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sootyships · 7 months

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random fact: if you see a surname that ends in -nen, there's a distinct possibility that the person has finnish and/or karelian ancestry or at least is/has been married to someone who does. further elevated likelihood if this person is from the great lakes region of north america.

inspired by the VA Carrie Keranen making my "that's a finnish fucking surname" senses tingle. one of the corporals of my recruit squad in military training literally had the same surname, just with ä, which unsurprisingly has been replaced with a there :')

#finnish -nen surnames originate in eastern finland #which is why finnish and/or karelian ancestry is likely #and the great lakes region particularly upper michigan and northern minnesota have high rates of finnish ancestry among the population #in copper country in upper michigan notably like 20+% of the population has finnish ancestry #a lot of finns immigrated for jobs in the copper mines #finns soon got a rather bad reputation because they were a bit too willing to fight for their rights as workers #i'd like to one day visit copper country bc it would be interesting to see how this shows #and any like finnish diaspora culture

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shreemetalprices12 · 9 months

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Copper prices on the London Metal Exchange (LME) started off lower at $8,566.5 per tonne but gradually climbed to reach a session high of $8,710 per tonne. By the end of the day, the prices consolidated sideways at $8,707 per tonne, showing a 2.27% increase.

#shreemetalprices #metal industry #shreemetal #news #metal rate #metal prices #shree #Copper prices #Metal

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svartalfhild · 7 months

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Elf Lore in the Forgotten Realms for BG3 Players who are Unfamiliar

I've been seeing some...uninformed takes lately about certain elf characters from BG3, so let me just throw some stuff out there for y'all to consider.

Elves in FR live to be about 750.

They physically mature at roughly the same rate as humans i.e. 18-20.

Culturally, elves don't consider other elves emotionally mature i.e. adults until the age of 100, at which point they may choose an adult name to go by.

What does this mean, logically? Well, consider their very long lifespan. If you are going to live 750 years, your perspective on wisdom is going to be quite different from a human's. While 60 years might be plenty mature for a human, for an elf, that means you still haven't had enough time to watch all of your shorter lived friends pass, which I imagine is something of an emotional milestone for elves.

Halsin is 350. This means he's just hitting middle-age.

Astarion is 239 (Idle Champions claims he's 350, but I call bullshit because his birth and death dates are literally in BG3 and also IC frequently gives the characters bullshit ages, like they say Jaheira is 36, which couldn't have been true even during BG1). He died at 39, which is quite young, but he had the same emotional maturity as a human 39 year old at the time, so he's not Like That because he's undeveloped. He's Like That because he's a snapshot of a privileged young nobleman who then spent 200 years being used and abused by the worst sort of person imaginable. He wasn't a full adult by elven standards, though, and I'm sure there's lots of elven rites of passage he didn't get to experience because he was dead.

BG3 does not mechanically distinguish between sun elves and moon elves and simply puts them all under the high elf umbrella, but they are very much a thing in the lore and have distinct appearances, cultures, and histories.

Moon elves tend to have black, blue, or silver-white hair and have pale skin, sometimes with a bluish hue. Their eyes are usually blue or green, sometimes with gold flecks.

Sun elves tend to have blond, black, or red hair and brown skin tones. Their eyes are usually green, gold, black, copper, silver, or hazel.

Based on his appearance, Astarion is probably a moon elf, and it's likely his original eye colour was either blue or green.

There are many other types of elves than those that are playable in the BG3, such as sea elves, winged elves, star elves, wild elves, and lythari.

It's possible that Shadowheart's father is lythari, because lythari are lycanthropic elves.

#Baldur's Gate 3 #BG3 #Forgotten Realms #Astarion #Halsin #BG3 spoilers

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theloudiris · 1 year

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Title: The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2)

Author: S.A. Chakroborty

Genre: Fantasy

Published: January 22, 2019

Rating: 5/5

Nahri's life changed forever when she accidentally summoned Dara, a mysterious djinn, and was thrust into the royal court of Daevabad. She must forge a new path for herself, without the protection of her guardian or Prince Ali. Ali has been exiled for daring to defy his father and is forced to rely on the abilities of the marid, the unpredictable water spirits. As a new century approaches, a threat brews in the north, seeking the aid of a warrior trapped between worlds.

The Kingdom of Copper is an enthralling sequel to The City of Brass, filled with political intrigue and complex characters. The world-building is phenomenal and the story is full of twists and turns that will keep readers on the edge of their seats.

Fans of fantasy and historical fiction alike will enjoy this book and the series as a whole. I would recommend this series to anyone who loves fantasy, political intrigue, and a good character arc.

#the kindgom of copper #s.a. chakraborty #the daevabad trilogy #book rating #book review #book recommendation

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ofbusinessrawmaterial · 1 year

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Non-Ferrous Materials at Competitive Prices: OfBusiness Supplier

OfBusiness is your go-to non-ferrous supplier for competitive prices on a wide range of non-ferrous materials.

#Aluminium Alloy #Aluminium rates #Copper price #Zinc price

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thefreakandthehair · 4 months

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smooth operator

written for ‘hole’ | wc: 404 | rated: m | cw: n/a @steddiemicrofic

Crowd-work is Eddie Munson’s favorite part of stand-up. It’s actually become a niche of sorts, and tonight is no different.

“Something I’ve noticed in my time fucking men,” Eddie leads with, strolling across the makeshift stage, “is that you can tell how hot a guy is by how he takes off his shirt.”

The audience chuckles collectively.

“Don’t look at me like that, you know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about. We’ve all seen movies. You, in the navy blue,” Eddie gestures with his chin at a man sitting at a hightop with two girls. “You’re a good-lookin’ guy. Let’s see if you’re hot. Show us how you take your shirt off.”

Without hesitating, Blue Shirt stands up and in one swift motion, grabs the back of his shirt with one hand and tugs it off over what Eddie tries not to think is perfectly soft, perfectly messy copper locks. Turns out, it’s easy to not think about his hair, because every rational and coherent thought he’s ever had about anything comes to a screeching halt.

It kills his set because that’s not the Hot Guy Method he’s been referring to but there’s not a chance in cold, dark Hell he can stand on stage and lie in front of this cheering, clapping audience. This guy is fucking hot.

“Oh my God,” he says in the microphone as Blue Shirt shrugs and flushes, just a hint of pink crawling from the hollow of his throat to his cheeks. “That’s never worked before. That’s never worked. I did not— wow, I did not see that coming.”

The crowd continues to laugh and applaud, Blue Shirt sitting confidently on his barstool with his shirt still in hand. Motherfucker doesn’t even have the decency to put it back on so Eddie can move on.

He’s really dug himself a fucking hole with this one, huh?

“Jesus H. Christ, I meant to do the motion. And that’s— listen, that wasn’t the hot way I meant but for the first time ever, audience, I admit defeat. I don’t know what the Hell just happened, but that’s the hot way now.”

Blue Shirt raises his glass and fucking winks at him, before calling out in response. “Buy me a drink after the show and I’ll show you the hot way to take off a belt, too.”

Eddie’s jaw falls open and Blue Shirt wiggles his eyebrows with a smirk.

author's note: sometimes, you see a video of a stand-up comedian and drop literally everything you're doing to make it about your blorbos. this is one such time. @henderdads @steddieasitgoes it’s here!

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steddiemicrofic #steddie microfic #steddiemicroficjanuary #myblurbs

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shreemetalprices12 · 1 year

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https://www.shreemetalprices.com/lme-copper-prices-fell-to-8530-mt-as-weak-demand-concerns-in-china-us-economy-data/

LME Copper prices Fell to $8,530/MT as Weak demand concerns in China, US Economy data

#Shreemetalprices #metal industry #shreemetal #shree #metal rate #Copper rate #LME copper

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netherfeildren · 6 months

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Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.

The story of a son who won’t love you, and his father, who will.

-OR-

the father-in-law AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 7.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love

The video you’d watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like you’d like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe it’d scare the leering men around you. Maybe they’d desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.

You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots you’d taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what you’ve chosen is the right piece. You don’t understand why the hardware store, a local business, isn’t as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You don’t want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already don’t have, you don’t want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if you’re some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after he’d forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation.

You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what you’re supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but can’t really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband you’d so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldn’t make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands.

And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times you’ve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feet’ll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You don’t want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You don’t need to talk to him. You don’t need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. You’ll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him.

“Mr. Miller,” you breathe with a limp smile you know isn’t going to fool anyone.

He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. “We really back to that?” You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle you’re inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, he’s really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him.

It was the first thing you’d noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Sam’s gaze that you hadn’t recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his father’s eyes, how different they were even in their similarity.

He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, “Joel.” His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. “What are you doing here?” And he looks at you, just a little bit, like you’re an idiot, or maybe that’s only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, “Pickin’ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?” Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely there’s probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. You’re suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if it’s been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face.

“You haven’t spoken to him.” It isn’t a question.

“He’s been feildin’ my calls for months. Assumed I’d done something– something else, last time to piss him off again. What’s wrong? Everything okay?” He pauses, head tilting, and you can’t look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut.

“We’re not together anymore. He– he left me. We got divorced six months ago.”

Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if there’s a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that.

It’s funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless you’d had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person who’d dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didn’t. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment you’d met him, you’d thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware.

“What?” He moves as if he’s going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, it’s alright, easy, he murmurs, I won’t touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if he’s afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. “What do you mean he left you? What happened? He–”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. Call him again or– or I don’t know. It’s not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,” you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, “You know this. Call your son, Joel.”

You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. “Honey, wait–” but you’re spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but you’re rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. You’re going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You weren’t expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that you’d not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you don’t blink, you won’t cry, and you’re so fucking tired of crying over this.

“If you were tryn’a get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,” comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor.

“Please, go away,” you croak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“He– he’s a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart–”

Your stomach lurches, “Don’t call me that.”

But he doesn’t listen, continues on unheeded. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’ll– I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see that–” You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. It’s the only kind left to you now.

“I don’t want him back, Joel. Be serious.”

“He needs you–” And oh, that makes you angry.

“Fuck you.” You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesn’t budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you can’t help it, the tears fall unrestrained. It’s a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who you’d been married to, who’d been unable to love you, who’d abandoned you.

Sam and Joel had been unaware of each other’s existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Sam’s mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how they’d gotten together when they were too young, and how she’d split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of you’d gone looking for the man, and you’d both been varying degrees of shocked at what you’d found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself he’d immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, he’d done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his mother’s reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways he’d been denied for so long. Sam hadn’t been able to fathom it. He’d been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you.

And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, you’d met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, you’d been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. You’d never had a chance. You never should have been. And there’s a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husband’s father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know it’s without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, it’s not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mind’s eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort.

You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if he’s never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. “Fuck you,” you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. “How dare you say that to me,” another tear. “He’s always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.” You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And there’s fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – I’m sorry, honey.” Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. He’s huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. “Tell me what you were looking for. What had you lookin’ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?” You’d laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you don’t have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.

“My sink’s leaking, and I can’t afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothing’s labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,” you shove at his chest a little bit again, “look at me like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right.” Even if that’s what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and it’s so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You don’t know him well enough for this, he’s your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. “This is the worst place in the whole world,” you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like you’re being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you can’t bring yourself to care. He’d been kind from the first second you’d met him, and then, at the worst moment, he’d been understanding, and you’d never really stood a chance against him either.

You’d never had a chance with the son, you’d never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.

I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me.

“You can’t afford–” He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. “Do y’know what it is you’re looking for? What part?” And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. “Let me help you,” and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all.

“Don’t want your help,” you can’t help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you.

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he soothes. “But let me anyway. S’the least I can do for talkin’ out of my ass.” You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. “Please, don’t cry,” he whispers like it hurts him.

And even though he’s currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, “I’m not,” whispered back just as quiet.

After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options you’d been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car.

“Is he still in Austin?” He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but he’d sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of.

“I don’t know, but he sold our house.”

“Fuck– Where’re you living?” The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake.

“I got an apartment in the East Side.”

“And he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?” He’s getting angry, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you.

“Well, that’s the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.” You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach.

“He has a responsibility to you. He–”

“Again… the point of divorce.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. And that’s the thing of it, you think, that’s always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy… there had never been any chance. “Let me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.” Something to take care of, that’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d called you, what he sees you as.

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. “You know that isn’t a good idea,” and he goes silent because he does, he does know, he’d known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. “I can do it myself. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“You still got the same number?” He asks.

“Please, don’t call me. Call Sam. He’s the one that needs you. He’s the one that–”

“And who’s taking care of you? Who’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.”

A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because he’s right. Because he’d always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. He’d read you for what you were from the first second he’d laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son who’d never loved either of you in return. “Maybe,” you tell him, “But that can’t be you.” He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage.

“You still got my number?” He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and there’s something about that, that’s pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where you’re concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he won’t. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. You’d felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he can’t read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated you’d been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that you’ve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, “You promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesn’t matter what it is – that you’ll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.” Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk you’ll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know he’d mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesn’t touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. He’d already taught you this.

The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his father’s calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was he’d for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be.

The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways he’d thought you would when he’d first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing you’d ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, that’s what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, you’d said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how he’d hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, you’d found.

But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, you’d learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you weren’t really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didn’t know how else to be.

Your mother always said you could’ve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldn’t just be a nice girl, a good girl.

You didn’t think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.

Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man you’d chosen to marry didn’t seem to like it very much either. And she’d tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you weren’t all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, it’s true. You weren’t always all bad. But there was – is still – also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so you’d attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller.

Everything except for sex. You’d never been able to give him that the way he’d wanted.

At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, he’d beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.

With time, you’d realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that you’d never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasn’t it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of.

You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time.

The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.

So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, you’d fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and let’s be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason you’re really here.

Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. He’s a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like he’d have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like you’d never wanted before — like an illness, like dying.

Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then you’d met him, and it should have been innocuous. He’d been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, it’s the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching.

You’d met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt.

Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. You’re going to fix this sink if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, you’ll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.

The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, you’ll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you can’t be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how you’d been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldn’t tell up from down and left from right. You were certain there’d been cheating, even if you’d never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful you’d never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But he’d left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way you’d been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl.

And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today – you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that – he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how he’d always made you feel. There’s something ghoulish about you concerning him – about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. You’d never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and he’d been there and you had been – unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and you’re not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power he’d wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you can’t say it out loud, what it is you’d want from him, you can’t even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does – not a woman, just a little girl – but you think that if you could just see him, then you’d know, or maybe you could be brave. You don’t know what it is, but you’d know it then, with him in front of you, you’d have the answer to this question that’s plagued you for so long – how to be yourself in a way that is good.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good.

When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry father’s are. Loud and brutish – an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that you’d gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. You’re forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it – even worse, if possible. For what’s worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm?

Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, you’d been gifted the Farmer’s Almanac by your elderly neighbor. She’d said that she’d read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. You’d needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your father’s anger and the year’s long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And there’s no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this – your husband’s father – you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good.

You’d picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, you’d gotten confused, chosen the one he didn’t want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but he’s so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He said you’d humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didn’t have good taste, couldn’t afford a decent bottle of wine. And you don’t know Joel very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when he’s delivering a set down, and you’re trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. You’d heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isn’t necessary for him, and you’re reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you. And then a low toned that’s enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and it’s so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and you’re rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joel’s boots, as if he’s trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that he’s coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.

Part II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#pink fic #Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #Joel Miller smut #joel miller imagine #the last of us au

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dancingbirdie · 5 months

Note

Idk if you’re taking requests but if so could you do bottom Astarion with an afab Tav?

Hi hi! Thanks for giving me the opportunity to write more plotless smut! Hope you enjoy xoxoxo.

Like my smut writing? Find more here.

Take What You Need

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Reader

Words: 1K

Warnings/Tags: top!fem!Reader, bottom!Astarion, penetrative sex, penis-in-vagina sex, soft fluffy lovemaking, plotless smut, sweet domestic bliss

Summary: You and Astarion share an uninterrupted bath time, complete with fluff, smut and domestic bliss.

*****

The bath water had grown tepid, not that either of you noticed. You were too lost in the moment, too love drunk within this brief escape to heaven. How the two of you had managed to carve out such sacred time alone was a true stroke of luck. There weren’t many opportunities these days to spend time like this.

Neither of you were about to waste this gift.

Straddling Astarion between your thighs, you had an incomparable view of his delicate, pointed features. His lean, muscled chest. The sharpness of his jawline. His beautiful carmine eyes, how they darted about, taking in every inch of you poised above him. You marveled at how the water drops, peppered throughout his dampened curls, glistened in the dancing candlelight. He was stunning, in a tragically gorgeous sort of way.

“A copper for your thoughts,” he murmured, lifting your hand from the water and drawing your wrist to his lips. His nostrils flared slightly as he breathed in your scent, felt the thrumming of your pulse beneath the thin skin.

“Are you sure you want to know?” you smirked, watching him lavish open-mouthed kisses against your wrist. “They’re rather lascivious.”

You felt him twitch and begin to harden beneath you once more. That burning desire deep within you didn’t need rekindling, but his subtle movements caused the blood in your veins to quicken nevertheless. Your hips answered him with a gesture of their own, canting down to rut against him.

“Again already, darling? Greed is a deadly sin, you know,” he crooned, dipping his other hand beneath the water to touch you where you so desperately craved. His thumb easily found that sensitive spot at the apex of your thighs and caressed it with a deft stroke.

“And I’m your supplicant, begging for absolution,” you breathed, rocking yourself into his hand.

His throaty chuckle at your retort had goosebumps skittering across your exposed chest. You let loose an unabashedly loud moan as he leaned forward to capture your breast in his mouth. He sucked, hard, as his other hand released your wrist to capture your other nipple between his thumb and finger. Between that and his continued ministrations beneath the water, you couldn’t help as your head lolled back, mind inundated with the luxury of Astarion touching you everywhere, everywhere that mattered.

He released your breast with a soft pop, lifting his head to take in your now fully-bared neck.

“I adore when you get this worked up. You look delicious enough to eat,” he breathed against your chest.

You knew what he was asking without really asking. You were all too happy to comply.

“Use me,” you whispered, eyes clenched shut as his thumb continued to flick against you, maddeningly slow. You could feel the blunt tip of him poised at your entrance, just barely parting your folds. “Take what you need.”

Astarion laughed darkly at your wanton reply. “So charitable. I could say the very same to you.”

You lifted your head up to stare at him, confused.

Giving you a devious little grin, he guided one of the hands you had braced on the side of the tub down beneath the water, to where his length stood at attention.

“Take what you need,” he parroted your words, although they sounded so much sweeter coming from his silken voice.

Needing no further encouragement, you repositioned him beneath you and speared yourself atop him. Both of you groaned at the sensation of him stretching you once more, that delicious tightness giving way to the even headier sense of absolute fullness.

Your hands came to rest flat against his chest as you began to move, rocking up and down atop him. Your thighs burned after a few moments, exhausted from your earlier travels, but the dull ache only encouraged you to piston your hips harder.

The rhythm you had found almost toppled as Astarion pulled you in closer, mouth descending upon your neck as his fangs broke the delicate skin there. That familiar icy feeling flooded your head and upper torso, the perfect contrast to the growing heat pooling in your stomach. You lifted a hand to cup the back of his head, keeping him close as he fed from you.

In your lust-dulled gaze, you registered the ripples your movements were creating in the water. It was a marvelous sight. An echo of your lovers’ embrace. A dance made possible only through the two you, joining and parting, joining and parting, over and over.

“I want to taste you as you come, darling,” Astarion murmured against your neck, breaking your focus on the rippling water. He paused his feasting long enough to slip a hand between you and resumed playing with your clit.

The added sensation all but overloaded your mind. You whined out a garbled reply, your hips bucking with even more fervor. He met you swipe for swipe, matching pace easily as he bit down once more on your neck.

You knew you wouldn’t last long. It was futile to resist that call to unravel, to explode, to freefall. With a final, frenzied jerk of your hips, you stuttered to a halt as your release barreled through you, taking with it any sense of time and spatial awareness.

You barely registered Astarion’s euphoric groan as he took in the taste of your blood, as his hands clutched at your hips, hard enough to bruise. Pumping into you once, twice more, he found release of his own and clutched you tightly against him. You were a boneless thing, slouching atop him, fingertips grazing the surface of the water.

After a few moments of blissful silence, Astarion began to stir beneath you. Gathering you in his arms, you could feel his preparation to stand.

“Going somewhere?” you murmured sleepily.

“Taking you to bed, darling, before you fall ill in this cold bathwater,” he returned, kissing your temple and rising from the water with ease.

“After all that transpired here, it would be a heavenly way to die I think,” you yawned, wrapping your arms and legs more tightly around him.

His laugh, true and full and delightedly boyish, was the last thing you remembered before falling into a peaceful sleep.

#astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #dancingbirdiewrites #astarion x mc #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion fic #astarion smut #astarion x f!reader #astarion baldurs gate #tav x astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 smut #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic prompt

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valeskafics · 4 months

Text

"An Acceptable Arrangement" - Aemond Targaryen x Reader x Osferth

a/n: so this is spawned from my desire to do crossover fics for the ewanverse, you can check out the one i did for our ww2 boys billy taylor and tom bennet HERE. if you enjoy osferth and aemond together, definitely check out @anjelicawrites polyverse series! 🩷

Summary: Aemond takes a fancy to you, his pretty little chambermaid, and follows you into the city only to learn that you keep the company of a man he never could have expected - his bastard cousin, Osferth, who is about to become a septon.

TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, afab reader, class stratification typical of westerosi society, mentions of death, oral m receiving, fingering, p in v sex, horizontal eiffel tower? idk

Word Count: 3,000 words

Rating: 18+, MDNI

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/The Last Kingdom characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷

Aemond doesn’t know what spirit possesses him when he decides to follow you into Flea Bottom as you leave the Keep. He wears a cloak, hiding his face from the world, keeping a safe distance from you so that you do not catch on to what he is up to. In truth, even if you do, he will just tell you it is all your fault. Your fault for being so irresistible to him, your fault that ever since you became his chambermaid, he has dreamed of taking you to his bed, though honor forbids it. You are the most exquisite creature he has ever seen, well-spoken, kind-hearted, and intelligent to boot. He finds that he enjoys conversation with you more than he does with members of his own family. While he adores Helaena, he fears he can only speak in riddles for so long, while Aegon rarely has anything of import to day.

Aemond admires the way your maid’s uniform clings to your backside as you weave your way through the city, greeting every familiar face you come across. He watches as you take a pouch from your apron pocket and hand a man selling fruit on the side of the road one copper in exchange for two apples. You place them in your pockets and thank him, a bright grin on your face as you continue on your merry way. Two apples? That is quite interesting, the prince thinks to himself as he continues to trail behind you, keeping his footsteps light and swift, doing his best not to lose himself to his adoration for you as you hum a sweet little tune.

You reach what appears to be an abandoned shop of some kind, perhaps an old smithy that is no longer in use. You glance around, as if to make sure you have not been followed, and Aemond ducks behind a wagon, remaining just out of your line of sight. He follows you a few moments later, watching as you rush into the arms of the last man he ever thought he would see you with.

The bastard son of his uncle Prince Daemon.

Osferth.

To his knowledge, Osferth is in training to become a septon, which is why it brings him no little amount of surprise when the young man pulls you into his arms, embracing you and pressing his lips to yours in a brief but passionate kiss, grinning as you hand him an apple. You gaze up at him in a way that Aemond was foolish enough to think you only looked at him. Aemond decides to step forth from the shadows, his boots clacking against the wooden floor, and he clears his throat, making you and his cousin jump apart, turning to face him. He watches with amusement as you fluster.

“Your Grace.”

“My lady.” Before you can correct him as you always do that he needn’t refer to you as such, Aemond continues, “What, may I ask, are you doing down here in the depths of Flea Bottom?”

“Visiting a friend,” you say, glancing back at Osferth.

Aemond, however, does not fail to notice the way your eyes light up as you gaze at the septon-in-training, nor does he miss the way his cousin’s cheeks flush ever so slightly when you look upon him, the smile on his face.

“You mean ‘visiting a lover’, don’t you, my lady?”

You give a nervous laugh and Aemond sees the way Osferth moves you behind him, as if he wishes to shield you from his mercurial cousin, knowing that he could lash out at any moment. But, Aemond notes, you have no fear of him. You side-step Osferth and move closer toward Aemond, your voice gentle as you give him an explanation, inaccurate though it may be.

“Osferth is a septon-in-training, Your Grace. We are not lovers. We have merely known each other since we were children, hence our familiarity.”

When you look to Osferth, as if pleading with him to concur with your statement, he nods, meeting his cousin’s gaze evenly, taking your hand in his and squeezing it gently in a show of support, “That is correct, cousin. We have been friends ever since my father brought me to the sept as a boy. The lady’s mother practically raised me as her own when my father was otherwise occupied.”

Aemond tilts his head, studying the two of you, the way Osferth’s thumb runs along the back of your hand as if to soothe you before remarking, “So it seems. And yet you gaze at her with such passion, cousin.”

Osferth pulls you closer to him, almost against his chest as he glares at the prince, “What are you talking about?”

“Osferth, stop,” you whisper, resting a hand on his chest to calm him before turning to Aemond, “Forgive me, Your Grace. Your cousin is very protective over me. He has been ever since we were children.”

Aemond hums in acknowledgement, watching the way Osferth’s nostrils flare with annoyance as the prince stares at you. The prince smirks, stepping forward, his competitive side piqued as he takes your free hand, bringing it to his lips, brushing them across your knuckles in a display of affection. You gasp softly, staring up at him, your lips parted ever so slightly. And he sees it again. That same affection, that same desire with which you look upon his cousin.

“If you are finished catching up with your ‘friend’, my lady, I would be more than happy to escort you back to the Red Keep.”

Osferth narrows his eyes, “I do not believe that to be necessary, Your Grace.”

You visibly wince at the way he spits out the honorifics, as if they are poison in his mouth. You whisper something to Osferth that Aemond cannot quite hear, though he is sure that you are scolding him, telling him that he cannot speak to a member of the royal family that way.

“And why not? It’s the truth. He seems to have ill intentions-”

Aemond cuts his cousin off with a snide, “You presume much for a bastard septon, cousin.”

Osferth grits his teeth, barely managing to hiss, “And you look at the lady in ways that only a savage like your uncle, my lord father does. Your intentions appear far from appropriate.”

“Osferth,” you murmur gently, trying to reason with your companion, “I am merely the prince’s chambermaid. He is able to court any noblewoman in the realm. He has no use of me. Do not fret.”

“Oh, my lady, I do not think that is an accurate statement.” The prince in question chuckles, taking another step toward you so that now, he is nearly flush against your front while Osferth is at your back, “I would argue that I have every use of you.”

Osferth scoffs, “Are you saying you wish to wed and carry forth your bloodline with a chambermaid? Do not fill her head with such folly. I know who you really are.”

“Osferth!” You chide, trying to calm him, “Perhaps you ought to return to the sept. I can handle this.”

“I will not have you being dishonored!” Osferth retorts, glaring angrily at Aemond.

Aemond watches as you pull Osferth away a small distance, the two of you speaking in quiet, hushed tones, praying that he will not be able to hear, “Osferth, he cannot know about us! You would be dismissed from the sept for breaking your vow. Sent to the Wall or worse! I would never be able to bear it!”

Osferth shoots a dirty look at his cousin before resting his palm against your cheek, “If need be, I will go to the Wall or to my death if it means your honor remains intact, my love.”

“How sweet. Truly.”

The two of you turn to face Aemond and he barely holds back a snicker at your quiet gasp when you realize that he has heard everything. You immediately begin pleading, those sweet eyes of yours gazing up at him, the golden hour glow seeping through the window making them shine like stars.

“Your Grace, I beg you, Osferth is a good man. He serves the Seven devoutly and passionately. Do not fault him this transgression.”

“And yet,” Aemond murmurs, moving to tilt your chin up toward him, admiring you for a moment before speaking again, “His heart belongs to someone other than the gods he serves.”

“It is my fault,” you insist, “I am the one who tempted him into sin. If someone is to be punished, it ought to be me-”

Osferth shakes his head, interjecting, “No. Cousin, do not listen to her. My choice to love her was mine and mine alone. There was no seduction on her part.” Osferth takes a deep breath, looking at you with a small smile, “The first time I saw her I knew I loved her and could never part from her. My feelings for her run deeper than my vow and I will live with whatever consequences that brings, so long as no harm comes to her.”

Aemond hums pensively, watching as Osferth puffs out his chest, hellbent on protecting you. He looks between the two of you, eye flitting back and forth before an idea comes to him. An ingenious idea, if he does say so himself. You clearly harbor feelings for both of them, him and his cousin. And both of them certainly have feelings for you. Aemond knows he has adored you since the moment you came into his service, your hair in disarray after tripping and falling, spilling the water for his bath all over yourself. You stole his heart that day, and truth be told, he does not want it back. And for that reason, he is willing to share yours with his kinsman.

“I offer a proposition to you both.”

You and Osferth exchange a look of confusion before you turn back to the Targaryen prince, “Yes, Your Grace?”

He looks at Osferth next, a knowing smile quirking at the corner of his lips, one that makes him look all the more roguishly handsome, “I would expect my cousin to know exactly what it is you are suggesting.”

Osferth raises a brow, “And what, might I ask, is it that you are suggesting, cousin? I must insist you elaborate.”

“That you and I share her.”

Your eyes widen as you look between the two men, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips as you question, “I… What exactly is it that is happening here?”

“You heard me, my lady.”

Osferth finally speaks again, a hard edge to his voice, “And what makes you think I would wish to share the lady?”

“You would prefer I take her to my bed alone and that you have nothing to do with her at all?”

The young septon in training scowls at his cousin, brow furrowed in annoyance, “I would prefer to keep her company and keep her safe as I already do. I love her. Can you say the same?”

“I can.”

It is now Osferth’s turn to widen his eyes in astonishment. He hears no dishonesty in Aemond’s voice, no trace of insincerity on his face, rather his lips are set in a grim line as he gives an unromantic but pragmatic confession of his true feelings toward you.

You decide to speak up, your voice sarcastic as you question, “Since I am the ‘her’ in question, might I give some input as to the situation?” Aemond bites back a laugh and gestures for you to go ahead while Osferth nods. You turn to the latter, “I have loved you since I was but a young girl. And you have loved me even longer. Correct?”

“That is true,” Osferth nods.

“And yet you also know of my affections for Prince Aemond. You were the only one I ever confided in about them. Is that not also correct?”

“It is indeed.”

It takes everything in Aemond not to grin like a fool at your confirmed reciprocation of his feelings, though he does break into a broad smile as you utter your acceptance, “If you two are capable of behaving like gentlemen, I am willing to share my heart with you both.”

Aemond immediately takes your hand and places an almost reverent kiss to your palm, “That sounds like an acceptable arrangement.”

“Perfectly acceptable,” Osferth agrees, kissing your temple, making you smile.

He gives you a gentle nudge toward Aemond, who cups your face in his hands, his lips finally meeting yours in a slow, sensual first kiss. His tongue licks at your lower lip and snakes its way into your mouth, exploring every part of it, loving the way you all but swoon at his touch. He affects you just as much as you affect him, it would seem, and he is quite proud of the fact. Osferth moves to kiss your neck, tugging at the string on your bodice, your maid’s uniform falling to the ground in a crumpled heap, leaving you in only your shift. You can feel Osferth pressing up against you from behind and turn to kiss him next, falling into it like it is second nature to you. Both kisses make your heart soar but in different ways. You love both in equal measure, and it would seem they feel the same.

Osferth takes you by the hand and you take Aemond’s, the former leading you to a small room in the back of the abandoned shop, where there is only a bed. Aemond realizes this must be where you and Osferth have been rendezvousing all this time, the thought of you sneaking off into Flea Bottom for a liaison like this making him chuckle. You help Osferth strip off his septon’s robes before turning to help Aemond. He smiles at you, so very used to the sight of you helping him undress.

Only this time, you will not leave. This time, he will get to have you, after all these years of yearning.

Aemond pulls your shift up over your head, his eye widening at the sight of your bare body. His hands trace along your form as he murmurs one word that you know the meaning to.

“Gevie.”

He thinks you are beautiful.

The two men lay you down between them, Osferth at your back and Aemond at your front, your childhood sweetheart teasing your cunt with his skilled fingers, making sure you are nice and wet for the two of them, while your prince mouths at your breasts, his saliva glistening on your pert nipples when he pulls away, the sight of which makes him blush like a madman. Osferth continues circling your sensitive pearl before pulling his fingers away with a grin, murmuring against your neck that he wants you to let Aemond fuck your cunt while you let him fuck your mouth. You nod eagerly, moving to kneel between Osferth’s thighs, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his impressive length. You feel Aemond push inside you, his cock thinner than Osferth’s but longer, the feeling of which is just as pleasurable.

Aemond begins to rut his hips against yours, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder blade as you take Osferth into your mouth, your lips wrapped around his cock as you gaze into his beautiful blue eyes. Osferth’s hand moves to your hair as he urges you on.

“You look so beautiful like this, my sweet angel. Taking my cock, yes, you love me so much, don’t you?” He gives Aemond a wry grin, “She was meant for this, do you not think so cousin? How does that sweet cunt of hers feel?”

“It feels like I have ascended to the Seven Heavens themselves, cousin,” Aemond groans as you squeeze around him, walls fluttering, so warm and wet as he brushes against that spot deep inside you that has you moaning around Osferth’s cock.

Osferth throws his head back, lips parted in pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as you bring him closer and closer to his peak, your hands cupping his stones before you move your mouth off of his cock and onto them, stroking his length with your fingers while you worship his sensitive flesh with your mouth. And with every thrust Aemond pushes into you harder, deeper, making you moan against Osferth even more until he finally spills himself. You move so that his spend covers your tits, making him smirk. It’s always been one of his favorite places to finish.

He sits up, pulling you into a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, the lewd noises you make being almost obscene. Should anyone outside here, they might think they are walking past a pleasure house with how loudly the three of you are moaning as Aemond’s hips begin to stutter against yours. Osferth turns you around so that you are laying back against his chest as Aemond fucks into you, your arms wrapped around the prince as he leans in and kisses you with just as much love and devotion as Osferth did.

Aemond feels himself reaching his peak and moves to circle your sensitive nub with his fingers to bring you to your own, feeling you squeeze around him impossibly tight as you mewl his name, soaking his cock. He pulls out, spilling himself on your stomach with a low growl of your name. He lays down beside you, tucking you between him and Osferth, the latter of whom grabs a rag to wipe you off with while Aemond caresses your cheek and whispers how this has been the greatest moment of his life.

“Mine as well,” you whisper softly as he presses his lips to yours.

“And mine,” Osferth murmurs, smiling when you turn to kiss him.

The road ahead may be difficult, loving both a prince and a septon, but you would not choose any differently. Not when they care for you as they do.

It is indeed a most acceptable arrangement.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #osferth x reader #osferth x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #osferth #aemond x you #aemond fic #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond x reader #house of the dragon #my writing #aemond oneshot #osferth oneshot

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sanguinesky-if · 4 months

Text

Sanguine Sky

DEMO [Public] [Updated 24/02/2024] genres: romance, modern-fantasy, supernatural, mystery, dark-fantasy.

Sanguine Sky is a work-in-progress modern dark-fantasy interactive novel. The story is heavily focused on romance, characters, and relationships.

The story rated 18+, contains mature and distressing content that may be triggering to certain individuals. It is recommend to check the full list of warnings before you proceed to the story. Please exercise caution and take care of yourself.

Word count [Public]: 47k words [excl. code] Word count [Patreon]: 92k words [excl. code] [Updated 14/04/2024]

You are a detective, tasked with investigating mysterious murders that have taken place in your normally quiet and peaceful hometown, Fallenmor.

With two victims confirmed already, the initial one being your former mentor, Detective Bergmann, the situation couldn't seem more dire. Or so you thought until you received the news of another body, a possible third victim, discovered at the police station. In your very own office.

An accident, a mere coincidence, a straightforward warning, a looming threat, or something entirely else… Whatever is happening, you feel it affecting you, awakening something both significantly familiar and distinctly foreign inside of you.

If only you knew that this was just the beginning… Things could have been different.

But back then, in your ignorance, your singular concern lay with a pressing question: if you failed to find the murderer, who would become the next victim?

➤ Play as male, female, non-binary or trans; straight, gay, or bisexual.

➤ Customize your appearance and shape your personality.

➤ Take on the role of a detective, immerse yourself in the work of the police station.

➤ Embrace the mystery of your existence, or reject that inner sight of you.

➤ Seven romance options to choose from. Select their gender, be shy or bold, or focus on your goal without pursuing anyone.

All ROs are player-sexual and gender-selectable [M/F]. More information will be revealed after all the RO's are introduced in the story (chapter 2).

Kyle / Keira Moreno

Your colleague, a police inspector, and one of the rudest people you have ever met. Sharp and stern, K is surprisingly perceptive, and they use it to really see you. The good, the bad. Everything. Appearance: icy blue eyes, dark red hair, very pale skin.

Alexis 'Lex / Lexie' Conlan

Your best friend, and also your former partner from times when you were just a patrol officer. With a heart of gold and an approachable attitude, L always chooses you over the others. Appearance: forest green eyes, copper hair, beige freckled skin.

Morgan Schoivell

Your other colleague, a highly-skilled lab technician. M is rather reserved when it comes to emotions, and after almost a year of working together, M is still a walking mystery for you. Appearance: dark brown eyes, ash blonde hair, light skin.

Roderick / Rebecca Reyes

The commanding agent of the Criminal Investigative Division (CID) team sent to catch the killer. Overbearing and ruthless, R has their own way of getting things done. Appearance: gray eyes, blonde hair, pale skin.

Theodore 'Theo' / Theresa 'Tess' Vazquez

Another member of the CID team. With a cocky smile, T is full of flirts and sneering comments, regardless of the occasion. T has no doubts about what they want and isn't afraid to vocalize it. Appearance: dark green eyes, black curly hair, rich brown skin.

Isaac / Iris Brailsford

I looks the most mature and approachable of CID's fellow agents. Looks can be deceiving, though. Working behind the scene and watching from afar, I carries all the scars within. Appearance: hazel eyes, dark brown hair, olive skin.

Sebastian / Selena Goldstein

Someone new and temporary, S has a velvety voice and a perfect smile that doesn't reach their eyes. You're not sure if your paths will cross in the future, but something tells you S can't be trusted. Appearance: black eyes, long black wavy hair, bronze skin.

Other notable characters:

Your twin-sister: Your sweet, kind, caring, and gentle twin sister. She always tries to be there for you, and show how much she appreciates you, no matter what. Chief of Police, Kendrick Nash: Your boss, who is not handling his job so well after the recent death of his husband, Klemens Bergmann. Detective Klemens Bergmann: Police chief's husband, who happened to be a senior detective and your mentor. He was the first victim, murdered under mysterious circumstances.

A full list of warnings is available in the demo before beginning of the story. I recommend to check it before you proceed to reading. Please take care of yourself.

Thank you for your interest ♥

#interactive fiction #interactive novel #choicescript #dashingdon #choice of games #hosted games #sanguine sky #sanguine sky if #if: intro #if: wip #romance #supernatural #dark fantasy #modern fantasy #mystery #cyoa #if intro #if wip #ss about

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