holyposition | IC Inbox

Desire for its own sake is...fleeting.

[ And as he says, he doesn't want to be a passing fancy. Not as a lover, not as a brother, and not as a friend. Tim looks for things that he can lose himself in completely, for substitutes to worship that will actually talk back to him. He talks to God every day, but it's the men talking in circles back in his room while he and Aemond bicker than answer his prayers. ]

I want to feel a connection more than I want to get off. I don't think that's manipulative.

[ Tim shakes his head, softly. He doesn't want Aemond to ask for anything he doesn't want to receive. ]

You can. If you want them. You're safe with me.

You want love commingling with your lust. You invite your own ruin this way, for it is a weakness of flesh.

[ now who sounds like a religious nut? he's gone quiet, however. gotten small, in his own way. ]

I am never safe. Nor am I wanted. [ he doesn't want to talk about this anymore. his gaze slowly drifts aside, sharpening at a point somewhere behind tim. ] Do brushes have straps usually, in these gardens?

[ ...Hard to argue. Tim would rather be celibate than be driven by lust without connection to go with it. It doesn't have to be love, necessarily - not anymore, not now that he's sullied himself by offering his body to devils, not when he's still picking up the pieces of the oft-shattered part of him that believes he can be loved at all. ]

Believe it or don't. But that's what family means to me. You invited it.

[ And if he didn't want it? He shouldn't have done it so hastily. No takebacks.

Tim turns quickly on his heel, squinting at something poking out from a bush. He can't fit his glasses properly around the mask, so he's got them on a string around his neck like his grandmother. He raises them so he can actually see more than ten feet from his face. ]

...No, they don't.

[ aemond struts over to the brush, crouches down, and perhaps with more force than someone should, he snaps off parts of the shrubbery to loosen what seems like a saddle bag, but made miniature. there is a long thin strap made of some polished leather, the ends attached to rings sown into the corners of the bag.

it's fairly weighted, for something so quaint.

aemond holds it out for tim to take and inspect. ]

I imagine you'll be more familiar with the contents than I. There is a metal clasp of some sort holding it closed.

Edited 2024-10-10 15:10 (UTC)

[ Thing is, Tim doesn't actually know Parisa more than simply in passing, the recognition of another who has been here since the beginning. The only thing that identifies it as hers are a couple hairs stuck in the bag's zipper, which he removes carefully as he opens it, holding them up to the light to try to tell whether they're black or brown. Black, he thinks. ]

We have her phone, a perfume, and a bunch of garbage.

[ The phone has a passcode lock. He'll start trying random combinations. ]

I don't know how useful it'll be, but maybe someone who actually knew her could tell us.

All of that fits in that small of a purse?

[ how. why does this place either shrinks things or enlarges them beyond taste? ]

Would the learned folk who inspected the bodies be able to discern anything from the detritus left in her belongings, do you know?

[ Tim holds it out to him, so he can see for himself. ]

Maybe. Or someone who actually knows her. We should get back and find out.

Mm. We'll find someone to hand these objects over, then.

[ aemond takes the purse from tim, and makes a note to leave it with gideon later. ]

Come on. Mother will want to hear about this.

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we could wrap this one soon?

here's probably good!

🎀 done!