side of the world from him, so the odds of him finding out were really low, or so I thought. Fast forward to a couple years later, my crush and I were reunited (yay!), and things were going great. We were going on all kinds of trips together, sharing an apartment and just making up for lost time. I even thought we might be making some headway, feelings wise. But then a big group of my friends from the ship showed up at my new place without warning, and someone mentioned the figurehead. My crush was SO mad. I’ve never seen him that upset. He said it gave “clear implications” that there was something going on between us when there isn’t. That led to a whole other fight and now I don’t know if we’re even friends anymore? I’m truly at a loss. I thought he’d never find out and it was harmless, but now I’m scared I might lose the man I love over a little lapse in judgement. AITA?

[imjustfloatingaway]

i drew my favorite boy because i can’t escape the thought that he’d carve his love’s wedding band from wood

edit: timelapse under the cut

🚨MILD FLASH WARNING🚨

first time posting a time lapse, yippee! now y’all get to see all the dumb shit i do while i draw

[bandofchimeras]

Buckle up cuz this is a longpost about Jewish conversion & transsexual identity.

A friend joked, "why do all the bad Catholic girls become good Jewish boys?" when I told them of my conversion.

which sure, it's a bit funny how common it is to find Jewish convert trans men.

but for me the joke formula is a bit off. I consider myself a Good (read: prudish, rule enforcing, obsessively observant) Catholic girl to a bad (read: indolent, irreverent, skeptical, punk ass) Jewish boy.

I had to ask myself, what does it mean to enter a religious tradition and outright declare oneself "bad"? Why do I even want to be part of the Jewish people?

Well it has to do with autonomy & reactivity.

Catholicism was forced upon my natural psyche, much like girlhood. I was assigned Catholic and Girl at birth.

To cope, aside from moments of lapse and rebellion that would explode out now and again, I strove to be "good," to exactingly follow this assignment, perfectly study all its rules and craft the perfect image of what was desired of me to wear as a mask over my realer, neglected and deeply wounded self.

Breaking free of both those constraints in rapid order, there was no going back. I would never again be a Catholic, bad or otherwise, or a girl, feminist or otherwise. Yet in my heart of course, I will always be a Catholic girl with the attendant moods and desires and shapes of understanding that it required me to take.

Now, in conversion and in transition - there is a choice. I could remain nonbinary, fluid, in constant flux, agnostic, ungrounded, dynamic and in conversation with the questions of the world. For a time I thought yes this is who I really am. Not seeing, of course, this is who we all are at our core. Living in that non-identity and infinite identity at once for a time spiritually reconnected my soul back to its own shapelessness and shape shifting power.

But there comes a time when life requires you make some commitments. This is not to say nonbinary or gender fluid people must pick a side. Some folks need to carve out something different entirely. But while my soul remains genderfluid, pagan and animist, I felt the need for communal identity and a structure to build myself on in the world. What aligned most was ftm transexuality, and Judaism, both strains of music I'd been hearing since early childhood, hints and leads all along the way.

See it's that, the formless mischievous spirit within me takes on the shape of a Jewish boy reconnecting with his Slavic roots.

But! In having so much a choice in this (not really, but it was a choice to follow the path that called my name), means it is my Identity. And while Judaism comes with a large set of rules, guidelines, practices and a huge long tradition of scholarship to draw on, and while I did hear jokes about and feel concerned about the similarity of Jewish and Catholic guilt ....none of that has been much of a problem. I'm a very bad and rules avoidant little punk. I tried for a minute to be a "good" man and it fucking failed, fell flat on my face and in the end had to laugh at my attempts. I'm kind of a slut, a fag and a sleazebag. I do what I want, no matter how I try, and that's that. Judaism, I hoped would be a forcefield of community to help me hold onto morality and find a light of belonging in the darkness.

Post October 7th, it has become exceedingly clear that no, it will not be the institutions of Judaism that light this candle, but the weirdos, the queers, the witches and outcasts and converts in conflict. Judaism, as a spiritual /shape/ has a home for us in the corners even though the solidified institutions are entrenched in Zionism. It breaks my heart to pieces but I feel lucky to have seen it before formally converting. It's the storytellers that means the most to my heart, the subaltern keepers of memory. The survivors.

So I revel in being a bad Jew before I am finished becoming one, embracing the role of black sheep before even entering the fold, and will not fight against it.

Similarly, allowing my masculinity to be odd, offbeat and expressive - I did get beat down into a kind of cishet conformity for survival for awhile, and I'm not talking about feminizing my expression, but just being a weird fucking guy who violates male social contracts by existing as myself.

There's a freedom in renouncing desire for recognition, validation and asserting oneself (with humility!) in a tradition while still embracing it. Like hah! You can't get rid of me, I'm the pest assigned by G-d to question your assumptions unto my own exclusion, or relate freely to G-d, look them in the eyes while praying. I have an attitude and I'm not good, and don't care to be. Nothing has illustrated this more beautifully than the graphic novel The Rabbi's Cat. In which the figure of the dog and the cat play out as different orientations towards Hashem and Judaism itself.

There is room for all of us. If you don't think so, okay. We will keep making room for ourselves anyhow.

Meow meow.

[danceofthexdragons]

Aemond Winter Headcanons

Aemond can't balance winter thanks to his eye trauma, he has splintering migraines from the frost, so he spends extra time around and on Vhagar, who is a veritable heat incinerator.

In the morning when he wakes up he drinks hot lemon tea with ginger and porridge and fermented milk.. Aegon wakes up grumpy and demands liquor. Aemond nudges a large glass of milk in his direction and Aegon grumpily snaps that he doesn't drink milk. Aemond intones slyly that this is why he's taller than Aegon.

Aemond sits by an icy window to read, next to a fireplace, and Halaena joins him, peppering him with all manner of questions. Aegon sleeps on a chair while they discuss the Coming of the First Men; Helaena suddenly interrupts him to excitedly claim she wants to learn more about Ice Dragons!! Aemond posits that Ice Dragons are from the Land of Always Winter and more massive and looming than runty Valyrian dragons. Helaena confides in him that she knew there was an ice dragon under the crypts in Winterfell. Aemond is skeptical but doesn't disagree with her. Aegon claims that he would hunt down and tame an ice dragon before everyone!

The ladies who frequent the study halls in the interim that Aemond is in there love to listen to his 'lectures' and he has quite the following; he has times carved out in his day to give brief history lessons to those willing to learn, and the majority of his 'students' are ladies. Aemond enjoys teaching to his audience and even encourages them to participate with their opinions. The ladies naturally want to impress the young Prince and so they do their homework ahead of time, and look forward to each morning.

Snow is a rare occurrence in King's Landing. Vhagar and the other dragons are not pleased with the sudden drop in barometer. Aemond, despite himself, drags Aegon for midnight rides in the icy temps, and they head back to the kitchens after for hot coco and warm cookies.

Alicent knits her babies winter scarves and mittens and insists they wear them as Christmas approaches. Aegon resists as he knows what's coming next, CHRISTMAS SWEATERS. Alicent secretly darns Aemond a Christmas cloak instead and a special Christmas eyepatch, with snowflakes in sparkly silver. Aegon thinks this is highly unfair.

Aemond receives little gifts for him as soon as December hits. His admirers love to leave him cookies wrapped in tinsel, poems, garlands of Anthurium and Primroses in spots where he'll find it. He doesn't know what to make it of it, at first..

The dreaded mistletoe shows up in the most inconvenient of all places..

Aemond does his best not to stand under any mistletoe.

At night when the bitter cold lapses on King's Landing, Aemond and Helaena drag Aegon outside to the courtyard and they build the biggest bonfire the castle has ever seen and drink peppermint cider and mead and listen to their maester tell them old tales. Aegon drinks himself into a stupor. Helaena weaves Chrysanthemums into Aegon's hair as he sleeps.