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pirateprincessblog · 1 month ago

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𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄

( 𝟎.𝟏 ) 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲.

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨:

normal is good. it's safe. it isn't risky. and yet, normal is boring. normal job, normal family, normal relationship. makes you yawn just while reading, doesn't it? escaping it can cost a fortune, even if it is for a short, fun amount of time. when it gets bad, you don't get to regret. you don't get to complain. you don't get to cry. you don't get to go back. you wanted it. now bear the losses of your own decisions. you'll wish for things to get boring again. you'll wish to never feel an ounce of excitement again. you'll wish to be wrapped in your safety bubble, with your safe little family, safe little job, and safe little partner. and it just won't come.

!𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬! 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: park seonghwa x oc (alice dawson) x jung wooyoung 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: dilf!hwa, collegestudent!wooyoung, love triangle, dilf trope, eventual smut, angst, fluff 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: yet to come

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of illness, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of domestic violence, MINORS DNI (18+) 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: this series will be around 10-15 chapters :) please don't hesitate to leave feedback! thank you for reading <33 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

were you ever afraid of thinking about something risky while surrounded by people?

if yes, alice knows exactly how you feel. behind the dusty wooden counter, she hides a book. her eyes abandon the words she has read a dozen times this year already, checking if anyone is giving her weird looks. her thoughts are a loud mess, and she fears that one of those hard-working students might secretly have super hearing powers and is judging her right now. but when she notices no side eyes, her gaze drops on the worn-off pages again. this book set cost her a fortune, and it already looks like it has been through at least two major historical events. heaven forbid that her mother knows how much money she spent on that.

her heart beats faster with each word she reads, fingers excitedly flipping the pages, even though she knows all the plot twists, all the foreshadowing, a few little plot holes that only a small number of people have noticed. she wishes she could read it all for the first time again. the storyline, the characters, the villains, the twists, the tension, the steam. alice's favourite part in all the books. the steamy pages, written by her favourite author, making her sigh and roll in bed late at night as she reread them. sleepless nights spent with her eyes unfocusing and blurring out the words, her thoughts drifting away from the storyline and creating one of her own, using the very same characters. she would sit like that, fantasising, until a sound from the street would bring her back to the original story.

last night was similar, which is why she is barely keeping her eyes open while skimming over the room, checking for odd glares one more time. when she finds none, she continues daydreaming. the villain of the book has captured her heart, no matter the bad things he has done throughout the journey. she might just have a thing for evil, sassy, good-looking men. or she might have a thing for imaginary men with tongue skills.

"ah, your daily dose of porn, i see."

alice looks up, startled. she closes the book, throwing it in the already opened drawer and shuts it with a loud thud, making a few heads turn. the face standing above the counter chuckles, eyes turning into crescent moons as he does so.

"hush!"

"oh, relax. you have like three couples doing no-nos back there in the criminal section. your little mediocre book is nothing compared to them."

the girl furrows her eyebrows. her book wasn't mediocre. it was a masterpiece.

"what did you want?" she asks, annoyed with his teasing this early in the morning.

"i can't come and greet my favourite redhead in town?" the young man asks, his lips still in a teasing smile.

"not if you're going to be loud and disrupt. this is a library, not a bar."

"ha-ha. i forget just how witty my girlfriend is." he rolls his eyes. "luckily, you're pretty to make up for your lack of sense of humour."

"and your humour makes up for your lack of pretty." she tries to poke back, but it just doesn't sound right.

the young man laughs, sincerely, and rests his elbows on the wooden surface.

"you're cute when you try. you'd be even cuter if you were to join me in one of those horror sections. you know, to read. i love me some stephen king. i also love me some puss-"

"shut up, oh my god." alice hushes him, feeling her cheeks starting to burn from embarrassment.

"oh, come on. you haven't been over to my place in days. weeks even, i think."

"wooyoung," she exhales.

"yeah, sorry." the young man suddenly remembers, then scratches his neck from the little uncomfortable situation he has created. "how is your mom?"

"she has lost a lot of hair." alice says, eyes drifting towards the big library windows. "she has also lost a lot of weight. she still refuses to eat. she has already given up on herself."

wooyoung sighs, seeing his girlfriend show different emotions than last week. she has become numb to the whole situation. her mother has been sick for a very long time, and no amount of doctors, medicine, and persuading could convince her mother to start taking care of herself when alice wasn't around. now, alice has given up. she is angry with her mother, and that doesn't allow her to feel sad or bad for her.

"want me to come with you next time you visit her?"

"that would be today."

"yes, sure. of course. just tell me when."

"i finish at two, when rae arrives. i'll wait for you by the car?"

"i'll be there as soon as my classes are over. promise." wooyoung smiles at her.

there's a brief moment of silence, giving space for both of them to think. alice's mind went from fantasising to worrying, and wooyoung hates that he reminded her of the situation and changed her mood.

"baby?" he calls.

she hums, still a little absent.

"you haven't kissed me today."

alice looks at her boyfriend, heart swelling with guilt. her face drops, and wooyoung's eyes widen seeing her saddened expression.

"i'm so sorry," she says, voice almost a whisper.

"oh, no, no! baby, i just- hey, it doesn't matter. i'm sorry, okay? you're going through something tough, and my behaviour isn't quite helping. i'm being a dick."

alice stands up, hands gently cupping her boyfriend's face. her eyes examine his face, taking in his pretty features. she didn't mean what she said earlier, and she knows that he knows too. she smiles softly at him, assuring him that everything is fine and there is no need to apologise.

"i love you." she whispers.

and just like that, wooyoung softens in her hands, lips melting into hers as he finally kisses her for the first time in three days. it has become hard to catch her since she started working, especially since she runs to the hospital whenever she gets a chance. other times, she prefers laying in bed with little to no lighting, doing nothing but laying down and thinking of a way out of what her life has become.

wooyoung wishes he could help her. but what can he do, when they both refuse his help? he now realises where alice's stubbornness comes from. he smiles into the kiss, thinking about her stubborn nature combined with her impatience. she is a little handful, but she is his handful. and he will hold her until his last breath.

༺═━─━────༺༻────━─━═༻

while people tend to hate hospitals, alice likes it. it brings her comfort, knowing that the people around her are in charge of saving lives. she often visited hospitals as a toddler, due to often sickness. she is very prone to colds, and wooyoung has found himself getting mad at her very often because she refuses to wear a jacket when needed.

"but my outfit won't be visible!" she'd complain.

"i don't care. your kidneys are more important than a crop top. and i can't have you with a runny nose again. you know you have a hard time breathing as it is, the cold only makes everything worse."

"you just know it all, don't you?" she'd say, annoyed, while her fingers work the zipper of wooyoung's jacket.

jung wooyoung doesn't have any plans for the future, other than hopefully marrying alice and creating a family with her. he is a college student, yes. but only because his parents forced him to. he doesn't know what he wants in his life. alice is smart. she also doesn't know, so she simply didn't go to college. smart decision. it is crazy expensive, and managing those costs and the costs of healing her mother would be a disaster.

"ms dawson?"

alice stands up, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"dr clark, good day." she greets, smiling weakly.

"it certainly is a good one, ms dawson. your mother is finally showing improvement!"

alice stands still, not believing what she's hearing. wooyoung notices her lack of response, and gently takes her hand in his, hoping to shake her awake.

"what do you mean?" she asks.

"she ate everything she was offered today, and she took her medication. and yes, we checked under the bed and in the flower vase, there weren't any hidden pills."

"oh, well... that's great."

the sudden change in her mother's behaviour was suspicious to alice. still, she felt relieved. with a thankful smile and a nod towards the young dr clark, the girl took her usual path to room 257, her hand still held by wooyoung's bigger and warmer one. she pushes the door open, her eyes immediately falling on the bed in the corner of the room. out of four beds, only two were now occupied, meaning that the other two had gotten better and were probably at home with their families. it made alice's heart warm.

it made her heart even warmer when her gaze dropped on the woman in the last bed, her head hidden by what seemed like a beauty magazine. fresh flowers stood beside her bed, accompanied by a framed picture and what seemed like a jewellery box.

"mom?"

the woman drops her magazine in her lap, a smile so wide on her face that it made alice's cheeks hurt. god, she looks so different. it wasn't that long since alice's last visit, was it? the woman in the bed wore makeup, her grey hair braided, and a flower head band placed neatly on her head. her nails were painted a golden brown colour, resembling the autumn leaves that tapped on her window on windy days. she dared to say, her mother looked better than her.

"ally, my darling!" the woman calls, tucking the magazine under her pillow.

alice approaches the bed, sitting in the usual stool that was waiting for her under the elevated nightstand.

"eleanor," wooyoung greets, slightly bowing. "you look absolutely beautiful."

"oh, my, this boyfriend of yours. always a sweet-talker." the woman blushes, waving her hand at the young man. "you are so very lucky, baby, not a lot of boys your age are this sweet. let me tell you, just five minutes ago, amber's son came over, had a fight with her over their house and kicked her out! look, her suitcase is right there!"

"mom, please. can you be any more quiet?"

alice looks over at the other occupied bed, and truly, there stood a suitcase. luckily, the woman was sleeping, so she didn't hear her mother's little gossip party.

"oh, don't worry. the poor woman cried so much that she fell asleep from exhaustion."

silence swallowed the room for a while, eleanor fidgeting with the rings on her fingers. she knew alice had questions. and she dreaded that she had to answer them.

"these aren't the flowers i brought you last time."

"no... no they aren't." she trails, looking anywhere but at her daughter.

"so... whose are they?"

a mumble is heard, and alice raises an eyebrow at her. wooyoung catches a glimpse at the framed picture, but when he fails to recognize the people on it, he shifts his attention back to the woman. she looks at wooyoung, as if searching for a way out of the interrogation that is about to happen. but wooyoung sends her an apologetic smile, and rests his hands on alice's hair, moving it out of her face. he feels like she will need it. there is a reason why her mother is acting so nervous, and when alice is upset, she loves to have her hair played with.

"mom."

"hm? oh. right, the flowers. uh... they're from..."

"mom, cut the bullshit. i'm just curious. so what if a friend brought them over? you have a new crush in town? dr clark not cute anymore?"

"oh, no! dr clark is very cute. and very young. and he is married, sadly for me. no, these are from, uh..."

alice grows impatient, a frown already forming on her face. wooyoung senses her tense state, and gently drops his hand on her shoulder, massaging the knot below her neck. she sighs, and looks at him as a way of saying thank you. silent conversations were common between the two, and it just showed how well they read each other. how much they love each other.

wooyoung presses his lips to her temple, and gently caresses her back as her mother prepares to give an answer.

"so?"

"so what?" eleanor acts dumb, still hoping that alice will give up.

"mom. the flowers. the jewellery. the makeup. the nails. the picture."

the girl finally takes the framed picture. she recognizes her young mother, her bright ginger hair falling in waves on her shoulder, green irises almost invisible because of her big smile and closed eyes. the man, however, she does not recognize.

"from your father."

wooyoung halts his movements. alice sits still, her gaze not leaving the picture.

"what?"

"your father. he came every day since your last visit, and brought me all these flowers, made me the crown, even painted my nails-"

"i didn't know they let drug addicts inside hospitals."

wooyoung gulps, watching eleanor's jaw drop at her daughter's numbness to the new situation they have found themselves in.

"isn't that, like, very unsafe? for both parties?"

"you shut your mouth, right now. your father is a good man."

"he is not my father, and he is certainly not a good man."

the woman's face twists into one of anger, hands turning white as she grips the sheets she's covered with. "he is your god damn father, whether you like it or not."

"he is a scumbag. that's all he is. and, he is the reason you're here. isn't it? have you forgotten?"

"alice..." wooyoung tries, but stops when alice raises her hand as a sign to stop talking.

"didn't he throw you down the fucking stairs and smash your head through the window?"

"that was years ago, alice. you were barely four."

"and yet i remember."

"you're acting as if he killed me."

"he drugged you all the time! and you became an addict, just like him!"

the dark past resurfaces so easily, pulling both women under it's veil and swallowing them with grief. so many tears spilled, so many bruises earned, and so many cuts treated. alice was only three when it all begun, and she still wonders how it all escalated so quickly in a span of just three months. from only name calling and occasional yelling, to full fist and kick fights and screaming for help. only for her mother to go back to him, too afraid and in love to let go. and each morning the same. three months of alice finding herself in crossfire, earning new bruises every other day, and crying all night long.

she loved her mother, and she loved her father a little less every day. strangely enough, there used to be days when the house was as peaceful as it used to be before her father became what he became. she didn't know why, or how. all she knew was that she was grateful. and that whatever pills dad was slipping mom in her drinks and food were, they worked, and alice guarded them in the cupboard with her life. years later, she realized what the pills were. pills, powder, injections, you name them. by the time the monster left the house, the woman was already hooked. she craved more, and more, and didn't have any. who was at fault for that? alice.

alice was the first thing eleanor saw in the morning, and the last thing she saw in the evening. she was there, consistently needing attention, food, love. and eleanor was exhausted. she just wanted her happy pills. and what other way to express your frustration, than to punish a child who just doesn't shut the fuck up?

wooyoung presses a kiss on her head, in hopes of pulling her out of her memories. he knew that she was thinking of old times, of the man from the picture. and he knew that won't do good to her.

"what did he want?" she calmly asks, fidgeting with the frame. she wished for nothing more than to burn the picture, and throw it at the old house, letting it burn the pain away. if only it worked that way.

"why do you think he would want something?"

"mom."

eleanor sighs, in disbelief. or defeat. wooyoung can't tell yet. she looks around the room, trying to find the right words so she wouldn't further hurt her daughter. though the damage was already done, and wooyoung couldn't see how she could further worsen it. until she opened her mouth again.

"he asked for money."

"what?!"

"but look, i-it's just for a new place, so we can all be together again!"

"what?!?!"

alice stands up, head in her hands and legs carrying her hurriedly around the room. wooyoung plops down on the nearby empty bed, feeling his heart swelling at the sight of his loving girlfriend lose control over her emotions. but he knows better than to interfere. he just needs to let her do what she needs to do.

"alice, please. i just want a family. a proper family."

"well you sure as fuck aren't getting that from him! how much?"

"what?"

"how fucking much?!"

"all of it! god, just stop screaming at me!"

now the other woman was the one holding her head, while the younger one shot her head up wide-eyed.

"all... of it?"

"yes, yes! all of it! he wants to create a better future for us and you're acting like a fucking lunatic for no re-"

"you- you bitch."

a gasp escapes the young man's mouth, and he looks over to the woman in bed for her reaction. she grits her teeth, trying to keep her composure. wooyoung notices how red her eyes have become, and how glossy they look. she is trying her best not to let her tears spill, but the more she looks at alice, the less control she has. she watches as her daughter grabs the picture and smashes it on the floor. when alice grabs her shoulders and starts shaking her, screaming in her face, she loses it. big drops roll down her cheeks and neck, ruining the makeup she had so carefully put on.

wooyoung hated that he couldn't help. the best way of helping was to stay back and do nothing. no matter what he said, it would only light up the fire in one of them, if not both. so wooyoung settled for glancing over at the stranger in the other bed, giving her a nod as a sign that everything is okay and that she doesn't need to worry. he doesn't know if it managed to calm the woman or not, because he gets pulled into the mess by eleanor. she grabs his wrist, pulling him closer as if asking for help.

"wooyoung can't help you right now! let go of him!"

"wooyoung, please- please! i only wanted to make it better for us-" she hiccups through sobs, desperately clawing at wooyoung's hand.

alice yanks his hand out of hers, and when a loud slap echoes through the room, wooyoung decides it is time to finally step in. alice might get mad, hell, she might even slap him too, but he doesn't care.

"alice." he sternly says, grabbing her shoulders.

"no, we're not doing this! wooyoung, i am breaking my back every day, i am working overtime, running here making sure she eats and stops acting like a child, only for her to give away all my hard work for empty promises?! to who?! a man who doesn't even recognize me anymore?!"

she is furious. she sees red. no amount of comforting from wooyoung's side will make her calm down.

"take me home."

"are you sure-"

before wooyoung can finish, he can only catch a glimpse of her dark red locks bouncing as she rushes out of the door, slamming it shut after.

"wooyoung, please talk to her."

the man sighs, torn between the two women. he hates this. letting people down. but more than that, he hates letting his girlfriend down.

"i'm sorry, eleanor. there's nothing i can do."

he gently picks up the picture from the floor, careful with the cracked glass, and places it on the nightstand. he glances at the older woman one last time, before sighing and following his girlfriend's path.

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greenqueenhightower · 1 year ago

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Alicent “where’s my daily dose of mental illness? oh, I had it on me all the time” Hightower—

#alicenthightower #relatable #actually mentally ill #I love her as she is #alicent #queen alicent #alicent hightower #hotd #hotd gifs #house of the dragon #olivia cooke #team alicent #the greens #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #alicent thirsts #pro alicent hightower #alicent triads #greenqueenhightower

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luuhy-blue · 3 months ago

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I wrote a post about Davos and Aeron's Hogwarts houses, and I think I still have a few things to say about these two, so here's my daily dose of Davron obsession. First about Aeron.

Aeron is a Hufflepuff and I think he would be very happy and proud of that. I know people have an image that Hufflepuff is the worst of the houses but that's purely the fault of that crazy JK Rowling who didn't bother to develop the characters of each house better besides the protagonists. Hufflepuff is about effort, dedication and loyalty and I feel like those are some of the pillars that make up Aeron. Aeron is not someone who is super talented, he is not someone who stands out right away or who people put a lot of faith in. When he appears (during the three measly minutes of the episode, seriously I hate this damn show-), his friends even call him "the worst knight among us" and he just laughs with them. He knows how people see him, he is fully aware that he is not the best or strongest among his cousins in Stone Hedge, but he seeks to improve upon each failure.

And that is what he does. He is someone who strives and dedicates himself to the maximum, he knows what he wants and will do whatever it takes to get it. He also values courage, but I think that hard work and persistence are much stronger in him than the fearlessness and boldness of the Gryffindor.

He can also demand a lot from himself at times, especially when his insecurity gets the better of him. He wants to be good, he wants to be a good nephew, a good knight, someone who will honor his house. For a while, this came from a desire for glory and recognition (due to all the doubts people had about him) but, in the future, he realizes that he doesn't need that. His relatives love him for who he is and he trusts his ability and effort enough that he no longer needs to seek their approval. He fights for loyalty and for the love of his house.

Another point, and one that is explored a lot in fanfics (In fact, "Kiss a Man or Slit His Throat" addresses this very well and I LOVE IT) is Aeron's relationship with religion. We know that the Brackens follow the Faith of the Seven and I personally agree with many authors who show Aeron as someone devout and who deals with a lot of religious guilt. I feel like he's someone who's very attached to a sense of duty and right and wrong, which is something that's very present in Hufflepuffs as well (his element is earth, stable and firm in his judgments). I think he would agree with Alicent's phrase "Where's the duty? Where's the sacrifice?" because for him it's much more about what he should do or what's "right" and much less about what he wants. I think his relationship with Davos becomes so interesting because the two are very opposite in that regard.

I think I had more to say but that's enough for today. I was going to talk a little bit about Davos and his relationship with Gryffindor but this poster would be huge so I'll leave it for another time. These are some thoughts from the middle of the night because these two haven't left my head since they appeared in that episode, (someone needs to put Kieran and Ryan together more often, seriously, so much chemistry). Also, many of my headcanons came from @herofumi fanfics on AO3 so they are to blame for all of this (that's a lie, I'm just dying for the next update). Thanks for coming to my podcast.

#I just feel like he would love to wear yellow #okay?#Also #I think he loves animals #Care of magical creatures would be his favorite subject #even though he was a little scared at first.#He would irritate Davos with some of them too #aeron bracken #davos blackwood #house of the dragon #davron

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hotdaemondtargaryen · 5 months ago

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OLIVIA COOKE PHOTOGRAPHED BY EVELYN FREJA FOR LA TIMES.

RYAN CONDAL TALKING ABOUT ALICENT HIGHTOWER'S CHARACTER ARC IN S2.

Condal describes Alicent’s journey this season as “an ongoing expansion of the character,” although he admits the episodes “really put Alicent through her paces.”

That was something Cooke felt deeply.

OLIVIA COOKE TALKING ABOUT ALICENT HIGHTOWER IN S2.

“In this season, she’s so adrift,” Cooke says, joking that there are only so many miserable faces she can make.

“She’s losing her power. With Rhaenyra and Alicent, it’s like a butterfly effect, so as Rhaenyra is gaining power, the hourglass is turned over and the power is waning from Alicent, and her influence is waning as well. There’s an imaginary rope between [the two characters] that carries them throughout seasons.”

Cooke says Alicent “gets a massive dose of the reality” when her “psycho sons” take control of the realm.

On a more positive note, Alicent has the opportunity to explore her sexuality this season, coupling up with a character who will, for now, remain unnamed (let’s just say he matches her freak).

It’s a rare expression of freedom for a woman who has lacked agency, which Condal says has “greatly affected who her character is.”

“That was really important because you’ve not seen Alicent experience that in her adult life, and all of a sudden, she has all these teenage, passionate feelings toward someone,” Cooke says.

“I think that makes her feel insane.”

ABOUT FILMING 'HOUSE OF THE DRAGON' S2.

After seven months of production, which wrapped in September, Cooke was “absolutely knackered” — a polite British way of saying the experience had completely depleted her.

“Last season, Emma and I were only in four episodes each, so we’d walk in and be full of beans when everyone else was at death’s door. Then I think we both really felt the enormity of the schedule. And it’s so emotional.”

“Both of us are just either sobbing or screaming all the time. I don’t know if I smile in Season 2.”

Despite the exhaustion, Cooke loves playing Alicent.

She’s a character of “so many subterranean levels of repression and anger and despair and passion,” which is a huge gift.

Has compassion and empathy for her, and she understands why Alicent does manipulative, devious things.

“She’s smarter than all the men as well and she could rule and she’d be really f— good at it.”

“It’s so frustrating that she can’t believe she would be this amazing ruler because she’s so indoctrinated by the patriarchy and by her father.”

“She’s been molded to talk sweetly into the ears of these powerful men, and it’s such a disservice to who she is and what she’s capable of.”

ABOUT HER PERSONAL LIFE.

Before Season 1 premiered, Cooke was worried that her personal life might become too public for comfort.

“I just didn’t want my life to change. It’s such a big TV show, and I hadn’t ever done anything to this scale before. Or if I had, it was a film that comes out and then goes away and doesn’t live in the culture for years and years and years.”

So far, Cooke’s fears have gone mostly unfounded. She’s recognized, sure, but not in a way that disrupts her daily life.

And when it does, fans are generally nice about it, like recently when she was on the London Underground going home and a group of drunken girls started shouting “Alicent” in her direction.

“It’s actually been all right. I think you notice an uptick as the show is about to come out because they’re promoting it more.”

ABOUT ACTING.

She calls herself a “catastrophizer” and admits she can be hard on herself when reflecting on a performance.

ABOUT THEIR UPCOMING PROJECTS.

She wants to “embark on more of the unknown,” something the actor is aiming to do with her production company Chippy Tea, which she formed two years ago.

Her first production, a romance film called “Takes One to Know One,” will shoot in Rome early next year and stars Jamie Bell alongside Cooke.

She also wants to try her hand at directing.

“When I’m on set, I’m always figuring out how things work and almost shadowing the director.”

“I find acting a lot of the time to be so insular. You can get in your own way. I like the collaborative process of making something from the ground up, and I want to do more of that.”

“It’s also taking control of my own destiny a little bit more.”

ABOUT ALICENT HIGHTOWER FOR 'HOUSE OF THE DRAGON' SEASON 3.

As for Alicent, well, she may not be so lucky. But, she wants to play her for as long as possible.

“I really want her to just go off and be in the forest with some chickens,” she says, jokingly.

“But really, there’s some good stuff for her for Season 3, if we get it. Really exciting stuff.”

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd s2 #tv shows #team green #olivia cooke #queen alicent hightower #alicent hightower #hotd alicent #acting #la times #photoshoot #ryan condal #actress #hotd cast #hotd s2 promo

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chronicallyblyrie · 5 months ago

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TMAGP 20 Live thoughts! spoilers ahead

this one is a day late simply because I'm on summer break now and I'm already forgetting what day of the week it is

-I already saw something in the description about ink5oul lets go I'm ready

-okay its our little trio hi guys

-Alice i swear to god fucking LISTEN TO HIM PLEASE

-Who killed it???

-whaaaat??

-Oh shoot is this going back to the ennacting the protocol thingy??

-the government conspiracies are fun though Alice :(

-ah yes the case that made Isaac Newton canon to the TMAGP lore

-no its definitely the same protocol

-WHAAAAT

-oh god its another email from John isnt it

-gibberish email address???

-Okay so Alice does believe in the horrors then???

-I mean yeah Sam she is very right you chose to work for the government that is the most shady thing you can do

-oh so they were trying to end the world AGAIN

-Celia might just be right, its almost like she has PRIOR EXPERIENCE

-yessss keep celia in on this shit show please

-GWEEN

-IN5OUL??

-Oh! tattooing corpses!

-Gwen is not the type for tattoos ink5oul

-"you've got lovely skin" that was a very nikola orsinov line

-Yes the government

-No they want you as an "external"

-Yeah shes new sorry ink5oul

-So they dont even wanna mutilate people with tattoos???

-So somehow having fans made them into an avatar or smth??? im just guessing externals and avatars are basically one in the same

-is this our statement/case for today

-this podcast really makes you look at social media in a different way

-tattooed WHAT

-damn so this is where the fucked up ink comes from that mutilates people right?

-yeah as a tarot lover I can't tell if I'd be pissed off too or if I'd be happy with the tattoo artist giving me a detailed ass sun tattoo after lying and showing me the wrong design

-"ITS BUUUUURNS"

-oh!

-oh so this is how you become an avatar

-guys.. I think I know how to kickstart my youtube career

-I imagine Gwen just standing here rn while listening to this mf yap

-so the tattoos are the ultimate anti-aging skincare

-rather disturbing is probably putting it lightly

-CHEMICAL COCKTAILS??

-were they chloroforming these clients

-mf you get a high on tattooing???

-okay so definitely an avatar, the whole talk of "wanting to make people afraid" and "needing" it is just a fear avatar needing their daily dose of people being horrified

-Oh so thats why they have corpses

-eloquent indeed!

-GWEN THEY ARE GOING TO KILL YOU SHUT TF UP

-WTF

-GWEN IS GONNA GET FUCKING KILLED SHE NEEDED THAT SECURITY

#tmagp #the magnus protocol #tmagp spoilers

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poisonblossoms12 · 3 months ago

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WELCOME!!!

(It's about time I did a welcome post lol)

Hey there, I'm Poison, but you can also call me PB or PB&J ^^ I do a bunch of silly stuff about Kindergarten, My Singing Monsters, and some other things :D

Some facts about me:

-I use they/them (preferred), she/her, it/its, and xe/xem :3

-I'm a lesbian :D

-My favourite Kindergarten characters are Carla and Alice!

-My ultimate OTP is Almy (Alice x Emmy) 💜💚

-I am emo, punk, and goth. I do understand that they are not exactly interchangeable, but my style fluctuates a lot between those three

-Here is my list of Kindergarten ships in case you're curious :3

-And here is my list of fandoms! :D

Other blogs:

Art blog - @poisonblossomsartbox I am no longer active on my art blog bc I post my art on here now

Meme blog - @daily-dose-of-kg-memes

KinderKiller AU - @kinderkillerau

MSM blog - @poisonblossoms-msm I no longer post on my MSM blog because I made this one multifandom

Penguin Penny - @penguenny

Monstergarten AU - @msm-kg-au

Kindergarten confession blog - @kg-confessions

My tags:

#poisoned rants - I rant about silly stuff

#poisoned arts - Art tag

#poisoned vents - Vent tag

#poison dies - Shitpost tag

I also sometimes do oddly specific tags if I find it funny enough to the situation >:3

My schedule:

I'm doing homeschool, so I'm available very often! >:3

AND YES, ART REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

That's all for now! I might change it up over time tho :P

#kindergarten #kindergarten 2 #kindergarten game #kindergarten 3 #kindergarten the game #poisoned rants #lesbian #poisoned arts #my singing monsters #msm

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not-so-lost-after-all · 7 months ago

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Fanfiction Master List

Baldur's Gate 3

Here are my favorite pieces of my writing about certain tragic vampire gremlin called Astarion:

There are worse things I could do (This little thing is inspired by Dicken's A Christmas Carol and visions of the past, the present and the future - all of them dark. After all, a romance with Astarion can go so horribly, horribly wrong...)

Moments before the distaster (Astarion and Tav having supposedly the last chance to have some fun time together AKA the missing opportunity to go on a date)

The rest is still unwritten (Astarion reunited with his family and leaving the past behing)

Astarion earns a princess... (and a brother who seems to be his unbroken mirror image)

Ascended Astarion and his consort. Make it hurt...

My Tav and Astarion and an epilogue to the epilogue

New memories with Tav are the counterweight to the two centuries of misery

The alternative version of the infamous scene at the docks

Something Halloween-y about ascended Astarion meeting the ghosts of his past

My contribution to the papastarion topic (yes, a daughter who looks like him, except she is mortal :D)

My Tav, Astarion and their big fight concerning the heated topic of Halsin

Tav breaking up with ascended Astarion (for the daily dose of angst)

A Song of Ice And Fire

Final veil (Buckle up because this isn't exactly a fix it fic but Jaehaera Targaryen gets a shot at happiness. Or, how I wanted to give the little queen a voice.)

A tale of wars and mercy (Aegon II and Alicent in the future, so spoilers for the series, obviously. Hurt but no comfort andvI mean it.)

#astarion #my writing #astarion x tav #astarion romance #ascended astarion #a song of ice and fire

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zzzuyuo · 2 months ago

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personal fav fall movies, series & franchises list.

(sigh, finally a geek post)

🍂 oddly cozy!

gilmore girls

gossip girl

any ghibli movie

greys anatomy

brooklyn nine nine

the big bang theory

little witch academia

your name

the end of the f word

i’m not ok with this

twilight

edward scissorhands

wonka franchise

star wars franchise

alice in wonderland

harry potter franchise

gravity falls

🍂 ultimately depressing!

girl, interrupted

black swan

daily dose of sunshine

move to heaven

uncontrollably fond

thirteen

grave of the fireflies

a silent voice

the haunting of hill house

speak

corpse bride

thirteen reasons why

🍂 spooky themed, horror!

buffy the vampire slayer

the originals

pretty little liars

tokyo ghoul

the promised neverland

american horror story

junji ito collection

dark

any sabrina spellman franchise

scream queens

ready or not

the craft

death note

get out

parasite

coraline

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goodeapple · 2 years ago

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i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

HOOOO LORDY, hi everyone! please excuse the delay on this behemoth; your girl was sick as shit not once but TWICE this whole month and cold medicine doesn't help my writing. as always, be kind, rewind, and REVIEW if at all possible. I cry at every single one of your's comments, I really do (imma Pisces, go figure)

AN : I also realized that last chapter I mixed up Rhaena and Baela and who was raised as Rhaenys' ward andddd for that, I will be retiring. nah, I'm just kidding but I'll be leaving it there because I am dumb and stupid and need to be humbled. I also love how that part flows and I am lazy as shit to fix it rn so enjoy my mistake.

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : oral (F and M receiving), some anal, and a big ole dose of whipped!Aemond

word count : 9000+

masterlist

114 A.C

Aemond wrinkled his nose, the squirming babe bundled in maroon blankets screwing its red face up and giving a piercing screech. He hid his face into his mother’s skirts, shying away from the unhappy little dragon.

Alicent chuckled, smoothing a stiff hand over her son’s hair, the locks just barely beginning to edge passed his shoulders.

“It’s alright, my boy, she’s just hungry.”

Aemond’s nurse had tugged him away from practicing with his wooden sword in the courtyard to accompany his mother to meet his sister’s new babe. He had scuffed his shiny shoes the whole way, grumbling about the interruption of his daily schedule.

He seldom remembered ever being allowed in this part of the castle, his mother forever steering him in the opposite direction of his sister’s rooms.

The King sat across from his oldest child in an overstuffed chair, Rhaenyra’s hand grasped warmly in his, their speaking soft and muted. Helaena sat criss-cross on the bed at Rhaenyra’s feet, blonde curls dangling with her as she continuously swayed forward to steal peeks at her niece. Aegon’s hip rested against the bedside table, bright indigo eyes swirling between indifference and curiosity as he watched the newborn yawn and wiggle in her mother’s arms.

His father turned at the sound of Aemond’s entrance. A rare joyous smile brightened every one his aging features; the sight startled Aemond. He couldn’t recall in his young memories ever seeing his father aim such a loving look in his direction.

“Aemond, come here son.” His mother’s hands squeezed his upper arms so tightly that Aemond let a whimper slip from his lips, but after a moment she relented and urged him forward. Aemond took steps on uncertain legs, feeling the absence of his mother’s presence as she stayed fixed in place behind him.

His father’s free hand met his back when Aemond drew close enough, and guided him closer to the bed.

Rhaenyra’s sweaty face was blank as her littlest brother saddled next to her, face carefully unreadable. Even so, she angled her arm slightly towards him, the cocooned babe coming into his full view as her other hand still gripped her father’s.

“This is your niece, Aemond.” The King spoke faintly, adoration swimming in his voice.

Leaning up on his tiptoes, he braced his hands on the sheets and peered forward. Big, clear eyes blinked up at him, mouth pulling into a dainty “O” at the new face greeting her. The tiniest of nostrils flared, feet stretching under the layers of cloth. Aemond had never seen something so small before, the youngest himself of his siblings. Curiously, he reached forward and poked gently at the bulbous round cheek.

His father made a strange sound and Aemond felt a flash of worry that he did something wrong, but it eased as Rhaenyra laughed, a tired sound but still happy, as a tiny fist unclenched and lifted to curl around Aemond’s offending finger. A deceptively strong grip squeezed the tip and he shook it just so, but the babe remained locked on.

“I think she likes you.” Rhaenyra hummed, a modest grin making Aemond blush and smile unintentionally. He settled more firmly along the bed. Helaena leaned in and giggled at their niece, small fingers brushing away an errant dark curl.

“What is her name, sister?” Helaena whispered, almost afraid to break the sweet moment with her question.

Rhaenyra’s grin widened, eyes dropping down and looking upon her daughter with so much love that it threatened to spill out of the corners of her eyes.

“Her name is Ysilla.”

Aemond’s thumb brushed along the babe’s knuckles, a cooing sound escaping her, and Aemond could’ve sworn the babe smiled at her name.

“Ysillaaaaaa…” he whispered in wonder.

Current day. 14 days left.

Ysilla buries her nose into Visenya’s dusting of straw-colored hair, eyes closed and a serene look gracing her features. She breathes deep, an appreciative hum sounding from her throat.

“She smells so good, I can’t get over it.”

Her mother laughs, folding the blankets knitted tirelessly by Rhaena and Helaena in the moons leading up to her second daughter’s coming. A patchwork of harrowly stitched threads gifted from Joff also laid in the pile, and Rhaenyra pats it lovingly.

Visenya is only a few weeks old, not even reaching her first month yet, and Rhaenyra is sure the babe has barely known the cushions of her cradle as she’s been continuously passed from wetnurse to uncle to father to mother. Today, it seems like older sister wants all of her attention.

“Well, she was just bathed about an hour ago darling, and her cloth hasn’t been soiled yet.”

Ysilla shakes her head in avid disagreement before her mother even finishes her sentiment.

“No, it’s not bath oils or balms. It’s all her- she smells like a fresh flower. I could just eat her up in one bite, especially her little toes!” Ysilla moaned sweetly, her voice pitching high and kisses smooching along the tiny thing’s closed fist.

Rhaenyra smiles something soft and happy, relaxing into an armchair in her spacious regent apartments. A room fit for a queen, but it felt too reminiscent of her young life spent in these castle walls. Her father’s voice still echoed off the stones; her mother’s too, if she listened hard enough.

It was taking some time to adjust to, as were all the things that came with her crowning. All her life, Rhaenyra clung to this moment. The moment where she would be the ruler her father anointed her to be; Queen of all, protector of the realm, leader of the people. And now that she was here, it all felt strangely… anticlimactic. Like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, a raucous huzzah! to ring in her destiny. But no such luck; a three-day feast and celebrations with the people did nothing but remind her of mummer’s play she paid witness to many years prior, uncertain thoughts swirling about her head day and night.

Her mind is an unwelcome deterrence from her daughters’ company, and Rhaenyra focuses her attention on her now silent child.

There’s a peculiar dim shading her daughter’s gaze, her signature smile that shines brighter than the sun above clouded over to something akin to a grimace. Ysilla feels eyes upon her and she tries to sneak a glance at her mother. Rhaenyra’s eyes cut into hers. Ysilla pretends not to notice the worry in her stare.

“What troubles you, my girl? Are you… having second thoughts?” Rhaenyra tries to keep her words affable but even she can hear the twinge of hope in them.

Her last born brother is an enigma of a man. The rider of the biggest dragon since Balerion, a one-eyed shadow and a master with a blade, the cool facade over his honed cruelness terrifies Rhaenyra. Not for herself, of course not, but for her first child. Her lovely little one, Ysilla. That man being tied forever to her daughter brought only worry to her mind, dread coursing thickly through her veins. Every day, Rhaenyra pours over if she made the correct decision, the right decision to betrothe Ysilla to Aemond.

Rhaenyra remembers being so young herself, screaming prayers and curses in her mother tongue, the feeling of her womb being squeezed in a vice grip still vivid over fifteen years later. How her little bump had blossomed into a thing so tiny, it swam in the crimson blanket gifted from her soon-to-be grandsire. How the unwavering weight of protectiveness that crushed her stole all air from her lungs. How Rhaenyra knew fully and without doubt, she would rip any being apart who dared to lay a heavy finger on her daughter’s head.

Ysilla’s eyes widen a tad, a disbelieving smile curling her mouth. She bounces Visenya anxiously, nervous energy buzzing along her skin.

“No mother,” her words are sharp and spoken through tight lips. “Aemond and I are set to marry and we have no doubts about our coming union. No matter how much you and Daemon wish otherwise.”

Rhaenyra lets the retort roll off of her like oil over water.

“All I wish is for you to be content, my heart. No more, no less. That is all.”

Ysilla snorts, shifting Visenya slightly as the babe stirs in her wrap.

“And father? What does he wish for me? For my future husband?”

Her mother lets out a simple sigh, a familiar sound that seems to come frequently after Daemon’s name.

“Daemon only wants what’s best for this family. Aemond is a strong fighter, a quick learner, and a fierce foe. He will do wonderfully in our home and aid us in any troubles that the years may bring.”

Ysilla measures the weight of her words, eyebrows still pinched together. Rhaenyra wishes to smooth her thumb over them, to steal away her girl’s unease. The curse of being a mother- to endlessly wish to take her children’s pain and make it her own. To bear the brunt for them.

“He’s more than just a soldier awaiting orders.” Ysilla whispers. Rhaenyra has to strain to hear her.

“He’s… he’s funny. He makes me laugh even when I feel like doing the opposite. He’s smart, more-so than some maesters I’ve met throughout the years. He’s quiet and reserved at times, but when he speaks, I hang on his every word.” Ysilla’s eyes grow a touch glazed and her smile has a kiss of love at the corner. “He loves his family- his sister and mother, his niece and nephews- even his brother, though he will never admit it aloud, with such ferociousness it feels as if it is a living and breathing thing. He loves me, the same way.” Ysilla’s cheeks bloom hot, avoiding her mother’s knowing gaze.

Yes, Rhaenyra knows all too well how much Aemond has fallen for her daughter. Finding the duo together the night following Ysilla’s ball- in the same room Ysilla had her first moonblood in at ten-and-two- tangled in the sheets as naked as the day they were born had killed something in Rhaenyra’s soul. The girl she had borne in her own girlhood, becoming a woman right before her eyes. The childlike innocence had disappeared right along her maidenhead.

Rhaenyra’s only regret is that Daemon punched Aemond before she could.

“But, I do have fears.” Ysilla’s voice grows quiet and a touch uncertain, so unbecoming of her nature that it pulls Rhaenyra to her feet and across the room in a moment’s breath. She tucks a curl behind her firstborn’s ear, laying a kiss to the corner of her eye. Ysilla’s exhale is a shaky one, and she sways into her mother. A rock, grounded and unwavering; her mother is a woman of strength and fortitude- a Goddess amongst men. Ysilla will always think that blasphemously.

“Tell me, Ysilla. Let me carry this burden with you. Mother is here.” Rhaenyra whispers it like a secret to Ysilla’s temple and suddenly, it’s many moons ago, and the two are curled safe and warm under the covers, spinning tales of hellhounds and sorcerer’s spells and toppling kingdoms while the winds howl through the night.

“Fears for the future, fears of the unknown. I’m sure every coming bride feels these too.” Ysilla tries for a laugh, but it’s watery and her lips shake even when she presses them tightly together. Rhaenyra catches the first tear as it falls, but the second and third carve streams down the apples of her cheeks.

“What if… I’m not meant to be a mother? I couldn’t even hatch my own dragon egg, muña, what if it was for a reason that the Gods already know but they haven’t yet shared with me? What if Aemond doesn’t want babies, or worse, doesn’t want them with me? What if we tire of each other and he looks elsewhere?” Ysilla’s words start to jumble together, tears dripping off her chin and splashing onto a snoozing Visenya. The babe gives a whining cry and Ysilla jumps, arms tightening around the bundle but tears only coming faster at the distress she caused.

Ysilla murmurs soothing apologies to her sister, wiping the splatters with unsteady fingers.

Rhaenyra’s palm finds Ysilla’s back, rubbing firm circles against the crushed velvet and consoling shhhhs pressing into her hair.

“Now I may not know much but what I do know my girl, is that you are my daughter, through and through. The blood of my blood, you are a dragon. No matter if you marry one, no matter if you carry one, you alone are the strength and the power of our family name. Your husband is a man blessed by Gods above to have you on his arm.” Rhaenyra swallows, biting her tongue’s instance to sway her daughter in a direction opposite of Aemond Targaryen’s. But the young Queen knows it to be pointless, the vision of two dancing dragons burned forever behind her eyes.

“There is not one doubt in my mind that he’ll hold steadfast beside you, until the end of your days.” Rhaenyra strokes her cheek, a humorous little grin twisting her lips, attempting to lighten her spirits. “Trust me, a mother knows.”

Rhaenyra hoped that her speech would bring comfort to her daughter’s frazzled mind but it seemed to do the opposite, as hiccuping sobs break through Ysilla’s throat and her face crumbles like stone. Rhaenyra gathers her up, Ysilla’s head along her chest, the steady thumping of her mother’s heart beneath her ear a lullaby that croons a pacifying melody.

Rhaenyra holds her daughters in her arms, the crown of only motherhood balanced atop her head. The day ahead of her is long and stretching; plights of the common people waiting to be heard, harvest numbers to account for, petty squabbles to squish before they multiply to issues that she’ll lose sleep over. Rhaenyra doesn’t have much time to spare, all her minutes scheduled and ticked as they fall but by her hand alone, she’ll halt the sun itself if she must. She’ll make more hours in the day and push off the moon’s rise if her daughter needs her here, with her.

They’ll do all things together, as they always have.

10 days left.

Ysilla moans into her palm, clutching at the edge of the table to ground her to the earth. The writing quill nearly snaps in her grip, a bend in the thick stem twisting it to an angle. The neat script of her penmanship hidden now under several splattered ink drops, the prose of her heart blurring into lines of inky black that are undecipherable.

A harsh slap tears through the air and Ysilla arches away from the jolt against her bottom, but she only succeeds in rocking her spread cunt further against Aemond’s ravenous mouth. His tongue laps deviously at her bared entrance, thick fingers sliding into her and tickling her silken walls.

“I thought I told you to not fuck it up again. Are you immune to following orders, niece?” Aemond’s voice is drenched in lust, notes of false disappointment lost to the shine of her slick on his chin.

Ysilla whines, nails digging divots into the old oak.

“I’m trying, fuck, Aemond, take pity on me.” She pines for his locks threaded through her fingers, wants to tug them like reigns of a horse bridle to steer his tongue just slightly left. But per his very clear instructions, Ysilla was not to move her hands from the table as she was to focus on writing out her Valyrian vows, committing them to memory so that their ceremony would go off without a hitch. If she disobeyed the laid out rules, Aemond would stop his ministrations and only begin again after she was able to scribble out a few lines.

The pile of crumpled up parchment across from her proof as to how well she is doing.

Aemond laughs at her begging cruelly, fingers dragging in and out of her with lazy disinterest.

“Pity is for the weak, byka zaldrītsos. You can take it.” He whispers his praise, lips brushing the inside of her thigh, sparking fire every where he touches. He doesn’t need Vhagar to cause destruction- Aemond does that all on his own, with his vicious mouth and wicked tongue.

Sweat trickles down Ysilla’s temple, and she flexes her calves before snatching up a new sheet of parchment. Singling out every ounce of concentration she possesses, Ysilla attempts to begin again, the letters of the ancient language flowing from her memory and through her fingers.

Mazeman ao sir, Aemond Targārien, hae ñuha mēre.

Aemond’s tongue flattens, a sweeping lick from hole to button causing her ankles to shake. He sucks one of her lips into his mouth, fingers drenched in her wetness. He glides them along her cleft, a sizzling threat that causes Ysilla's eyes to blur. Her hand continues across the page, the quill scratching out shaky black letters.

Ñuha gīda.

He sucks at her nub, a jagged cry escaping her mouth. It bounces sharply off the walls and a tear splashes next to the paper. Ysilla wipes frantically at her face.

Ñuha valzȳrys.

Thick fingers spread her cleft, Aemond massaging gently at her back entrance. A slicked finger breaches her and Ysilla bites into her wrist, blood springing hot and acrid on her tongue. She sucks it down, the pain welcome as it clears her head.

Naejot iōragon ondoso se support.

Aemond hums his praise, tongue becoming frenzied as he works her open on one finger. And then two. Ysilla is like a dog with a bone, wrist impaled on her sharp teeth, teardrops and saliva mingling in rivelets as they drip down her forearm.

Naejot cherish se jorrāelagon.

She fucks herself forward, backward, meeting his tongue, shying away from his fingers. The pain and the pleasure a line she can no longer distinguish. She feels light-headed, her breathing short and shallow.

Syt se rest hen ñuha tubissa se beyond, ēva se mōris hen jēda.

The coil in her cunt tightens, her legs nearly giving way, forcing Aemond’s fingers deeper inside her. His tongue too, and Ysilla can feel the brush of his narrow nose against her. Ysilla loses breath, forehead dropping to burrow in the crook of her elbow. Aemond snarls a hungry sound, free arm coming around to loop at her hips, yanking her down to ride his face. His fingers drive in and out of her, the burn a nice drag that causes her to gush over his mouth.

Īlva ānogar, hēnkirī, binding īlva isse bisa ābrar se se hembar.

The words are crooked and surely misspelled, Ysilla writing them through a slanted gaze, quill on the verge of becoming two pieces. She’s nearly there, nearly finished. As if he can hear her desperate thoughts, Aemond slides his fingers into a curl, his thumb sinking into her clenching cunt and he arches them towards each other. He plays her like a fiddle, her noises a ballad of their carnality.

Iā bond daor vala kessa qūvy apart.

Ysilla shatters as the last word etches onto the page, sobbing pleas begging for her beloved’s mercy as she comes in waves, soaking Aemond’s face with her pleasure. He slurps lewdly, catching all she has to offer in his mouth, drinking her down as if she’s a rare wine he can’t get enough of. Ysilla would blush in shame if her mind wasn’t fogged over by unrelenting lust. He slides his fingers carefully out of her, Ysilla screwing her face up in displeasure at the vacant feeling

Aemond straightens along her back, fixing down her skirts and collecting her curls off to one shoulder to cool her off. He presses forward, reading her sloppy scrawl over her shoulder. His eyes trail over the words, possessiveness coursing through him ferociously. He can nearly hear her sweet voice reading out the vows and the thought that he’ll only have to wait a few more days to experience them nearly drives him over the edge.

Aemond winds his arms around her waist, tugging Ysilla upwards and flush against him. Her head lolls along his shoulder, her breaths still labored and he fights a smile of pride at his handiwork.

“You did so good for me, Princess. You listened so well.” Ysilla whimpers at the innocent kiss he places on her cheek, so opposite an act considering where his mouth just was. Her legs still quiver beneath her, but the retribution growing inside her strokes strength up her spine.

Drawing forward a chair with her foot, Ysilla maneuvers Aemond into it, his ass crashing down to the unforgiving wood. He arches a brow, thighs spreading on instinct as Ysilla steps to him. Her palm slams against the table, dragging to him a smudged piece of blank parchment. The bent quill and inkpot are an arm’s reach away from him. She bends towards her lover, hands bracing on the arms of the chair. Her lips are bloodied and wet, spit dripping viscously off her chin. Her tongue flicks out, a flat lick from the jut of his chin to the top of his lip makes her own taste burst sharply on her palette.

Aemond could tear through his breeches with how achingly hard he is. He wants to wrap a hand around her throat, force her to straddle his lap, and fuck his cock so deep inside of her, she’ll be bowlegged until the wedding. The image his brain conjures makes his hips thrust upwards involuntarily and Ysilla smiles a grisly thing, her teeth tinged red. She looks ghastly and Aemond licks his lips like a man half-starved.

“Your turn, husband.” Ysilla drops to her knees, voice wrecked, lithe fingers tearing through his laces and freeing him. His cock pulses and jumps in her hand, and Aemond curses as she blows cool air over the weeping slit. It isn’t until he clenches the warped quill in his fist that Ysilla swallows him down to the root. And then removes her mouth just as swiftly as he lets his eyes roll to the back of his skull. He fixes her with a glare. She pumps him just a touch shy of not tight enough, and winks at him.

Revenge is a dish he finds absolutely maddening.

6 days.

Alicent pulls Aemond along the edge of the room, arms linked at the bend of their elbows, the polished floors of the Starry Sept catching the light of midday’s sun that pours prisms of color through the stained glass windows.

There’s flurries of servants about, cleaning and decorating the holy room to prepare for the Royal Wedding. Soon, Oldtown will be bursting at its seams with visitors from all over Westeros, eager to attend the most anticipated union of the last century.

Targaryen weddings happen from time to time, of course, but this one is causing quite the stir all over the Realm. Queen Rhaenyra and Alicent Hightower’s feud has been long-standing and impossible to ignore as the years have passed and now, they were to be joined together by way of marriage. Drama fed the people more than bread ever could, and the buzz surrounding Aemond and Ysilla’s union only grew as the date drew nearer.

Alicent had been here over a week already, perfecting the town to welcome the wedding guests. Aemond had arrived on Vhagar a few hours ago, reluctantly leaving Ysilla sound asleep in their chambers. They hadn’t been apart since that wretched ball and even with three of his most trusted guards posted outside their door, the impulse to cling to her side nearly sent him crawling back to her. Weak for only her, he certainly is.

“And the windows will be cleaned by the morrow and once more the morning of the ceremony, to ensure they truly shine. All of the candles will be replaced with new ones, and we’ll finally fix The Father’s scales so they appear balanced.” His mother prattles on, laying out her thoughts, Aemond nodding at the parts he is supposed to. He couldn’t spare a single fuck if he and Ysilla were to marry in the damned Dragonpit, as long as they married.

Ironic that the closer the day came, it seemed more and more out of reach.

“I’m so happy you made the trip out here, my boy.” Alicent pushes back a platinum strand that came loose in his flight. Her fingers quake, drifting over the band of his eyepatch, forever haunted by that accursed night.

“It’s so hard to tear you from Ysilla’s side these days. It’s like you’re already gone.” Alicent snivels, pressing a juniper colored handkerchief to her nose. Aemond fights a roll of his eye.

“Mother,” Aemond starts, frustration bleeding into his tone.

“My son, please, humor me.” Alicent digs her nails along his forearm, not harshly but enough to cause him to halt. Aemond sighs gratingly through his nose but concedes, head bowing forward to urge his mother to speak her mind.

“Ysilla is a great match, one that has become more and more well-suited as I see the two of you together. She is lovely and wonderful and beautiful. She’s well-read and primed for perfection but she reminds me so much of her mother that it strikes fear in me, Aemond.” Alicent’s voice grows a sliver ragged, nails picking at the cufflink at his wrist.

“Rhaenyra was spirited and lively, when we were girls. We spent every waking moment together, never parting far from each other’s sides. Her fixations however, bordered on all-consuming. They narrowed her focus on one point and everything else became inconsequential. I don’t want you to lose yourself to any predilections that may have passed on to her daughter. I don’t… I don’t want to lose you too.”

Aemond sees something swim in his mother’s green gaze when she reflects on her past she shares with his older sister. A look none-too distant from the way he knows his eyes soften when they’re fixed on Ysilla. He finds it curious.

“I am not losing a part of myself, mother; this is not a sacrifice I’m committing. I am gaining something here. A wife, a family, a future.” He keeps going, pretending the hurt that dawns on her face doesn’t feel like a blade in his belly. “Youare gaining something here too. A daughter, grandchildren… a friend in the form of her mother.”

Alicent turns from his ceaseless stare, unable to hold it any longer. Tears, unwelcome and unbidden, irk her in their appearance. She doesn’t wish to shed any more grief over years lost and possibilities wasted. This newfound friendship she’s attempting to forge with Rhaenyra has brought more ease to her heart than she can recall experiencing since she was a girl. But the past refuses to stay buried, even in her own mind, and the thought of her most precious son leaving her behind threatens to spiral her down a dark path.

Aemond’s hands rest on her shoulders, lips pressing a peck into her hair and she breathes as evenly as she can.

“We can find joy, mother, I know it. We just,” Aemond exhales, almost preaching the words to himself. The Mother and the Maiden bore down on him with their stone stares, forcing him to avow his purest desires. He’s always hated this place. “We just have to reach out and take it.”

2 days.

“Bloody hell, ‘Silla, be quiet.” Lucerys’ hissed whisper rockets through the hall, breaking the stretching silence of the twilight. The hour is late, most likely waning into the very early hours of the morning and the occupants of the royal quarters are fast asleep and readying themselves for a final day of preparations on the morrow before setting off for Oldtown.

That is, all but the bride-to-be and her little brothers.

Lucerys, a whole head shorter than both Jace and Ysilla, has somehow been settled with the duty of dragging his two very drunk siblings through the winding halls of the castle and attempting to get them safely to their rooms.

They had slipped from the Keep, a hidden passage in Ysilla’s chambers, an opportune getaway that was too tempting to ignore. Aegon had always slurred about his most cherished taverns and while his nephews ignored him without thought, a few choice places had wiggled into their brains and whispered their allure.

And a final visit to their sister for old time’s sake, before her impending marriage that the boys were dreading, had quickly turned to a night of mischief prompted by a particularly strong bottle of Dornish wine.

You see, Ysilla and Jace had a terrible competitive streak, stemming back before Lucerys was even born. Mother had told him that the two would come near to sparring over who got to read to him, who got to untangle his curls, even who got to dress him for the day. Jace had sworn once, hand placed over the bark of a Weirwood tree, that Lucerys’ first word was Jac-ey. Ysilla had clobbered him over the head with her sketchbook, outrage burning in her words as she proclaimed That is absolutely false, you little weasel! It was “Sill-i”.

And once they were seated at a far back table in one of the less crowded taverns the trio had come across, a bottle of mulled cider had fallen victim to the two elders' attempts to one-up each other.

Lucerys had only reached the bottom of his first pint when Jace and ‘Silli polished off their second bottle, choosing rum as the next liquid conquest.

“You’re such a good brother, Lukey.” Ysilla slurs, feet still somehow thankfully beneath her, as Lucerys doubted he had the strength to carry both of his siblings into the castle. She was his favorite tonight, more-so for the fact that she wasn’t the one who had spewed spirits all over his shoes. But Ysilla also tended to get very lovey-dovey when she fell too far into her cups, and the tears that seemed to follow always made Luke awkward and distressed.

“Yes, ‘Silla, I know. You’ve said that twice already.” Lucerys huffs, taking a moment to catch his breath, and right a swaying half-asleep Jacaerys. He applauds himself for not letting either of them tumble down the steps they just had to summit. A win in his eyes, really.

“Well it’s true.” Ysilla grumbles, hiccups and the occasional belch escaping her. Luke tries not to laugh, toeing open the hidden door that leads to his salvation. He could shout in celebration; they’re finally home.

The door swings open and Lucerys tries not to choke on his spit.

Aemond Targaryen twirls his blade lazily, leaning casually amongst the throws of Ysilla’s bed. Twin knights in the form of Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk stand guard by both the balcony and the door leading to the hall of the castle.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Aemond catches the dagger he throws up in the air by the dull side of the blade, sheathing it as he rolls to his feet.

“Aemondddd.” Ysilla’s voice is a dreamy sigh as she hears her almost-husband, head rolling forward along Lucerys’ shoulder to aim a blinding beam at him.

Aemond scoffs, all resentment leaching from his eye at the sight of his sloshed lover. A fond annoyance finds its place, and he drifts closer to the wobbly Velaryons.

Lucerys, still after all these years, can’t seem to look Aemond in the eye but tonight he is tired, hungry, painfully sober and Jace smells of vomit so he puts his past guilt to the side and pushes his sister into his uncle.

Aemond catches her readily, narrowing his lone eye at the middle Strong son. There is no love lost between him and his bethrothed’s brothers, especially the one that slashed the eye from his head at only five years of age.

“She likes mint tea after a night of drinking, with goat’s milk and too much honey. She has some stashed away in her vanity; her handmaid knows how to prepare it properly.” Lucerys offers his knowledge as an olive branch, turning full attention to pull his brother along, staggering under the deadweight of the drunken boy.

Aemond says nothing, Ysilla cooing and mumbling happy noises into his throat, arms slung about his neck. Lucerys takes his dismissal with a farewell nod, pulling Jace along as they try to make their way to their quarters.

“Ser Arryk,” Aemond’s voice never fails to frost over Lucerys’ skin. “Make sure these two find their way back to their rooms safely. My bride would have my head if anything were to happen to her brothers.” Ysilla giggles girlishly at my bride and Lucerys exhales a relieved breath.

“And make sure the Queen knows exactly where they were tonight- I’m sure she would be very interested to know of her son’s whereabouts.” The smugness in his uncle’s voice makes Lucerys wish he had taken his other eye.

Aemond smirks, watching the knight take hold of Jacaerys’ arm as they disappear behind the door. He spares a glance down at Ysilla, finding hazy eyes staring up at him with unveiled devotion. He snorts, wrapping arms around her hips and nearly lifting her off her feet.

“Your breath stinks.” Aemond asserts, nodding at Ser Erryk as he pulls the door shut behind him, leaving the two alone.

Ysilla scoffs indignantly, shoving at him with sloppy aim, kicking herself away as he plops her on the bed.

“You stink! Dragon smell is not very becoming of you, husband.” Ysilla shoots back childishly, tugging roughly at her boot’s laces with a very pinched look of concentration.

Aemond pulls a chair from in front of the lit hearth, angling it at the foot of her bed and sits himself down. He grasps at Ysilla’s ankle, ignoring her squeak as he pulls her towards him. He works at the knot she’s achieved in her drunken frustration.

“I thought you said I smell of orange blossoms and sword polish.”

Ysilla shoots up, curled fringe falling into her eyes that she tries to blow away with puckered lips. Her stare is a bit unfocused, but the inquiry building there is undeniable.

“I never said that to you.”

Aemond’s lips curl at the end, pulling off one boot before starting on the other. He keeps his eyes on the task at hand, not avoiding her gaze, per say. Just occupied.

“Not out loud, you didn’t.”

The haze of alcohol slows her realization, but Aemond is quick to catch her foot as it shoots out to collide with his stomach when it dawns on her.

“You cretin! You absolute fucker, you read my diary!”

Aemond laughs at her outburst, releasing her hostage foot as she drags herself up the bed and away from him. Ysilla curls into a ball, eyes blazing and attempting to burn him to a crisp.

“You sleep in late and I tire of mapping your beauty to my mind. You left it open one night and I found it pleasing to pass the time.” Aemond’s voice is too sweet and Ysilla rolls her eyes, crossing her arms and dwelling in her dismay. Aemond wants to sink his teeth into her pouty mouth.

“Busy yourself with something else then! Go ride your dragon or read an actual book or swing a bloody sword, but leave my thoughts alone.” Ysilla rolls over, burying the last of her sentiment into her pillow and Aemond slips soundlessly into the bed behind her. He winds his arms around her waist, pulling her petulant form to meld against him.

“I couldn’t leave your thoughts no matter how hard you try.” He brushes a kiss to the skin behind her ear and Ysilla shivers. “And I don’t want to leave our bed without you joining me to start our day. My body might depart but my mind would stay with you as long as you’re absent from my side.”

Ysilla is silent for a moment before she turns to face Aemond. Her eyes are trained on his chest, fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his tunic.

“Are you nervous?” Aemond doesn’t ask what about- he’s already irked his bride enough tonight, he doesn’t wish to cause a fight. No matter how tempting she is in her anger.

“Not one bit.” Aemond’s hand comes up to tangle with her fingers, pulling her palm flat over his heart, making her feel the organ that beats only for her.

Ysilla sniffs, bleary eyes raising to find his singular stare, nuzzling closer to him, her bare feet intertwining with his legs. Her cheeks are flushed from the ale, hair a bit wild, and Aemond regrets never taking to art. How he wishes he could commit Ysilla’s beauty to paint, to coal, anything so that he could be surrounded by her face no matter where she be.

She brushes her thumb feather-light over the end of his scar and the chill it leaves him with soothes any phantom aches. He refuses to close his eyes before she does.

“I can’t wait to marry you.” Ysilla breathes out, speech slurred only slightly and at last, her lashes flutter shut and her breaths even out. Aemond nudges off his boots, unwilling to part from his betrothed, the comforting scent of her lulling him to sleep. Ysilla’s hand is still placed over his heart, and the beats slow as Aemond drifts off.

“Me either, my love.”

The day of.

Ysilla’s feet are clouds beneath her, floating her out of the Starry Sept and into a private room meant for the bride.

The deafening cheers and claps of the wedding guests still ring in her ears, lips puffing from Aemond’s insistent mouth. She presses her fingertips to them, quivering at the hot rush of want that spins in her stomach from the bruising ache. She had bit him slightly, barely a press of her teeth, to chase him back from plundering her mouth with his skilled tongue in front of all their witnesses- not to mention the Gods. But the look he shot her could’ve made The Crone’s lamp tumble from her hands and shatter into a million little pieces. Ysilla had to hide her face in his shoulder in the semblance of an embrace to hide the flames licking up her neck. As if that would help, as Aemond only whispered the most unholiest of dirty thoughts into her ear. Ysilla is sure there are apples that paled in intensity to her face as she descended the steps, hand-in-hand with Aemond.

A knock amongst the wood whirls her around, a blonde head popping in before she can call out her greeting. A relieved smile graces her face, pleased to not have to entertain anymore Septons.

“Rytsas kepa,” Ysilla welcomes, Daemon closing the door behind him. “Skoriot iksis muña?”

“Readying Syrax and Caraxes for the flight to Dragonstone. I think we’ve frightened the folks of Oldtown enough with their presence.” Dameon grins gleefully, not a shred of remorse in his visage. His smile drops though when he takes in her choice of attire.

“You have to change, Ysilla. Dresses don’t fare well when riding dragonback.”

“And how would you know? Spent much time in gowns, father?” Mirth tickles her pink, happiness exuding from every pore of her being. Daemon chuckles at her silliness, his dismay regarding the entire day melting slightly at his daughter’s elation.

“I’ve lived a long life, maybe I’ll share that story with you someday.”

Ysilla chuckles, nodding affirmatively, taking a moment to breathe.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Ysilla spins in a circle searching for her trunk, patting down her dress, hands coming up to tuck her curls behind her ears. Her face feels hot but she can’t stop smiling; just one more ceremony and it’ll be complete. She and Aemond will be tied together forever.

Daemon catches her hand and Ysilla stops short, the heavy twirl of her skirts continues to twist around her and pulls at her hips.

His eyes are aimed at the floor and Ysilla worries she must’ve gotten something on her dress with how hard he’s staring but his voice quiets her fears.

“Say the word, little one, and I’ll whisk you away from here. I’ll load you onto Caraxes with half the gold the Iron Bank has locked away, and I’ll take you anywhere you have ever wished to see.” Her stepfather’s voice is uncharacteristically earnest and her heart swells tenderly.

Ysilla finds herself blessed- she has more fathers to count than some get in a multiple lifetimes. Ser Harwin, always hovering about in case she called on him, was a kind, warm man who never failed to remind Ysilla of home. Laenor, more absent than not but vivid and tender when he was present, had carved a hole into her heart with his demise, never to be filled again.

And Daemon; he had dropped into her life at the peaking dawn of her womanhood with two daughters in tow and a past so entwined with her mother’s it had made Ysilla’s head hurt. Tepid at times and boiling at others, Ysilla remembers she wasn’t too sure what to make of him at the beginning. But with time and commitment, he had earned himself a place in her family. He always treated her with respect, listened to her fantastical stories with half a keen ear, trailed behind her dancing across the beach, and put a heavy blade in her hand when he was sure she wouldn’t slip with it and lose a finger. He was a father in all the ways that weren’t rewarding but in all that mattered.

“Well, Dorne has always been a sight to behold, I’ve heard.”

A conspiring grin pulls at her stepfather’s mouth, an expression Ysilla always aimed to drag out of him. Dameon always looked more approachable that way- contentment softening his ruggish features.

“I could get you there before the sun would set.”

Ysilla hums, a tempting offer she acts like she contemplates, nibbling along her bottom lip and brow furrowed in false pondering.

“The weather would be quite beautiful. The flowers in bloom, the waters warm, the wine flowing.”

Daemon nods, a bigger smile taking over, plucking a speck of lint from her garments. He swings a curl back behind her, making sure her jewelry is sparkling and faced forward. He’s busying himself for the answer he knows is coming.

“But unfortunately,” Ysilla squeezes his hand in her’s, Dameon answering with a squeeze a fraction tighter. “I think that ship has sailed, father.” She wiggles her shoulders, the weight of Aemond’s cloak draped around her barely shifting with her movement.

His eyes are lit with begrudging acceptance of Ysilla’s choice, the joking air dissipating as he voices an agreeing groan.

Ysilla’s eyes are misty, and her cheeks ache pleasantly from her wide stretching smile.

“Plus, he’d find me on Vhagar and drag me back with him.”

Daemon pfffts out a humorous burst of air and Ysilla knocks her forehead to his shoulder as he pulls her into a one-armed hug.

“He’d have to get through me first.”

The night of.

Aemond and Ysilla stumble into his room their room, slurred whispers and uncontrollable giggles the song of too much celebrating and way too much wine.

The newlyweds bar the door behind them. Ysilla flings off her shoes, moaning at the rushing relief of freedom for her feet. Aemond’s arms wrap themselves around her, pulling her back tight to his front. He noses at her temple, a rhythmic growl rolling from his chest.

“All night long you’ve forced me to lend an ear to your moans and expected me to do nothing about them. The fruits, the pigeon pie, the imported wine, the cake, all followed by the sounds of your pleasure.” Aemond presses his teeth to the meat of her cheek and he feels it pull upwards at the grin Ysilla dons.

“What can I say, it was really good pie.”

Ysilla twists around, her fingers braiding through his hair and Aemond moans a pleased sound. Ysilla’s fingers are magic, constantly seeking out the knots and tangles that appear at the end of a long day. She refuses to rest until the twisted locks sweep down into a blonde river of gleaming strands.

“Mmmm, who's moaning now, my love?” Ysilla challenges, desire floating in lavender irises. She sucks at her lip, wincing and releasing it at the sharp crack of pain left behind by the Dragonglass’ cut. Aemond’s thumb finds the wound, smearing her blood along his finger before rolling the digit around his tongue. The way that that depraved act spears thirst through her makes her dizzy.

“You taste divine, Ysilla.”

Ysilla purrs, pulling him down by the hair to lick at his lips but he dances away before their mouths can meet. Ysilla frowns, feeling entirely too empty without him pressed against her. Only a day spent fully together and she can’t stomach them being apart. Gods help her.

“A plan?” Ysilla raises a dark brow, bliss still lingering in every fiber of her being. She tries a grin, and Aemond’s answering curl of his lips banishes all distress from her heart.

“Yes, little one, one that you may not be privy to. Now, make yourself comfortable and I’ll be along for you soon.” Ysilla laughs at her husband’s antics (her husband, her husband, her husband. She’ll never tire of that, she hopes) and she shoos him away to go about his mission.

Aemond stalks off, slipping into an adjoining room and behind a changing partition, nodding his approval at the set-up he directed the servants to prepare.

A large brass bath, filled halfway with flame-boiled water, scented with rose oil and loose peony petals . Candles are lit in every corner, a table set with two glasses and Ysilla’s favorite plum wine waiting to be consumed. Almond oil, Aemond’s choice, is by the foot of the bath and he grows restless. He plans to press into all her muscles, chase away her stress and soreness, make her pliant and boneless before slipping inside of her, at last their coupling right and true in the eyes of their ancestors.

Husband and wife. Valzȳrys se ābrazȳrys.

Aemond spares a final glance at the room, rubbing his hands together before marching back to his and Ysilla’s room. But Aemond can’t suppress a laugh, scratching at his brow at the sight that greets his arrival.

Ysilla is curled under the furs, pants and shirt in a pile in the corner of their room, soft snores the only sound besides the logs burning in the hearth. He tosses his eyepatch on the table, coming closer to the bed and making sure she’s tucked in tight. He blows out the bedside candle, darkness blanketing the room. The glow from the fireplace’s flames give Aemond a last glance of his wife’s sleeping face. He sighs as he trudges back to the bath, regrettably alone. He strips down, a trail of clothes marking his path.

Aemond swings his legs over the rim of the tub, dunking himself under the boiling water, hoping the scald chases away his undying want for the woman dozing in the other room.

It doesn’t and Aemond starts to count down the minutes until sunrise, where he can awaken his wife with his mouth upon her cunt, her moans singing alongside the twittering of the owls.

“Don’t look so frightened, wife.” Aemond growled the last part into her ear, woozy and whirling from the day’s events.

Ysilla dared an amazed laugh, stare unwilling to break from the behemoth emerald beast she was expected to mount. Looking at her now, Ysilla was dumbfounded of how a young boy gambled his life, and chanced a death by flames or fangs to claim her.

Her husband, one-of-a-kind he is.

“You face me with meeting the only other woman in your life and expect me to be all smiles?” Ysilla tried her hand at a jest but it fell flat, her voice a few octaves too high.

Aemond grinned, securing his gloves and tightening his hair band, coming forward and pulling her towards him. He double-knotted the tie of his cloak at the base of her throat, tucking her curls beneath the black stitchings. She had shed her wedding dress before leaving the Sept, electing a pair of dark brown breeches and a billowing ruby houppelande much more appropriate for dragon riding. She kept the cloak wrapped around her though, and Aemond’s heart sailed at the sight of his protection swathed about her.

It wasn’t a long journey by any means, a little less than an hour to Dragonstone, where they would be joined in the customs of Old Valyria. Ysilla and Aemond had made the decision it would be just the two of them for the ceremony, and chose Maester Gerardys, a man who had watched over Ysilla since her birth, to officiate the union. Daemon and Rhaenyra didn’t take immediately to the decision, but a bat of Ysilla’s lashes and a pleading twist of her lips had quieted their objections. But they weren’t swayed enough not to be waiting on the newlyweds at the castle across the cliff’s way. Getting there was the only obstacle now.

Aemond settled his hands on Ysilla’s shoulders, pulling her attention from the sleeping dragon to fixate on him. He chuckled at the apprehension she couldn’t hide on her face, and he felt a small victory at the breathy laugh she released, nerves fleeting with the sound.

He tugged on her hand, every small step forward a win he wore like a crown.

“Come now, my love, our life awaits.” Aemond gifted her a perfect smile before turning and climbing up the rope ladder along Vhagar’s neck. The old beast snuffled, puffs of smoke drifting from her snout as her rider dared to awaken her from her slumber. Ysilla’s legs wobbled once Vhagar aimed her yellow stare at her, something akin to a question building in her huge eyes.

Ysilla dropped forward in an almost curtsey. “Rytsas Vhagar.” Ysilla stilled, locking eyes with the magnificent creature. The seconds stretched on, but Ysilla refused to retreat. Vhagar cocked her head to the side, perhaps scrutinizing the tiny girl before shaking her mammoth head, the gust of wind it conjured nearly knocking Ysilla over. She arched her giant claws, bones cracking vociferously and Ysilla realized she was stretching. Ysilla had seen street cats do the same and she suppressed a chuckle, starting up the flimsy ladder, Aemond’s hand securing around her elbow and guiding her in front of him.

“Alright you, so make sure you don’t move too much. Hold on here and here, and loop your feet through these.” Aemond directed her, prodding at her and Ysilla rolled her eyes fondly.

“I’ve ridden a dragon before, thank you.” Ysilla shot back, memories of her and her mother on Syrax stirring up dormant instincts. It’s been years since she did that and Ysilla cried in fear the whole time, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He hums dismissively, arms encasing her so that he can grip at Vhagar’s reigns.

“Not like this, ñuha prūmia. Hold on tight.”

And then all at once, following a Valyrian command, Ysilla jolted forward, gasping in a breath as Vhagar took off over the seaside cliff, She wished for a free hand to cover her mouth to stunt a scream, but her teeth would have to do as she was too terrified to release the hold she had on the saddle. Ysilla’s stomach was thrown into loops, the weightlessness in her legs unpleasant and she never imagined she’d miss the ground beneath her until that moment.

She hadn't realized her eyes were squeezed shut, partially hoping she just passed out but Aemond’s voice at her ear drifted over the roar of the wind.

“Open your eyes, Ysilla.”

Ysilla did so reluctantly but once she did, oh, it was life changing.

She had never seen the sea from this height before, never leveled her stare with white puffy clouds, seen above the sun as it began to set. The air was thinner this high up, but all the more clear. Ysilla was slack-jawed, awe taking over for debilitating fear. Her eyes soaked in everything and it still seemed like there was more to see.

Even with the sun setting ablaze the ocean in its descent, the summit of the moon close behind, Aemond couldn’t tear his eyes away from his wife’s face. Nothing felt more right than in that moment; a Targaryen bride in his arms, his dragon soaring beneath him, a bright, opportune future laid out further than the stretch of the sea. Happiness, a once alien emotion that seemed to become more familiar each day spent by Ysilla’s side, bloomed like a spring flower in his chest and took root. Finally, Aemond let himself breathe out, let himself just be. He grasped Vhagar’s reigns tighter, secured Ysilla against him, and directed the dragon higher into the sky, racing against the sunset, basking in his wife’s rollicking laughter all the way.

byka zaldrītsos

little dragon

muña

mother

Mazeman ao sir, aemond Targārien, hae ñuha mēre. Ñuha gīda. Ñuha valzȳrys. Naejot iōragon ondoso se support. Naejot cherish se jorrāelagon.

Syt se rest hen ñuha tubissa se beyond, ēva se mōris hen jēda.

īlva ānogar, hēnkirī, binding īlva isse bisa ābrar se se hembar. Iā bond daor vala kessa qūvy apart.

I take you now, Aemond Targaryen, as my one. My equal. My husband. To stand by and support. To cherish and love. For the rest of my days and beyond, until the end of time. Our blood, together, binding us in this life and the next. A bond no man will tear apart.

Rytsas kepa. Skoriot iksis muña?

Hello father. Where is mother?

Valzȳrys se ābrazȳrys

Husband and wife

Rytsas Vhagar

Hello Vhagar

ñuha prūmia

my heart

i hope you all loved this family feels chapter because the next one... i'm just gonna apologize in advance because the next one is a DOOZY.

forever thankful for every single kudos, comment, and read this story has gotten. you all rock my world! xx

#hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen smut #ysilla targaryen #i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

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polizwrites · 2 years ago

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PoliZ’s Birthday Self-Recs: Stony

Indulging myself in the week leading up to my birthday by sharing some of my favorite fics I’ve written, grouped primarily by pairing/relationship.

Next up is Stony - aka SteveTony aka Steve Rogers/Tony Stark. I’ve written 38 Steve/Tony fics and nine Steve &Tony fics (note: another relationship could be the main focus in these).

To my understanding this ship is a little more supported by canon in the comics/ animated shows, but it’s not too much of a stretch to see a connection between them in the MCU as well. They are both opinionated men who feel strongly about many things and when the writers allowed Steve and Tony to work together, they did so beautifully.

Their complementary character traits give me lots to work with in canon-adjacent as well as AUs. And while I might not have written as many fics featuring these two together, my word count more than makes up for it, as four of my five longest fics involve Steve and Tony as the main characters.

Here - in reverse chronological order by pub date - are my half-dozen favorite Stony fics I’ve written, at least as of this moment. If you want to know why I picked these, feel free to ask. Also if you go read them, I’d love to hear what you think, either here or as a comment on the fic! Finally - I will award a shiny No Prize to anyone who identifies the songs that 4 of these titles came from!

Home of the Brave

(General, historic AU, dragon AU, 42,206 words) Blacksmith and inventor Anthony Stark has convinced himself he is satisfied with his life. A tragic accident cut his career as an aviator short, so he retreated to upstate New York and a hermit life. He unintentionally becomes companion to a runty dragonet who is more than he seems, and it turns his life upside-down. (NOTE: This is a platonic Steve & Tony fic with background Tony/Pepper)

Sometimes a Fantasy

(Explicit, No Powers AU, 28,024 words) - Steve works mornings at a coffeeshop in a downtown NYC skyscraper. He’s got a slight crush on one of the customers who stops by for his daily dose of caffeine. Not that Steve would have a chance with the genius playboy (straight - SO straight) billionaire philanthropist, of course. But Steve also moonlights as a phone sex operator, working for Fury Enterprises. Anthony, an older guy still more or less in the closet and just starting to explore his bisexuality, becomes one of Steve’s steady clients. Along with the steamy scenarios they play out, they actually get to know one other. Cue the identity porn with Steve's two worlds colliding (eventually)

The Lengths That I Will Go To

(Teen/Mature, Canon-divergent, 92,739 words) After forty-five years, Howard Stark discovers the wreck of the Valkyrie and that Captain America somehow survived the crash and nearly a half-century of being frozen in the ice. Tony Stark, having been brought back to the fold after several years of freedom, finds himself face to face with his childhood idol (and teenage crush) when he is recruited to help care for the recovering Captain Rogers, whose existence is being kept a secret.

To Shield from the Storm

(Explicit, canon-adjacent a/b/o AU, 42,872 words) The Avengers have gone their separate ways after the Battle of New York and Tony Stark is on his own in the Tower. He's successfully kept his omega status secret from all but a very few for decades; the suppressants have (mostly) done their job, but not for much longer. Learning to team up with Captain America -- possibly the most famous alpha of the 20th century and someone Tony's already managed to alienate -- is going to be just that much more difficult, now, isn't it?

Go Ask Friday also available as a podfic

(General, canon-divergent Alice in Wonderland fusion, 4475 words) In a last-ditch effort to defeat Thanos, Tony finds himself in a somehow familiar waking dream. As he works his way through the story, confronted at every turn by those he thought were his friends, he can't help but question everything about himself.

Earth’s Mightiest Heroes at the Happiest Place on Earth

(General, canon-adjacent Disney fluff, 3535 words) Tony Stark takes the Avengers (and Avengers-adjacent personnel) to Walt Disney World - and gets to spoil his beloved a bit along the way. A series of vignettes where our faves have fun (mostly) at the Happiest Place on Earth. (with Steve/Tony bookending the story)

#writing stuff #fic recco #mcu/marvel #Stony #Steve x Tony #Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #Shameless Self Promo

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tellthemeerkatsitsfine · 2 years ago

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So, I think I’m going to go back and finish The Bugle. It’s a bit weird that I haven’t finished it already, given that it’s one of my favourite things in the world. I left it off after episode 4200, which means 200 episodes into the post-John Oliver era, because for reasons that Andy Zaltzman thinks are funny, he labelled the first post-Oliver one as episode 4001.

The John Oliver era had 295 official episodes, 383 if you count all the filler episodes during off weeks, from October 2007 to June 2016 (395 if you count the entertainingly opinionated daily special reports that Andy Zaltzman did during the 2012 Olympics). Then John Oliver left to go be famous or whatever, and Andy Zaltzman re-invented it as a thing he’d host with a rotating cast of guests from various countries (mainly still England and America, but Australians Alice Fraser and Tom Ballard are among the most common guests, and there are a few regular ones from NZ and India as well).

The first of these, episode 4001, aired in October 2016, but there was a longer gap than there seems based on those dates. By early 2015, John Oliver’s Last Week Tonight commitments got significant enough so episodes became sporadic at best, they put out a lot of filler episodes at first, but eventually the gaps were so long that they gave up on that and just had breaks. Breaks that were interrupted by more filler episodes in which Andy Zaltzman would tell us that they’re going to be back soon because John Oliver swears he’ll have time next week, and then there’s another gap of like three months. The final proper Bugle episode from that era was in March 2016; they then came back with a filler episode in April to tell us they’d be back soon, and finally, one June to say they were giving up on it. I listened to all of those 2015-2016 episodes within a couple of days, and fucking hell, it was painful. By the end, I was shouting Monty Python quotes at them: “This is an ex-podcast! Stop nailing it to its perch and trying to sell it back to us! For the love of God, put it out of its misery with some dignity! Let Andy Zaltzman go roam free in the fjords, or whatever the message of that sketch was!”

Anyway. I listened to all those John Oliver-era episodes in one go, almost literally. It took me just under three months, and that might have been a level of fixation that went too far even by my standards. I had The Bugle playing during every second of my life that I wasn’t asleep, or doing something I absolutely had to do for work. It was probably too concentrated a dose, which would be why I felt genuinely depressed when I got to the end of it. Well, that and the inherent tragedy in the way someone can spend so many years building up something amazing and then outgrow the project and their collaborator, everything beautiful ends, nothing gold can stay, and in the words of Andy Zaltzman, if the sun is going to run out of fire at some stage in the future, what’s the fucking point of doing anything now? I might have been projecting my own issues a little.

I didn’t go back to it for a while, because I knew that if I went straight into the post-Oliver Bugle, I would immediately hate it for not being the old thing, and I wanted to give it a better chance than that. I eventually did start from episode 4001, which aired a few weeks before America’s 2016 election, and was a stilted conversation between Andy Zaltzman and a fairly confused Hari Kondabolu, who clearly did not quite know what he’d signed up for. I spent the whole episode trying not to hate Hari Kondabolu for the crime of not being John Oliver, and it only sort of worked. Since then, The Bugle has found its stride, Hari Kondabolu has figured out what it is, and he’s now one of my favourite guests for them to have on, I’ve even gotten into his own stand-up off the back of his Bugle appearances.

Andy Zaltzman himself has admitted it was a rocky transition. He’s said it wasn’t easy to go from the rapport he’d built up for years with John Oliver, to trying to create something similar with people he didn’t know nearly as well. It got better when he stopped trying to make it another version of what it was before, and let it be something else.

It helped when they started occasionally, and then regularly, having two guests at a time, so they could bounce off each other as well, and the chemistry between Andy Zaltzman and one guest didn’t have to carry the episode by itself. Which is good, because Andy Zaltzman had pitch-perfect chemistry with John Oliver, but does not appear to have that with anyone else in the world. It really is amazing, how the John Oliver/Andy Zaltzman thing is the best chemistry I’ve ever heard (not just between two double act partners, but between any two people who’ve tried to do comedy together in any way), but Andy Zaltzman seems incapable of having a natural-seeming interaction with any other human.

Andy Zaltzman has this combination of a fairly niche sense of humour (vaguely surreal in a way he never explains), a penchant for relatively obscure topics and references in his humour, and just a socially awkward personality, that means that isn’t going to work with almost anyone. In several interviews, I’ve heard him stop just barely short of actually saying he knows he got lucky in 2002 to work with the one person in the world who fit perfectly into his style, and that’s why he created a way to stick with that partnership for as long as he possibly could, even when his partner moved across an ocean and pursued different career directions.

It’s difficult to explain exactly what made the Zaltzman and Oliver thing work so well, but I’m going to try. I think it’s the way they could play off each other during pre-written material as easily as most people do when improvising. Normally on a podcast or TV show or anything like that, you get one or the other. Either it’s pre-written, so it’s dense and high-quality really funny stand-up, or you get the spontaneous back-and-forth of two people just talking to each other. Zaltzman and Oliver managed to do both at the same time, which I’m pretty sure is only possible if two people know each other’s comedy styles incredibly well, and have those styles fit together.

They’ve said that the way they did The Bugle was a phone call a few days before recording to agree on what topics they’d discuss, and then they’d separately write material on those topics, and then take turns reciting that material and mutually riffing on it in the actual recording. I don’t think I know of anything else that does things that way. Gets in solid chunks of properly written material, and then does improvised back-and-forth on top of it. I’m going to guess that the reason most people don’t do that is it’s really really difficult.

It's impressive just to write that much material. Yeah, they sporadically take weeks off in which they release filler episodes. And there have been a few extended gaps – they were gone for much of 2015/2016, and they took the summer of 2014 off. But aside from that, Andy Zaltzman has been regularly writing enough new material to fill his half of a 30-45-ish-minute episode on a weekly basis since late 2007. Obviously not every single second of it is solid gold, but still. A hell of a lot of what he comes up with is very good, and that’s a lot more than most comedians write in a year.

This is why when Daniel Kitson starts talking shit about podcasts, and I immediately find myself getting defensive and saying “Okay, okay, I’m all for complaining about the newfangled internet media that those young people are doing these days, but let’s not start disparaging Andy Zaltzman’s life’s work here,” I then remind myself that this isn’t what he means. Most podcasts are just people talking, mostly unscripted, and it probably is fair to suggest that it’s kind of bullshit for that to be considered on par with actually writing strong material (though also I do think unscripted podcasts can be great fun, and some cover important topics and can say important things, and some are just funny because completely unscripted back-and-forth can be very funny even if that isn’t fair to the people who work hard on crafting material, improv is a skill too, and also Daniel Kitson has done much of his complaining about podcasts on his own unscripted radio shows, though to be fair to him, he also talks about how he doesn’t get paid for those radio shows because he knows they don’t count as actual art or work or whatever, anyway this is another subject). But The Bugle does use carefully written material, and add the other stuff that makes podcasts good, and it’s brilliant. It’s fucking brilliant.

But that goes back to what makes the Zaltzman and Oliver thing special, because you just couldn’t do that with most pairs of comedians. They’d worked together a lot before starting The Bugle – on a few joint Edinburgh shows, hosting the Political Animal gig together in Edinburgh and London for a few years, writing and performing the radio show The Department together, getting joint writing credits on a few TV things like that Rory Bremner sketch. And that pretty much was their careers, from 2003-2006. They had a few other things – I assume they did separate stand-up gigs sometimes; John Oliver did Mock the Week a few times, did guest spots on a few other TV things like Armando Iannucci’s Gash, and had “additional material” writing credits on a few TV shows; Andy Zaltzman had a few Radio 4 guest spots – but just about their entire careers were built on stuff they wrote together. Anything either of them wrote at that time would be heavily influenced by the other.

That did change a bit after that, but only on one side. John Oliver had really really significant other things going on, like writing and performing in the premiere political satire show in America, and Andy Zaltzman was doing the same stuff they’d been doing before, stuff that John Oliver has since described as shit (I do understand why the compulsively self-deprecating John Oliver likes to say his career in England was terrible, but hearing him do too much of that does, once again, trigger my “Okay, let’s not disparage Andy Zaltzman’s life’s work here” defensiveness). Which would be why John Oliver described his experience on The Bugle as great fun and because he got to listen to his friend and brilliant comedian Andy Zaltzman be funny for an hour every week, and Andy Zaltzman has described The Bugle with the words “It saved my career.”

This would also be why, when they talked a lot of shit about Rupert Murdoch in 2011 and then got their funded pulled by TimesOnline (not saying there’s causation there, but definitely correlation) and it looked like The Bugle might not be able to keep running, John Oliver said he’d hate to lose thing he loved doing, and Andy Zaltzman used the words “I’ve got Jack K. shit else going on” to explain why he sounded palpably more desperate to find an alternative funding source.

Honestly though, it is cool that even if the desperation wasn’t nearly as significant, John Oliver did still sound invested in finding a way to keep The Bugle going into 2012, and once they did find a way, he stayed with it for a few more years. He barely needed The Bugle when they started it in 2007, and definitely did not need it by 2012. By then was one of the most successful Daily Show writers/correspondents and regularly traveled all over the United States to perform stand-up – no way did he need the money or any extra fame he’d get out of The Bugle. He was just doing it for the love of the game by then, the world got way more years of John Oliver doing a trans-Atlantic topical podcast than they had any right to, which I try to remind myself when I’m annoyed that it didn’t last forever. I’ve just said it’s impressive that Andy Zaltzman writes as much material as he has to for The Bugle – John Oliver was doing that as his side gig next to the Daily Show.

Having said that, that is why, while they were definitely equal co-hosts and no one was anyone’s sidekick (fuck you, Dominic Maxwell), Andy Zaltzman tended to have more minutes of prepared material in most episodes, and why he was the one doing things like the Bugle blog, finding a lot of the stories, coming up with the more complicated concepts and conceits to try out. Which means that while John Oliver was writing with lots of different people and for lots of different audiences and in lots of different mediums, almost everything Andy Zaltzman wrote was for The Bugle, and therefore for getting picked apart with John Oliver. They established their comedy styles together, and then they kept developing together, with everything Andy wrote and at least some things John wrote getting tested out on each other each week. They didn’t just learn each other’s humour, they created it. Obviously there had to be some compatibility to start with – they both had a few years of trying comedy before 2003, and they both just brought different skills to the table, and at some point figured out that what they already had fit together well. But after that, they had years of taking something that worked, and developing it in the direction of working more and more.

I am convinced that all of this was required to create the magic in those first seven-ish years of Bugle episodes. That’s how they could come to the table with material they had not already tested on the other person, and be confident that it would work. They’ve said they never heard each other’s material before the actual recording, which was a cool way to make the reactions natural, but they didn’t plan it that way specifically to manufacture that effect – it was just done because Johnny Showbiz (as Andy affectionately nicknamed him for seven years, and then repeated with at least a little genuine bitterness in his voice during some of the low points of 2015) could only carve out so much time.

That’s how they were able to create lightning in a bottle with the quality and precision of something pre-planned, and the fun of spontaneity. They were each so good at knowing when to pause in their material to let the other come in on something, and knowing when to keep going because what they had next was going to be better than the interjection. And they knew when to interrupt and when to let the other stay on their roll. They knew how to elicit certain reactions out of each other, and how to react in ways that set up the next bit, even when they didn’t know exactly what the next bit would be. They knew when to go off script and how to go back. They knew how to add bits of their material into the middle of the other’s monologue. They knew how to write their bits so they not only wouldn’t clash with what the other one would write, but would build on it.

Every once in a while there would be some little awkward misstep, like if one of them read out their material on a topic and the other admitted… “Well that’s basically what I had, so no point in me doing mine.” But that sort of thing almost never happened, and when you think about it, that’s fucking impressive. The existence of a few missteps just highlights how impressive it is that they were rare.

They also had other sources of natural double act chemistry. It helps that they clearly find each other genuinely funny. Every Andy Zaltzman monologue is made more delightful by the sound of John Oliver stifling giggles in the background, and every John Oliver rant is made better by hearing Andy Zaltzman choke on his words a little as he tries to respond. You know that thing where people on panel shows will laugh too loudly at someone’s joke, and sometimes I’ve heard that joke said on a different show and those people were both there at that time so they’re clearly just pretending that this is their first time hearing it? I don’t even really mind that, I know that’s how panel shows are going to work. But The Bugle was the absolute opposite of that, and it’s great. No one was pretending anything. They had so much shared history, and if one of them said something the other had heard before, the other would point that out, probably accompanied by some story of who scored the last goal in the football game at which they first told that joke or something like that.

I’ve compared it to a sport before, and I maintain that that comparison. Sometimes, when they get into a really good rhythm, listening to it is exactly as impressive as watching two people who are really really good at a sport do that sport at each other for an extended period of time, with no interruptions, just the purest form of what they do.

In my own sport, you sometimes get that kind of magic when you have two training partners who’ve known each other and worked together for a long time. Person A learns exactly how to respond to everything Person B does, so Person B has to learn how to counter those responses, and then Person A learns how to counter that, and so on and so on. We talk in the sport about first-line/second-line/third-line defence, but if two people work together for long enough, they get into seventh-, eighth-, ninth-line defense. What do you do if you do this and then they do this and then you do this but they do this and you do this and they do this? No matter how good two athletes are, they don’t get that far against opponents they don’t know. The highest level of the sport I’ve ever seen in person has not been in the finals of national championships or at the international tournaments I’ve attended, it’s been in a practice room between two high-level athletes who are longtime training partners.

That’s the best analogy I have for why Zaltzman and Oliver worked. They kept trying to find ways to impress each other and surprise each other, kept finding different ways to respond to the other’s material, kept finding new ways to fit their ideas together. Learned exactly which way to go when one person tries one thing, and then how to respond to that, and they sound like they could go forever.

I’ve found it really sad, in my time in sport, when longtime training partners get split up because one moves away or moves on or something else. It’s a loss to the sport. You can’t just create that again. They were doing something that most people can’t do, and I hate seeing a dynamic that pushed the sport’s boundaries get dissolved.

I did think that when the initial era of The Bugle ended. Though I have to admit… okay, I hate ever admitting that any kind of change might have any upsides, because as a rule, I am no fan of change. But I have to admit that Andy Zaltzman’s comedy did start getting noticeably stronger in the few years that followed that. It had been getting better at a steady rate before that, you can hear it develop as the early Bugle years progressed, but there was a steep incline around 2017, as he began the new era of The Bugle. He jumped a couple of levels all at once.

I’m sure there are multiple reasons for that. He’s a topical and political comedian doing a trans-Atlantic podcast, and this did coincide with some major political shake-ups, trans-Atlantically. So he had new stuff to work with, and maybe some genuine emotional responses that created a more visceral feel to the comedy.

But also, as beautiful as a longtime training partnership can be, I have also, as a coach, sometimes moved around an athlete who’d been working with one person for too long. Told them that I know what they do with their main training partner is great, but there are massive holes in their game in the shape of all the things that one partner doesn’t do, and they need to work with other people to be more well-rounded. I’ve sometimes made the mistake of not doing that in time, and then taken an athlete who did amazing things in the training room with their one partner, sent them into a tournament they should have been good enough to win, and watched them get caught in something easy and obvious because they’d never learned how to respond to it.

I realize I’m stretching the metaphor here, possibly beyond the point where it makes sense, but that might have come into play with Andy Zaltzman. Like I said, John Oliver had other shit going on, but Andy Zaltzman, for years, wrote everything with the intention of fitting it into John Oliver’s contributions. I’ve heard his stand-up from those years – clips of it were often released as Bugle filler episodes, and a few other recordings of it are floating around – and it sounds like pretty much all his stand-up shows consisted of stuff he’d originally written for The Bugle. Which makes sense – he wrote so much for that podcast, he’s not going to write a whole extra hour for Edinburgh every year. He’s going to take the best of what he has.

Andy Zaltzman started trying new things when he wasn’t working with John Oliver anymore. He started combining the surreal stuff with the grounded political points in ways he never had before. Started injecting a little more real emotion into it, possibly because he was no longer playing the dispassionate foil to John Oliver’s grandstanding. I think he might be a better individual comedian now than he would have been if that hadn’t changed.

So he had the new and improved material, and he had new partnerships. Lots of new Bugle co-hosts, all of whom brought different things to the table, and gave him different things to play off. It was awkward at first, but he figured it out. Not really by getting less awkward, but by learning to work around it. Having multiple co-hosts who could play off each other. Starting live shows so they could play off the audience. Making the show about the variety of personalities and comedy styles, about the new features and the advances in Andy Zaltzman’s comedy, rather than the rapport between just two people.

And it’s not like he never had anything going with anyone else. I’d say the real turning point for The Bugle, back into something great, even if different, was when Alice Fraser got on board. She became a regular, and now appears in most episodes, alongside whoever else is there that week. Having that consistency again is good, and of course it’s good that it comes with someone who’s so individually funny, and who fits into The Bugle. Because she is, and she does. She has a similar sense of humour to Andy Zaltzman. She knows Andy’s sense of humour, she’s talked about having listened to The Bugle in the Zaltzman and Oliver days, she knew what she was getting into.

But still… Zaltzman and Fraser are very funny together, I would not call it the same level of “chemistry” as Zaltzman and Oliver. Same with Zaltzman and Kumar, even though Nish is on there a lot as well, and with his longtime friendship with Andy and longtime fandom of the original Bugle, he definitely knew what he was getting into and was the right fit for the show. Alice Fraser and Nish Kumar play effortlessly well off each other when they’re on together. And they clearly both have massive respect for Andy Zaltzman – I get the impression that they would both die for him and/or throw hands to defend his honour, if necessary. And they clearly both find Andy very funny. But still, there is a bit of a beat missing in their back-and-forth with him.

That still works, though. Andy Zaltzman’s relentless lack of chemistry with anyone in the world who isn’t John Oliver (and maybe Mark Steel) can be very, very funny. Awkwardness is funny. The awkwardness that stubbornly sticks around in Andy’s interactions, even with fellow comedians he likes and gets along with and shares a sense of humour with, can definitely be funny. There’s a difference between the awkwardness in early 4000-series Bugle episodes, when Andy clearly had no idea what to do with this Hari Kondabolu person, and the awkwardness of Andy Zaltzman just trying to talk to someone he knows and likes but isn’t quite in step with. The latter is quite entertaining.

Anyway. That’s what The Bugle is. I listened to episodes 4001-4200, from October 2016 to July 2021, last year. I listened to it stumble as it tried to rebuild, and then slowly find its feet, and then turn into something new and fantastic in its own way. I listened to that relatively recent interview in which Tiff Stevenson sounded like she was kind of trying to lead Andy Zaltzman toward admitting that the reborn version of The Bugle is actually better than the original version, and he politely (and awkwardly, as always) declined to do so, saying they’re both excellent and too different to compare.

And then I stopped. It was October 2022, and it was getting too close to the present. I’d started listening to The Bugle for the escapism, and the topical stuff was getting close enough to no longer be escapist. I decided I needed a break, so I put The Bugle on hold while I got into other things. I knew I’d go back and finish it, and I expected to do so sooner than this. I got rather distracted. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting my search for, among other things, Daniel Kitson recordings, to be quite so successful (honestly I lucked into it being unbelievably successful, it got rather out of hand). I was a bit busy discovering the collected works of the greatest comedian of his generation, and telling him to stop being a dick about Andy Zaltzman’s life’s work (and occasionally coming across a recording of Kitson performing with Zaltzman, which is always hilarious due to the absolute dearth of chemistry between them, Kitson has one story about a time when hanging out with Andy Zaltzman for a night was so fucking awkward that he had to cut off a dead pig’s head just to salvage the evening – there were other factors at play to make that evening difficult, but I think Andy Zaltzman also just has that effect on people, they find out they don't have as many human buffers as they were expecting between themselves and Andy, and they start cutting up farm animals).

So I’m going back to The Bugle. I’ve listened to every episode they’ve put out between October 2007 and July 2021, and I really may as well listen to the last couple of years worth of episodes, and bring it up to date. Episode 4261 aired last week, so that’s 61 episodes to catch up on. As I wrote that, and realized there are only 61 more episodes out of the hundreds I’ve already heard, I remember that I also put it on hold because I enjoy it so much that I don’t want to get to the end of it. But it’s all right, because they’re still putting out new ones regularly. Andy Zaltzman has dragged this podcast through so many changes and so many threats to its existence, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be around as long as he still has breath in his lungs and that shed in his backyard where he does his writing and personally keeps political comedy in the UK alive.

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