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safarigirlsp · 1 month

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The Museum Beast

Historian Nicholas Mills x OC

Word Count: 13.8k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Horror. Lots of Violence. Gore. Chasing. Monster Action. This is heavily inspired by one of my favorite novels, Relic. If you like any of this, I highly encourage you to read it!

I’m willing to continue this and write more if people like it!

Note: Going forward, I'm going to write characters from now on instead of Readers just because it's really annoying trying to switch back and forth for the non-fic writing I do. However, the female characters will be totally physically vague aside from having a name, so they can still easily be read as an insert by anyone who chooses to insert themselves.

Based on two requests I combined then butchered from @iamburdened and @queeniebee

AO3 Link

Two of the world’s tallest free-standing dinosaurs were frozen mid-battle in the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda on the second floor of the New York Museum of Natural History. In dramatic repose, a Barosaurus reared to protect its young from an attacking Allosaurus. The skeletal titans made the browsing museum patrons look like ants milling at their feet. Alice was never unable to walk past the dinosaurs without craning her neck upward to admire their towering presence. The great saurians were much more interesting to focus on than the throng of chattering primates that inhabited the museum during business hours. Walking through the past with her heels echoing on tile hallways that stretched the length of city blocks, she allowed herself to be distracted by the jungle of extinct species giving life to their dioramas. From the tiny, feathered dinosaur skeleton displayed in a dramatically lit shadow box to the gigantic open jaws of a megalodon framing the entrance to an adjoining hallway, there was always something interesting that caught her eye.

If she walked briskly it was a decent cardio session to make her way to the North American section of the museum. A special exhibit had just opened, an exhibition on the American Old West. It had all the good stuff. Cowboys, gunslingers, train robbers, mountain men, and miners. The exhibit was livelier curated than most, or maybe the subject simply lent itself to action and movement. Standing guard on either side of the entrance were the wax likenesses of Buffalo Bill, wearing his original buckskin outfit, bedazzled with fringe and conchos, and Sitting Bull, dressed in a magnificent headdress boasting a rainbow of colors in its plumage. In one corner was a round table of wax men dressed in full regalia, engaged in a heated poker game. A man with luxurious curly hair sat with his back facing the audience, displaying his hand of aces and eights, the famous Dead Man’s Hand, held by ‘Wild’ Bill Hickock when he was gunned down. The mural painted in the corner Hickock faced even showed the characteristic swinging doors of a saloon, being pushed open by a man with a gun in his hand and murder in his eyes. In another corner ‘Hanging’ Judge Parker sat at his desk, writing in his ledger, backlit by a mural of a man swinging from the gallows outside his office window.

Alice was delighted to see some of the famous men of the old west depicted in less obvious settings than gunfights. These exploits were detailed in paintings that supplemented the exhibits and dozens of informative plaques, but many characters were shown in niche exposes that spoke to the true enthusiasts among the visitors.

The most famous lawman of all, Wyatt Earp, was depicted indulging in his guilty pleasure of gambling with his notoriously beautiful actress wife playing right alongside him as she smoked a cigar. Instead of being shown in his best-known role as Wyatt Earp’s right hand in the infamous Tombstone events, Doc Holliday was portrayed as a suave gentleman, dressed in a fancy brocade vest and cravat, focused on the smiling attentions of his consort, Big-Nosed Kate. The deadliest outlaw of all and likely psychopath John Wesley Hardin was shown lounging on a dirty bunk inside a jail cell. He was intently focused on a large law book. After serving his time, he turned from gunfighting to the practice of law. The plaque detailing his exploits explained tongue-in-cheek that he had traded the illegal form of lawlessness for the legal alternative.

Ample attention was also given to women of note. From saloon owners to cut-throat madams, women’s stories were interspersed with the male narrative. There was of course a display devoted to Calamity Jane, dressed as a man and just as dangerous. Prominently featured was the lesser known but equally successful outlaw Belle Starr, shown wearing a pretty red dress while brandishing a six-gun astride her huge, coal-black horse, Venus. The most famous woman of all, and arguably one of the most iconic figures of the Old West, Annie Oakley, was given a full diorama of her own. A wax figure depicted the pint-sized sharpshooter holding a rifle as she aimed for the cigarette held between her husband’s lips.

An armory worth of firearms from the period were on display. From iconic Colt .45 revolvers and Winchester 30-30 lever action rifles to unique pieces like tiny six-barreled pepper-box derringers and huge Sharps rifles, there were enough firearms to lay siege to a small country. It was befitting for the period, when a man’s gun and his horse were the best friends he could ever have. Without either, a man’s lifespan would likely be reduced to weeks or even days.

The exhibition hall was spacious, even with a veritable herd of visitors milling through it like buffalo on the plains. School children raced through the halls and between dioramas as unchecked as packs of coyotes, while their teachers and handlers tried in vain to wrangle them under control. It was afternoon and most groups were on their final turn around the exhibits before leaving. A few pairs of surly teenagers lingered on the sidelines, looking like they were trying to find a place to whip out a cigarette to enhance their cool, and probably having escaped their own class trip from some other section of the vast museum. Despite the chaos the minors instigated, snippets of intelligent conversation also fluttered around the room.

In an attempt to avoid the class field trips, Alice moved to an adjacent room inside the sprawling exhibit. This spacious room was devoted to art of and from the period, Native American weavings and pottery, animated bronze sculptures, and vibrant oil paintings. The more sedate nature of the art exhibits appealed to a more sedate crowd, unable to hold the interest of children and teenagers. The only other people in the art room were an elderly couple, a group of three college-age people who looked like modern beatniks, and one impressively built man standing off to one side, studying the plaque of a detailed mural-size painting.

Alice couldn’t help but appraise the man discreetly as he stood quartering away from her. He was tall and broad, his robust physique apparent through his flannel shirt and jeans. Even from her angle, she could tell his features were strong and masculine. Dark hair curled around his collar and his strong stubble-covered jaw flexed as he read, his bright eyes darting quickly over the text. She wondered briefly about approaching him – men that attractive were rare to find out in the wild – but it struck her as ridiculous to approach the man like she was in a bar and ask him if he came here often. Rolling her eyes inwardly at herself, she turned her attention toward the opposite wall and a painting of a painfully skinny man riding an equally emaciated white horse on a moonlight night.

It was rewarding when out of the corner of her eye she saw the man turn and pause just to look at her. The man glanced toward the doorway leading back into the main exhibit then back at her, seeming to decide whether or not he too wanted to risk making an ass of himself with a clumsy come-on in an art exhibit. Alice fought to hide her smile when he made his decision in her favor.

The handsome man sidled up to her, his approach practiced and laissez-faire. His shoulders were squared and his stride confident, but he angled across the exhibit hall from the side, his eyes fixed on the oil paintings instead of his prize, like a lion casually strolling by a gazelle to gauge distance before an attack. There was an impulse to turn to him with an accusatorily arched eyebrow to show she was onto him. But he was attractive enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. Being pursued added a certain spice to the air, after all. With his large hands in his pockets and his posture confident but relaxed, he dripped with top notes of James Dean and undertones of Clint Eastwood.

“Frederick Remington,” the man read the artist’s name when he stopped beside her. He was a full head taller and his voice was deep and a little gravely, barely tinged with a Western drawl. “I think my dad has one of his 30.06 rifles.”

Alice hoped he was teasing, that there were a few active brain cells sparking inside that pretty head. The hint of a smirk twisting the man’s lips confirmed it. Keeping her face deadpan, she played along. “Yeah? These artists must have been starving during their lifetimes, being forced to branch out like that. I hear the guy behind Winchester Arms was really into weird avant garde architecture, too.”

The man grinned and turned to face her, fixing her with a pair of bright eyes the color of whiskey. “I think that was his wife. Leave it to a woman to spend a man’s hard-earned gun money on a house in the California hills, complete with staircases leading to ceilings and dead ends. Think she had a Remington on the walls?”

“I don’t know if Sarah Winchester was a fan of Frederick Remington, but I bet there were a few works by Eliphalet Remington somewhere inside,” Alice teased.

“I’m impressed,” the man laughed. “I couldn’t have pulled that name out of thin air.”

“I bet now you’re wondering if I’m a gun nut or just a history buff. A woman should keep an air of mystery about her.” She smiled and looked at him squarely. She decided he looked at home in the Old West exhibit, exuding a ruggedly masculine quality that was all too rare in modern society. He had a face that belonged on the streets of Dodge City, those crisp hooded eyes staring down the barrel of a Colt .45. She realized she had been staring into those eyes for a rudely long moment, and continued talking to smooth over that faux pas, “I never cared much for Remington’s paintings. They’re drab and all the subjects are in painfully sorry condition – horses and men alike.” She pointed to an incredible scene of two cowboys roping a grizzly bear, their movements frozen on canvas mid-stride, mid-lasso, and mid-snarl, painted with confident strokes in a vibrant palette. “Charlie Russell is my favorite. You can’t beat the color and the action in his paintings.”

“I wonder if that’s worse than having a tiger by the tail,” he pondered, pointing at the lassoed grizzly, snarling and swiping at the horse and rider. “What would your boyfriend say?”

“That position is currently vacant. What a brash way to inquire.” She smiled and nodded back at the snarling grizzly. “I’m sure three out of four ex-boyfriends would say they’d take their chances with the bear.”

“It’d take more than a bear or a tiger to scare me away from such a pretty face,” he teased, using those impressive eyes as tactically as a gun. “I never did have much instinct for self-preservation. Plenty of brash though, and other things synonymous.”

She laughed genuinely. “You’ve covered art, guns, tigers, and balls in three minutes flat. That’s quite an icebreaker without even introducing yourself. What else should I know?”

“Nicholas Mills.” He grinned handsomely and extended his hand, it was callused and powerful and large, easily swallowing hers in his warm grip. “I’m here consulting on this exhibition, on loan from the Old West Museum in Cheyanne.”

“Alice,” she returned, giving his hand a firm shake. “You’re a historian?” Her tone was skeptical as she pointedly eyed his flannel shirt and jeans. “Is tweed out of vogue for you types these days?”

“In the west it’s all denim and cotton.” He popped the collar of his shirt. “Linen if you want to be pretentious. Dust sticks to tweed like hell, not to mention burs.”

“What about your ten-gallon hat and dinnerplate-sized belt buckle?” The question gave her a convenient excuse to gauge the way he filled out his jeans. He wasn’t a man who skipped leg day.

“Those are only fashion accessories in Texas. Maybe Santa Fe. Where I’m from, if you’re wearing a cowboy hat, it better have a sweat ring around the headband, and if you’re wearing a belt buckle, it better be tarnished. Those are work accessories for working ranch hands, not fashion statements.” He let his eyes travel the curves of her figure under the guise of admiring her outfit of jeans and a blazer. “I suppose those duds work equally well for business or pleasure in most fields.” He smirked, but moved on before she could wonder at the double entendre. “Do I get a last name or just Alice?”

Smiling coyly, Alice replied, “I’ll give you a hint and see how well you know your stuff. It’s the name of one of my favorite songs and of a color that looks terrible on me, and I share it with a gunfighter who I’m sad to see isn’t featured in your exhibit. He had one of the best names in the business. That’s three hints, actually. So, are you posing as a historian to hit on unsuspecting women, or the real deal?”

“I’m not up on music and I can’t imagine there’s a color that could make you look terrible,” Nick frowned and pursed his lips. “I know of a couple of noteworthy Browns and even a Dunn, but their names don’t have any special ring to them. If I was a betting man, I’d put my dollar on ‘Texas’ Jack Vermillion. Alice Vermillion?”

“If you were betting, you’d have hit the jackpot,” Alice said with a genuine smile. “A man who knows Texas Jack and Charlie Russell. I’m not yet impressed, but I am intrigued.”

“If this goes the direction I’m hoping, I may yet hit that jackpot and you’ll be very impressed.” He didn’t give her the chance to address that sentiment before changing the subject. He cocked his head toward another painting depicting a man and woman seated side by side beneath an upside down canoe propped above them, taking shelter from a torrent of rain in a thick forest. Despite the weather, the couple was engaged in smiling conversation. “I’m a Goodwin man, myself. But I’m biased. Every time I look at his paintings of cowboys packing up in Alaska or canoeing in the Great North, adventurous couples fishing and hunting together, I get nostalgia for a place I’ve never been.” He smiled to himself. “Someday.”

“Isn’t New York about as far away as a man can get from canoeing up in the Great North and fighting grizzlies over your catch of the day?” she teased. “Not much chance of facing down a maneater on the mean streets of NYC. Although, I hear these days you’re more likely to get bitten by a New Yorker than a shark.”

“You must not know about the Museum Beast.” He flashed a grin that was lopsided and full of mischief.

Alice cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s a little early in the day for ghost stories. Shouldn’t you invite me someplace nicer before you start trying to rattle the delicate woman into wanting to cling to your big, strong arm?”

“I’m appalled you think I’m that easy, miss.” He flexed one of those big, strong arms in question in the sluttiest possible way. “It’s no campfire ghost story. The folks who work here believe it. They say there’s a huge beast living in the basement, roaming the halls at night.” Holding up his hands, he hummed the Twilight Zone theme. “They say it preys on researchers who embezzle grant money and curators who hit on their secretaries.”

Alice laughed, maybe snorted a little, decidedly unladylike. “So, you’re saying I’m safe then?”

“I’ll keep you safe,” he teased with faux gravity. “Just stick close to me.”

“That sounds like a pretty firm offer to help with some research to me.” She put her hands on her hips in a playful challenge.

“Would it be smart of you to trust the research skills of a man who’s not wearing a tweed jacket?” He grinned. “What kind of research? Are you a student?”

“God no!” she laughed. “I haven’t been a student in over a decade. I’m something much worse.”

Nick raised his eyebrows, inquiring.

“I’m a defense lawyer, trying desperately to find an angle to show my very guilty client has a mitigating defense.” She mirrored his expression, raising her eyebrows. “You want the facts? They’re not for the squeamish. You don’t have a full stomach, do you?”

“A pretty face with a shady job and an iron stomach to boot?” he laughed again. “You have my attention.”

“Have you ever gotten carried away and gone down some weird rabbit holes?” she asked with a self-deprecating grin.

‘Sure.” He nodded. “I’m not surprised you’re one to go chasing rabbits, Alice.”

“My client is a murder, a serial killer. A cannibal, to be precise.” She watched him for any of the silent tells she was used to seeing when a listener wanted her to stop, or to chew their arm off and escape her work stories. Seeing none, she continued. “He grew up in Centralia, Pennsylvania before the town was evacuated, then worked in mines all of his adult life. He tells me this affected him. Sadly, conventional psych evals don’t back up his claim. So, before I lay out the big bucks on an expert to say whatever I want, I wanted to do some research on the effects of heavy metal poisoning on miners and a correlation with cannibalism. I figured looking at the Old West miners before there were regulations might be a good place to start.”

“Cannibalism, huh? Romantic topic. Did you see the Donner Party exhibit?” He smirked and jerked his thumb in the direction of a diorama of several wax figures huddled around a dying campfire, clutching furs around them to fight the bitter blizzarding cold while suggestively roasting skewers of meat.

“It’s very nice.” She looked back at the macabre display. “But not what I’m looking for. They had a different defense to cannibalism. Duress, definitely. If I were representing one of them, I’d also argue self-defense, in an eat or be eaten sense. I’d win.”

Nick grinned then pursed his lips, nodding as he considered her problem. “You won’t find anything useful up here but if you want to go deeper down this rabbit hole, you’d want to have a look in the museum’s archives. This museum has the largest collection of natural history artifacts in the world. That’s one reason I’m here, frankly, is a chance to explore their collection of Old West relics. It’s better than being a kid in a candy store. It’s almost as good as an occultist getting a backstage pass to the Vatican Archives.” He fixed his intense eyes on hers. “I bet we could find some good stuff in there.”

“Are you offering to sneak me into the museum’s archives with you?” She added a seductive edge to her voice and added, “You’re going to lift up the museum’s skirt for me and show me her goods?”

“I’ll have you know skirt-lifting is a great talent of mine.” He waggled his eyebrows playfully. “Yeah, I’m offering, so long as you let me take you out afterwards. We can discuss our findings over dinner.”

“You won’t get in trouble?” she asked sincerely.

“They can’t fire me.” He shrugged. “The worst they could do is chew me out and deport me back to Cheyanne. What do you say? Dinner in exchange for a private curated tour and me risking getting a big ole ass-chewing?”

“Deal.” Alice smiled, offering her hand again and they shook on it.

*******************************************************************************************

It was creeping toward five when Nick led Alice out of an employee service elevator on one of the lower levels of the museum. They had met an exodus of employees heading the opposite direction on their way home for the day.

“Is it too late for this adventure?” Alice asked as they walked down a hallway so long she could barely see the end of it. The lights were dim and there were no windows on this lower level. They passed dozens of closed doors and multiple other hallways branching off. She thought the minotaur could get lost in this place.

“I have my all hours, all access pass.” He tapped his jeans pocket where a laminated card was stowed. It served as both an ID card and a key to most of the locked doors in the museum and the employee-only areas.

“How do you not get lost in here?” Alice asked, looking around the endless halls. Especially with no natural light or signage, it seemed impossible.

“Nah, I get lost all the time. I consider it part of the adventure,” he laughed, then saw her askance look and added sheepishly, “Sorry, I forgot I was supposed to be your intrepid guide. I won’t let on if I get lost. Just consider it exploring.”

“That’s comforting,” she laughed too. Secretly, she thought it might not be the most terrible thing to be lost for a few hours or even the night in a place with so much to explore with a handsome man.

Alice was convinced they had covered the distance of several city blocks before they arrived at a pair of heavy oak doors with a plain brass plate announcing they had reached the B Archives.

“Does that mean there’s an entire alphabet of archive rooms and collections?” she asked as Nick held the door open for her.

“Probably.” He shrugged. “I’ve only poked around in Archives A, B, and C. Those collections date from the recent past until the eighteenth century or so.”

Inside the B Archives, Alice was reminded of an enormous library that had seen better days. Or the basement of an ultra-rich hoarder. Rows of metal shelves streaked away as far as she could see in the dim lighting, seven-feet high and with another foot or two of boxes piled on top. Between rows there was enough space for two people to walk abreast if they wanted to get a little cozy with one another. At various intervals in the rows there were alcoves fitted with small tables where one could examine their find without taking it up to the front. The light added to the aged feel, the bulbs candlelight-yellow, a few of which were weak and flickering. The front of the room had a kind of sitting area with chairs and a spattering of small tables. There was a small office inside too, a door with a smoked glass window open ajar.

A hunched old man with white hair and coke bottle glasses poked his head out from the office door, squinting at Nick for several seconds before addressing him. “You’ve been bothering me a lot lately.”

“This time I brought a pretty girl who wants to bother you,” Nick said, placing his hand on the small of Alice’s back as he led her toward the old man. “She’s curious what you have on mines in the old west. Particularly mines with gruesome histories. Murders, deaths, breakouts of illness or insanity. All that good stuff. Cannibalism in particular, if you have any of that on the menu.”

“Cannibalism? On a perfectly decent Friday afternoon?” The old man scoffed, but proceeded to ponder the matter, his bushy white eyebrows drawing together in thought. After a moment, he held up a triumphant finger. “You know, there is a rather curious box of effects that might interest you. It’s some remnants of an old Colorado sheriff’s things. He led quite an illustrious life, it seems. His heirs donated most of his effects to the museum. I took a quick peek through it years ago when it came in, but I haven’t thought of it since.” He pointed a bony finger down the row of aisles. “Aisle S, box 5425, if memory serves, and it always does.”

“How in the hell do you do that?” Nick asked, shaking his head.

“Photographic memory.” The man tapped his temple. “Which also means I’ll remember you precisely if you mess up my boxes.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Nick assured him then led the way toward aisle S.

It took them some time to locate box 5425, partially because many of the labels were faded beyond readability. When they found it, Nick had to stand on his tiptoes and stretch his arms to their full reach to nudge it off its perch on top of another box on the top shelf. He nearly dropped the box when it came free, catching it with one hand and fumbling for balance for a harrowing second. Once he held it securely in his arms, he smiled cockily at Alice and headed toward the nearest alcove in their row.

The alcove was centered in the row and seated directly under a flickering yellow light. Nick set the box down on the small table, barely large enough for a coffee date. The lights were sparsely spaced, leaving shadowy stretches between pools of yellow light. There were still several towering rows of shelving between them and the entrance, but sound carried well in the sepulcher-like room. He was spreading the contents of the box out on the table when he heard then entrance door creak open and a voice bounced down the aisle toward them.

“I’m clocking out for the day.” The old man called. “Put that box back where you found it and don’t tell anyone I left you unattended in here, and we’ll still be friends tomorrow.”

“You got it,” Nick replied, projecting his deep voice so it boomed through the archives. Then he turned to Alice with a wolfish expression, “I hope you didn’t want a chaperone.”

“All a chaperone does is keep an honest man honest,” she replied, appreciating just how close they stood at the small table. “I think you’re a man who will break as many rules as I let you, chaperone or not.”

“Maybe so.” He grinned sideways and chewed his lip as he opened the box.

It may have been a mistake, she realized, allowing herself to be shut away privately and in such close confines with this man. Her profession was dominated by men, she was used to working closely with men and attractiveness or lack thereof never entered into it. Rarely, at least. It was a foreign feeling to be dominated by hormones the way she was now. Her senses felt assaulted, a gate failing before a battering ram. The way he looked and the rich gravel in his voice were bad enough, but now in the close space, Alice couldn’t ignore the masculine scent that subtly infiltrated her nose. She didn’t know if the scent of pine and leather mingled with musk was cologne or if it belonged to him. The small table necessitated him being close to her, their bodies almost touching. He didn’t crowd her, but still the size of him was tantalizingly imposing with the minimal space between them. She felt the heat from his body on her skin when he leaned over to study the papers spread across the table next to her. It made her think of being overpowered, manhandled, taken, even – the things that modern empowered women were supposed to have evolved beyond but that the base part of them craved when they sensed a man masculine enough to give it.

Nick pulled a letter from the box, the paper brittle and yellowed with age. Protocol dictated he should be wearing gloves to handle it, but he didn’t want to leave Alice alone long enough to fetch a pair. Despite his bravado, he had always found these dark and mostly abandoned places inside the museum creepy. He never let it get to him or get in the way of anything he needed to do, of course. But it was still an unsettling sort of environment, surrounded by the dead and their effects, in a place where voices echoed and shadows creeped. It was easy to imagine wakeful spirits watching him from the corner of his eye, just at the edges of the feeble light.

Not unlike being inside a deep, dark mine, he thought as he looked at the letter. He read aloud to Alice, thinking he might have actually struck gold, at least in terms of finding something to keep their afternoon interesting.

October 13, 1882

Darlin Belle,

I’m sure missin you tonight. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this but I hope it will find its way to you. I’m gonna write you like you was here with me and I was just talkin to you over dinner. It makes me miss you less. Every time I think about bein home, all that is to me is bein with you. The men in the posse kid me for bein whipped by you but I can’t find a damn to give over it. Miserable lonely bastards, the lot of em. But I guess they didn’t leave no one behind to miss em when they died. I hope you’ll miss me and remember the things that were good about me. There aren’t many, so it shouldn’t be hard.

“That sounds romantic,” Alice said with a wistful lilt. “I’m not sure it’s useful for my purposes, but I like it.”

Nick grinned and nodded. He read ahead to himself, but decided not to share it with the woman who was now looking at him with a pretty, hopeful smile. Best not to spoil the mood. He read the next few paragraphs to himself, feeling a prickly chill drag along the length of his spine like ghostly fingernails.

It’s been snowin up here in these mountains for days and it’s up over my knees now. Sure makes me miss the warmth of your touch. There’s nothin finer than holdin you in my arms, smellin your hair like flowers and cinnamon, feelin you soft n warm. I think you might be the only thing that can thaw me out ever again. Here I gone and got myself all hot and bothered just thinkin about you. But the snow’s been a blessin for me. It made the blood trail of the one I wounded easy to follow. I found him holed up under a ledge and finished him off with my knife so as not to fire off a shot. Sound carries in these mountains. The snow got thicker after dark. Thick enough to hide my tracks from the rest who are huntin me.

They haven’t found my hideout yet, but they will. I have to beat em to the punch.

I ain’t got much time cause they know the mountains better than me. It makes hidin hard and ambushin harder.

Sorry my writins goin from bad to worse fast. My fingers are numb as hell.

Curious, Alice leaned in to look at the letter and read it along with him. Spender folded it back together with a snap, too rough for the old paper and cleared his throat. He hastily put it back in the box – in the bottom of the box, under some other more innocuous looking items. “I don’t think the rest is worth reading today.”

Instead, he reached for a pocket watch with a gold hunting case, beautifully engraved with an elk hunting scene. Holding it delicately in his hands, he popped open the cover and read the engraving aloud, “To my handsome sheriff. You carry my love for you wherever you go. Belle.”

“That’s beautiful.” Turning toward him, Alice looked into his eyes as she spoke. Though his composure remained steady on the surface, she saw the way his chest expanded, his jaw clenched, his throat bobbed. It gave her a feeling of power knowing Nick was just as affected by their proximity as she was, maybe even more. She told herself she wouldn’t completely give into hormones. But she could give a little. How long had it been since she’d made out with a man like a horny teenager during a study session? Probably not since she had been a horny teenager. She could live a little now. Resting her ass against the tale, she leaned back against it and looked up at him, intentionally giving him the image of her laying sprawled beneath him. It would be a perfectly innocuous posture if the air wasn’t so charged between them, the attraction so tangible. The way he swallowed thickly told her that it wasn’t innocuous to him either.

The next move was his, Nick realized. Smirking to mask the way his pulse thundered, he stepped closer to her, using the excuse of setting the watch down on the table near her hip resting against the table’s edge. He left his hand there on the table, and when Alice kept looking up at him rather than anywhere else, Nick knew he had her tacit approval to act bolder. With his next step, he positioned himself in front of her. His right hand still rested near the pocket watch that held less interest to Alice than the man. He flattened his right hand on the table beside her then planted his left hand on her opposite side. There was still space between their bodies, if only inches, but he now caged her against the table and loomed over her.

“Find anything that interests you down here yet, darlin?’” he asked, letting the huskiness in his voice reflect his mounting arousal.

Alice heard something that sounded like a faint scratch from somewhere inside the archives. It was hardly enough to pull her attention away from the stupidly attractive man who was doing his best to make her forget all the dating rules and run every base right here in this dusty archive.

“I don’t have enough information to know if I’m interested in anything yet,” she teased. Angling her chin up, she presented her jaw and neck in a favorable angle for kissing.

“What do I need to clear up for you?” he played along as he lowered his head, trailing his nose over her cheek and his lips over her jaw, kissing lightly and teasing her with the scratch of his beard.

A box shifted on a shelf deeper in the archive, as though something had bumped it or rubbed against it. Alice heard that too, but she didn’t care. Not when Nick’s lips had moved to her neck and were giving her goosebumps, making her breath come short and her spine tingle. Encouraged by the way her body arched toward his and the way her hands had flown to his shoulders, Nick hooked his hands behind her thighs and hoisted her up onto the table. Pushing her legs apart, he stepped between them, bringing their bodies together then letting his hands caress her thighs and back as he continued kissing her neck. Every part of his body was hard beneath her roving hands, each plane and ridge of muscle a new excitement to discover. She could feel how hard he was inside his jeans too, but she would save exploring all of him for another time. She had talked herself into a nice makeout session with a handsome stranger, but she hadn’t yet abandoned all of her morals.

Bringing his hand to the back of her neck, he cradled her head while he exerted that subtle masculine control that could make a woman want to submit to him. Nick teased the side of her neck with his teeth, also teasing her restraint. He grinned against her skin when he pulled a soft moan from her throat, beginning to lose himself in the feel of her body against his, her soft skin under his callused hands.

When she moaned, Alice heard a strange response from somewhere in the dimly lit room. Something like a wet huffed breath, or a sloppy inhale. It sounded like a large dog snuffling. It was unmistakably not something she could attribute to the old room or hear ears playing tricks on her.

“Nick,” she whispered, not from arousal but trepidation. “Did you hear that?”

“’Course, darlin,’” he muttered dismissively as he nosed and kissed along her collarbone, his fingers digging into her thigh.

“What is it?” She was starting to pull back, making him tighten his hold on her.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing,” he spoke against her skin, trying to placate her. He hadn’t heard anything, but if there was something, it was probably a fucking rat the size of a wiener dog. They had those fuckin’ things in New York. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her that. Giant rats wouldn’t do a damn thing to keep her revved up for him. Forcing the thought from his own mind, he resumed kissing her, rubbing his words in with his lips. “It’s an old place. There’s bound to be some weird noises.”

“Listen!” she whisper-yelled, grabbing a fistful of his thick hair and yanking far too harshly to be mistaken for anything sexy.

He winced and frowned at her through one eye, the other was squeezed shut from the pain in his scalp. “You could just tell me to fuckin’ stop, you know?”

“Listen,” she said again, this time her whisper was barely audible. She heard another scrape and maybe another sniffing breath. But everything was quieter now, more subtle. As if whatever was making those faint noises was trying to be stealthier.

“That could be anything,” Nick said at full volume with a laugh on his voice. His voice seemed to boom throughout the archives, sparking off Alice’s inflamed nerve endings.

She clapped a hand over his mouth, hard enough to make him flinch. Her body was bolt upright, incidentally pressing her body flush to his, her every muscle taught. She knew her system had shot into a fight or flight response, but she didn’t know why. Her consciousness hadn’t registered anything that warranted such a reaction, a few odd sounds in an old museum was hardly noteworthy. But something about what she heard struck a chord in her core, deep in her subconscious where instinct reigned. Every sense she had sparked like live electric wires, screaming at her to run away as fast as she could, but she didn’t know what she was running from or even which direction to bolt. Her eyes were wide and terrified when they met Nick’s and she whispered, “Something’s in here with us. Listen. We have to get out.”

His eyes crinkled with amusement and he kissed her palm still held over his mouth. Taking her wrist, he plucked her hand away and kissed her there on her pulse point. He did it teasingly, but he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, “I spooked you good with that story about the Museum Beast.” He smirked and teased further, “I thought you were a big girl who could handle some campfire tales.”

“Can you not hear anything over the sound of your hard on?” she hissed, placing a restraining hand on his chest. “Listen, and try to think with the right head for a minute.”

Nick laughed, he always had a weakness for the feisty ones. He was about to tell her as much and steal another kiss when he heard it. A kind of snuffling, like someone with a runny nose, but also different and unmistakable. Growing up in Wyoming, he had spent plenty of time outdoors around wildlife, hunting, fishing, and hiking. He’d heard that sound once before when he’d come face to face with a grizzly around a bend in a trail. Given their poor eyesight, grizzlies tended to grunt and sniff their way along, their way of assessing their environment. He didn’t believe what his mind registered. There couldn’t be a fucking bear in a New York museum. But he also couldn’t rationally attribute the sound to some wheezy curator or a congested janitor, especially not when paired with a stealthy padded footfall.

“We need to run.” Alice fisted his lapel. Her voice had dropped below a whisper to an urgent breath.

“No, darlin,’ don’t run.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her off the table, returning her feet to the floor. Taking her arm, he pulled her behind him, placing himself closest toward the strange noises and whatever creature made them. He began to back slowly away down the aisle, pushing her behind him, trying to keep his steps silent. His mind raced frantically, but he forced his body to remain in control, repeating, “Don’t run.”

“Can we fight it?” she asked, touching his back from behind, trying to calm herself by keeping contact with him

“We may have to,” Nick gritted, unsure what to do since he had no idea what was creeping toward them from a few rows away. “Just don’t run. If there’s some kind of animal in here with us, the worst thing you can do is run.”

*******************************************************************************************

That little bitch, Warren thought petulantly as he walked down the dim hallway. The hallway that stretched on for the length of a city block. It was such bullshit. He hadn’t walked this much since he got kicked off his co-ed flag football team in junior high. Fuck her, he thought again as he kicked at a piece of crumpled paper on the tile floor, missed, and stumbled sideways. At least no one was around to see him. His uppity date was nowhere to be found. She had the gall to shove him away when he tried to fondle her boobs before running away from him. The ungrateful bitch. Warren had used his lunch hour to help her sneak out of high school, had paid her admission into the museum, and wasted his afternoon leading her around the exhibits and thrilling her with his acumen. She owed him a feel. He would just tell all her friends she sucked his dick in his car and have the last laugh.

Sullenly picking at the chipped black paint on his stubby fingers, he turned down yet another pointlessly long hallway. Despite being as blonde as a California It Girl and having a dumpy potatoesque physique, he thought that his crooked guyliner and black skinny jeans that revealed a tantalizing glimpse of a sweaty plumber’s crack gave him the hot goth look the girls liked. Not so much the girls in his peerage at college – they were stuck up bitches anyway, already hounding after the guys who were studying law at Harvard – but the girls who were just about to graduate from high school, just turned eighteen, maybe a little homely and desperate for a date to prom. Those were his preferred prey. He usually had some meager success with them, before their fathers found out about him and heartlessly separated them. It enhanced his view of himself as a tragic, long-suffering Shakespearean love interest who had turned to goth rock to bemoan his existence.

Since Warren had somehow managed to get turned around inside the maze of hallways until after it closed for the day, the museum was also devoid of employees. He thought it was only a matter of time before he ran into a security guard. He had a story lined up for why he was inside after hours, a grand tale that emphasized his victimhood. Maybe he could even end up with his name in the paper over it. That would really impress the girls.

Now, Warren lumbered along a random hallway, trying to find his way to an exit. He needed to find an elevator first. He had sneaked into some kind of service elevator with the girl and gone down several floors in his search for privacy. He thought he was in some kind of storage area or basement now, every room he passed was vacant save for troves of weird antiques. He had found the door to a stairwell a few turns back down the hallway, but he wasn’t about to walk up several flights of stairs. His day had been shit enough so far without climbing stairs.

After what seemed like an eternity, he came to a pair of double doors marked B Archives. He couldn’t remember the last time he had walked so far. He must have put in over two miles inside this stupid museum already. Like, a month’s worth of walking. Maybe there was a desk inside with a chair he could rest in even if he couldn’t find an employee to lead him out of this suckhole.

Success! Inside the B Archives were rows of forgotten looking shelves that Warren couldn’t give a shit less about, but there was also an office with an open door and the promise of a desk and cushy chair. The lights were on inside, giving him the additional hope that some diligent employee still remained there after hours.

“Hey?” he called out to anyone who might answer. His voice echoed eerily down the rows and off the tile like tumbleweeds rolling down the streets of a ghost town. “Is there anyone here? I need some directions to the way out.”

Something sounded in response from far back in the archives, down one of the dim rows. It sounded like a startled step, like he had caught someone off guard and they had turned around fast.

“If you could call a guard or even just tell me how to find the exit, that would be great,” Warren shouted. He walked toward the sound, down toward the back of the archives past the ends of the phalanx of aisles. A strange feeling began to creep into his senses, like the uneasy feeling he got when he watched horror movies alone. The feeling that had made him instigate a rule that he didn’t watch scary movies after nine. He even thought he heard the sound of something breathing heavily. Maybe he needed to ration his porn intake too, now he was blending porn sound effects with horror reactions. He mumbled to himself, “Who wouldn’t be creeped out by all this stupid old shit?”

Warren hadn’t paid attention to the way his walk had slowed without him meaning to or the way his mouth had gone dry. He jumped like he had bumped into an electric fence when one of the lightbulbs overhead surged then dimmed. He was glad the girl had run off now, so she couldn’t see him sweat and his hands shake. He heard something down the aisle to his left, something like a single impatient rap of nails on a desk.

The flickering of a waning yellow bulb drew his attention down the aisle. In the flickering light, it looked like something was moving in the aisle, just beyond the reach of the light on the far side. Something crouched and hulking in the shadows. It must be a trick of the dim light. That and being a little freaked out from being stuck down here all alone for what felt like hours. Still, Warren wished he had worn his smudged glasses. He didn’t wear them when he was trying to impress a girl because they weren’t cool.

He was focusing too hard on the shadows. Focus too hard on something and it can seem like the thing is moving. It was a common optical illusion, and the flickering light didn’t help. It made the weird shape in the shadows look like an animal with its head lowered, stealthily sneaking toward him down the aisle.

“Fuck this,” Warren exclaimed, throwing his hands up like an overwrought woman. He didn’t need to be in the creepy old room in the creepy old museum basement. At least the never-ending hallways weren’t filled to the brim with weird antiques.

Down the aisle something sniffed, like someone with a runny nose. Something definitely moved just beyond the light.

“Shit’s probably haunted,” he decided. That made it easier. He was a staunch Ghost Hunters fan and he’d learned a thing or two from them. Forcing a laugh, he added, “Suck my balls, ghosts!”

Turning on his heel in a flippant insult to the ghosts, he walked briskly back the way he had come. He heard something else, seemingly misplaced inside the haunted archives. He very distinctly heard the sound of a footfall and what sounded like a muffled voice, maybe two if one was whispering, coming from deeper down one of the aisles. But it was immediately overshadowed by the sound of a heavy body rushing down the aisle with the flickering light, and nails scraping on tile. Or claws.

Looking back over his shoulder, Warren saw a huge dark body moving fast down the aisle toward him in a kind of lope. An animal, grunting and running toward him. His mind couldn’t process all the details, or it didn’t want to. What his mind hitched on were the teeth. When the creature ran through the scant pool of light, vicious exposed teeth glinted inside its snarling jaws.

Warren ran.

The beast lunged after its prey with the instinct of a predator to chase after a fleeing animal. Warren felt it when the beast gave chase, like the stale air had chilled and all the ghosts inside the archives were watching him. Claws scrambling on tile and heavy galloping echoed behind him, punctuated by grunts.

Warren could see the exit door. It wasn’t far. He could make it. Trying to make his legs pump faster, he looked back over his shoulder. The creature had rounded the end of the aisle and was charging straight at him in large bounding strides. It was bigger than a lion with terrible yellow eyes and teeth like ivory daggers. And it was close.

With a sob, Warren tried to eke out more speed from his already failing legs, but his steps were clumsy and his breathing labored. All that walking all day had done him in. Something slammed into his back, heavy and sharp at the same time, sending him careening forward face down onto the tile. His back felt like it was on fire, stinging and melting at the same time with hot fluid slicking his shirt to his skin.

Crying, Warren looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the creature’s mouth open as it came in for the killing bite. But the beast sat on its haunches, poised like a giant cat, flicking a broad reptilian tail from side to side and drumming the claws of its forepaw on the tile. It watched him with evil yellow eyes, and it waited. With another blubbering sob, Warren staggered up to his feet and tried to run again. He didn’t get as far this time, only a few steps. The beast bounded after him, swiping one of its razor-clawed paws at Warren’s legs. Warren felt his flesh tear as his feet gave out from under him and he collapsed again. He had played enough gory video games to guess the beast had clawed through his calf on one leg and severed his Achilles tendon on the other.

The creature paused again, watching its crippled prey with a curiously cocked head as the pitiful human crawled away, one foot turned the wrong direction and flopping lifelessly on the floor, leaving a wide swatch of delicious smelling blood in its wake.

Warren couldn’t stand back up this time, and he barely had enough gumption left to crawl. After a few desperate flailing attempts, he turned over and flopped onto his back. He stared at the horrendous beast, his watery eyes meeting those of fearsome yellow. With a sickening horror that churned in his bowels he realized what the beast was doing. It was playing with him. The fucking monster was toying with him like a cat with a mouse. The beast cocked its head to the other side as it gave an impatient flick of its tail. Just like a cat with a mouse, the fun was over when the mouse stopped running.

Warren swore he saw an excited gleam flash inside those eyes as the monster lunged at him one final time. He looked into its ravenous eyes, as a heavy weight landed on his chest, pinning him in place. He felt his body being ripped open from throat to crotch with a sound like tearing burlap. The pain was extraordinary, but he couldn’t close his eyes against it.

Gruesome wet smacking noises filled the archive and Warren’s body jerked, tugged from someplace deep inside. He tried to scream but couldn’t with his diaphragm slashed open. Warren was still very much alive when the monster started eating him.

*******************************************************************************************

Nick could hear it clearly now, a heavy body moving with great stealth and wet breathing. Closing in on them from a couple aisles away. There could be no doubt, no mistaking it for the noises of an old room or for scuttling vermin. He had placed his body between the approaching animal and the woman. It was a protective male instinct and gallant, but not an act that would be overly helpful if the thing attacked them. A human’s top speed was equivalent to a chicken. If an Olympic sprinter would have a hard time outrunning a rooster, Nick had no delusions that he could outrun an apex predator. All running would do would trigger it into attacking. He also didn’t think he could fight it off, not if it really wanted to attack. He didn’t have a weapon and humans were really quite feeble animals without their tools. He knew the ways a man could try to survive a predator attack – play dead with a grizzly, fight a black bear, shout at a lion to try to scare it off. None of them would work if the animal really wanted to get him. Then, a man could only hope the animal lost interest before it killed him. Balling his fists, he decided that if it came to a fight, he’d fight until his last breath. Or until he was torn apart.

“Hey! Is there anyone here? I need some directions to the way out,” an unfamiliar voice sounded through the archives.

Nick froze, every sense piqued. He reached behind him and grabbed Alice’s hand, squeezing tightly, silently willing her to stay calm and quiet. He didn’t know the woman and he hoped to hell she had enough sense to stay still and silent, not to yell back toward the stranger or to run in his direction. A mistake like that would be their death sentence. Alice squeezed his hand back, reassuring him, and placed her other hand on his back. The monstrous beast had stilled, its attention captured by the noisome intruder instead of the quieter, more boring quarry. It sniffed the air, assessing the stranger.

Each heartbeat pounded in Nick’s ears like war drums, each second an agony as they waited for the monster to decide which prey it wanted to hunt. With frightening quickness, the beast turned and vanished into the shadowy depths of the aisle.

Keeping hold of Alice’s hand, Nick turned to her and met her eyes. Very deliberately, he brought his forefinger to his lips in the universal gesture for utter silence. He tugged her with him down the aisle in the opposite direction the creature had gone. They heard the stranger’s voice asking the room if someone could tell him how to find the exit. Nick led Alice away from the stranger and away from the beast.

The unknown man was toast. There was nothing Nick could do, and he wasn’t going to waste the life of a woman trying to save a man he didn’t know. He was also smart enough or shellfish enough to value his own life over that of a foolhardy stranger. He hoped the fool would distract the monster enough for them to sneak around it and make the exit themselves. His mind raced ahead of his feet, thinking past the exit to the museum. If they made it out of the archives, they would find themselves back in a long, straight hallway with nowhere to hide and no chance of outrunning whatever the hell this animal was.

To reassure himself, he felt his pocket for the museum key card. He didn’t know if it would help them, but without it they had no chance.

The stranger’s footsteps echoed through the archives as the man started walking down along the ends of the forest of aisles. Nick gambled that the beast’s attention was fixed on that sound and that victim. Pulling Alice along beside him, he trotted down the aisle as swiftly as he could while keeping his footsteps light. For such a large man, he could move stealthily, a skill ingrained by a youth spent hunting with his father and refined by a stint in the military. He was pleased that Alice matched him in both pace and silence. He ran to the far end of the aisle, listening to the intermittent mutterings from the idiot bumbling around at the front of the vast room. The beast could no longer be heard, which worried him, but he had gambled on this hand and now he had to let it ride.

The back of the archives was notably darker than the front and even in between the aisles with the temperamental lightbulbs. An animal stink hung in the air along the back wall, as if the animal used this shady area as a trail of sorts. They moved quickly past the ends of the aisles in the direction of the exit. Nick was a step ahead, still holding Alice’s hand. Looking down each aisle they passed, the archives flashed in time with their steps, giving a visual picture of the room pieced together in morse code.

Nick stopped suddenly, causing Alice to collide with his back. He was so solid, she didn’t even knock him off balance, like running into a warm sculpture. He didn’t so much as look down at her, his wide eyes fixed down the aisle. Thirty feet away from them down the aisle, a hulking silhouette crouched in the center. It looked black in the feeble light and had no discernable features, but they could tell it faced away from them by a broad crocodilian tail flicking back and forth as it watched and waited. Nick didn’t dare move again, not even to step back behind the end of the aisle. It was blind luck the beast had been so focused on the stranger that it hadn’t seen or heard them creeping up at its back. His heart thundered so loudly in his own ears that he thought the beast must surely hear it too.

“Suck my balls, ghosts!” the fool shouted from the end of the aisle, then he started marching away back toward the exit. The beast’s tail stilled, as it watched its prey retreat.

Nick squeezed Alice’s hand, a signal to make ready. The stranger hadn’t taken three steps when the beast launched itself forward down the aisle, entirely focused on its prey. Nick whispered urgently, his voice little more than a growled breath, “Now, we run!”

Nick charged ahead, sprinting full tilt down the back of the archives, pulling Alice along with him. She gripped his hand tight, letting herself be all but dragged along, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. There was no other way she could keep pace with his long surging stride. Their running footsteps were overshadowed by the sharp sound of claws scrambling on tile and a heavy pounding gallop, then by the sobbing screams of the stranger when the beast caught him. There was no mistaking the anguished cries that filled the archive like a whirring saw in a butcher shop.

At the end of the room, Nick careened around the last aisle, his boots slipping on the tile, and pushed himself even harder down the last straight stretch along the wall toward the door. The screaming continued, now imbued with a gurgling wet quality and sickening chewing and crunching. Alice had heard sounds like that before on National Geographic shows featuring lions over a kill. A meaty abattoir smell engulfed them as they raced down the aisle, bringing them closer to both the beast and the exit.

There was open space at the front of the room, where the beast presently feasted on its dying prey. About fifteen feet worth of open floor between the ends of the aisles and the exit door. There was no option of hiding or stealth when they crossed it. Nick made a mad dash when he reached the end of the aisle, bursting out onto the open floor like a pheasant breaking cover in front of a hound.

The beast reared up from its kill, startled by the two humans erupting from the aisle. It took a second to assimilate these new targets, enough time for them to cover half the open floor. Gnashing its bloody jaws, the beast lunged after the two new fleeing morsels. It landed on forepaws slick with blood, its front legs slipping and splaying out on the tile. Its wet claws found no purchase on tile, and the beast fishtailed before getting its balance.

Nick turned loose of Alice’s hand a step before the double doors and barreled into them with his shoulder at full speed. The doors exploded open, shooting splinters of wood out into the hallway, with Nick falling through off-balance. Alice jumped through on his heels and he pushed her ahead of him as he recovered his footing and ran. Reaching into his pocket for the museum badge, he heard the beast grunting and scrambling through the broken wooden doors, very close behind them.

The nearest door down the hallway was marked obscurely Lab 754, a single door with no windows and a scanner beside it. He didn’t know what was inside, but he knew they couldn’t outrun the monster down a straight hallway. Grabbing Alice by the waistband of her jeans, Nick skidded them both to a stop at the door. His fingers felt clumsy when he articulated the badge over the scanner. A militant light flashed red and an insolent tone told him the card was declined.

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” Nick growled as Alice’s nails dug painfully into his arm. Turning the badge over so his gawky picture faced outward and the barcode on the back faced the scanner, he pressed it against the scanner again and gripped the doorknob in a blanched white fist. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hulking creature charging down the hallway at them, eyes gleaming yellow, teeth glinting white.

A green light flashed, taking too long to approve their entry with a pleasant tone. The beast was another stride closer, close enough to see individual drops of blood slinging from its jaws. The lock slid open with a metallic click. Nick wrenched the doorknob and yanked the door open toward him. Alice rushed inside, but he shoved her ahead of him anyway as he slipped in behind her. The beast crashed into the open door, slamming it shut right behind Nick’s back with violent force. He had thrown himself inside and barreled into Alice, all but tackling her to the floor as he fell and sprawled over her. He cringed involuntarily at the sound of the beast colliding with the wooden door, hunching over Alice beneath him.

All doors opened outward in public buildings like the museum, pursuant to fire code regulations. And most of the doors in this older basement area of the museum were thick, sturdy wood. The door shuddered ominously, but it held.

Nick looked down at Alice from the position of a lover with his hands planted on either side of her head, his hips pinning her down, their chests touching and their noses nearly so. “Are you alright? We have to keep moving. That door won’t hold for long.”

“Waiting on you,” she said breathlessly, shoving on his broad chest to push him back.

The beast roared and hit the door again. This time splinters shot into the room from the dying doorframe like tiny javelins.

Nick pulled her up with him as he pushed up to his feet. They each looked around the room, trying to quickly assess their surroundings. Fluorescent light lined the ceiling instead of weak yellow bulbs. A long central table ran the length of the room piled with what looked like various artifacts and fossils, including the impressive skull of a sabretooth tiger. Chairs were pulled up to the table at intervals, demarcating different workstations. The air inside was cool and crisp and a subtle whirring indicated a local air system. A shop broom leaned in the far corner, its bristles chalky white with bone dust.

“A restoration lab, damn it to hell.” Nick slammed his hand angrily on the tabletop. “We won’t find anything useful in here.” But he began looking anyway as he made his way through the room.

Alice lingered behind him, turning on several bright lamps placed over the table and pointing them at the rapidly weakening door. She turned on one of the drills on the table, leaving it to buzz and bounce across the tabletop. Nick looked at her with a frown and she shrugged and told him, “It might buy us a few more seconds.”

The back of the room ended depressingly in a simple wall. Nick glared at it as if he could burn a hole through the plaster with his anger. He grinned sardonically at Alice, “The hallway makes a U bend. The service elevator we came down in is probably less than twenty away on the other side of this wall. You don’t happen to have a battering ram hidden in your brassier, do you?”

“That would be my other bra,” she said, looking back at the door as it took another thunderous hit, this time accompanied by the squeal of the metal hinges bending inward.

Nick leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling in frustration. His body jerked like he’d been startled and he ran to the broom standing in the corner. Grabbing it, he sprinted back to the far wall, holding it like a spear. Using the wide, bristled head, he rammed it straight up above his head and into the square air vent in the ceiling. Another hard thrust and the vent crumpled and fell out of the ventilation shaft, leaving a gaping square hole in the ceiling ten feet above their heads.

“Here!” he told Alice urgently, clapping his hands together before linking his fingers to form a stirrup with his hands. The beast struck the door again, tearing a hole through the wood. It pawed through the hole with its claws, scraping and tearing at the wood as it snarled in frustration.

“Can you get up there too?” Alice asked as she placed her foot in his hands.

“Don’t think about it,” Nick grunted as he hefted her up into the square vent like she was nothing but a doll. She hoisted her high enough to bring her chest level with the inside of the vent. Planting her elbows on the flat metal and kicking her legs, she struggled inside. Laying on her stomach, she looked back down through the square hole at Nick below.

Bending his knees, he jumped straight up into the vent opening. It was at the far reach of his vertical jump, but his fingers caught the metal lip. But there was no purchase on the slick metal and his hands slipped off almost instantly. Alice leaned down into the opening, reaching a hand down to him.

“Get out of the way!” he waved her hand away. She began to protest, but he shouted, “Can you curl two-thirty-five? Then I’ll only pull you back out with me.”

The beast crashed into the door a final time, bursting into the lab in an explosion of splinters. It halted immediately when the brilliantly bright spotlight hit its eyes, sitting back on its haunches and shaking its head.

“Give me the broom!” Alice said.

Grinning with understanding despite it all, Nick shoved the head of the broom up into her hands. The beast snarled and swiped the light out of its eyes, then turned its attention to the jumping drill and its grating, high-pitched whine. Alice maneuvered the broom so its handle spanned the square opening, wedged as tightly against the sides as she could get it. The beast crushed the drill with its teeth, shaking its head with the drill in its mouth like a dog with a squeaky toy, then throwing it aside. Fixing its ferocious yellow eyes on Nick at the far end of the room, it charged.

Nick bent his knees, looking up at the broom handle inside the vent. He would only get one shot. Swinging his arms, he jumped up with everything he had. The beast swiped at Nick’s legs as he caught the broom handle, but he jerked them up just in time. Using the broom handle like a pull-up bar, he hoisted himself up into the ventilation shaft. Alice shoved herself backward to make room for him as he lunged forward into the small space, making sure his long legs were clear of the opening.

The beast jumped up after him, slamming its head into the metal of the shaft, denting it upwards. Roaring in frustration, it jumped again, making another dent. Then it reared on its hind legs and clawed at the metal. The sound was a terrible, deafening squeal inside the shaft, ringing in their ears. There was enough space for them to crawl on their hands and knees, and Alice crawled frantically away.

“Can’t beat the view,” Nick quipped, following right behind her.

The beast tried jumping at the vent once more before apparently realizing it was futile. The silence when it stopped was much more unnerving than the banging and scratching and snarling had been.

It didn’t take long for them to come to another vent. Looking through the metal slats, Nick quickly assessed they were now over the section of hallway that housed the service elevator. He easily yanked it open and dropped down through it to the floor. Alice lowered herself down feet first until she felt him catch her legs in a reassuring bearhug and let her slide the rest of the way down his body. Holding her against him, he grinned at her and jerked his chin to the side, “Look what we found.”

The service elevator was no more than fifteen feet away. As she sighed with relief, collapsing into Nick’s arms, Alice heard the now familiar sound of clawed feet scrambling on the tile. “It guessed where we were heading!”

They sprinted to the elevator and Nick punched the Up button over and over. The arrow above the doors illuminated green and the bell dinged. But the doors were old and slow to open. The beast rounded the corner of the hallway in a fury of claws and teeth and lather, charging at them with its horrible teeth bared in a snarl. But claws for all their ferocity did not keep traction on smooth tile. When the beast rounded the tight corner, it did so in an uncontrolled skid. The beast scrambled to keep its balance, but it had charged into the corner too fast. Its shoulder slammed into the opposite side of the hallway as it slid, paws flailing haphazardly beneath it, buying its prey an extra second to live. Nick shoved Alice inside when the opening between the doors was still too narrow for him to fit. Even as the doors still opened, she was pushing the button for the upper floor. Nick slipped inside as the beast ran him down, only one good lunge away.

Nick and Alice pressed themselves to the back of the elevator, watching helplessly as death charged at them and the doors closed too slowly. Their view between the doors narrowed with terrible sluggishness until all they could see were those slitted yellow eyes and bloody frothing jaws. The beast lunged at the gap in the doors, striking the metal with a horrendous crash. Saliva and blood spewed through the opening, splattering Alice and Nick, just as the doors closed and the elevator lurched upward.

The doors opened to a main hallway on one of the upper floors, home to the biggest and most popular museum exhibits. Large windows lined this hallway admitting the moonlight and there was enough light in the individual exhibits to allow the security cameras to identify a thief if needed. Many smaller hallways branched off this main one, each leading to an exhibit. They were near the entrance to an exhibit that glowed green in the dim light, labeled Rainforest. A metal stairwell door was beside the elevator.

“Now at least I know where we are,” Nick could have laughed with relief. He ducked into Alice and stole a quick kiss from her lips.

“Freeze!” A militant voice sliced through the silence in the hall. “Put your hands up!”

They turned to see a short and corpulent museum security guard standing behind them, holding a revolver trained on Nick. He had just rounded a corner of the hallway and shuffled toward them as quickly as his pendulous gut would allow, his utility belt jingling with every labored step. Using his gun, the guard gestured from Nick to the far wall, and ordered, “Turn and face that wall right now. And I better see your hands while you’re sniffing plaster. Move!”

“There’s something in here with us,” Alice said, trying to calm the guard. “You need to take us all out before it finds us.”

“I’m sure there is, honey,” the guard sniggered and took a belligerent step toward Nick. “I gave you a command, hoss.”

The security guard held his gun on Nick, the barrel shaking in his uncertain grip. He was the most dangerous sort of person to hold a man at gunpoint – nervous and unfamiliar with a weapon or with apprehending a suspect. Those were the men likely to shoot first and ask questions later, or even shoot accidentally when they shook hard enough to spasm their trigger finger.

“Turn around now!” the guard shouted again, spittle flying from his lips, his jowls quaking.

The guard was too far away from Nick to make a grab for the gun or knock it away. So, he turned, faced the wall, and planted his hands flat on its smooth surface. He made a great effort to keep his voice calm when he spoke over this shoulder, “Look, buddy, there’s something after us. Something chasing us. Something monstrous. None of us are safe here, including you. You have to get us all out right now. Arrest me and charge me with whatever the hell you want, just get us out.”

The guard spoke into the radio clipped to his belt, “I caught someone sneaking around inside the rainforest exhibit. Looks like a pair of lovebirds who broke in to get it on. I need backup. The guy’s giving me hell. He’s a big bastard too. Threatened my safety already.”

“Ten-Four,” a voice crackled through the radio static. “Sending backup. Just cuff ‘em and keep ‘em where you have ‘em until backup gets there.”

Risking a bullet, Nick growled, “Look, you stupid bastard. You can get all the backup you want and you can arrest me. So long as you get us the fuck outta here, and you do it now! We need to move, goddamnit!”

“The big guy is making more threats,” the guard radioed.

The sound of a door being shoved open inside the stairwell echoed behind the door. It sounded like it came from a flight or two below. Alice heard claws scrambling up the stairs. She met Nick’s cool eyes and she winked.

“Excuse me, sir,” Alice said to the guard in a demure tone. “Our friend’s in the stairwell. Go see for yourself. He’s the one you want to arrest.”

“What the Christ are you all doing in here?” the guard scoffed. “Bunch of assholes ruining my night to have a goddamn orgy!”

The scrambling reached the nearest steps, the sound of a heavy body closing in on the door. The guard heard it too. Keeping his gun pointed at Nick’s back, he stepped to the stairwell door. Grabbing the doorhandle, he yelled with gusto, “Hey asshole, this is museum security. I hear you in there. I’m gonna open the door and I better see your hands!”

He didn’t need to open the door. The door exploded open with a metal screech and a monstrous creature burst from the darkness of the stairwell, aiming for the blustering guard. The guard yanked the trigger when the beast struck him with the force of a wrecking ball, sending a bullet into the wall as man and beast went careening together twenty feet across the floor. Its body had passed Alice by inches, close enough for her to smell the fresh blood and older rancid death on its scaly hide.

Nick shoved away from the wall, grabbing Alice’s arm and running with her in the opposite direction from the carnage. The guard was screaming, but it lasted only as long as a few of their running strides before it was cut off with a wet gurgle and replaced by a sound like an overfull trash bag bursting.

They ran into the thick of the rainforest exhibit, where they were surrounded by vibrant dioramas and luscious vegetation. The windows on this floor admitted silver moonlight, allowing them to see it very clearly. Birds of every color of the spectrum were frozen mid-flight, golden jaguars prowled, and ancient Amazonian architecture formed a visual feast. The highlight of the rainforest exhibit was also the centerpiece of the exhibit hall. A huge glass terrarium filled with tropical vegetation housed an army of living butterflies. Thousands of beautiful butterflies of kaleidoscopic colors flitted through the plants inside in a living whirlwind of colorful wings.

They ran past the butterflies to the far end of the exhibit where another hallway branched off. Nick pointed down it and whispered, “The old west exhibit is just down that way. The guns in there are all functional, and a few of the gunbelts still have live rounds. Maybe…”

“Will the bullets still fire after sitting for more than a century?” Alice asked skeptically.

“As long as the primers haven’t gone bad. Or gotten wet. And the cartridges have remained sealed, and the gunpowder hasn’t leaked out.” He grinned sardonically.

“So, probably not,” Alice surmised.

“Probably not,” Nick agreed. “But do you have a better idea?”

The beast entered the rainforest exhibit with its nose held high, sniffing the air. Nick pulled Alice to him and backed against the wall, hiding them as best he could behind an Amazonian monolith decorated with carvings of ancient deities. The beast froze, its eyes fixed ahead, its posture rigid. It looked as if it stared right at them through the length of the butterfly terrarium. With an excited grunt, the beast swiped at the end of the glass cage, breaking it open, and jumped inside. Thousands of butterflies came to life like confetti, fluttering around the beast that had disturbed them. The beast was captivated, cocking its head curiously at the butterflies, flicking its tail as it swiped its paws at them and tried to chomp them between its jaws. It jumped and twisted and twirled inside the terrarium like a cat confronted with a thousand laser dots. It grunted happily as it pounced on a large Monarch then snorted when another flew at its nose.

Slowly, Nick pulled Alice with him toward the hall leading to the old west exhibit. They edged along the wall at a crawling pace so as not to draw the beast’s attention while it chomped and swiped at the whirlwind of butterflies. The old west exhibit came into view at the end of the hallway, horses and cowboys and bison materializing in the dim light. Nick brought his lips to Alice’s ear and told her, “You go grab all the guns you can find. I’ll start looking through the gunbelts for live rounds. .45’s and 30-30’s are going to be our best bets for a match.”

She nodded her understanding as another sound boomed through the hall. The sound of several running footsteps and the clink of metal. Narrow beams of light bounced around inside the old west exhibit from flashlights held by running men.

Nick stopped short, his hold on her arm keeping Alice beside him. He pulled her down with him when he dropped to his knees, raising his hands above his head in a clear posture of supplication, just as several armed security guards ran into the hallway from the old west exhibit. The light hit Nick’s face, momentarily blinding him, as the men rushed them, guns drawn. Alice looked behind them and saw a huge shadow looming in the entrance to the rainforest exhibit, watching them with gleaming eyes. The guard’s light didn’t reach it and they were too focused on Nick to notice the real threat. The shadow seemed to disintegrate back into the darkness like a receding nightmare. The beast must be intelligent enough to avoid confronting so many drawn firearms. Or it was simply biding its time for the right moment.

“You’re under arrest!” the lead guard shouted as he rushed Nick. Turning him bodily around, he shoved him to his stomach with his face pressed into the tile and yanked his arms behind his back.

“We didn’t do anything, you idiot!” Alice said futility. “There’s something in here with us.”

“Save it, lady,” the guard said gruffly. “You both have the right to remain silent and I suggest you fucking use it.” He prodded his gun rudely into Nick’s back and cuffed his hands. “I heard all about you on the radio. Some big bastard resisting arrest after breaking in. And I saw some of your handiwork already.”

“You have to listen, it wasn’t me,” Nick gritted. “There’s some kind of animal in here with us.”

“Yeah, get started on that insanity defense right off the bat, you murdering sonofabitch,” the guard hissed. “Just keep talking so I can testify to all your bullshit.”

Two guards came and hefted Nick up by his arms, yanking them painfully back and straining his shoulders. Alice looked at him when he stood, giving him her steadiest and most reassuring gaze. “Don’t tell them anything. It won’t do you any good. Let your lawyer do the talking for you.” She winked at him for the second time that night. “I promise you have a good one.”

*******************************************************************************************

Tagging some buddies!

@babbushka @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @reyloaddict55 @reylokisses @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @thepalaceofmelanie @reveluving @fax4life27 @vedavan @queen-of-elves @srorgana1 @kyloremus @lumberjack00fantasies

#best #fic #summer #halloween #commander mills x reader #commander mills x you

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operafantomet · 3 months

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Hi there. Idk if this question has been asked before, but where do they find the fabric for the mandarin coat?

I'd say there are as many answers as there are versions of the costume. But some pointers:

Many of the early versions were made with partly antique embroidered textiles from the Qing dynasty. These were a popular collector's item in the 19th and 20th century, to the point where some of them were never intended for use in China, they were made as souvenirs. The original design by Maria Bjørnson suggests antique Chinese fabrics, with a hem showing the classic water-and-mountain motif, the collar being a cloud collar usually seen in women's attires, and the hat a decorated winter hat.

Even if all these costumes are made from scratch rather than bought, I thought it could be interesting to compare it to a similar authentic Chinese robe - without the collar - dated to the 1890s and sold by Augusta Auctions some years ago:

This robe has a badge - an insignia of rank and position of a Mandarin official in the Qing dynasty. These were used both on the chest and back, and the bird or otherwise animal told onlookers all they needed to know, if the person was a civil or military employee, and how high up in the system they were. The badge is not featured in Bjørnson's design, but it has showed up in a few costumes. Maybe most proninently in Michael Crawford's original West End costume, which Bjørnson would have supervised:

To my eye it looks like many of the elder costumes (up until c. 2005) used a lot of antique or vintage fabrics, but used on a new base. Details to look for is distinct gold couching, re-used badges, special dragon embroideres, antique collars and tabards, fringework etc. I am quite convinced some of these are antique or vintage details, like the China blue tabard with water and mountain motif used by John Owen-Jones in West End c. 2002:

The cuff and details on one of the original Australian robes, and continued to shine in the World Tour up until 2015 or so:

The tabard of the Swedish/Danish version, first made in 1989 and still in use in 2019 (maybe not too visible in the stage photo, but definitely when seen up close backstage!):

As a contrast, newer costumes tends to be brassier and bigger, with less embroidery and more appliquées and trims. It looks to me like they mostly rely on new fabrics and materials, maybe with some elements of elder embroidery. This collar made for Ben Lewis in West End is a good example:

And the recent German version, here seen on Mathias Edenborn in Hamburg. It's a costume I got to study up close and I couldn't spot any particular details that looked old:

And this Broadway robe with what looks like a very new firefly pattern brocade and embroidered gold trims appliquéed on:

So why this change? I guess it depends on what is available. Qing textiles has become more rare on the open market, and more expensive. Elder textiles are also more fragile, while new textiles will handle wear and tear, dry cleaning etc. better. Some of these costumes are used on stage up to eight times a week, after all.

Due to the fragility of elder textiles, they may have to cover the embroidery with fine mesh. This dulls down the effect and makes the costume heavier, so it's not always ideal. Better then to use new stuff. Here's an early 1990 West End one covered with mesh, to protect the embroidery:

A last aspect is of course that by using elder textiles you may put specific meaning-bearing motifs on which ideally shouldn't be there. The beautiful embroidered Indian fabric with elephants and swastikas - in India a symbol of the sun and good luck - which appeared in an unfortunate Danish Elissa skirt is a good example. Luckilly the costume crew knew what they were doing by including the five bats - for good luck - on this Broadway Mandarin robe:

If you plan on making your own costume, I would say: Create the base of a Chinese brocade (silk or synthetic) with predominantely black or dark blue base and polychrome pattern. As an inspiration, here's the robe, collar and tabard - fairly undecorated - in making for Scott Davies (top) and Ben Lewis (bottom) in West End, with photos generously shared by head-of-costume Ceris Donovan:

For the back: Go for a main motif, and build everything around that. And layer! Gems upon trims upon embroideries upon fabrics. The more structure, embroidery, couching and details the various materials has, the better. And then add some on top of that.

Note that it varies if a production do both the robe, cloud collar and tabard. Some production only do two of these, some do all three. But whatever the case, the costume with hat should create angles, texture and lines that makes him stand out from the previous scene, where he wore black and white and tight-fitting clothes.

In West End I think they source it in the many amazing fabric shops in Brixton and Soho, including Borovicks, as well as antique dealers. For Broadway I know a lot was bought in the fabric district in NYC. Other productions may be equipped with fabrics and trims from these, or they may source their own materials locally. I also noticed that the Chinese (left) and Japanese (right) productions tend to use more red and purple fabrics for their versions, which I would think was also locally sourced:

So yeah. As many answers as there are versions out there...

#mandarin robe #mandarin coat #phantom of the opera #maria bjørnson #first lair #costume nerding

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emilykaldwen · 4 months

Text

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Eighteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

No tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

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Author's Note: All my love and many thanks to @vampire-exgirlfriend for being my cheerleader, for taking my face in her hands and telling me that I word good, and that the story I'm telling is one that's valid. We all need a cheerleader like her.

EXPLICIT CONTENT

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - She'll Still Be Mine

Aegon distracts himself from his woes with some physical healing, weird talks with both his dads, and a night out with his best friend.

Emotions were a tempest inside Aegon Targaryen as riotous as the churning waters of Blackwater Bay. He slammed the heavy bedroom door behind him, the fury of it shaking the candles in their holders on the small table inside the door. Sunfyre was a growling, heated presence inside the cage of his ribs, pulsing in time with each beat of his heart. How he craved for fang and claw so all would feel his fury.

Too hot. His skin felt too hot, too tight, too much.

Aegon tore at the buckles of his doublet, peeling off the rich, green brocade and tossing it aside. It did little to assuage his feelings. Sick curled in his gut; an impotence he could do nothing about. He yanked at the ties at the throat of his linen shirt and his eyes landed upon the bottles on the table, where they’d been residing for the past few weeks.

‘Mother wishes you to dry out’, his siblings had said the night after him and Aemond had been dragged back to the keep, the betrothal announcement and his brother’s words swirling around his head. No more wine, no ale, no beer. Only ciders, or the watered wine they’d break their fasts with.

What good did that do him now, when nothing was at the ready to distract him anymore? Besides, it would be a shame for all these nameday gifts to go to waste.

Aegon cocked his head as he approached, swiping up the first bottle. He ran his thumb along the waxed cork, the familiar Arbor seal pressed on top. Thunder rumbled outside as Aegon worked his dagger along the seal with practiced ease, bits of wax falling to the floor like petals as he leaned against the window pane. The cool air that accompanied the end of the harvest season felt good on his heated skin, the spray of rain just outside a balm even if it was not quite what he needed.

What kind of man was he who could not protect who he loved the most? Over a moon had passed since his nameday, since Abby’s horrible scream ripped through the night. All Larys Strong had found in his investigation was that the bastard had worked in the kitchens for the past year. No family, a “quiet fellow”, with a few dalliances with the serving maids.

Nothing.

What cold comfort it was to his hunītsos, who could not sleep alone and had taken to his sister’s bed or pulled Wylla into her own. Few nights she’d even crept into his bed, mouth wet against his throat as he distracted her from her nightmares and fear, to replace everything with the thought of him and only him. How he could lose himself in her, the scent of the heady, dark rose and currant soap that clung to her skin, to forget about his lacking when she mewled his name, rutting against his cock separated only by her small clothes, his teeth worrying at the bite he’d left on her shoulder back in the tent, refusing to let it fade. How easy it was to be there, with her, than some stinking brothel with bought comfort.

Aegon gasped for air as the red dribbled over his mouth and down his chin, staining his shirt. Without thinking, he’d taken several pulls from the bottle. It was perfectly dry as it snaked down his throat, a familiar feeling of relief, and the taste of plum and cherry far more enticing than the ciders he’d been restricted to. He watched from behind the silver hair that fell into his eyes as lightning illuminated King’s Landing before a crack of thunder boomed, loud enough to startle him even though he’d been prepared for it.

Dragging the back of his sleeve over his mouth, he leaned against the ledge and shut his eyes, letting the storm mist across his face - the wind blowing north and thus, his room had avoided getting soaked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Theraxis' great, gray bulk come slinking out from behind the wardrobe, watching him with large yellow eyes as he promptly flopped over onto his side and turned, looking at him upside down.

“The lords tell me should I need anything, I have only to call upon them,” he told the cat, putting to voice what he’d held inside him these weeks. “So ready they are to give me my sister’s birthright, I do not even have to ask them for it.” He shook his head, another pull to ease the rumbling ache. “What kind of man do they take me for?” Theraxis had the courtesy to blink at him, pawing at the air and he snorted softly.

“They take you for potential.” Aegon startled at the unexpected voice. Theraxis let out a pleased meow and scampered up, prancing on deceptively light paws towards his mistress. She was lovely in the firelight, the glow of it catching along the edges of her hair, her long braid slung over one shoulder. Gone were the light silks and fluttering linen of the warm months. She was clad in a dressing gown of cream, embroidered with vines and flowers, the sleeves slashed from her elbows, the lavender lining reminding him of the flowers she had in her room the other day. “Oh, hello my darling,” she cooed, dropping to her knees to greet her cat - the animal the size of a hunting hound, seemingly larger as he tried to crawl into her lap while she laughed. The gown she wore was a deep v at her neck, and he could see the ties and lace of her nightdress beneath.

Her delicate fingers scratched around Theraxis’ ears as he pressed his cheek against hers and finally, her eyes met his. “We haven’t talked about it. Is that why you were so upset just now?”

Aegon took another pull from the bottle and went to the table to grab one of the goblets resting there. “Your brother has no more news,” he said, not hiding the truth from her, but guilt spurred him to take another drink. Abby’s lack of response indicated she had either already been told or was not surprised. Or a dozen other things involving how she didn’t indulge in her far more unpleasant emotions.

She pressed several kisses to the top of the cat’s head before he padded to the door and she followed to let him out, shutting and locking it behind her. He said nothing, giving her time as she rested her head against the wood to gather herself and splashed wine into a goblet like a good betrothed. It was easier to make sure he didn’t drink all of it without letting her share, and surely some wine would loosen her anxieties, if not her tongue.

There were times he wondered if she would ever trust him with all the things she left unsaid - if she would ever trust anyone with them.

Aegon approached, boots thumping softly on the rich rug. She turned at the sound of his approach, watching him as he took a sip from the goblet before holding it up to her lips for her to have a taste, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “He has no news. Cole and the whole fucking Kingsguard and the City Watch captain have found nothing.” Abby’s hand wrapped around the goblet to take another sip, and she looked so fragile, half in shadow with her back against the door, that he wanted to scream, to throw the bottle and demand the heads of the watch who were meant to be guarding the camp.

He took another swig from the bottle instead, drifting further into the room so she could not see his anger. Futile, he knew, but he’d not have her fear him, not when he was like this. Not when he feared himself.

“You wondered what kind of man the lords took you for,” she finally said and he knew a subject change when he heard it. Aegon scoffed and Abby tutted. “I said they see potential for someone to curry favor with. Your sister may be your father’s heir, Jeyne Arryn rules over the Eyrie, but your sister’s rule puts in doubt their own holdings. Should their sisters and their sister’s children then come before them, or the eldest daughter who married the heir to another keep? Not to mention a woman? Sitting the Iron Throne? Ruling over them when they would not even let their own wives do so?”

“It’s an ugly fucking chair,” Aegon complained.

“So you would not mind your wife ruling you?” was her teasing reply. Warmth spread through his belly - whether from Abby’s words of ruling him and the images that conjured to mind, or the reassurance she was not going to press him to ‘at least think about it’.

“I would not mind, for my wife is far cleverer than I.” The words were easy, calling her wife, that it nearly caught him off guard. Abby paused, teeth scraping over the pout of her lower lip, stained dark with the wine. He took the goblet from her to take another drink. “I do mind that they think me willing to steal my sister’s birthright - something made abundantly fucking clear that is not, and never will, be mine as long as our father lives. If her marrying Daemon did not cause it among-” He caught himself and shook his head. “Nothing will knock her from that pedestal. I mislike them thinking me such a monster.” It did not matter if he and Rhaenyra were close. They were far from it, and the war of jealousy, of anger and frustration towards her, did not mean he would take the throne from her in retribution, first born son or not.

Setting the bottle down on the low table before the fire, he lifted his arms, pushing up on his toes until his spine and shoulders popped deliciously. He groaned, tucking his hand beneath his shirt to scratch his belly and growled as he felt a cool hand join his, nails slightly sharper scratching against his skin and the fine hairs running along his skin, vanishing beneath his waistband.

“Decided to pet me instead?” he groaned happily, nuzzling his nose against the crown of her head and inhaling the bright scent of her hair. The distraction she provided was a good one and he let out a snort of laughter when she pushed him back onto the couch.

“You are most certainly not a monster, nor as awful as they try to paint you with such ambitions,” she said fiercely, immediately, and he held onto her defensive words and reassurance, let them be a balm to his wounded soul and the space where Sunfyre purred, content with the sweet and fierce words.

Aegon let his head fall back on the back of the couch and enjoyed the way she looked above him. Her face was slightly flushed from the wine, mouth stained red as a rosebud, small and plump and begging to be kissed. She was covered up in her dressing gown, no erotic enticement that he was used to seeing and yet she stirred his blood and his arousal all the same. ‘Lovely’, he thought, reaching a hand up to tug on the end of her copper braid, demanding her closer.

“I would devour you,” he murmured, licking his own wine stained lips. He’d tasted her off his fingers, but had yet to truly indulge the way he wanted. To escape into her was all he wanted, better than the wine that coursed through his veins. This was the vice he wished to indulge in, to lose himself in, and all the better with his Abrogail, his love.

Abby raised her eyebrows at him and pressed her hand to his knees to make room before lowering herself before him. His mouth immediately went dry, his lilac eyes widening as he took in her adorably focused look. First, she went for one boot, tossing it away, then the other followed and he settled in to be taken care of. Fingers, delicate with a needle, needy and demanding when in his hair, perfect when tangled with his own, began to work on the lacing of his trousers. His cock twitched, half hard already from her touch, and the groan Aegon made when she touched him had his toes curling against the rug.

Her giggle was sweet, as everything about her was. It was by no means the first time she’d taken his cock in hand, fingers struggling to wrap around his girth in a way that made him see stars, that begged to see her stretched around him, whimpering and whining to take him. This was no different. She drew him out, moisture already gathering around the head and her thumb immediately swiped to spread it around, a gentle squeeze following.

“Missed you,” he murmured, wrapping her braid around his hand once and tugged her closer. Abby’s pupils were blown wide and the flush of her cheeks was deeper, and he knew she liked the gentle pulling of her hair. Aegon had been delighted to discover how much she liked it when he handled her in such a way. “Fuck, you are so beautiful.”

Abby smiled, a shy look of a blushing maiden, before she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the tip of him his mouth jealous with need of her. He jerked at her braid in surprise and she yelped, shock rather than pain and an apology fell from him. Her eyes narrowed at him, assessing.

“Did you like that?”

No longer soft. No longer guileless. No longer his little rabbit; this was his kēlītsos, the little lion batting about its prey. Her thumb was idly stroking the underside of his cock in the way that sent him to shivering, balls aching, and he nodded. He lifted his free hand to cradle the soft curve of her jaw, thumb pressing against her lower lip. His heart was thudding. He’d wanted this for so long, had dreamt of it, but hadn’t asked, unwilling when she was so new to all of this.

Her mouth opened more, and he looked at the sweet pink inside, and Aegon released a long, shuddering breath.

“Please,” he whispered.

Abby’s teeth nipped at his thumb and he let her go, shifting around to give her more room. His fingers danced over the little buttons holding her dressing gown closed, tugging idly at one. Aegon wanted to tug at her collar, take a peek at her breasts, but the angle denied what sight was his. Another snort of laughter escaped him when she reached up to his chest to push him back. He watched, enraptured, as she opened her mouth once more, resting the salty, warm tip of his cock on the pillow of her tongue and wrapped her pretty lips around him.

“Jaw soft,” he told her through his groan. “Do not force yourself to take more.” She wouldn’t be able to, and he did not want her to hurt herself or him. Just as her sweet words soothed his woes, her mouth soothed him as well.

Aegon let himself fall into the warm tingle of wine and arousal pumping through his veins, gaze heavy lidded as his Abrogail pleasured him. The vision she was to him had him aching and it took everything not to force himself further into her mouth the longer she continued, to use his grip on her braid to guide her down. He would be good for her. A good teacher. He felt her sigh and moan around him, and praise fell from his lips.

“That’s a good lass… you’re doing so well,” he reassured her, delight settling into the heated knot in his belly with each happy wiggle she made. Even as the pacing of her mouth left something to be desired, or the moment where he felt the tease of her teeth before she adjusted and left him wanting more of that sharpness that had his breath catching, he still could not imagine a more intense experience. What she lacked in experience and technique, she more than made up for in exuberance and the simple fact it was her on her knees for him. Cassandra Baratheon might have had a mouth that could take him down, but his precious girl wanted him.

He desired nothing more than to be truly wanted.

Her mouth popped off, strings of spittle clinging from his cock to her lips as she gasped for air, eyes wet with the tears that came from taking him, and he hushed her, reaching up to stroke her cheek and smiling as she nuzzled into his hand. His thumb stroked over her mouth, spreading spit and his own essence until her lips shone with it, glossy and inviting. “Easy now, you can use your hand for a bit.” She was good at that. Abby nodded, eager, and tugged at the waistband of his trousers.

“Up,” she ordered hoarsely, and he complied, helping her work them down and off so there was no barrier. Aegon reached behind his head to tug off his shirt and lifted a foot to rest on the table behind her, lazy and languid, balls tight and aching. A whine stuck in Abby’s throat, those depthless eyes looking up at him as she leaned down, tracing her tongue along his balls, her hand sliding down to cup them the way he’d taught her. Long licks, kisses, each different affection, had Aegon feeling as if he’d spill all over her and ruin her pretty gown. “You are being so good for me,” she told him when she lifted her head from him to smile up at him.

“I want to be good for you,” he swore with a frantic nod. “I will be, I promise. Please don’t stop.”

Abby had the gall to giggle at him. It was then that Aegon noticed that one of her hands disappeared and he realized that it had slid beneath the gap of her dressing down, her nightgown beneath bunched up. A fresh wave of heat washed through him at the idea of her own arousal so demanding from this that she needed to find relief.

Oh, his poor kēlītsos.

“I want to taste you,” she whispered, and he could hear the catch in her voice, just there when he knew her arousal was growing. Abby’s hand worked him, slick and perfect with that slight twist of her grip and he nodded.

“Please,” he begged again. “Clever girl, you’ve learned so fast, you can do it. I know you can.” He tugged on her braid again, hard enough for her to feel it, and it drew a moan from her, the arm that was tucked beneath her gown moving a little faster. “Open up, you’re almost there.” His words were catching with his anticipation as he fed her his cock once more and Abby took him with an eager whine that vibrated up from the base of his spine. His hips jerked towards her, unable to help himself, and she choked as more of himself forced inside but she didn’t stop, taking him with greedy, needy sounds. Then, her other hand joined and the sensation of her wet fingers stroking against his balls and the soft skin just behind had him seeing stars.

It was over nearly as soon as it had started and he was falling into his end like he was still a green boy, the pressure at the base of his spine imploding, pulling him farther and farther down until he was pushing her away, attempting and failing to warn her of what came next. Abby's eyes were wide, wet and blue and endless, as he came, her name choking off in an almost pathetic cry. She was not deterred, the first of his spend catching along her cheek before she was taking him in hand, continuing to stroke him as he caught along her chin and mouth, over her pretty dressing gown that he got to ruin after all.

Aegon did not care, his vision blurry, everything focused on the feel of her hand, the pleasure of his release, the way the milky white spend decorated her. There was a strange sense of waste in the back of his mind that he did not give more thought to but knew where it came from. That time would come soon enough.

He fell back against the couch, limbs soft and tingling, his own mouth wet, his skin heated in that satisfying, post-peak flush even more the better for it was Abby that brought it on, because she loved him. Gods, he loved her. He loved her so much he could not find all the words for it.

“I love you,” he panted, head lolling over to his shoulder as he gazed at her, fondness, affection, everything he could not put into words heavy in his tone.

“I love you too,” she returned, voice rough and weighted and just as sincere, meeting him in the place between them. Affection surged through him and Aegon tugged at her braid again before dropping it, hands reaching for her arms to draw her up his body, his eyes dark and heavy as her tongue swiped against the silkiness of him against her mouth. In a daze, he reached up to push more of it off her chin and into her mouth, and she noisily sucked the taste of him off his fingers.

Eager and adventurous, Abby was not some soft maiden, frightened of a romantic touch. Nay, Abby was an eager lover, excited to be with him, wanting to be with him. How many years had he spent chasing a peak that he could not name, throwing money at women, men sometimes, trying to find the piece that he craved. He was far more experienced than she would ever be, and how he desperately wanted to take her, to bury himself in the home of her body.

How easy it would be, and yet it was the knowledge that it was expected of him to 'ruin' her before their wedding that stopped him. To get her fat with his child, to take some kind of advantage of her, to only sate his own desire. The way the bitter bitch of a septa had grown horrified at their needy kisses in the gallery, to Aemond's angered remarks in the library, to Mother's hawk-sharp stare every time Aegon drew close, the reminders to Abby about 'virtue' in his mother's solar in the evenings. The idea that he was seen as some insatiable, lust filled creature who could not be trusted to control himself, raked hot against his insides. The way he was judged, and the way he knew she would be judged, left him feeling just as strange and raw as the assumptions that he coveted his sister's birthright.

To deny himself the full pleasures of his body allowed him to shake away his own past; to discover in the slow build up of all that brought her pleasure was a new experience and one that he would draw out - to deny himself the pleasure just as he denied her the full experience of him - to build up the anticipation was too enticing.

He kissed her then, the taste of wine, of her and him, making his belly burst into excited moths like the ones pinned to his sister’s collection boards. Abby was shivering and filled with tension as her own peak had not yet been realized, but she came into him eagerly, a needy thing in heat, and he would sate her as she had so kindly and sweetly done for him.

“You are a mess,” he chuckled, and Abby’s flushed skin burned deeper once more. He pondered for a moment before wrapping his arms around her and rising from the couch.

She squealed, a delighted sound, and clung to him as he took her to the bed and deposited her amidst the soft blankets. He braced his arms on either side of her, capturing her mouth for another kiss before he pulled away to get a clean cloth to wipe the rest of her face with. The water in the basin was cool, and he took his lady firmly by the chin to work on wiping her face. Even as Abby’s giggles filled the room, she remained pliant and well-behaved, teeth worrying on her lip as he cleaned her up.

“Ticklish, are we?” he teased her, fingers fiddling with the buttons on her dressing gown. There were only five of them. Five annoying little bastards kept him from her perfect breasts.

“How dare you tease me when I performed so well,” Abby replied with her nose tilted in the air haughtily, which bared her throat to him and the slick shine of spend clinging to her skin. He dove in, licking it up with the flat of his tongue, pushing her back onto the bed as he hovered over her, devouring her neck with exaggerated sounds as if he were Sunfyre feasting upon a carcass. She shrieked, giddy and squirming, his captured prey, and he growled and hummed against her throat and lost himself in the sound, in the scent of her. “Oh no! The dragon is going to eat me!” she cried, pushing at his shoulders as fiercely as she clung to him. He groaned, grinding his hips against her as he felt the bite of her nails in his skin, the edge of pain soothing amidst the pleasure.

The dragon was, indeed, about to feast.

He would be as good of a boy as she had called him and not tear the dressing gown. Aegon took his time to undo each of the fastenings, easing her out of the pretty fabric before tossing it blindly behind him.The nightgown beneath was simple - cream colored linen with pink ribbon laced through the neck, little ruffles along the ends of her sleeves. Nowhere near the near sheer gown he was used to seeing her in. There was something sweet in this, something that called to the dark thing in him that demanded he ruin, and he nuzzled between her breasts, tugging at the pink ribbon with his teeth to hear her laughter again. How much better to have wine in his blood and the sound of her in his ears to chase away all the dark thoughts that haunted the corners of his mind, chasing endlessly, predator to prey. Aegon’s teeth snatched at a nipple, peaked beneath the nightgown, the damp of his mouth soaking into the material.

Abby’s fingers dove into his hair, her other hand grasping desperately at his shoulder as she arched into him. There had been no sweeter experience than discovering all the ways she found pleasure, and Abby was deeply responsive. Not in the way the others had been - responding only to what he sought regardless of the pleasure, only for what he paid them for. Abby was a taut string, full of ticklish spots and places that made her whimper and writhe. Aegon wondered if he could make her peak from toying with her breasts alone - he’d heard for some that was possible, and he was curious if it would be the case for his love.

He kept her clothed, the need inside him thrashing against the restraint, wanting to devour her, to take her and make her his without question. Aegon’s mouth continued to focus on the ripe swell of her breasts while his hand reached down to tug her gown up over her thighs, reaching beneath the fabric to tug her smallclothes away, fingers working at the tie. She was a clever girl, reaching down and helping him remove them until he could touch her freely. Aegon sighed, long and low, vibrating at the feel of her silky and warm against his fingers. A final nip at her breast and he slid down the bed between her thighs. Aegon laughed as they spasmed, and Abby tried to close them around his head.

“Let me,” he coaxed her and she squealed, softly, wriggling against the bed.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice hushed, and he pressed her thighs apart, Abby letting them fall as he hooked a trembling thigh over his shoulder.

“Kissing you.” Aegon stroked her thigh soothingly and nipped along the soft skin of her thigh. She jerked beneath him with a needy whimper and her fingers found themselves in his hair once more. With a content sigh, Aegon leaned forward to stroke the flat of his tongue softly along the seam of her, the taste of salty and sweet bursting on his tongue. Abby gave a choked cry before it turned muffled and he lifted his head to see her shoving her nightgown over her mouth to muffle the sound. He chuckled and pressed a kiss to the warmth of her, humming so she could feel it and how she squirmed and wriggled at the sensation. Aegon wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t muffle her sounds - he desperately wanted to hear her, every sound, every sigh, to hear his Abrogail whimper and beg for him.

Though he knew how loud Abby could be and the last thing he needed was his mother finding out about this.

Aegon kissed his way back down, avoiding the place where she ached the most and tending to the rest of her. Spreading her with his fingers that knew her so intimately, and allowing his tongue to do the work, kissing her here as well as he kissed her ripe mouth. Seven help him, all he wanted to do was feast upon her with abandon, to hold her down as he brought wave after wave of pleasure over her. Not now though, not yet when he’d never touched her like this, and there were so many new things to learn about her, and what brought her the pleasure she so deserved.

It was so simple to fall into it, the enjoyment in the tasting of her, his hands stroking along her thighs, along the tender flesh behind her knees, reaching up to stroke her belly and feel her desperate hand grab his, clinging to him as she rolled her hips into his touch with a growing insistence. When he wrapped his mouth around the tender bud, another sound ripped through her, back arching, sound muffled behind her attempts at quiet. Her fingers pulled in his hair and he felt it shoot straight through his cock, feeling the stirrings of his arousal come back. He growled softly, nipping along her thigh near the crease, the little mole there a hidden thing only for him. Teeth nipped harder, curiously, and Abby cried out again, fingers pulling at his hair and something dark and molten stirred in his chest. The need to bite her, to break her tender skin, leave a scar of his teeth there for him to admire, for her to touch when she needed him, coursed through him, the needy, feral thing inside of him demanding it. It could match the mark he’d been deepening along her shoulder, that filled him with a heated possessiveness every time he touched or saw the evidence of his claim.

Not yet. He couldn’t yet, not here, not now. But he could leave a bruise, mouth worrying at the soft skin of her left thigh as he left numerous marks along her collarbones, places she could hide and cover. When they were free at Harrenhal, he would not let her hide them. Let them see how much he loved her, how much he craved her.

How Abrogail belonged to him.

Aegon picked up his pace as her hips grew insistent, her fingers tugging harder on his hair, wordless mumbles and whimpers peppered with her gasping, “Please,” and “Aegon,” and even something whispered in her mother tongue, the words giving her a twist and lilt to her tone, “Mo realta geal.” It took only two swipes of his tongue over her clit to have her crying out, slick gathering along her folds, her body trembling at the newness of the sensations, and the familiarity of the peak he gave her. He moved back to press kisses along her thighs and up to press more of them along the clenching muscles of her belly.

“I’m not done yet,” he told her, watching in delight as she managed to prop herself onto her elbows, face flushed and her beautiful eyes heavy lidded. Before she could say anything, his tongue swiped at the fresh rush of arousal once more, insistent this time, the pressure increasing from his more exploratory efforts earlier.

He let the need take over, the touch of his teeth nipping at her skin, the way the tip of his tongue danced Valyrian letters over her to find which motions drew her desperate and frantic. After her second peak, Aegon pressed two fingers inside of her, giving her the sensation that he knew she instinctually craved by the way her moan was full of relief, and the shocked cry as he carefully pressed a third inside of her. His mouth and chin shone with the evidence of her, his other arm banding over her stomach to keep her frantic hips steady as he feasted on her, his thank you for her eager display at pleasuring him from earlier. After the third wave crested, Aegon withdrew to press his wet mouth against her belly, working his way up to settle further between her thighs, cock aching as his arousal returned. When he brushed against her, he whimpered, and beneath him, Abby’s hips rolled up trying to catch him. He knew that motion, the way she angled her hips, the way her eyes, blue and wet and blown black, gazed up at him.

“Aegon-”

He cradled her jaw with damp fingers, his eyes focused on hers, the little freckles sprinkled along her nose and cheeks. A harsh swallow, his throat bobbing, and he let her rock her hips up against his, feeling the slick warmth of her body against him, knowing that after her peaks, she’d be ready for him. It would take little to settle himself and bury his cock inside her sweet cunt.

Their breaths came out in tandem. Heavy gasping filled the air as he lowered his head to press his forehead to hers, noses touching, breathing in each other’s exhales. While he cradled her jaw, Abby reached down between them to wrap her fingers around him, guiding the tip of him along her folds.

“Careful,” he warned her, thumb pressing lightly against the pretty, fluttering pulse in her throat.

“I will,” Abby whispered, voice little and delicate, a mewl as her eyes fluttered, his cock rubbing along the seam of her, bumping along the apex of her. “I need you… I hate waiting…”

He kissed her softly, the arm he was propped up on shaking. “I know, hunītsos… soon. We won’t leave our bed for days, I swear,” Aegon promised her. “I’ll tie you to it, have my way with you. Hells, you can tie me down and have your way, darling.”

“And I’ll say thank you,” she gasped and he could feel the clenching over her body, the fluttering of her cunt against his cock as she peaked again, a little ripple compared to the waves from before but all the same. “As I thank everything I ride.”

It wasn’t more than a moment before he spilled over her for the second time, his spend dripping across her cunt and slipping across the back of her hand. Their moans were soft, muffled as she swiped her tongue in his mouth, and he gave himself over to her, settling into the softness of her body.

Soon.

Soon she would be his, forever.

The double doors to the king’s apartments had intimidated Aegon since he was a boy.

That was their purpose, after all - to be intimidating and guard the sanctum of the monarch. Aegon wondered if his namesake had wanted such doors, or if this was from the menace that Maegor had sought to employ. Were they modeled on the lord’s chambers on Dragonstone? He’d only been to the island a handful of times and had never made it towards those sacred apartments that his elder sister now kept. The ironwood imported from the North was dark and gleaming, the intricate carvings of snarling dragons flying through the knots and whorls of the deeply polished wood. The handles themselves were cast iron, the sinewy body reminding him of Sunfyre’s sleek frame, wings splayed out to press against the door.

Sers Lorent Marbrand and Steffon Darklyn flanked the entrance, the elder Ser Lorent looking at him with his hand raised to open the doors for him but had paused at whatever look was on Aegon’s face. The man was not much older than Ser Criston, his auburn hair gleaming a shade of molten gold in the shaft of afternoon light.

If his father was dead behind that door, would the men standing here bend the knee to him, swear fealty to the king’s first born son? Or would they flee to Dragonstone to throw themselves at Rhaenyra’s feet? Would the blood of he and his brothers still coat their blade?

‘You are the challenge, Aegon. Should Rhaenyra take the throne, your life may be forfeit.’

Would it really? If he didn’t matter to this man?

‘But you do matter,’ a little voice stroked at his thoughts. ‘Near a full moon’s turn, this castle was filled with the expectation that you would be named heir. Finally acknowledged. The rights as first born son finally, finally extended to you. Finally, Sire would have to acknowledge that he beget you, could no longer ignore and wish you were a dead child born to a dead woman.’

The people had cheered for him. They had called for him.

Would being king make that worth it?

Aegon tugged at his left cuff, tucking his fingers inside where the favor was wrapped comfortingly around his wrist over where she had scratched him all those weeks ago. Warmth flooded through his veins, and the knots in his chest eased, and the scent of her rose and currant perfume oil danced through his memory.

It didn’t matter. None of this mattered; the king did not matter, not anymore. For once, Aegon found himself relieved to greet the day, one step closer to escaping this city and leaving the machinations and the ghosts behind. The future was no longer a dim, necrotic thing, a looming noose waiting for him to climb the gallows. His mother and the Tower’s ambitions, once smothering and all consuming, now felt like something he could finally escape. He had dreamed for years of fleeing across the Narrow Sea to the pleasure houses of Lys, or the once secret city of Braavos, and to know that the Riverlands held such an escape for him, away from the legacy of his forebears and into the life of a country lord, allowed him to finally breathe.

Ser Lorent opened the door and announced his presence. “Prince Aegon, Your Grace.”

It took everything in him to not wrinkle his nose at the medicinal scent that clung to the cloying drifts of incense as he stepped into the room, the great door shutting behind him with enough of a thud that he fought not to flinch. It reverberated through his bones, and Aegon had the mad thought that it was the stone door of a tomb, trapping him inside with the shambling corpse of his sire.

Whatever new concoction Maester Orwyle had been giving him appeared to have staved off the rapid decline he’d been experiencing beneath Mellos’ care. The rot had eased somewhat, and the king’s mind was clearer. He sat beside his table, a great book before him making notes about a new expansion, no doubt. Aegon approached quietly as his father did not acknowledge him right away, and for the first time in some years, he took stock of the Freehold.

The scent of stone dust in the air struck another memory. This was one where he was smaller, mother preoccupied with Daeron’s first steps. He’d slipped in behind Lord Lyonel to lay on the cool stone beneath the table. His father had found him later, surprised, before Aegon had explained that he was too hot and the ailing king got down on the floor and lay beside him. He’d been so surprised that his sire had joined him that he froze, uncertain as to what to say. The king had filled the silence, speaking of how dragon’s blood runs hot in their veins through the bond they have with their mounts. He’d spoken of the theories of the magic that created the dragons, that made them, the Valyrians, different from mortal men so they might ride in the skies.

His breath caught in his throat as his sire patted his hand.

“You’re a good boy, Aegon.”

“Thank you, father.”

The Freehold had expanded further, nearly pressed up against the balcony doors if not for the slight gap behind it for one to get through to open the doors. His father’s quill scratched across the paper, fully occupied with whatever thought he was absorbed in. Aegon’s eyes rove over the buildings, and settled on the great dragon carving perched upon a platform on one of the buildings. The wings were broad things, beginning to spread open, its thick neck arched, its head a rough shape that reminded him of Vhagar. If only it were painted, decorated the way the frescos and murals of the Holdfast were.

Aemond would surely know more about what Aegon was looking at, what this district was meant to be, but Aegon knew that even his brother’s voracious appetite did not hold a candle to their father’s obsession. Aegon doubted even Gaemon and Daenys the Dreamer could recreate the Freehold in such detail. Had the warlord Aenar thought of teaching his grandchildren of Valyria? Or had the coming of the Doom and losing everything they’d ever known, the people and places that were once home, been too painful of a thing?

“I am not sure if that dragon will speak to you no matter how hard you look at it.”

The chuckle that followed was raspy and Aegon jerked as if caught doing something he shouldn’t, backing away from the table before he broke anything just by being too close. He looked up, his sire’s dark lilac eyes so like his own, cloudy with his illness that had prematurely aged him.

Aegon’s hands shifted, wiping his palms on his legs to keep from crossing his arms protectively over himself. He did not know how to speak to the man before him, and all thoughts and preparations he’d made that morning, going over what he’d say to him in his head had all vanished.

“Sunfyre is a good listener, but I don’t think dragons make the best conversationalists, stone or otherwise,” he said, his voice higher than he’d intended.

Another chuckle and a shake of his head. “No, they do lack that needed ability to carry on the other end of a conversation.” He hummed in the way that Aemond had. “The lords of the realm had nothing but good things to say of you, my boy. An impressive feat of might in the tourney. Lord Edmund came to beg for reparations for his injury. I told him he had fought well, but let us not mewl over being bested by someone better, hm?” A shake of his head and the king set his quill down, his full attention on Aegon in a way he had not experienced in some time.

A heated sensation coursed through Aegon and he couldn’t figure out where it had started. He felt it spread in his chest, along the back of his neck and into his cheeks, not quite embarrassment, not quite pride either, but something that felt in-between, as if being seen was both a good thing and an embarrassing thing.

“Everyone knows.”

“I imagine the man is sore knowing not only has he lost to me in front of the realm in combat, but the hand of my Lady as well,” Aegon said, fingers twitching along his wrist for the reassurance he needed once more. It was easier to speak of things not quite himself, than to figure out how to respond to his king’s approval. Even his grandfather had little complaint at how he conducted himself during the festivities. There’d even been approval as to the attacker in the camp as well.

Thinking about it still caused Aegon’s blood to boil, the ache in his hands to raise that bastard from the dead and tear him apart himself.

“You will do well, I think,” the king continued “in your own country house. I envy you the escape, in truth, and it will be good for you. Get out on your own.”

As if Aegon was being sent to a hunting lodge in a little village, and not the largest castle in the realm, beneath the eye of Lord Tully and half the banners displeased at Aegon’s presence, and the others who spent time vying for favor. Still, the king’s platitudes strangely bolstered Aegon and he straightened his shoulders, coming around the table slowly, lingering along the edges of what looked like a market.

“Thank you, father.” Aegon was pleased that his voice did not falter on the word. “I’m looking forward to it. Sunfyre will enjoy the freedom, and I know Abby is looking forward to creating a household.” Aegon was still trying to learn their names outside of the twins who had remained in King’s Landing with both Abby and Helaena, as well as the bubbling and babbling Ryger, who was helping Abby practice the River tongue, and in turn, she was practicing with him. Warmth spread through his chest and he finally met his father’s gaze. “I came to ask about the family jewels.”

“Oh?” The king settled in his chair, a curious tilt to his head as he waited for more.

Aegon swallowed. “Yes. Abrogail is to be my wife, a princess of House Targaryen. It is only fitting that she have her own pieces from the treasury, and I’d like to pick some for her.” He took a breath, forging on before he could lose his nerve. “I would also like to make some custom pieces, that would be hers to… heirlooms. I saw how pleased she was to receive some of her mother’s things. I’d like for her to have that for our own children.”

He imagined Abby’s belly, round with child, his child, their family. Abby, dripping in jewels that he’d chosen for her, that brought out the sparkle of her eyes, the red of her mouth, to glimmer around her throat and in her curls. Aegon’s fingers twitched beside him as if he could reach into his mind for her, to draw the vision in reality.

“Mmm…” That hum, again so like Aemond’s and yet so very not, broke through Aegon’s thoughts and he watched his sire nod, reaching for a piece of parchment. “True enough. Let it not be said that House Targaryen does not care for their own. Women do love jewels.” A dry chuckle. “You should be careful how frequently you give them to her. She’ll come to expect a piece for every minor inconvenience. What one must do to keep the peace.” There was a scratching across the parchment, a pause before it resumed. “One of the crowns, of course. And jewels for… two pieces. I think that is more than enough to supplement whatever House Strong holds in their own treasury.”

He held the parchment out and Aegon closed the distance, as close as he dared, to take it from him. “Take this to Lord Beesbury’s office. He holds the keys to the treasury.”

“They’re not held by your own office?” Aegon asked curiously, glancing down at the scratch of his sire’s hand. A tiara and jewels for two pieces. Aegon wanted to cry that it was not enough, that it would never be enough, but it was more than he had truly expected. To be given this so willingly had left him feeling lightheaded; he’d been prepared to defend his request and to not have to was a strange feeling.

It was not something he thought he should get used to.

“No, the treasury holds the taxes, which in turn goes back to the people. Wars, tourneys, the maintenance of the King’s Road. The servants here and at Dragonstone, the upkeep of the Red Keep. The allowance for you and your siblings to fund all that drinking and merrymaking that I know you like. Your mother’s ladies, the Kingsguard, the Dragonpit… Feeding dragons is not cheap.” The king laughed again and Aegon prickled at it, uncertain how to handle the man before him talking with him so normally, as if they were truly father and son. He ran his tongue over his teeth behind his lips as his sire settled back in his chair and the heavy, dusty book in front of him. “No need to pay double the guard to simply store our things somewhere else. Take that to Lord Beesbury, and do give him my regards, boy.”

Boy. At least it was better than Baelon.

Aegon looked at the paper in hand, permission so unexpectedly granted, before his feet moved and he knocked on the door for it to open. The heavy thing swung open, Ser Lorent giving Aegon a slight nod and…

“Ser Criston,” Aegon said, not quite hiding his surprise to see his mother’s man standing there. Lilac eyes searched the Dornishman’s face as Ser Lorent closed the king’s door behind them. If Aegon didn’t know any better, he’d think that before the man’s features smoothed out, he might have looked worried. Ser Criston? Worried? The thought didn’t seem to register with him. He’d seen Ser Criston look concerned when one of them took a particularly nasty blow in the training yard and blood was involved. He’d seen concern when Helaena was having one of her struggling moments where she needed to get away from everyone.

“Your Grace.” The knight’s voice was low as he fell in step beside Aegon, a half step behind as he did with his lady mother. Unlike the last time, all those weeks ago after the knight had tried to give him advice, there was no air of judgment radiating off the man. “Prince Daeron expressed his wishes for the pair of you to go flying.”

“Did he? Well, I’ll find him after this.” A smile stretched along Aegon’s face. Daeron had been incandescent with the prospect of going flying with his siblings now that Tessarion was big enough to take a rider, and Aegon knew Helaena had gone out with him already. Aegon tried not to feel guilty for it, since there would be plenty of time for the pair of them to ride together without Mother fretting all the while.

"Your Grace."

Aegon paused and turned to look at the knight, uncertainty raising the hairs on the back of his neck. 'This is it', he thought. This was when the lecture would start, when Ser Criston Cole, his mother's sworn shield and protector, the man who first taught him how to hold a sword, who had been there when he was frightened and afraid after Daeron's birth, when Mother was bedridden, when the maesters feared she would not make it, would take another piece from him, and Aegon wondered if it would be that one piece that would send him toppling into shambles.

Nothing he'd done would matter. Nothing would be good enough.

"I have not had the time to tell you how well you've done," came the words that Aegon struggled to register. "I must admit, I was uncertain how things would turn out given your long time away from training, but..." Cole shook his head, a smile crossing his handsome face. "That was an inspired fight, my prince. You took what I've taught you and what you've learned on your own and used it well."

A flush of heat rushed through Aegon, that sudden nervous flush that usually came from shame, but in this moment felt strangely optimistic. "Thank you, Ser Criston," he said, voice stilted, mouth dry.

"You've handled yourself admirably these past weeks, my prince," Cole continued. "I am proud of you, and the man you've shown yourself to be, and I have made that known to your mother." His dark eyes shifted away as his fingers drummed against the pommel of his sheathed sword. Praise was hard earned from Ser Criston, and something Aegon had thought he himself had long given up chasing, as Aemond received it so easily. "She worries for you, of course."

"Of course," Aegon said faintly, eyes burning and he cleared his throat. He was, much like in his sire's room, a boy once more, small in many different ways. The weight of expectation was looming and all he wanted to do was run from it, and how unforgiving the failure could be. Yet he yearned for it. "Thank you for your kind words, Ser Criston." Stilted. Unsure. Aegon felt foolish. He felt like something else was looming and it wasn't coming.

"Should you wish to continue training, I would be glad of it," the elder continued, peering back at him. "With your uncle, Ser Gwayne, coming with you to Harrenhal, you would also be in good hands."

"I will consider it, Ser Criston," Aegon said quickly, desperate to escape the strangeness of receiving praise. "Is this why you came looking for me?"

Cole was quiet, watching him for a moment before shaking his head. "I heard you had gone to see the king." There was more to the statement but Cole did not finish it, and Aegon was not certain how to take it. Had Cole been worried for him? "Your mother did express hope you would join her in the Sept after supper for evening prayers, but I did not think she would ask you outright. That task might be left to the Lady Abrogail.”

Aegon grimaced at the idea of it. He had accompanied his mother to her prayers over the years, had found his own sense of comfort not in the gods, but in the quiet time with her. The way Mother’s face would relax in the candle light, the whispered prayers, even stories of his grandmother who had died a handful of years before he’d been born. The moments were precious to him, were moments where the gulf between them did not feel more than a trickling creek, where Mother’s hand rested warmly between his shoulder blades or stroked her fingers along the nape of his neck as she did when he was small.

“I’ll attend with her tonight,” he said softly. “Thank you, Ser Criston. Please send my mother my wishes.”

“A round!” Aegon declared, hopping up onto the bench, his hand gripping Alyn’s shoulder. “For Alyn Hull! The best fucking man I know!” He giggled, pleased with himself even as Alyn smacked him in embarrassment, ignoring his protestations and dropping back down in his seat.

The Shallows was a tavern they had only recently become more acquainted with as Aegon drew further from the Street of Silk, and Alyn’s aunt and uncle ran the place at the top of the street from the main docks. It had become a comfortable place, all considered, and Aegon had found excitement in the stream of sailors and bards that frequented the place, often only in the city for a night or two, with tales from the Stepstones and the fighting, of far off Myr with their new inventions, Braavos and their clever fighting men.

“You’re ridiculous,” Alyn shook his head, shoving at his shoulder once more as stabbed a hunk of meat out of the stew.

“He’s not,” came the clipped tone, a northern burr tempered by the southern accent. Fresh tankards of the house ale were set on the table as Bri shook her head. The deep green of her kirtle looked nearly black in the low light of the tavern, her skirt tucked up in her wide black belt. “It’s what you deserve.” It was Alyn’s turn to receive a hit as she shoved at his shoulder, before Alyn grabbed her hand and pulled her into him to kiss her cheek.

“You just can’t wait to get rid of me,” he complained. “You’re so happy the prince is dragging me all the way to Harrenhal so you can finally run away with Beric Storm.”

Aegon reached for his tankard and quickly occupied himself while the pair fell into their bickering, and he was quite certain Alyn’s hand had made it to the wench’s backside. He rolled his eyes and turned to look out at the rest of the room from their vantage point at the back of the tavern. Below, the crush of small folk were cheering as the drinks were dispersed, shouts of ‘Hail Prince Aegon!’ in thanks and calls and well wishes for Alyn.

“I’d have no one else by my side, Hull,” Aegon said after Bri returned to her duties, grasping his friend by the shoulder.

“Who else would keep you alive?” countered Alyn with a snort. “I consider it a fine payment for my bodyguard services to you over the years.” Aegon prickled at how transactional Alyn made it sound, a frown crossing his face before Alyn’s hand gripped his shoulder in return, drawing his attention back to him. “We have had fun here, in the city, have we not?” he asked, a smile instead of his usual playful smirk crossing his face. “TIme for us to have a new adventure. How robust do you think the city life of Harren Town actually is?”

“Fuck if I know,” Aegon said shortly, still prickling but trying to shake it away. “You can bring your girl with you.”

“Nay,” Alyn murmured, taking a swallow from the fresh tankard. “Bri promised to stay with my mother until Addam’s back from the Stepstones.” Alyn’s elder brother was serving in the Velaryon fleet, fighting down south in Lord Colrys’ war. “She won’t leave until he’s safe and returned to us.” Aegon nodded, understanding. The Hulls were a close family, Alyn’s aunt and uncle having opened the tavern when Alyn was a babe, not long before Aegon himself had been born. His mother was one of many who wove fishing nets - a trade that could be easily found north in Harrenhal. However, Aegon had offered to put his mother up as well, set up and comfortable how he knew Alyn hoped for her.

“Word from your brother?”

A shrug. “Lord Velaryon won another battle - according to those merchants from Qohor that came in this week. Rumor is the Triarchy might be enlisting the Bright Banners.”

Aegon drummed his fingers against the tankard. “He’ll be fine. And when he comes back, we’ll make sure he’s taken care of.” Another drink to cloak it in the casualness rather than the seriousness of his words, uncertain how Alyn would take it.

“First you make me your steward, now you offer to make my brother another part of your new house?” There was a teasing quality in Alyn’s voice, but Aegon knew better, just as his friend knew his own tones masked his own truth. They had been through much together, things that neither of them would ever speak of, but knotted them together like the nets Marilda Hull wove with such care.

He snorted and shook his head, tearing off a hunk of the fresh bread Bri had brought, soaking it in his own stew. “Addam can do what he likes, and whatever I can make happen, I will. It’s not charity,” Aegon quickly added, because Alyn would rankle at times about charity until he learned not to complain about it. “He served the realm. Should he want to be a Gold Cloak, should he want to set up a tavern in Harren Town, hells, send him to Oldtown and become a Maester-”

“Aeg,” Alyn cut in, fingers gripping his shoulder and Aegon fell silent, eyes focused on the food before him. “I want to come with you to Harrenhal. I want to make a better life, I don’t want to raise my children in this stinking cesspool of a city, I want my mother to have the garden she’s always dreamed of.”

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Aegon said, voice low, the frown pulling at his mouth once more. “I’d still let you have it for-”

“Aegon,” Alyn said. “As your steward, all I ask is for your respect.”

“And as your liege, all I ask is you tell me when I go wrong,” Aegon replied, finally meeting his friend’s eyes. They were bright green, like his aunt’s, and his mother’s. The silver hair was the only thing that hinted at his origins. His true origins. ‘As your-’ Aegon could not finish the thought and instead he hooked an arm around Alyn’s shoulder, pulling him in to smack a kiss to his silver head. “Here, steward. Give that bard a dragon and let’s get something good playing.”

Thank you for being here! I hope you've been enjoying yourself! It's been a hot minute since we had a chonky Aegon POV chapter and with everything having gone on, I thought it was a great time to revisit. Not to mention, I've been sitting on this Viserys interaction since Chapter 9. I've really wanted to dive into certain personality traits of his that often get understandably overshadowed by less than stellar qualities since he's on a different trajectory here. I understand that maybe that's not what some of you are expecting, and that's okay! But I really do love diving into his head and unwrapping him and shaking him in my snow globe, so those of you that enjoy that, again, many thanks for being here. Also I'm so glad to bring Alyn back! We touch a little on that parentage mystery as well <3 I'd love to hear your thoughts and theories! Let me know what you loved about the chapter! What are you looking forward to? Next chapter we have Alicent and Jace and then OFF TO HARRENHAL! OMG are you so excited? I'm so excited! Also omg who was behind the attack?? I hope justice is served one day :prayeremoji: Hope everyone is having a great weekend!!

Next Chapter

#hotd fic #hotd oc #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon ii targaryen fic #house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fandom #house targaryen fanfic #my fics #oc: abrogail strong #otp: do not go far from me #aegon x abby #abrogon #fic: the maiden and the drowning boy

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the-astral-express-archive · 2 months

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youtube

Honkai: Star Rail CN x Keep Collab: "Time For the Masterstroke"

Original name: 该出奇兵了 | 星穹铁道 × Keep 联动课程预告

Contains 3 chapters (refer to the video description for timestamps)

"Eight-Section Brocade Course" Preview (「八段锦课程」预告)

"Rhythm Game Course" Preview (「节奏游戏课程」预告)

"Meditation Course" Preview (「冥想课程」预告)

#Honkai Star Rail #Videos #Promotional Videos #Star Rail Collab #Keep Collab #Youtube

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archduchessofnowhere · 4 months

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Imprudence is at the origin of the crisis which will take Sophie away. (...) After attending a performance at the Opera on May 9 in an overheated atmosphere, she wants to get some fresh air on her balcony before going to bed. She dozed off there and only woke up in the early morning with a high fever. She had again recounted the start of her day on the 9th in her Journal. Then it suddenly stops and will never resume. The bulletins published in the first days by the Court are intended to be reassuring. According to them, the Archduchess suffers from gastric problems. The reality is infinitely more serious. In fact, Sophie has pneumonia which, after a short remission, is getting worse day by day. Clearly, the worst is now to be feared. Informed on May 15, while she was staying again in Meran in the company of [Archduchess] Marie Valerie, [Empress] Elisabeth immediately returned to Vienna.

The family is now gathered at the Hofburg to watch over the Archduchess. The fatal outcome is no longer in doubt. Like Maria Theresia long ago, Sophie wants to face death. A few years earlier, she had written to her mother: “I only understand the fear of death too well […] but I believe that when one has had time to prepare for it, it must give a lot of consolation and courage.” This moment has come. Always in control of herself, Sophie took leave of her family one after the other on May 22. Having drawn on her last strength for this final farewell, she then gradually weakened and, under the influence of cerebral convulsions, even experienced speech problems. Elisabeth was absent, recalled to Schönbrunn to be with the ailing Marie Valerie. Joined by the news that the end is near, she hastens to return to the Hofburg. When she arrives, Marie Festetics, her new lady-in-waiting, hears her ask: “Is she still alive?” and add, the response having been positive: “Thank God! Otherwise they would have said that I have done it intentionally because I hate her so much!”

The last sacraments were administered to the dying woman, then, surrounded by her family, she died at a quarter past three on the night of May 28. Collapsed with pain, [Archduke] Franz Karl throws himself into the arms of his eldest son, also overwhelmed with grief. Mourning the end of a harmonious union of forty-eight years, he will return each of the following days to pray near the remains of his wife. The embalmed body is placed in the Augustinian church, precisely where their marriage had been celebrated. Then the Viennese can pay their respects before the deceased who was dressed in a silver brocade dress and whose head is decorated with a crown of camellias. Finally, on June 1, Sophie was buried in the Capuchin crypt. This is where, according to Habsburg tradition, her earthly pilgrimage ends. For her, the time of eternity has come.

Bled, Jean-Paul (2018). Sophie de Habsbourg

ON THIS DAY, IN 1872, ARCHDUCHESS SOPHIE OF AUSTRIA (NÉE PRINCESS OF BAVARIA) DIED. She was born in 1805 as the third daughter of King Maximilian I of Bavaria and his second wife Caroline of Baden. Sophie married Archduke Franz Karl of Austria in 1824, and they had six children, among them Emperor Franz Josef I of Austria and Emperor Maximilian I of Mexico.

In 1848, she played a key role in the ascencion to the throne of her son Franz Josef by assuring the double abdications of her brother-in-law Emperor Ferdinand and her husband. And although her influence during the early years of her son's reign is often exagerated, she was nonetheless an important and powerful figure in the Viennese court.

Sophie fell into a deep depression after the execution of her son Maximilian in 1867, which also weakened her physical health. She was often sick afterwards, finally dying of pneumonia five years later, at the age of sixty-seven.

#sophie of bavaria archduchess of austria #on this day in history #historicwomendaily

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silverfoxstole · 1 year

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It’s done!

After ten days of work (and another three for a waistcoat I’m not that happy with; see below), the NotD coat is finished! Woohoo!

Overall, I’m really pleased with it, which is just as well as it’s taken so much time (and grief!). I worked out that if I’d paid myself minimum wage for all the hours I put in the labour alone would amount to about £500. One of my ex colleagues used to suggest I set up a dressmaking business and wouldn’t believe me when I told her it wouldn’t be cost effective as the amount of labour involved would make everything too expensive.

Anyway, I have taken quite a lot of photos, so you can see how it turned out:

This got long so I’ll stick the rest behind a cut.

I ended up adding some extra fabric to the tails, as they were sticking out at an angle and didn’t look right. It means an extra seam but it’s not that visible and I much prefer it this way, with more fullness at the back (and it properly covers my bum, which is very important!):

Though it looks fine on the dummy when I put it on I’m not convinced I didn’t raise the back waist seam a bit too far, but it’s sitting on my waist so… *shrugs* I don’t often look at myself from behind so it probably doesn’t matter that much.

After sewing on the two back buttons I changed my mind and went with the covered ones in the end, deciding on reflection that those I bought last week were a bit too pale. They would have fitted better if I’d made the binding more of a contrast (which I’m glad I didn’t as it would have been more obvious that it’s not exactly perfect in some places). I had to make the buttonholes manually as there was no way the automatic buttonhole foot wouldn’t get caught at some point. I haven’t sewn any that way since I first started out six years ago and was using my mother’s old machine! All the ones I’ve owned have had an automatic function so I had to practice a bit to remind myself how to do it. Thankfully they’ve turned out well.

I also solved the problem of the gap between the collar and lapel by stitching them together. It works a treat!

Though I’ve made a miniature version for Eight Bear, this is the first time I’ve tried to replicate an existing garment for myself (the Dark Eyes coat was an interpretation rather than a direct copy), and I am actually really proud that I’ve ended up with something that does look pretty much like the original, as well as Steven Ricks’s recreation, which has been a definite influence!

That said, while the coat has turned out well I’m not massively pleased with the waistcoat. I decided to make another one on a whim as I had a more accurate pattern and saw what looked like an ideal fabric but I don’t like it all that much now it’s done. It was hell to put together because the satin just started disintegrating and still is; I’ve had to sew up holes in both the pockets because the seams have just frayed straight through and I’d put them together before I thought of stabilising the edges with interfacing. It’s another men’s pattern and I should have made some adjustments but after doing so much to the coat I really couldn’t be bothered and just put it together as it was; I should really have added some length, which is ironic given the amount I had to remove from the coat, and perhaps levelled it off at the front. Consequently it’s not a great fit and sits really awkwardly on Stella as you can see, though that may have something to do with the fact that I put the buttonholes on the wrong side out of habit:

There is a watch on the end of the chain this time, because the pockets are real! I quite like the look of the waistcoat undone when I put it on, but done up not so much. There’s a lot of spare fabric in the front for some reason, which I tried to hide by smoothing it under the collar and then stitching the collar down. It hasn’t entirely worked, and it doesn’t help that the brocade is such a bouncy fabric and doesn’t press well.

Putting it all together I do think it looks better on Stella than me, but that’s probably because I rarely wear so many layers! I wish I had a better backdrop than the bedroom but it’ll have to do:

Maybe I could unbutton the waistcoat and untuck the shirt and be Eight having a casual day? I love the coat but I do feel much more comfortable wearing it over a t-shirt and jeans!

Now I just have to wait until some cooler weather to be able to put it into use. My only gripe is that there are no external pockets, either on the original or the pattern I used! Surely you’d think the Doctor would need pockets?

#sfs’s adventures in sewing #night of the doctor coat #doctor who #eighth doctor #8th doctor #costume making #sewing #dressmaking #frock coat #waistcoat #there’s a very good reason i never wear tops tucked in #i have next to no waist #definitely prefer it with jeans!

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chinesehanfu · 2 years

Photo

【Reference Tang Dynasty Artifacts】:

・Nao Sao Hairstyle (闹扫髻) Female Figurine, Collection of Wuhan Museum

・Tang Dynasty Female Figurine with Nao Sao Hairstyle (闹扫髻)

[Hanfu · 漢服]Chinese Tang Dynasty Traditional Clothing Hanfu & Hairstyle Based On Female Figurine-【Late Tang Period】

Women's Clothing, Hairstyle and Makeup in the Late Tang Dynasty

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【History Note】

In the late Tang Dynasty, women's daily attire was still dominated by a combination of shirts (Shan/衫), skirts (Qun/裙), and Pibo (披帛), but compared with the mid-Tang Period, which advocated the sharp silhouette of the upper small and the lower large, the late Tang Period was more fashionable to create a rounded and loose silhouette.

At the same time, the exaggerated and peculiar style in the middle Tang Dynasty is still prosperous. In terms of hairstyle, all kinds of asymmetrical hairstyle are popular, and it is fashionable to wrap the hair bun with various precious fabrics, which has both practical functions and decorative features. “五陵年少争缠头，一曲红绡不知数“”（From the narrative poem "Pipa Xing /琵琶行 “by Bai Juyi in the Tang Dynasty）” is Refers to such attire.

“五陵年少争缠头，一曲红绡不知数”

It refers to "The wealthy children of the capital are scrambling to give me rewards, and every time a song (play pipa) is played, I will got countless beautiful brocades (红绡)

About the makeup, as Tang Dynasty poet Bai Juyi, described in his poem "Shishi Zhuang/时世妆" :”乌膏注唇唇似泥，双眉画作八字低”

The black cream is applied to the lips and lips are like mud, and the eyebrows are painted with low “八 (chinese character "eight")”shape.

This is a popular makeup look in the mid-Tang Period and it continued to the late Tang.

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Recreation Work：@裝束复原

🔗Weibo：https://weibo.com/1656910125/MasyqfRSy

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web-novel-polls · 2 months

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Have You Read This Web Novel?

Jing Lin, titled as Lord Lin Song, used to be powerful and well-known deity until one day, he murdered the Supreme Father (Emperor of Heaven) in front of everyone's eyes. Annhiliated as punishment for his heinous act, Jing Lin has been believed to be dead for hundreds of years now. Unbeknownst to most of heaven, Jing Lin survived and spends his days recovering on top of a snowy mountain with only a brocade carp by his side. The carp, Cang Ji, has been observing Jing Lin ever since it can remember and, even after managing to turn human, desires to devour Jing Lin. During an incident, Jing Lin loses his copper bell so he and Cang Ji leave the mountain in order to retrieve it. On their journey they get caught up in a series of strange events and encounter the Eight Sufferings (birth, old age, sickness, death, parting, encounter with hated ones, unfulfillment of desires and inability to let go). They gradually unravel the mysteries, as well as their own past.

- Carrd Description

#nan chan #Tang Jiuqing #danmei #have you read this web novel #themed polls #polls #my polls #queue

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jewellery-box · 1 year

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Dress, 1868

Silk trimmed with braid, satin, linen, beads, brass, bobbin lace and silk fringe, lined with cotton and boned

"During the 1860s the fashionable skirt became flatter in front with the fullness receding towards the back. Women still wore hooped petticoats (crinolines) to give the desired silhouette, but they were no longer bell-shaped and by 1868 they curved out behind forming a kind of bustle. In order to fall gracefully over these new structures, skirts tended to be gored, that is construced with triangular panels rather than straight widths of fabric. The striped green skirt in this example is composed of eight gores that significantly reduce the amount of bulky pleating and gathering at the waist characterising earlier styles. Contrary to much speculation, these gores did not radially diminish the size of the skirt as The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine pointed out in March 1868: 'Skirts are gored, it is true, but they are ample and flowing. Crinolines, far from being left off, have merely changed their shape; they are plain in front, but puffed out on either side so as to remind one strongly of the hoops or paniers of the last century'.

This dress follows the vogue for historical revival with its separate draped overskirt loosely based on eighteenth century polonaise gowns. Some looped-up styles were given nostalgic names such as à la Watteau and ‘Marie Antoinette dress' or were raised with cords and ribbon bows in the style of the originals. The resulting puffs and draperies were copiously trimmed with silk fringe, brocaded satin braid, beads, marabou feathers, garlands and applied silk flowers. Beneath all these layers and decorative trimmings it is a wonder that a woman could discreetly find her watch pocket which was often concealed in the waistband of her skirt."

Victoria and Albert Museum

#victorian #victorian era #victorian fashion #19th century #fashion history #historical fashion

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thefinalcinderella · 1 year

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Tsurune Book 3 Chapter 4 - Old Friend (Part 2)

the way people talk in this volume is so weird, it'd be like:

Person A: [random spiel about a semi-interesting but irrelevant topic]

Person B: [random spiel about a semi-interesting but irrelevant topic that is barely related to what Person A is saying]

Person A: [continues random spiel] + Oh by the way [talks about thing that's actually related to the plot/characters]

Person B: Yeah.

And it's like the random infodumping never happened

Glossary here

Full list of translations here

Translation Notes

A hitatare is a type of traditional Japanese men's kimono worn by samurai

A nae eboshi is a type of hat worn by commoners and men without official court rank; an ayaigasa is a type of conical hat

The tenchou chikyuu ceremony is a thing where before you start a yabusame, you had to recite prayers and ride your horse around (or something like that)

The subase is when the head of ceremony gives the signal for archers to start galloping

The gaijin ceremony (凱陣の式) is when a drum is hit to signal the end of the shooting.

A gonnegi is a junior priest

Matsuda says this in English

Igarashi says 可以 in Chinese which means "I can" or "sure"

Previous | Next

Green ivy was twined around the red bricks.

This year as well, many varieties of roses were in full bloom in the central courtyard of Kirisaki High School. The fragrant scent of the roses hinted at England and showed the height of tradition and praise. A gentleman learned the customs of his family from an early age.

Shuu’s pale eyelashes trembled.

“I met her a year ago. I heard that she was a woman with a bad temper, but she was a perfect lady in front of me.”

Senichi and Manji froze.

“…She?”

“Her name is Lily.”

“…Lily? She’s a foreigner?”

Shuu let out a chuckle.

What was displayed on his phone was white legs and a white mane—it was obviously a horse.

“I don’t think I can attempt yabusame if I can’t ride a horse. Lily might have a Western name, but she’s a domestic horse. Thoroughbreds have thin limbs, so if they break a bone, it can be fatal.”

Yabusame was a Shinto ritual in which archers shot at a target from a horse riding at full speed. It was an eight-hundred-year tradition, and it wasn’t only a martial arts competition, but also a prayer for the peace of the country and the happiness of its people. Schools like the Takeda-ryuu and Ogasawara-ryuu inherited that spirit and technique. As an aside, drawing a bow while standing on the ground was called busha, and drawing a bow on a horse was called kisha.

A few days later, a housha ceremony was carried out at the shrine.

The members of the Kazemai and Kirisaki kyudo clubs crowded into the space. That was because Shuu and Masa-san were participating as the archers.

Horses draped in crimson appeared against a backdrop of jade-green maples.

The archers were dressed in beautiful yabusame costumes. They were wearing hitatare (1) made of gold brocade. Shuu’s was purple, and Masa-san’s was deep lapis-lazuli. Their feet were covered in deerskin, they wore nae eboshi and ayaigasa (2) woven of soft rushon their heads. They wore a bracer on the left hand and their yugake on the right. A long sword and a short sword hung from their hips, and they were holding their bows while carrying their quivers on their backs.

After the magistrate chanted the written prayers, the signal arrows were offered up to the shrine.

――The meigen ceremomy.

The archers would make their bowstrings ring out and exorcise demons.

When the group appeared at the front, there was a path for rider and horse to ride on. It was a long and straight path. Spectators lined the path to see the moment the targets would be hit. There were three targets. After the tenchou chikyuu ceremony (3), the procession began. Standard bearers and taiko drummers stood at the vanguard, and ougikata waved their fans. Three people—the heifuri, target watcher, and an arrow retriever—stood next to each target. These people served indispensable roles in this Shinto ritual.

It was finally time for subase.(4) At the signal of the head of ceremony’s taiko drum, the archers rode forward. The cool breeze, and the beautiful horses running down the straight path. Their smooth and thick muscles rippled, and the hair that covered their bodies shone in the light.

Shuu seemed like the flower and moon reflected on a clear surface, and Masa-san was like the man in the moon.

The moon reflected in the water was unattainable, and the beautiful immortal who lived on the moon.

Tachisukashi in Japanese-style horseback riding involved raising one’s body from the saddle by a hair’s breadth and maintaining a steady position even while riding the horse. It took many years to be able to master such a skill.

The housha!

The arrows that were powerfully released pierced the targets brilliantly.

Despite the loud cheers, the archers and their horses didn’t stop galloping. They quickly pulled out another arrow from their quiver and released it again.

A perfect hit!

They straddled their saddles, put their feet in the stirrups, and gripped their bows. The sound of the horses’ footsteps kicking up the dirt and the voices of people filled the area, but the archers didn’t smile. They didn’t turn around. This was a prayer for peace.

Bows were divine tools. When handling divine tools, one must never take one’s mind away from the gods. One must not give the demons an opening to take hold of you. By adjusting one’s qi, that is, aligning one’s own frequency with the frequencies emitted by people and objects, thereby purifying the space itself. Every time Shuu blinked, the violet fleeting moments activated.

Masa-san followed. He was someone who served the gods and his eyes were the same azure color as the earth. Many gods were watching—the god of the sky, the god of earth, the god of the bow. They were listening. They were holding their breaths. At this divinely solemn moment, the archer gave it his all. That was what this shot was for. Only when the bow, man, and horse became one could they communicate with heaven.

At the beginning of yabusame practice, participants rode on a human-powered rocking horse. Also, there were no warmup exercises on the day of the ceremony. For warriors, who never knew when a battle would begin, everyday life was synonymous with training. They created a set pattern, turned it into routine, and quickly dealt with any sense of discomfort. They kept in mind that even a second’s delay in judgment could be fatal, and did their best to have no regrets even if they crumbled to dust a second later. Bushido and Shinto rituals were inseparable. One felt the blessings of something invisible against one’s skin.

Archers offered up their prayers in a single arrow.

It was a makeshift bridge that connected heaven and humans.

The targets were hit one after the other, and when they had shot all their arrows, they dismounted. Upon returning to the shrine, a feast was held and sacred sake was offered. When they went outside, they shouted “Ei, ei, ei, oh!” to the accompaniment of taiko drums. That was the gaijin ceremony. (5) Inspecting the targets and cheering in victory was also a symbolic identification of the eradicated evil.

After completing their duties, Shuu and Masa-san looked at each other.

“As expected, Takigawa-san. All your arrows hit the center.”

“I can’t believe this is your first time, Fujiwara-kun.”

“Lily is a woman with nerves of steel. I’m grateful to her for trusting me.”

“Shuu-kuuuun!” Ryouhei ran over to them. “Shuu-kun, I wanna ride a horse too.”

“I don’t mind. We can take turns riding.”

Ryouhei and Minato took turns riding the horse with Shuu sitting behind them. Seiya, Kaito, Nanao, and the others also rode with Masa-san. The line of sight was high on horseback, and the body moved up and down with the horse’s steps, so even in this state it seemed difficult to hit the target with an arrow.

Senichi, Manji, Kabashima, Yushima, and Kuon were also there. Kuon lifted his chin and followed Minato and Shuu as they rode together with only his eyes.

Asahina and Eddie were there as well. The two were facing each other.

“That was so hype! The Young Prince of Kirisaki and Kazemai’s coach look incredible! Eddie, did you get them?”

“But of course. Now, let us move to the next position.”

For the two people who just loved flashy things, there was nothing more exciting than this. They applied in advance to the organizing body for permission to film and to share the proceeds from the stream, and secured the best seats. Matsuda, Kanuma, and Igarashi from Haneina High’s kyudo club, as well as their other school friends, participated as support, and videos were taken from multiple angles. The music would be performed with traditional instruments, and there would be explanatory captions in multiple languages for overseas viewers.

Many of the viewers for the kyudo channel “Yumihiki Douji” were foreigners. Their latest challenge was to get people to remember the “Eight Stages of Shooting.” Just like the soccer terms dribble and shoot, they wanted to raise awareness of kyudo terms such as “uchiokoshi” and “kai.”

That was why they started chanting the Eight Stages in the beginning of their videos. The only way to get people to remember unfamiliar words was to have them listen to them over and over again. The more words you knew, the deeper your understanding would be, and above all, the more fun you would have.

Some people might have skipped watching their videos because they recited the Eight Stages quickly. But there were also byproducts. After their viewers who were archers continued to watch them for about a month, they started reporting one after the other, “I don’t know why, but my hitting rate has increased.” The most likely theory was that the brain responded to the mouth saying things out loud, resulting in image training.

Asahina waved to Minato and the others who had finished riding.

“Hey, Kazemai crew! Can I interview you guys? I’ll start with Narumiya. You know both the Young Prince and the priest, in your opinion, how were they today?”

“They’re the same as always. Really cool.”

“Which one was cooler?”

“There’s no way to compare that, is there?”

“Can I have a look at your palm?”

“My hand? Okay.”

Asahina took a step closer to Minato.

“Just as I thought. You’ve got the Buddha’s eye and Mystic Cross on your palms.”

“Is that rare?”

“It is. They say that people with these lines have strong sixth sense and intuition, and are protected by their ancestors and other unseen things.”

“I don’t have a sixth sense, though.”

“Maybe it hasn’t awakened yet. Well, I’m more curious about this than your palms, though.”

Asahina and Eddie immediately touched Minato’s forehead. Seiya and Kanbayashi let out a simultaneous “Ah.”

“You’re full of openings. We have made contact with ‘Minahead,’ and now our mission for today is complete. Our kyudo skills will also improve. Thanks, Narumiya. We’re looking forward to seeing you at prefecturals.”

“We bid thee farewell!”

The two of them were quick to escape, and were quickly lost in the crowd.

In a corner of the shrine.

Masa-san stretched out as he took off his yabusame costume.

He was the only one there, as he had been given a private room. He rubbed his arms, shoulders, and legs with his hands and thanked them for their hard work for today. Since the body was the companion of the soul, it was the priest’s job to express gratitude to it. Masa-san’s priesthood rank, “Gonnegi” (6), came from the word “negu.” He soothed the hearts of the gods and prayed for their blessings.

He changed into street clothes, finished his canned coffee, and went outside. The sky he looked up at was blue and the wind was cool. The trees were covered in young leaves, and it looked like it was going to be a great day for setting sail.

“Am I qualified to exorcise demons? Answer me, Gramps.”

Gramps referred to Yasaka-hanshi, his kyudo master and grandfather.

As if in response to his words, the out-of-season chirping of cicadas sounded. They were chirping loudly and powerfully, but he couldn’t tell if the answer was yes or no. Did he ask the question in the wrong way, or was it presumptuous to ask if he was qualified or not? He supposed his grandfather was telling him to do his job and not just stand around talking nonsense. He was aware that the gods could see through his defeatist attitude, but if possible, he didn’t want his disciples to find out.

Even if he shot a million arrows or landed a hundred hits, his doubts weren’t dispelled. He was doing his best to contain the surging emotions within, putting them into words and erasing them, struggling to keep them unspoken.

Speaking—proclamations represented one’s covenant with the gods. Prayers and curses were the same from their perspective, and cancelling a covenant was no mean feat.

You must not say those words—.

Not only am I a servant of the gods, I’m also those kids’ coach. All women look beautiful to me, but I only think of my disciples as cute. Am I a doting parent?

The trees rustled in the wind.

The encounter was on a rainy night. The twinkling of peridots.

Dreams and reality intersected.

Sensing the presence of someone, Masa-san held his breath.

A woman walked up to him. It was hard to make out her face because she was wearing fancy glasses under the sunlight filtering through the trees, but he could get a rough idea of who she was by the way she was standing.

“Tsucchi-san.”

“I had no idea that the priest who passed by was the coach of the Kazemai High School kyudo club. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Tsucchi-san, you’re the coach for Haneina. I saw you at the venue for the preliminaries, but I apologize for not saying hello to you.”

“I don’t care about that kind of lip service. You called me ‘Ena-senpai’ during the thing with Tetsi. What do you mean, ‘it’s a fine name’? I don’t trust men who are smooth talkers.”

“‘Ena’ is a name that comes from the ena of the Womb Realm, the placenta of the perfected one. It seems that everyone has a memory of being wrapped in their mother cradle.”

“Can a Shinto priest talk about Shingon Buddhism?”

“Japanese people are a people who celebrate Christmas at the end of the year, listen to the temple bells on New Year’s Eve, and visit the shrine on New Year’s. They live a life that’s true to Shintoism, respecting, integrating, and making the other into their daily routines, and yet so many Japanese say that they aren’t religious, making foreigners confused because they don’t understand.”

“I guess there was a problem with postwar education in that regard. Historians say that those who didn’t learn the myths of their peoples perished without exception.”

“Some works such as the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki are based on true stories of natural disasters and incidents, as well as to teach lessons. Because people don’t study mythology, they make the mistake of thinking that there are no gods or Buddhas, and that humans are the supreme creatures on earth. For the Japanese, God is nature itself. The sun god, mountain god, and the water god who is a dragon, are said to be animistic and primitive, but without the sun and water, almost all living things would disappear, and without mountains, it would be impossible to create buildings, cars, and other man-made objects.”

“The great power is God. I guess the Japanese have been good at anthropomorphizing since ancient times. Everything, even swords and countries are anthropomorphized. Humans are humans, and they become the god of learning or the god of manga.”

“Gods, Buddhas, and humans are all exalted and sacred beings. Tsucchi-san, I recommend you learn the art of self-defense. Until you master it, throw anything you can get your hands on, blind your attacker with scissors, and fight back with low blows. If you step on your attacker’s foot or kick them in the shin with your heel, most people wouldn’t be able to move for a while.”

“Aren’t those all foul techniques?”

“The best self-defense technique is not closing the distance with the opponent or creating a situation where you have to fight, but it’s unavoidable in order to fend off physical attacks, right? Even women who lack physical strength should remember how to protect themselves. Both individuals and nations are exploited because they show weakness. You should learn enough to make people think, ‘Oh, I’m going to be in trouble if I make her my enemy.’”

“I heard that we aren’t the strongest primates or anything. There’s something else I want to ask you. What exactly have you been doing for the last four years since you graduated from high school? I’ve been looking for you.”

“Mmm, last year I took the renshi exam and failed. When I entered the shajo, one person couldn’t keep their feet together and we all failed.”

“Hey, you haven’t answered my question at all. That happened after you graduated from university, right?”

“It was a typical four years at university, so I don’t have much to say about it. Oh, your students are here for you.”

When Tsucchi turned around, she saw Asahina and Eddie, who missed the chance to call out to her. Masa-san disappeared while she was distracted.

Asahina ran his hand through his red hair.

“Despite his appearance, he’s a scary priest. I definitely don’t want him to be my enemy. I bet he would chase me to the ends of hell and beat me up if I did anything wrong.”

Eddie also retied his blond ponytail.

“Well said. He is already immersed in tactics.”

The three started walking.

After the yabusame, the Kazemai and Kirisaki kyudo clubs met up and headed to the large public bathhouse.

Minato and the others were unaware of the words Masa-san and Tsucchi exchanged.

Eddie moved into the Asahina household the day after the yabusame.

There was a water leak in one of the units of the apartment Eddie was renting, and all the unit on the first floor was flooded. Chairs and refrigerators that were floating in the water were lying around, similar to the aftermath of flood damage. When he consulted with Asahina, he said, “Why don’t you come over?” and Eddie moved in immediately.

Eddie received a warm welcome in front of Asahina’s house. Although it wasn’t large in size, it had a simple and sturdy construction with tiles and earthen walls, making it look like an Edo mansion.

There was a man dressed in black at the entrance, calling out loudly to Asahina.

“Is that honored personage your school friend I’ve heard so much about, Waka? You said you wouldn’t let us meet him, but have you changed your mind now? Now, come inside, come inside.”

“Uncle, stop calling me ‘Waka.’”

“Waka is Waka. Ane-san is in the back.”

A woman wearing a chic kimono and had her hair tied back appeared. She was in her forties.

“Oh, son, do we have a guest? I’m about to head to work soon.”

“Mom, it’s fine to gather the neighbors together, but could you please stop dressing in black ceremonial kimonos and black five-crested kimonos? People who don’t know us would think this is a Yakuza gathering.”

“I don’t care about people I don’t know. This is a play party for adults, so they can just leave me alone.”

Asahina’s mother was a former actress. She retired when she got married and currently worked as the proprietress of a small restaurant. Her most famous work was a historical drama, and she played a character named Kikyou, called “Ane-san,” so even the people in their neighborhood called her “Ane-san.” Every month, she held a cosplay competition called the tea party. Her husband was a gentle man who was enchanted by his wife, and he would happily say things like, “Kikyou-san, you look beautiful today as well.” In a sense, they were a couple who were similar to each other and could immerse themselves in a world of lies.

There were many other people living in the Asahina household all the time. That was because Asahina often “found and picked up” people.

These people had various circumstances, such as foreigners traveling on a budget or children wandering around town. He enjoyed sightseeing together with tourists, and with bullied kids, he engaged legal organizations to report the bullies, who were essentially criminals, to the police. If they were beaten, the crime was bodily harm; if money or goods were taken, the crime was extortion; slander posted online was defamation, and shoplifting was theft. One must not be fooled by the paraphrasing of crafty people.

Asahina wasn’t only a boisterous Yotuber, but also the most dependable big brother in town. He was gallant and generous, unable to leave those in trouble alone. He was the model of an Edokko, possessing the determination and ability to do things, as if saying, “If the adults around you won’t protect you, I will.” Eddie, captivated with that side of him, enjoyed being around him.

After Asahina finished speaking with his mother, he spoke to Eddie.

“Well, the guest rooms are full, so let’s go to my room. I’ll ask you to help around the house like a freeloader. Also, don’t tell anyone if you find something.”

By “something,” he was talking about the posters and goods of the idol group “Princess Cheer” that Noririn was part of. Asahina was a group stan and a secret idol fan. He watched their fantastic live performances where they sang hard rock and danced agilely everyday.

“They’re piling up, so let’s clean it up quickly.”

“Will this be finished by the end of today?”

“Don’t run away, partner.”

Asahina’s eyes were sharp.

One had forgotten to mention that while Asahina had the appearance of a good-natured young man, his true nature was a tiger. If he recognized someone as an enemy, he would bite at them mercilessly. Barely anyone knew the face of the raging night.

When he opened the door to his room, it was filled with blinding light.

It was such a beautiful day that it was a waste to stay indoors. Asahina leaned out of his window and looked up at the sun. The way he narrowed his eyes and looked at it reminded Eddie of Icarus, who fell after his wax wings melted, and he whispered to him not to get too close to the sun.

The two turned on their computers. Using video editing software, they processed the footage they captured.

“What should we do here?”

“Nothing. Oh, this is nice. Female archers look so dignified.”

“A request has arrived, it has.”

“Shall we transfer it to Sensei?”

As they started to become well-known, all sorts of people wanted to discuss things with them, but Asahina and the others didn’t respond to them directly. At Haneina, they had contracts with lawyers, patent attorneys, tax accountants, and others, and they tried to involve experts in these discussions. There were many scams, and it was too risky for high school students to suddenly sign a contract. They must also pay taxes as well. In addition, the school intended to teach classes using these actual cases so it would help freelancers, who were expected to increase in the future.

“Hmm, my eyes are blinking too incessantly. I shall take a short recess.”

Eddie groaned, leaning towards Asahina, but Asahina remained glued to the screen.

“I am famished. I shall cry if you do not take care of me.”

“Our yellow-headed chirper is such a pain.”

Asahina opened a bag of pastries and popped one into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie lied down, chewed and swallowed, then opened his mouth again. When he was full, he got up and went back to his computer. On the way, his phone rang many times, but he ignored it. He immersed himself in his work and kept pushing forward. Both of them couldn’t stay still. It wasn’t a runner’s high, but once they reached a certain limit, they felt light and comfortable, like their bodies had gone somewhere else.

Old friend.

They probably met somewhere before they were born.

The person who was always next to them.

The person they could never save.

They probably wouldn’t share this feeling with anyone else. It was a secret between just the two of them. They were similar to comrades in arms, those who survived through numerous battles, those who watched their comrades die, and live with bitter memories that couldn’t be put into words. The sound of a young man crying for their mother and the smell of gunpowder. Whose memories were these and from when? They vowed to themselves that if they were still unable to leave the battlefield after being reborn, they would enjoy themselves.

“It’s peaceful here.”

“Yes, it is peaceful.”

“Oh no, we might not be able to finish by evening. I have to get them to confirm it too.”

Just as Asahina cried that out in front of the large number of materials, the door to his room suddenly opened. The members of Haneina’s kyudo club were all there.

“Let me help,” Matsuda laughed. (7)

“I’ll help if I can compose a poem while I’m doing it,” Kanuma said.

Asahina’s mouth curled into a smile. “You came at a good time. Can you do my homework for me?”

“You can do that yourself. Eddie, give me some work,” the Gardening Prince, Igarashi, said.

“I am indebted to you. Then, please translate these comments into Chinese. Include plenty of jokes as well.”

“Keyi.” (8)

In this way, the “Yabusame!” video posted by the kyudo channel “Yumihiki Douji” gained great popularity.

Put a message that will reach those who will notice—.

Kazemai High School.

From a corner of the school building, the sound of instruments repeating the same phrase could be heard. At first, it was out of tune, but before one knew it, they overlapped and turned into stately music. Sounds were also coming from the kyudojo one after the other.

Minato took his bow and arrow and let out a breath.

His master said, “Breathe through the soles of your feet. Relax your whole body.”

He raised his bow without warping his yumifutokoro. The bow was constantly talking to the archer. Release me, believe in me and surrender yourself to me. I’ll give you everything you want.

“You don’t need any tricks. Just expose everything and embrace the earth.”

He slowly pushed the bow open. The bow and human’s breathing overlapped. The breath he took in from the soles of his feet was exhaled at the top of his head and into the sky. The rising air engulfed the surrounding objects.

Tsurune. Matooto. The sound of gasps from the people watching. When the three sounds came together, Minato lowered his bow.

The first-year Kanbayashi clapped his hands vigorously.

“Senpais, that was so cool!”

“Foot breathing doesn’t make any sense to me,” Keyaki questioned, while Himuro was as expressionless as always.

“When you fold your body in half, the parts that overlap, such as the head and feet, neck and ankles, correspond with each other. Just like how the head has eyes and a mouth, it feels like there are eyes and mouths on the soles of the feet as well. Martial art techniques aren’t expressed with words, but expressed with your body. The only way to learn is by actually doing it,” Masa-san said.

When everyone finished zasha, Tommy-sensei stood in front of everyone.

“Now, did everyone change into their gym clothes. Let’s do yoga today. In kyudo, the vertical and horizontal lines of the body are important. Let’s each check the twists in our bodies.”

The method was simple: walk in a straight line with your eyes closed. When you opened your eyes, your body was twisted away from the line. You also tried lying face down and checked to see if your legs were the same length. Next, check for any contortions. If one of your knees stuck out when you were sitting in seiza, you had a pelvic abnormality. People who had a raised right shoulder were putting pressure on their stomach, and people with a raised left shoulder were putting pressure on their liver. They did corrective gymnastics, yoga cat poses and twisting poses.

Next to Hanazawa, who was striking gorgeous poses, Shiragiku was struggling. Since her body was stiffer than expected, Seo came to help. To conclude, they worked in pairs to massage each other.

Minato and Ryouhei formed a pair.

“Minato, Minato, I’m good at massages, aren’t I? I always do them for my sister.”

“Yeah, you’re good at it.”

“Are your toes going around in circles. I tried to do one for Shuu-kun before, but he refused.”

“I think he was probably surprised by the offer. Maybe he was embarrassed.”

“Really? He didn’t have to be shy.”

As they were chatting, Ryouhei leaned against Minato’s back, causing Minato to groan as he was folded in half.

To Hanazawa, Shiragiku, and Seo, they looked like an innocent Labrador retriever sitting on top of a serious black Shiba inu. Next to them, Kaito and Seiya had expressions of exasperation.

Tommy-sensei announced the next regimen.

“Everyone, bring out your phones. We’re going to record everyone’s shooting.”

They stood in front of the target in order. When they finished recording, they watched themselves on the screen. The things that were always pointed out were visualized, so they were able to accept them. At the end, they repeated the important points with Masa-san.

During the break, Nanao showed everyone the photos he saved on his phone. Kanbayashi was impressed by the figurine of a frog drawing a bow and an illustration of a frog wearing a headband while studying. It was filled with frog pictures.

“Kisaragi-senpai, you’re amazing. It’s a whole parade of frogs, kero. Oh, what’s this one?”

“That’s a picture my parents sent me. They’re obsessed with taking pictures of rainbows. They don’t just take pictures of rainbows in the sky, but all sorts of places like on bicycle reflectors and glass windows.”

“The colors change depending on how the light is reflected,” Keyaki said in admiration.

As Nanao was sliding through his photos, Masa-san asked him to stop at one of them.

“This is…”

“Oh, that photo was taken at a shrine on an isolated island. It looks like a rainbow-colored ring and magenta orb floating, but in reality, the setting sun shining between the torii gates was like a chrysanthemum flower, and each petal was shining in a rainbow color. It was really beautiful, apparently. Doesn’t it look mystical?”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right. Sorry, but could you share this photo with me?”

“Okay. But the locals asked us not to post it on social media. There are also worshippers included in the picture, and apparently they won’t be able to handle the influx of tourists on sightseeing tours.”

“Got it.”

Masa-san covered his mouth with his long fingers.

For some reason, Minato felt a chill as he stared at his profile.

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#tsurune #tsurune translation

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chic-a-gigot · 1 year

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La Mode nationale, no. 15, 7 août 1886, Paris. No. 7. — Costume de casino. Modèle de la Compagnie Lyonnaise, 37, boulevard des Capucines. Bibliothèque nationale de France

No. 7. — Costume de casino. Première jupe plate, en soie, recouverte par huit petits volants plissés en dentelle à la laize, garnis de dentelle. Une seconde jupe en surah broché, forme devant un long jupon, garni d'une haute dentelle. Cette draperie est recouverte par une seconde formant tabler, également garnie de dentelle. Derrière, un pouf à double étage, très étoffé, vient rejoindre la draperie devant. Corsage à pointe, à revers de dentelle, ouvrant sur une chemisette plissée en dentelle à la laize. Manches larges, à volants de dentelle.

Chapeau de paille rond, orné de ruban formant coques entremêlées, au sommet, avec un bouquet de roses.

No. 7. — Casino Suit. First flat skirt, in silk, covered by eight small pleated flounces in width lace, trimmed with lace. A second brocaded surah skirt forms a long petticoat in front, trimmed with high lace. This drapery is covered by a second forming table, also trimmed with lace. Behind, a double-tier pouf, very substantial, joins the drapery in front. Pointed bodice, with lace lapels, opening onto a width pleated lace chemisette. Wide sleeves, with lace ruffles.

Round straw hat, adorned with ribbon forming intertwined shells, at the top, with a bouquet of roses.

#La Mode nationale #19th century #1880s #1886 #on this day #August 7 #periodical #fashion #fashion plate #description #bibliothèque nationale de france #dress #casino #Compagnie Lyonnaise #bustle

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sifu-kisu · 11 months

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Society for the Study of Baguazhang

1. JIBEN GONG / BASIC WORK

This is not just a study of the position of hands or steps, but a whole group of individual developments contributing to the development of certain style conditions and qualities. Some are assembled to short bundles, some consist of one static position.

And this is very different from modern wushu textbooks, where at first the position of the hands and hands is shown, then positions, then blows or swings of legs, then shapes. Here we are talking more about a set of exercises and methods. For example, to develop the flexibility of the lumbar in the bagua, there is its own special technique for twisting the lumbar, which at the beginning is properly twisted and held, then long insisted in a twisted position in statics, then special exercises are performed in a dynamic mode, then using a tree or wall. But all subsequent forms of the bagua will directly depend on the mobility and degree of twisting of the lumbar, because one of the central values is given in the bagua lumbar.

There are the same exercises for the development of softness (jou gong), working out joints and so on.

2. HARDENING OF MUSCLES AND BONES

It is believed that without proper training of muscles and bones, you should not study and practice long forms in any way. If these aspects of the movement are not worked out, they will be clogged and non-living (bone and wooden), it is considered that chi should penetrate the whole body, the bones should gain strength and elasticity, and not be fragile. For this purpose, there are special sets of exercises in the Bagua Zhang system, some of them resemble the world-famous "Eight Pieces of Brocade" (Baduan

Jing), or maybe borrowed, as there are many of its variants.

Other forms consist of separate developments that we can find in the system of traditional Shaolin training. I'll give you just some of these exemplinating exercises. A stick with a diameter of no more than its own palm (or less) is taken, embraced on both sides with the palms of the palms and squeezed inside, holding in this position with force to press the palms into each other. Start with a short time, alternate with pauses. Next, the pressure time is increased. At the same time, breathing should not be stopped, but learn at this time to calmly inhale and exhale through the nose, lowering it in the lower gates.

…… to be continued

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unusual-raccoon · 1 year

Text

cut me to ribbons | by Unusual_Raccoon (Lucerys II x Aerys II)

for @halibalism - hope you enjoy 🤍

Warnings: Canon Compliant, Minor Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen (Wife of Aerys II), Cousin Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Painful Sex, Anal Sex, No Lube, Blood as Lube, Pining, Be Careful What You Wish For, Possibly Unrequited Love, Biting, Scratching, Vaginal Fingering, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Intersex Velaryons, Velaryon Traditions, Targaryen Madness, Sexual Dysfunction, Sadism, Valyrian Culture & Customs (A Song of Ice and Fire), Marital Rape, Abuse

Summary: Lucerys II Velaryon, Master of Ships and Lord of Driftmark, makes a deal with his beloved cousin, the Mad King, after making a discovery about the queen.

WC: 4K+ Ao3 Link

Lucerys is not sure if he had seen them before, turned a blind eye as many no doubt had. But it is unavoidable now, standing in the doorway of his cousin’s chambers.

A purpling bruise upon her cheek, poorly hidden beneath a fine film of heavily applied powder.

There is another upon the delicate curve of her neck. They are bite marks, he realizes belatedly with a shiver; a mere stamp of ownership left by another.

Nausea roils in his gut. His grip tightening around the carved wooden dragon young Viserys had abandoned in the hall. A delicately whittled wing whines like it may snap.

“Cousin?” He calls gently, mindful of the way the queen, Rhaella, jumps - the mournful violet of her downturned eyes blink shamefully at him.

“Are you well?” He asks, it is a stupid question, to which she offers a timid, watery smile.

“Yes, yes, of course-“ her veneer of calm is but a gossamer thing. He sees through it without trying. He notes the tiny pearls of unshed tears that gather in her mournful violet eyes - dark as a bruise.

The culprit is not difficult to discern, as he knows, there is only one man able to inflict such horrors on the queen of seven kingdoms without reproach…

He presses the child’s toy into her small, trembling hands, steadies her with a few fingers curved about her elbow. Her chin shakes and he mourns. He mourns for the stranger he sees before him. His cousin is eight years his senior, he and Rhaella had never been alarmingly close in their youth, no, Lucerys had always been enamored with Aerys, her elder brother - he grits his teeth to stem the tide of fondness that threatens to sweep away the horror of the present.

“I will speak with him.”

Rhaella’s head jumps up. A tear splits down her powered cheek. She shakes her head. A white-gold curl bounces against her temple.

“Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself, Lucerys-“

“Rhaella,” he said firmly, unperturbed. His thumb worried in circles along the intricate brocade of her sleeve upon her elbow.

She feels fragile beneath his touch, though they are of a similar, unassuming stature.

“I will speak with him.”

“Your Grace- forgive me,” a nursemaid gawps in the doorway; a touch scandalized with a man in the queen’s chambers, in such an…intimate position. Little Viserys stands by his nursemaid’s side.

“My lord,” she greets Lucerys with a deferential bow of her covered head. A faint hue lingers upon the girl’s cheeks.

“Your Grace, would you like us to return at a later time?”

“I was just leaving,” Lucerys replies brusquely. He pauses in the doorway to ruffle Viserys’ hair, as he used to with Monford. The boy emits a sound between a laugh and shriek, bolting to hide behind his mother’s skirts with a grin.

And despite himself, it brings a short lived smile to Lucerys’ lips.

He straightens himself in the walk through the keep’s long corridors, back held straight and shoulders squared, sword swinging at his side, arms clasped behind his back.

He finds the Lord Commander of the kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, posted before the king’s chambers.

“Lord Admiral,” the knight greets with a bow of his head.

“Lord Commander,” Lucerys replies in turn, catching the leer of dark eyes that study him intently.

“I require an audience with the king,” he adds.

The tall knight nods.

“Your Master of Ships, your Grace.” Ser Hightower calls in a deep voice.

There is muffled conversation that drips through the scant gap in the doorway. His king is not alone.

A ragged voice bids him entry.

Where Aerys is typically fussed over by young maesters under Pycelle that endlessly apply salves to wounds left by his throne, he is instead locked in grumbling conversation with his Hand: Tywin Lannister.

“Lord Tywin.” Lucerys begins, his curls pale and buoyant as seafoam bob into his vision with a bow for the king, “Your Grace.”

“Lucerys,” the king says, sounding for all ears, utterly exasperated with his foremost advisor.

“I was hoping I might have a word with you, your Grace.”

The king waves a beckoning hand, with long, sharp nails. Tywin’s perceptive green-gold eyes watch him too keenly.

Lucerys’ gaze flits pointedly between the king and his Hand.

“…privately, your Grace.”

His cousin’s violet eyes narrow in a predatory fashion, before he shoos Lord Tywin from his chambers with a dismissive wave.

“The man vies for my throne.” The king snits with a curl of his nose when they are alone. He blows a sigh and turns his attention to Lucerys. Pointed nails clicking against the wooden arm of his chair in a quickening tempo.

“Cousin,” he drawls, “what is it you wish to speak of?”

Lucerys does not falter when he answers.

“Rhaella.”

His cousin barks out a laugh, yet his vexation shines clearly through his eyes and the trembling turn of his dry lips.

“What about her?”

“Is my wife, my queen, of some concern to you, cousin?”

“Aerys,” Lucerys says with a wince.

“Have you fallen for her, Lucerys? Has she tried to seduce you, my poor wife? Hm, shall I have the faith chastise her for her adulterous behavior, the slattern! Speak now, so we might rectify the issue-“

“Aerys, enough! You know as well as I that Rhaella would never act against you.”

Nor would I, he thinks, but bites his tongue in that regard.

Most men have enough sense to tread lightly around their king, their mad king. At twenty and six, a lord for thirteen of those years, and a Master of Ships and Lord Admiral for 10 - Lucerys is not most. For as much as he loves his cousin - too much at times - he refuses to fear him even as fire flashes in Aerys’ crazed eyes. For if Aerys is fire, he is the sea.

“She is my cousin, just as you are - my blood, and it pains me to see her suffering so.”

Aerys’ lip lifts in a shaking sneer. His rage boils to the surface. He rises from his seat, robes hanging shapeless around his body, gaunt in ways he had not been in his youth; gallant and beautiful. He bears long ragged nails and lank white-gold hair and an unkempt beard. His teeth are chipped and nose crooked, lasting memories of the treason at Duskendale. He hardly resembles the man Lucerys had admired as a boy; the man he loved…the man he still loves.

“If you are so concerned for the treatment of my dear wife, perhaps you should like to take her place…to spare her my affections.”

Lucerys recoils instantly. His face flushes warm at the mere mention. The mockery stings, but he refuses to be shaken by it, nor the traitorous heat that builds in his belly - it is a silly, burgeoning thing.

“You…flatter me, your grace.” He says with painstaking poise.

“It is not my intention to flatter you, boy.”

Boy, Lucerys thinks, jaw tense. Aerys would always be 10 years his senior, older, wiser - to him, Lucerys would always be a boy, a frivolous little creature only fit for entertaining him…and warming his bed, so it seemed. If it meant sparing Rhaella his indecency…

“And if I were to agree, your grace? To be there to…cool your fire in the queen’s place…you would leave her be?”

Heat flashes in the king’s violet eyes.

His blood crawls through him with a chill. Lucerys wets his lips with his tongue.

“If you were to agree, I would have you here and now, to ensure you are an…adequate replacement.”

Lucerys lets out a soft laugh, “I am a Velaryon, cousin, we possess far too much pride to be simply adequate,” he lowers his voice, ��and it is well known that I’ve always been your favorite cousin.”

The call of their blood was too potent to ignore.

Aerys flashes an irate smile, “Steffon’s my favorite cousin,” he says pointedly in a way that is meant to wound, Lucerys only offers a coy crinkle of his nose, “Strip.”

He obeys.

He removes his sword belt slowly, before placing it aside. He plucks rings from his fingers, the largest a gift from his wife, beset with a smooth chunk of glassy green Serpentine.

His Manderly woman. He kisses the stone once before moving onto his waistcoat. He feels the king’s eyes upon him. Wrathful.

“Faster.” Aerys demands, seated once more in his chair. His pointed nails click against the arm of his chair in a gathering tempo. Faster. Faster. He pictures whorls of ballroom dancers as he unfastens the diagonal line of buttons upon his heavily embroidered waistcoat, with countless beads of aquamarine and silver.

He shrugs the garment away to be abandoned with the likes of his sword and jewels.

His linen tunic is a lightweight article, barely there, with fanciful ruffs at the wrists. It is cast aside easily.

He pauses at his trousers. He toes off the supple leather of his boots. Colorful silk knee socks adorned with spirals of teal thread are removed and folded carefully. His breeches are rather utilitarian and he does away with them unapologetically.

He is bare, save for his smallclothes. And a single teardrop pearl earring that hangs from his right ear. His symbol of office as Lord of the Tides… The Sea Snake’s Boon. Passed from lord to heir.

He rolls the small bit of bequeathed jewelry carefully between two fingers; more invaluable to House Velaryon than its amassed wealth. To remove it now…

He forces his smalls down his willowy legs instead.

Aerys’ expression darkens, the violet of his eyes lurid. He stands from his seat swiftly.

Since Duskendale Aerys had never quite seemed as tall as Lucerys had recalled from childhood, yet in that moment, garbed in heavy bespoke robes, he is all Lucerys remembers and more.

Aerys shrugs away his robes, revealing pale, damaged skin. He is but a litany of half-healed wounds, cuts and sores from his throne. He is thin, too thin.

His arms shake as his crown is set aside, as though the weight of it is too much to bear.

“Get on the bed.” His cousin commands. The enormity of what he is subjecting himself dawns upon him, stripped bare. He feels the urge to weep, whether out of anguish nor joy, he cannot tell. Guilt is upon him instantly, and the burn of sickness lingers in his throat at the prospect of feeling joy for the very act that caused Rhaella such harm.

He loves his cousin, too much, at times.

He does as his king commands.

Lucerys lowers himself upon the duvet.

The large featherbed dips subtly beneath the addition of Aerys’ weight.

Lucerys steels himself for whatever may come. He shivers as long, pointed nails trace up his flank. Skin tightening with a wave of gooseflesh. How long had he dreamt of being in his cousin’s bed…of being at his mercy.

Fingers idle over his nape, a fist wrenches a handful of white curls back, and his head with it. He chokes on a sound of shock. Battling the urge to fight back.

Heat trickles down his spine - blood, he realizes. Nicked by one of many long nails.

First blood, he thinks, head pressed unceremoniously into a mound of pillows.

His own breath sticks warm to his cheeks, soaking into the linens.

He huffs a soft sound into the goosedown. Insignificant. A hand gropes at the curve of his rear, mortification stings hot on his cheeks. The touch moves, unabashed.

His thighs are urged apart. Long hair tickles his back.

A hand presses tentatively, each caress drawing forth a sharp inhale at the prickle of pointed talons across bare flesh.

A knuckle brushes along his taint, pausing at the delicate folds of flesh, nestled away beneath his stones. There it was, the magic of House Velaryon. They were not born to ride dragons, no, they were born to mate…to breed…like their sigil. Every man of their lineage bore the same curiosity the king toyed with now. A quim.

In the eyes of the Westerosi, it made them more alien than their dragon-riding kin. Men capable of fathering sons and birthing them.

A nail grazes the tender flesh and Lucerys gasps. Hands clutching fistfuls of fine linens.

He hears his cousin laugh, it is a cruel thing.

A hand wrenches his head back once more, his spine aches, cool air stings the damp sweat upon his cheeks. A talon bearing a pearl of his own nectar, translucent and damning, is held for him to see through hazy eyes.

Lucerys is returned into the burrow of pillows once more; shamed.

Two hands knead at his rear.

Appraising.

A single palm retreats and he hears the friction of skin on skin.

He licks his teeth, mouth dry. He awaits the sting of a rough entry, but finds none. His toes tingle, vaguely numb.

He only hears the slap of skin on skin, the harsh pumps of a curled fist growing more and more frantic. He tilts his head slightly, white-gold fringe curling against the sweat on his forehead.

“Aer-”

His face is pressed into the pillows with a snarl. Air struggles to filter through the fabric.

Hands grope at him, angry in their ardor, pointed nails drawing welts upon his flesh.

He bites his tongue to smother a hiss.

His spine stiffens at the blunt press of a soft member between his legs.

The moments float by, both ephemeral and eternal in the smothered darkness of the pillows.

There is a drowsy almost pleasant sensation to be found with the weight of a warm body atop his.

Whatever veil of complacency formed, is torn away with a violent shock of pain that bursts over his bare shoulder. Chipped teeth dig into his skin. Blood bubbles up beneath unbroken flesh, throbbing.

A grunt is exhaled into the linens. Sweat erupts over his skin like he’s taken ill.

A warm mouth bites him again and again. Long white-gold hair tickles his shoulders.

He is trembling, back littered with bites, by the time Aerys is hard. The thick head of his cousin’s cock presses between his thighs, excited in the face of his pain; the size of it gives him pause.

A strangled sound wells in his throat as Aerys’ cock rubs against the damp seam of Lucerys’ quim. His toes curl.

The muscles in his back ache, pockmarked with blossoming bruises.

Aerys’ hands knead at his rear, spreading the flesh apart. Lucerys inhales, awaiting the first press of his manhood with a drooling slit.

The crimson tip of the king’s cock lingers against the soft flesh of his quim, indolent.

Long fingers and pointed nails scratch raised welts across his buttocks. The skin burns hot.

He feels Aerys’ weight shift slightly, the mattress sinking in new places where he moves. It sways beneath him like the sea.

A hand squeezes his plush rear. The tip of Aerys’ cock twitches.

Lucerys breathes in once more.

The mattress shifts and he is certain it will come. The fattened head slips forward and higher - abruptly the wrong hole is breached. He muffles his agony over a mouthful of pillows. His legs tremble violently.

The tip of Aerys’ cock is forced into his rear, the tight rim screams with red-hot pain. Lucerys claws at the bedding, feral.

The wet smell of iron coats the air, nausea burns in his throat.

Aerys’ hisses above him, clawed hands cling to his hips as he is made to accept more.

He is dizzy. Sweating. Bleeding.

He struggles to breathe, fists clutching weakly at the duvet.

The first thrust, the first true thrust, tears him open like a fisherman’s spear.

He hears his cousin growl, grip tightening upon Lucerys’ hips as he eases back, the broken flesh stinging.

He is fucked open, torn open, pointed nails slash wounds upon his hips and lower back.

His cousin’s thrusts are violent and his breathing harsh. He glides inside, eased by blood, like any king, destined to leave a mark where no man had been before.

The slick clap of their bodies builds into a quickening tempo. Faster. Faster.

Lucerys hiccups, desensitized to the pain, wriggling against the bedding as something worse sweeps over him.

Prickling, needle-like pleasure. Unbearable pleasure that builds in his ruined hole, down to his neglected one. Nectar and blood moisten his thighs.

His cock pulses, pinned stiff and uncomfortable against the bedding.

Aerys’ hips meet the curve of his buttocks loudly, wet skin on skin. He moans and tears prickle in his eyes.

When pain lances through him, it is a relief. A brief bubble of oxygen for a drowning man. He is violating me, Lucerys thinks, the salt of unshed tears remind him of the sea, oh, but it is him.

Aerys’ teeth sink into his shoulder, nails dyed crimson dig into his hip. His cock is large, too large as it plunges in deep. His puffy, abused rim clinging to it.

Warm, rapid breath rattles the small bit of jewelry that remains upon his person. A single teardrop pearl earring.

His cousin’s breath grows labored, monstrous.

Every harsh rock of his hips buries him further; Lucerys feels some shape of Aerys behind his ribs, battering away.

Aerys’ cock stabs in jarringly hard, bloody and pulsing and thick. His cousin shudders suddenly, stones tensing hot and full against Lucerys’ dripping, empty quim.

He reaches his peak with a ragged sound, roaring like long dead dragons while he empties his sac. Lucerys stills, motionless, hole fluttering as seed oozes from him. Dripping molten, tinged with blood, it scalds the backs of pale thighs.

He drinks in sips of air that squeeze in through the fabric of the duvet, lightheaded and terribly aroused.

His cock twitches once against his abdomen. And shame stings in his eyes.

He mewls a pathetic sound as the absence of his cousin’s cock brings with it a raw wave of sensation. Dewy, sex-scented air abrades his gaping hole, clenching around nothingness.

Aerys does nothing for a time, simply lingering wet skin to wet skin. He wipes his cock against the back of Lucerys’ thigh.

The featherbed shifts beneath him like the sea and he sways with the waves. He lifts his head slowly, cautious. Aerys sits amidst blood-stained bedding, rust-red manhood spent against his thigh.

When Lucerys looks upon him, eyes watering from the light, he doesn’t see an aged king, haunted and gaunt, with lank strands of white-gold hair adhering to the sweat upon his face and neck in a lattice, like a spider’s web. Instead, he sees his cousin as he once was. Beautiful and noble, a lover of masked balls and music; the man that had made small council meetings an agony for Lucerys at six and ten, at any age in truth, the man he had chased about the tiltyard with a wooden sword as a child.

Lucerys swallows, throat aching.

“Will that be all, your grace?” He asks, beneath himself, like a servant might.

His cousin’s violet eyes blink, once, twice - Lucerys is certain one of said blinks was vertical. He licks his lips, finds frayed skin and dried blood.

“Yes.”

He struggles to climb from the bed, weak-kneed and dizzy.

Lucerys nods. Teardrop pearl bouncing.

He staggers to his feets, anticipating mockery, yet Aerys says nothing. Does nothing.

Lucerys redresses, his socks and smalls, trousers and tunic, waistcoat and jewelry. He struggles briefly with his boots, but takes some measure of pride in being able to see the task through himself; fucked open like a gored animal.

His sword he saves for last. He runs a reverent finger over the ivory sculpted horse head pommel, with slivers of aquamarine for the eyes.

He binds the leather of his sword belt around his narrow waist with practiced hands. He straightens the heavy Serpentine ring upon his finger.

Though it had never been removed, he pinches briefly at the Sea Snake’s Boon that dangles from his right ear. It gives him resolve.

His cousin’s eyes linger upon him, unwavering.

He lowers his head in a brief show of deference and a softly muttered, ‘your grace’.

Lucerys steps into the halls of the Red Keep once more, as though nothing had happened.

“Lord Admiral,” A deep voice intones, and Lucerys nearly flinches. Ser Gerold Hightower stands guard beside the king’s chambers just as he had earlier. Dark eyes studying him intently.

“Lord Commander,” Lucerys replies as he walks through the hall with a stuttering gait.

He arrives to his own chambers, body aching and sore; mangled beneath the finery of his clothes.

He calls for a servant to have a bath drawn.

When the clawfoot tub is prepared, a handmaid dithers about in his shadow.

“My lord, did you require any assistance?”

“No- no, thank you. That will be all.”

He strips out of his clothing effortlessly, he feels rather practiced in doing so now, he thinks with a small snort.

He sinks into the water with a hiss, feeling lye sting countless open wounds. He winces, body recoiling as water and soap aggravate his abused rear.

Eventually, the pain becomes distant enough. He sinks into the bath, head hanging back against the lip of the clawfoot tub. The warmth of the water leaches the ache from his bones. He breathes out a sigh through his nose. He breathes in and smells lye soap and iron and semen.

He shifts in the narrow tub, thighs pressed together with a wince.

Heat stirs in him. His abused rim flutters and he shivers at the sensation of seed oozing from him. He sucks in a gasp, torn lower lip pulled between his teeth. He tells himself it’s only natural to seek pleasure where pain had been given.

His fingers brush the ruined flesh and flee instantly, the pain too bright.

He exhales, limbs loose. Desperate to replace Aerys’ pain with pleasure. A finger toys at his slit. His own hands feel foreign with blunt, well-kept nails.

Lucerys sighs in the warm waters, eyes closed, throat tight as he eases a finger into his quim.

He curls the digit gently, obligingly. Pleasure throbs warm to his toes. His back arches with a breathy sound.

A second finger joins the first, the angle making his shoulder ache. He arches in the tub, cold air on wet skin. His nipples stiffen as he thrashes, exposing more bits of flesh to icy scrutiny.

The rhythm of his fingers is insistent, hips bouncing, water frothing over the tub’s edge.

He worries a stiff nipple between his fingers, cunt clenching.

“Oh, fuck-” Lucerys sighs, brow furrowed, he slings a leg over the edge of the tub, wanton, unabashed.

He tugs on his nipple, the flesh tingles hot and cold from the abuse. Diligent fingers work in his core, curling and stroking silken insides.

His peak builds quickly, approaching like the tide. He gasps, willowy body pulling taut as a bowstring as his release ripples through him. He comes hard, soaking his own fingers.

“-Aerys!” He cries in time with his climax.

He slumps into the water, cheeks damp, spent and shuddering.

His head aches.

The remainder of his bath is carried out with a shamed sort of efficiency.

He adds a touch of sweet sleep to a goblet of strongwine and finishes the lot before climbing beneath his duvet.

___

Within the week there is yet another charred corpse in the throne room. Aerys had charged another, fire was his executioner. Innocent or guilty mattered not to their king.

The stench of smoke remains in his lungs, blackened upon his tongue, as he pores over a shipping manifest in his chambers.

Rhaella has paid visits of late, teary-eyed and fretting over him; so very grateful. Her bruises are beginning to fade, no longer caked beneath powder.

He rubs at his eyes, blinking at poorly drawn up inventory catalogs.

He starts at a brisk knock at the door.

“Enter,” he calls, parchment set aside. He neatens the wild fringe of white-gold curls with a pass of his fingers.

“Lord Admiral,” the familiar voice of Ser Gerold Hightower greets, a touch regretful if the slight turn of his mouth is any evidence.

“Lord Commander,” Lucerys replies, hesitant.

“The king has requested your presence.”

The king who had violated him. The king who had humiliated him. The king whom he loved, and would always love until he was laid to rest in the sea.

Lucerys ducks his head to hide his smile.

More than adequate, so it seems.

#my writing #lucerys ii velaryon #aerys ii targaryen #aerys ii x lucerys ii #lucaerys ii #asoiaf

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