#Foundation Quaking

[fives-girlfriend]

God I wish I could be on a different planet rn. @ any clone take me into your fucking arms

[againwiththeturtles]

if it weren’t for Sozin’s Comet. Maybe I could have been normal about Azula.

[fruitmouse]

the earthquake was mad funny btw. i’d been awake for one whole minute & suddenly my house was shaking and i was just like. ok 👍

[general-yasur]

Egalt and his teaching methods really struck be because they directly contrast Lloyd’s teaching method

Egalt is strict, blunt, and demeaning, he isn’t going to tell you he believes in you the way Lloyd does. Lloyd is the first to pat you on the shoulder and tell you that He believes in you and you should believe in yourself.

Particularly with Arin- Egalt was actually teaching how to do the Rising Dragon technique, while Lloyd let Arin do his own thing because Arin has a Gift/Talent

Egalt would tell Arin he didn’t have enough of the foundational skills and in the next shot Lloyd is there telling Arin he can do it

You realize Lloyd hasn’t bothered to teach Arin spinjiztu and it’s probably because he thinks he doesn’t need to- Arin will just get it

Arin not getting better because he isn’t receiving the right teaching / advice fuels Lloyds fears of not being a good master and fuels Arins fears of not being fit to be a Ninja. It’s a quaking cycle

​Egalt and Lloyds methods are on opposite ends of the spectrum but both ultimately failed at helping him,, they are both out of balance you could say

Makes you wonder where Arin would be if Lloyd had taught him before. Can’t help but wonder if Lloyd being the original “gifted ninja” and the chosen one tampers with how he teaches

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dr. Edwin Payne (Ghostcrow Art AU)

It was the only problem that there was in their relationship, the only crack that split the earth too close to the heart, threatening the very foundations. 

(And Charles Rowland had spent over a decade giving Edwin the best foundations in the world; nothing could truly shake them, Edwin knew. No doubts could ever break Edwin, because Charles’ love for him would always bolster him stronger than any quake could ever shake.)

Monty loved Charles and Edwin in other ways. He was affectionate in bed, was an absolute delight to debate with, was open enough with them to trust them with art, the one thing that he truly loved, and was so vulnerable and open in other ways, on other topics. He clearly loved Charles and Edwin outside of that one sticking point of visiting family.

And Edwin loved him. Loved Monty in such a similar way to how he loved Charles, the feeling taking root so deep in his heart that maybe the earth would never split because the roots pulled the crust so tight to itself.

-aletterinthenameofsanity, underneath the sunrise (show me where your love lies)

I don't wanna seem the way I do

But I'm confident when I'm with you

Lately, all I feel is bad and bruised

Tired of tripping on my shoes

But when he loves me, I feel like I'm floating

When he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody

Even when we fade eventually to nothing

You will always be my favorite form of loving

-Beach Bunny, Cloud 9

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut @thelakeswillbreakourfall

[hiswordsarekisses]

“In my distress I called upon the Lord, And cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, And my cry came before Him, even to His ears. Then the earth shook and trembled; The foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken, Because He was angry. Smoke went up from His nostrils, And devouring fire from His mouth; Coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also, and came down With darkness under His feet. And He rode upon a cherub, and flew; He flew upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness His secret place; His canopy around Him was dark waters And thick clouds of the skies. From the brightness before Him, His thick clouds passed with hailstones and coals of fire. The Lord thundered from heaven, And the Most High uttered His voice, Hailstones and coals of fire. He sent out His arrows and scattered the foe, Lightnings in abundance, and He vanquished them. Then the channels of the sea were seen, The foundations of the world were uncovered At Your rebuke, O Lord, At the blast of the breath of Your nostrils. He sent from above, He took me; He drew me out of many waters. He delivered me from my strong enemy, From those who hated me, For they were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, But the Lord was my support. He also brought me out into a broad place; He delivered me because He delighted in me.” Psalms‬ ‭18‬:‭6‬-‭19‬

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Anzrag, the Quake-Mole

His claws tear at the foundations of civilization.

Artist: Helge C. Balzer TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[wallwriterstuff]

The Night Before Christmas ||John Price x Wife!Reader||

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, suggestive themes, John Price is his own damn warning. Christmas Eve preparation by parents.

Words: 2601

Taglist: For @glitterypirateduck 's CODHOLIDAY2023 challenge. Inspired by the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" after a lifetime of watching my parents make Christmas magical for me...and annoyingly kissing every time they hear this song at Christmas. Thanks for that Mom and Dad.

Summary: On the night before Christmas, in John Price's house, a strange thumping is heard that is caused by his spouse. Or, when John finds out just how much of the magic in Christmas is created by his wife.

There’s a rumbling of jet engines plaguing his mind in the enveloping heat of a dry dessert. It’s almost suffocating, the way it presses on his chest, but there’s something mildly comforting about the familiarity of it. There’s a lull in the rhythm, a crack in the foundation. Soap’s laughter’s muffled but his smile’s bright, and the way Gaz’s eyes are twinkling makes him wonder what terrible joke Ghost has told now that he’s missed. Has he missed it? It’s difficult to tell here in the heat haze. He’s everywhere and nowhere, halfway between this world and somewhere new, somewhere undefined that his body knows but his mind hasn’t identified. It’s difficult to take a deep breath to try clear his head. He’s weighed down and weightless. He’s here and he’s gone. He’s lost and he’s found here among the family he’s chosen as the Earth shakes.

The boom is as garbled as trying to hear TV through static. The mortar strikes should be roaring, shattering his eardrums as much as the Earth but they’re not. He frowns, looking around. Why is no one running? Panicking? Another dull thud of what must be an enemy missile of some sort drowned out by the rumbling of those jet engines. He looks around in a daze. He can’t bring himself to feel even a twinge of fear. He just knows, instinctually, that there’s no danger here. The ground’s splitting and quaking beneath his feet but the smell of the Earth weeping for mercy through the fissures doesn’t come. Instead, it’s strong and clinical, almost like menthol. He inhales deeply, frown deepening as he gets closer to the crack in the Earth. Yeah…menthol. Another muffled thud and the gap is swallowing him whole, his team and the dessert all swirling away in a vortex of sand that the sandman retracts. He cannot sleep just yet. There’s work to be done.

Inhaling deeply, his nose stings at the strong smell of Vapo-rub. The tub still sits in his left hand while his right lingers on a small, rattling chest. Long lashes brush the apples of rosy red cheeks and his heart aches at the sight of his youngest, curled into his side in an effort to find respite from the flu that’s plagued him all week. Quietly, John clears his throat, lips smacking a bit to moisten his dry mouth. He gives himself a mental shake, removing his hand and carefully shifting himself off of the bed, old injuries aching and creaking as they always do when he’s given a moment of respite. He was barely home all of two days and he’s had the bedtime shift both nights, his children craving his attention now he’s finally, finally home. With a slight grimace, he cleans off the remnants of the foul smelling substance with a tissue from the nightstand, ensures that the nightlights are all turned on and slinks out of the room to let his son sleep.

He should find his own bed, he thinks. He can feel his own exhaustion in the marrow of his bones, a deep-seated kind of tiredness that robs him of more than just energy, but then he hears it again. The dull thud that roused him from his almost sleep is coming from downstairs, and adrenaline shoots through his veins like wildfire. It burns through that tiredness with whispers of ‘once more’, a drive to push through, fight back, obey every instinct hard-wired into his DNA that places survival above all else. He knows he locked the doors. Triple checked them like he does every night he’s home right before he put the kids to bed. Kids. You. Where are you? It’s automatic, no longer training or instinct but something more ingrained even than that, the way he searches room to room. Two fragments of his soul sleep soundly in their beds but you’re nowhere to be seen.

He's greased every hinge and secured every floorboard in this house. John knows exactly where to put his feet and how much weight to place on every individual board as he eases himself into the shadows. He greets every dark crevice like an old friend, one he knows intimately and has a depth of knowledge of that is unrivalled by any intruder in his home. The front door is closed, but the chain is off. His ears strain, that rhythmic clomping of clumsy boots making his brow furrow. Whoever it is is damn noisy, untrained even, perhaps even –

“What the bloody hell are you doin’?” he can’t help but snort, every muscles unwinding and the alarm bells in his mind fading in the face of his amusement. He settles it in his mind then and there. There’s no intruder, my wife’s just lost her marbles.

“Don’t, do that!” you hiss, hand clutched over your chest and foot raised, his boot dangling and far too big, in danger of falling onto the floorboards if you don’t take a step soon. John’s head tilts, a smirk twitching up his lips as he takes in the fake snow on the floor, the boot prints leading from the door into the living room.

“Since when did Santa wear combat boots?” he asks.

You scowl. “Since Mrs Clause had to throw her Doc’s away back in November...that’s why they’re on her Christmas list.”

He barely stifles his laughter, shoulders shaking as he rubs his finger under his nose. He knows better than to laugh at you right now as you continue to clomp towards the Christmas tree. He leans against the door frame, watching you navigate the sofa with keen eyes and folded arms. He can’t quite keep the grin from twitching his lips upwards as he drinks in the sight of you in his too big boots, Christmas pyjamas on and hair tied up, looking determined. There’s a peek of pink at the corner of your lips where your tongue pokes out in concentration as you try to keep your steps evenly spaced. That suffocating warmth is back and he recognises it for what it is now as he simply basks in the love you’ve woven into every inch of the house. It seeps into every grain of wood and is the stain lacquer finish of the laminate, holding the whole home together for him to return to. You’ve done it alone again, everything from presents to decorations and Grotto Visits. He can’t help his schedule but he wishes he’d been in on more of the magic you’ve woven that kept your little angels up until 10PM with unparalleled excitement.

“You could have asked for me to do that bit. Save you near breakin’ your neck in my boots.” He said. You sprinkle the last bit of fake snow down onto the floorboards and take a step, turning to look at him. John chuckles, crossing the room in three quick strides and scooping you up and away to the sofa. You grip him tight, the momentary shock of being airborne fading as you relax into his grip; trusting, always trusting. John won’t let you fall. He never has.

“I came up to, but you were asleep.” You teased. John huffed, kneeling before you and lifting your foot to his knee. His fingers made nimble work of the laces as he glanced up at you.

“Wasn’t,” his denial his half-hearted at best, “Was just restin’ my eyes.” He delicately slides his boot off your foot, setting it aside with much less reverence than he does your leg as he brings the other one up to untie next.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You grin slyly. John looks up at you from under his brows, his focus half on the triple knot you’ve had to use to keep his work boots from sleeping off your feet. He chuckles a little as he picks it apart.

“Callin’ me a liar?” his query holds no bite to it. He slips the other boot free and lifts your leg, placing a delicate kiss to your calf. He feels the way your muscles tighten in response and he can’t help but smirk a little, does it again just to feel you respond to the touch of his lips on your skin.

“Liar? No. Big foot? Yes. How you walk in those things is beyond me.” You let your leg drop and shuffle forward. John’s left kneeling between your knees, his hands automatically finding purchase on your thighs, calloused thumbs caressing the smooth skin like it’s the safety on his rifle with a knowing, firm touch. A small smile creeps it’s way onto your lips, and John thinks that he could die happy this way, surrounded by you, kneeling at your altar. Hands cupping his cheeks, you gently rub your knuckles over the whiskers of his beard before leaning in to grant him the swiftest, sweetest of kisses.

Your eyes are bright, but there’s a small crease between them he smooths away with his thumb. John Price is nothing if not vigilant, and the only thing he knows better than the parts of his rifle are the planes of your body. Every minute twitch of a muscle and miniscule expression on your face is a well-read verse in the story of you. Your poetry in motion, and he won’t stand for your beauty being creased by worry and doubt.

“Stop worryin’ so much. Kids’ll be ecstatic to see Santa’s broken in.” He says.

“Broken in? John!”

“What? We don’t have a chimney so only logical explanation is that he’s shimmied the lock.” He grins up at you, letting you pull him to his feet with the most aghast expression on your face he thinks he’s ever seen. He swallows down his laughter because gods, you’re adorable and instead chooses to transfer his grip from your hands to your waist. “Joking, love, joking.” He assures you, stepping into your space and tilting your head up with his thumb and index finger. John doesn’t need to hear your forgiveness. He feels it in the way you let him chastely chase your lips until you push him back.

“We still have work to do cowboy.” You pat his chest and John huffs a bit, looking around the room. For the life of him he can’t fathom what else you could do to the place. Your shared house is cosy, decorated, loved. Fill it with anything else and he’s sure it’ll burst at the seams.

“Love, what could you possibly still have to do?” he looks down at you. You’ve got eyes like Christmas lights and are awash with the colours of them glittering on the tree, painted in stained glass colour like some Saint he knows he’s blessed to worship. The smell of fresh baked cookies and vanilla frosting is etched into your skin from your baking escapades with the kids today, soft and warm and inviting him to take a bite out of you.

“Presents. Had to hide them in the attic from certain sticky fingers. Can you get them down?” you ask.

John nods. “Alright. Anymore to be wrapped?”

“Ye of little faith. They’ve been wrapped since mid-November.” You scoff, crossing to the cookie plate and placing one in your mouth. As it melts on your tongue you hum in delight, and John frowns.

“Save one for me?”

“Sorry, Santa’s sent me for cookie quality control. Missed your chance.” There’s mirth shimmering in your eyes and cookie crumbs resting at the corner of your lips. John shakes his head as he slinks back upstairs, checking in habitually on his still sleeping angels before he pulls down the ladder to the attic. He’s got to admit he’s impressed at your tenacity. The bags are stuffed full. You’ve spoiled the little ones rotten. How you’ve done so much shopping and wrapping is beyond him, and he can’t quite figure out how you’ve managed to hide two very full bags in the attic on your own with two small children hanging off you while he was away. The Santa hat sitting nearby gives him pause. John knows he’s been a bit of a Grinch in the two days he’s been home. Something about coming home to a poorly babe and an overly prepared wife left little room for him to really get into the swing of the Christmas spirit. He endeavours to make a change.

Present bags retrieved, he slips back downstairs and pauses only to pluck a small sprig of mistletoe from the wreath at your front door. He triple checks he’s locked and chained the door once more. Force of habit. With your present bags resting in front of the tree he tugs on the Santa hat and waits patiently for you to return. There’s cookies missing and carrots with chunks eaten out of them in your efforts to make the children believe Santa really did come to see them, but he knows you can’t stand milk. He smiles slightly, knowing full well you’ll be pouring the milk back into the carton right about now.

When you return with the empty glass, you pause at the sight of him. John gives you a grin, lifting the sprig of mistletoe over his head.

“Someone’s on the nice list this year, deserved a special visit from the big man himself.” He offers you his free hand and you snicker slightly, eyes adoring and hand slipping into his. You let him pull you closer, and nothing feels better than his arm sliding around your waist. Now he’s really home. John leans in, eyes closing, and to his surprise there’s a strong smell of vanilla as you smear Christmas cookie onto his waiting lips with a giggle.

John blinks his eyes open in surprise, huffing a surprised laugh through his nose before he leans down and catches your mouth with his. He gives you no time to escape him or to clean off his mouth. It’s messy and it makes you squirm in his grip, but neither of you complain as you kiss and lick frosting away between you. His grip on you tightens, safe, inviting, hands sliding over the curves of you just to reassure himself your still here, still his. The best damn gift he ever did receive.  

When you pull back for air, John’s thumb swipes away the last little bit of frosting with a chuckle.

“Where did your mistletoe go?” you tilt your head at him and he unfurls his palm to show you. You take it from him with a hum, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“And just what are you planning on doing with that then?” He queries. Your eyebrows lift a bit.

“Think I know a better place for it.” You shrug. He feels your hands tugging at his belt, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment even as a smile twitches up his lips.

“I thought we only opened presents on Christmas morning?” he glances down to see the mistletoe hanging from his belt buckle. You giggle a bit, reaching into the bag just behind the sofa that has all your wrapping bits and pieces in . You place a sticky bow on your head and wiggle your eyebrows at him.

“I thought you were an advocate for bending the rules on occasion?” You teased, hips swaying as you slowly walk backwards towards the stairs. John chuckles, taking three quick strides towards you before he hoists you up and onto his hips. You don’t squeal. You know he won’t let you fall.

“Quick, before the kids catch Mommy kissing Santa Clause.”

“Underneath the mistletoe?”

“I believe that’s how the song goes.”

[blackbatcass]

Hey, do you have a reading list for batman: nml. I'm so afraid of it, but I think it's time for me to read it 🙂‍↕️.

YEAHHHH im so proud of you anon. nml is long & intimidating but it is also sooo worth it and is so foundational to the batman mythos.

to start, no man’s land has a few different parts which i would highly recommend reading all of. the saga goes cataclysm -> road to no man’s land volumes 1 & 2 -> no man’s land. cataclysm is 18 issues where the quake actually happens, rtnml is kinda prequel & setup, and then the brunt of the story happens in nml proper. a lot of people kinda just skip past road to no man’s land or don’t know they’re supposed to read it at all which i think ISNT the way to go lmaoo there is some very important context and stories in there.

so the problem with finding good no man’s land reading lists is that most of them are not accurate💀 like there is just so much of it that a lot of issues slip through the cracks and it’s hard to find a truly complete thorough guide. honestly my best recommendation might be to look for the omnibus trades. your library might have them, or you can always just look up the omnibuses on rco.

cataclysm is an easy simple 18 issues found here, thank you to locg:

for the rest of nml there is a list here, which looks pretty accurate from a first glance EXCEPT for the road to no man’s land list which leaves some things out, volumes 1&2 of rtnml should be this at least according to locg

this site breaks down the issues by omnibuses which is helpful.

mem @havendance has a very helpful guide to important nml issues here along with some commentary, and also has a timeline of the whole event here which is very nice to reference.

sorry for throwing a bunch of different options at you but yeah as I said nml is TRICKY to find complete lists for. I wish you sooo much luck in your journey! and if anyone has a more accurate guide please feel free to chime in lol

[czor--t]

Oftentimes i think how audacious the Stamatin brothers are. Andrei is a wanted man, yet here he is, opening a fucking bar in some rural town in the steppe - mind you - still connected to thw rest of a country.

He is contracted by one of the wealthiest families and partons of art and yet he still does not drop his extravagant lifestyle - going as far as admitting himself to seriously harming AND ALSO MURDERING people. Big Vlad says that he lets him prospair in the workshop - but is that really true? Because he does not seem to be afraid of it. And he has the Kains covering him. Hell, he has Grief quaking in his boots, which, wouldn't be as impressive if not for their respective occupations.

And Peter? He went mad after creating something that he himself fails to understand, a happy accident - so he drinks the money he gets away, wasting in his apartment. He is the sensitive spot of his brother and a hindrance to Alexander Saburov as well - and yet he does not seem vaguely concerned by it - not unless he is directly told that someone wants him dead. He is delirious and disconnected from both populations of the town and yet he seeks refuge in Kin's gatherings (as seen in Aspity's hostice)

Most of all they murdered the only other architect in town and themslves erected a tomb for him. But oh, it gets worse. They are not even trying to hide that they did it. And from Andrey's boisterous nature you'd think that he is bragging left and right but no, it is PETER FUCKING STAMATIN who reveals the murder of Farkhad was their doing. And let's not forget that in Pathologic they LEAVE AN EPITAPH THAT RIVALS EVERYTHING THAT VLAD THE YOUNGER DID IN HIS ENTIRE PLOT. "Here lies Farkhad, the most unshakable architect. We assembled this monument on the beautiful foundation. From inconsolable brothers in arms P. et A. gemini."

They are untouchable and very well aware of it.

[lioneliness-etc]

The bat fam if Bruce had them as infant babies 🥺

Dick: the sweetest cuddliest little guy but would have the most ear-splitting temper tantrums. When he is upset it feels like the foundations of the manor are Quaking.

Jason: Bruce has to read like 10 picture books to him every night to get him to fall asleep. He was perfect up until he became a toddler and just never learned how to listen to ANY rules or commands.

Tim: impossible to get him sleep. Bruce and Alfred both run ragged on sleep deprivation. Extremely adorable and extremely manipulative with it. Somehow always looked like he is scheming something…

Duke: he’s his own nightlight. Has the most normal sleep schedule of all the babies. A little hyperactive and unhinged during the daytime, but has the cutest big baby smile so he gets away with it.

Cassandra: never cries.She’s Bruce’s precious baby girl who has never done anything wrong, don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise.

Damian: the grumpiest baby alive. Came into the the world with the attitude of a fussy old man and ready to pick a fight. They all have scars from him teething. However his perpetual pouty face is so cute that people can’t help but laugh.

Stephanie: not Bruce’s baby but an absolute terror at the local playground. Play dates with the bat boys always spiral into chaos but the kids all love her so she’s always around.

Babs also comes over for plenty of play dates.

The most chaotic era is when half are toddlers and half are still babies (Dick is like 5). There are toys all over the manor and Bruce has never been happier or more exhausted in his life.

[shuttershocky]

Hey, I heard Slay the Spire is converting to Godot to evade the fees.

How hard is that task? Is it possible for your average indie game developer?

The amount of work depends on the size and scale of a game of course, but changing engines is a massive pain in the ass.

Think of a game engine as a foundation. When you make a game in Unity, you open the program, then you add in all your assets like objects and characters and music etc, and then you create behaviors for all these assets with code, but the thing keeping it all together, turning these collection of assets and scripts into a video game? That's the game engine.

To switch game engines is to build the game all over again. You won't be starting from scratch since you still have your assets, but holy shit can it be a lot of work. Imagine if you finish a painting and you remember exactly how you did it, but then some jackass said they'll charge you for each person who looks at your painting since they own that specific canvas, so now you gotta make the painting all over again on another canvas, and this canvas is also of a different size and material from the original canvas.

This is also a bit more meta and won't really apply to something like Slay the Spire, but if certain parts of a game rely on specific quirks of an engine? You'll have to recreate those effects yourself or else you'll actually be making a slightly different game. Bunny Hopping for example (when you jump repeatedly in first person shooters to move faster than just running) came about due to how the Quake engine not having a cap for accelerating through the air vs capping speed when on the ground. If you made Quake in another game engine that handled accelerating in the air vs on the ground differently, you wouldn't have bunny hopping.

How hard is that task? Very. Is it possible for the average indie developer? Possible, but not practical for many. They would have to learn how to work on an entirely new engine while recreating a game they already made as faithfully as possible, which is both time-consuming and can be pretty expensive (youre making a game again but youre not making a new product to sell)

[heartstringsduet]

Last week, the second winner of the poll was the Fantasy AU. I'm not sure of the final name but it consumes my every thought lately. Calling it Bargains on here for now. thanks for tagging me @thisbuildinghasfeelings @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad and @sznofthesticks

/you are bad at bargaining./

“Please,” Carlos begs. It’s all he can do now . “Please, he can’t die tonight.”

Death reaches out and Carlos doesn’t flinch, not anymore. He’s no longer afraid. There's a cold spot where Death places a hand on him and a gray tint to TK's skin where he is touched.

/carlos tomas reyes. tyler kennedy strand. both half-empty. both half-full./

Carlos swallows around a dry mouth. So he was right to look for him after all, he was led here for a reason.

/i see you want this man's soul?/

Carlos looks at the unconscious stranger, his heart beating wildly. ���Yes.”

/the only way I give it to you, is to give yours to him. do you agree?/

The wind is a force making the house groan. The ground two stories below begins to rumble and shake the foundation of the house. The air in his lung is thin, singing. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was his father warning him. 

He thought Death would ask him for his own soul in exchange. This, he was unprepared for. Eyes on TK's still form Carlos forces the words out “What does that mean?”

/your life tied to his. his death tied to yours. do. you. agree?/

The earth quakes, his ancestors rebelling against the word he can’t form anymore. Death takes it right out of his mind once he made a decision.

Yes. 

Open tag for anyone wanting to participate <3

@paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @birdclowns @freneticfloetry @ambiguouspenny @alrightbuckaroo @whatsintheboxmh @inkweedandlizards @welcometololaland @rmd-writes @thebumblecee @noxsoulmate @lightningboltreader @liminalmemories21 @decafdino @ladytessa74 @lemonlyman-dotcom @bonheur-cafe @carlos-tk @louis-ii-reyes-strand @orchidscript @theghostofashton @strandnreyes @reyesstrand @kiwichaeng

[softsan]

Eyes On Fire. (Pt. 2)

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen & Fem!Reader

CHAPTERS: | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

WORD COUNT: 3743

GENRE: Alternatively Universes/Canon Divergence, Alternative Ending, The Greens Win, Loosely based on the books/show, Made up House,

DESCRIPTION: After the Greens win the Dance of The Dragons, you a left alone navigating the dangers and woes of Kings Landing. You were one of the last survivors of House Vermillion with the expectation to restore your House to its former glory. Pressured to find yourself a husband, you unintentionally catch the eye of the dangerously, one-eye kingslayer—how will you ever survive amidst those who kill, those who take, and those who wish to eat you alive? Can also be read on AO3 here.

WARNINGS: Bodily Injury, Death, Graphic violence, Suspicion, Attempted murder, Murder, Poisoning, Possessive themes, Aemond in general

OPTIONAL PLAYLIST: New Eyes by Echos, Glass Heart Hymn by Paper Route, Nicotine Dreams by Laurel 

The skies were mantled by clouds that resembled the color of ash. They rumbled disapproving, bucketing rain onto the Rhaenys's Hill and everybody who stood in the outer vicinity of the dragon pit. Aemond took it as a sign from the gods that this union wouldn't be fruitful, that it wouldn't prosper like his lady mother had exacted it to be. He made no bother to mask his smugness and presumptuous arrogance that this merger between houses would fall apart before it even came to be. After all, Aemond Targaryen was a dragon and wouldn't lightly bend to the will of others.

The Lady Cerelle Lannister followed him meekly, intimated by the rising pool of muddy water that sloshed at her feet, "The weather— " Her voice trembled, her golden curly mane drenched, "I think it to be safer if we were to head back?"

"Then go back to the comforts of your chambers," Aemond said without a lick of sensitivity.

His mother had intended for him to wed either Cerelle or her elder sister Tyshara from House Lannister. House Lannister had proven to be a loyal ally during the war against The Blacks and according to the Dowager Queen, they ought to be rewarded accordingly—and what better compensation than the hand of a prince?

Aemond cared for neither sister, finding them equally unspirited, their conversations unstimulating and dull. Helena noticing Aemond's indifference whilst also trying to appeal to their mother's desires suggested that Aemond take Cerelle Lannister out to see his dragon Vhagar. Aemond for once obliged. Helena, as good as her intentions were, was oblivious that the average mortal was frightened to the bone at the sight of dragons and that Aemond's outing with Cerelle would be adverse to his mother's cause rather than efficacious.

Vhagar's nostrils flared, the monstrous-sized dragon catching the scent of its rider approaching near. Vhagar's head reared against the iron door of the domed castle, easily escaping her dragon lair. Her steps towards Aemond quaked the ground while Cerelle Lannister was immediately thrown to her knees, her skirts collecting all the more water.

Aemond turned to Cerelle knowingly, her eyes enlarged, her jaw quivering uncontrollably.

"How do you like my beast?" He wickedly teased, walking to close the distance between him and Vhagar.

Cerelle didn't answer paralyzed with fear.

He brushed his hand against Vhagar's wet scales, leaning in to whisper something ominous in Old Valyrian. Vhagar's chest rumbled before she let out a roar that shook the very foundations of the dragon pit.

"Nyke knew ziry" I knew it, Aemond continued in Valyrian, observing how Cerelle had fainted, falling backward. "Nākostōbā-willed, se daor fit naejot wed nykeā zaldrīzes," Weak-willed, and not fit to wed a dragon. He remarked. Vhagar nuzzled her snout against Aemond's shoulder in agreement.

To find a wife that would accept Aemond for all that he was, the good—and most crucially the bad, would prove to be harder than his dear mother Alicent could possibly foreknow. Especially now, for he was intrigued by another. One whose ambitions matched his own, one that could help him restore his ancient house back to its former glory.

"Se hembar riñnykeā nyke maghagon naejot ūndegon ao" The next Lady I bring to see you, He promised to Vhagar, "Ziry'll sagon worthy naejot kipagon rūsīr īlva" She'll be worthy to ride with us."

Aemond's gaze drifted off into the distance, the Red Keep was but a dark shadow that loomed behind the hazardous downfall of rain. He wondered what you must be up to. Were you reading to his dear niece in one of the many libraries? or were you sweet-talking some brainless Lord for his coin? He swallowed the unjustified jealousy that arose at the very thought. Aemond's resolve hardening, you'd soon run into one another again. For he was starved, craving a moment with you no matter how fleetingly short it was.

You stared out to the endless blue, a sky that traveled limitlessly out to the horizon. The sun undisturbed by a single cloud shone down upon Kings Landing, offering a comforting warmth that had been sorely missed.

You absentmindedly played with a small vile of amber elixir, the antidote to your poison. Three days had come and passed without sight of Ser Harold Lansdale. He’d yet come to claim his antidote and would soon be dead within the next few hours.

You hummed. Perhaps you had misread Ser Harold Lansdale. Maybe he rather of died in the name of loyalty than pay for your forgiveness. You pursed your lips. A true shame, you could of really put his silver to good use. Hearing your chamber doors open, you discreetly slipped the vile into the hidden pocket of your gown.

“My Lady,” The serving girl apologized for the interruption, in her hands held a small parcel wrapped in a black and red handkerchief. The fine silk and dragon embroidery made you conclude it must have belonged to a Targaryen.

“Say what you must,” You hastened the girl, “I am about to head to the kitchens to ensure supper is ready to be served for her Majesty.”

The serving girl’s arms trembled as she brought forth the parcel wrapped in silk, “I was called upon to hand you this,” She offered no further context.

Without expressing your puzzlement, you gave the girl are glance over. You weren’t one to be intimated off—at least thus far. You’d purposely acted in such a way you’d be perceived as harmless... you but an innocent and well-meaning lady serving under House Targaryen. And yet, the serving girl was shaking, her eyes rung with fear.

“Thank you,” You accepted the parcel, taking note of how light it was.

The serving girl didn’t wait to be dismissed, almost stumbling as she tried to scramble her way out of your chambers.

You frowned, trying to decipher what you’d done to garner such a response. After a few seconds, you shook your head, it'd have to remain a mystery for now. You turned your attention to the black and red silk-covered parcel. You gingerly brushed the embroidered pattern. Had you done something that was deserving of a reward? You unfolded the handkerchief, to be met with velvet and paper. Confused, you near tore the parchment expecting it to be but wrapping, when your fingers suddenly froze. There was writing on the parchment...

You slowly began to read aloud the smudged ink.

My Darling Flower,

One which is deadly as one is beautiful. A violent delight I find myself besotted by. Alas, Dragons are unforgiving creatures and I declare your fate for the trader Lansdale too merciful for his doings. I do hope you admire my work off the city’s gates.

Your eyes widened as a surge of adrenaline ran through your veins. All good courtesy had been forgotten, you running unlike a lady out of your chambers in search of a window that overlooked the city gates. Your heart pounded in your chest, you had thought yourself to be alone that day in the gardens. How could you have been so careless? Your image? Everything you've thus worked for was now ruined.

Your hands grasped desperately onto the window’s frame as you pushed open the stained glass. You leaned forward, your dreaded stare falling upon a spiked head on display.

“Ser Harold Lansdale,” You whispered. Your eyes drifted to the rest of his body which lay on the ground below being feasted upon by crows.

You slowly returned to the paper, reading the last of the letter.

My silence is a gift in exchange for the cake I was promised. A cake I eagerly await.

Your mouth dried. It was Aemond Targaryen who had witnessed your facade crumble that day in the gardens. You let out a defeated breath. Out of all the Targaryens to be caught by, it just happened to have to be the most cunningly dangerous one out of them all.

From your Dearest Dragon.

At the very least, Aemond had the good sense not to use his name to sign off his letter. You tore the parchment in two, stepping towards the wall-mounted sconce. You burned both pieces getting rid of the evidence. Many letters that were passed by servants were intercepted by septons, and one could be flogged if the topic at hand was found either indecent or conspiring against the court. As the last of the note turned to cinders, your thoughts dwindled back to fretful serving girl. Had Aemond threatened her that his letter was to be delivered to you and you alone? And that if she failed or if the letter was confiscated by a septon she'd be sorely punished?

You watched the flame of the candlestick flicker. Your first impressions of Aemond were indeed correct—he'd bring you nothing but trouble.

You brought the velvet closer to the light, tearing the thin threads that had been sowed together to conceal something inside. Surprised, your breath hitched. Bundled in velvet was a silver pendant of a dragon. The dragon was covered in rubies and its tail spiraled like the Targaryen crest. For its size, it was remarkably light and held an immaculate shine. You couldn't help but admire the workmanship and the crisp cut of the metal.

You had never laid eyes upon something so breathtaking. Yet, you were plagued by suspicion. Why had he chosen to keep silent? Why had he gifted you something so invaluable?

You wrapped the pendant back in its velvet cover and hid the priceless necklace underneath your corset, in the secret pocket between your breasts.

What were Aemond Targaryen's true intentions?

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted throughout the kitchens. You wiped your brow, sweating underneath the intense heat of the furnaces. Supper was fast approaching and you were amidst the cooks, ensuring it would be served smoothly. You scrutinize the menu and thoroughly inspected each plate that left for the dining hall.

Each noble Lady with the exception of the few that had families that had fought for The Greens, took turns doing additional duties such as kitchen, washing, and spending. Queen Helena had favored you to overlook the kitchens, for you were considerate of her and her children’s tastes. You didn't so much mind either, finding kitchen duty preferable to washing duty and spending duty, (the responsibility of buying new furs, fabrics, and gowns) which came with its cautions to not overspend whilst simultaneously still satisfying the want for new garments.

Furthermore, with kitchen duty, you didn't need to concern yourself with King Aegon's palate as he rarely dined with his family. The injuries he had surmised during the war brought unspoken ailments and his meals were specially looked after by the maesters. You had equally needn't worry about Prince Aemond's tastes as he spent most of his days and night outside of the castle walls. That was until now...

"Prince Aemond feasts today with his niece and nephews," Lady Jeyne Merryweather, a beauty with fiery orange locks, a freckled nose, and doe eyes spoke. She had returned with an empty tray, the lemon tarts you'd prepared being well received.

"Does he?" You kept your eyes focused on the dough, adding a touch more flour.

Lady Jeyne Merryweather eagerly nodded, her lips curled unable to stifle her trademark for spreading whispers and hearsay, "The Dowager Queen Alicent has forbidden my presence and the presence of servants in the dining hall."

This caught your attention. Your eyes flickered ahead watching as Lady Jeyne stole one of the grapes from the bunch, popping it into her mouth.

"I heard the Dowager Queen is furious at her son Aemond," She spoke as if reciting a tale, using her hands to further express herself, "Her intentions were to arrange a betrothal between her son and one of the Lannister sisters."

"House Lannister," You mulled. They were a great house with an exceptional political standing, furthermore, they were one of the richest houses in Westeros. It was only fitting an arrangement was made to join their two houses, "I see no scandal, no need for privacy," You referred to the Queen Dowager's request for others to stay out of the dining hall.

"There is indeed a scandal," Lady Jeyne gleefully continued, "For Cerelle Lannister went begging to her father Jason Lannister to refuse any betrothal for her or her elder sister." Jeyne reached for another grape, "According to a knight of whom was assigned to the dragon pit, Prince Aemond near fed the poor Cerelle to his dragon."

You failed to disguise your shock.

"I know!" Lady Jeyne exclaimed, "But it's true! The Dowager Queen was red-faced and seething. A servant swore they even saw smoke come out from her ears," She giggled.

You rolled your eyes at the last comment, "So the betrothal won't go ahead?"

"I heard, the Queen Dowager is trying to salvage the relationship with the Lannisters offering her youngest son Prince Daeron as Prince Aemond's replacement."

You nodded. You had not thus far set eyes upon Prince Daeron as he was on a tour around Westeros, meeting lesser-known houses and forging new connections. Despite, this you knew of Prince Daeron's exceptional reputation. Handsome in looks, gentle in manner, and the most well-liked Targaryen among the three brothers.

"I was duly hoping to have married Prince Daeron myself," Jeyne Merryweather clasped her hands together dramatically, "Our children would be violet-eyed knights, that protected the realm," She let out a disappointed sigh, slouching down onto the table.

You let Jeyne carry on with her daydream. Both of you knew such union was improbable due to the status of House Merryweather, but it brought no harm to let Jeyne fantasize about what a life beside a Prince would be like.

"What kind of husband do you foresee for yourself?" Jeyne unexpectedly asked, "What husband would you want?"

You paused, "I'm not sure," You mustered, surprised by your honesty—not that you would have entrusted Jeyne with any other answer.

What husband did you want? The thought lingered. Alliances, wealth, and heirs... They weren't wants but needs for the survival of your House. You doubted your true wants mattered much at all in this society you found yourself in.

Aemond drowned his feelings with drink. The despondency, the resentment, and his mother's slap ringing in his ears. He had done more than she'd asked, he'd won a war for her. A war that only furthered his incompetent brother's accolades and not his own. Despite being a second son, Aemond was far more suited to rule than Aegon ever was. He was superior in both wits and strength. Aemond tipped the goblet of mead back, a droplet lazily dripping down his chin and neck. After the wars end the bannermen had been ready and willing to swear their allegiance to him in his brother's stead. Yet, his mother Alicent's stance stood strong, it must be Aegon on the throne and no one other.

Aemond laughed humourlessly. His little act of defiance, refusing to entertain his mother's intended betrothal had cost him a slap to the face. The force behind the hit great enough to snap the elastic of his eye patch, leaving the right side of his face on display. His grasp tightened around the frayed fabric which now sat in the palm of his hand. Aegon could flounce around and father bastards without so much of an outcry from their mother as long as it was kept out of the public eye. But Aemond couldn't deny a betrothal he deduced would neither bring him happiness nor prosperity to his House.

He drunkenly wandered about the castle, looking for the kitchens. His plans were to plaster himself with more drink. So much drink he'd ceased to remember the events of tonight.

You overhead a loud clatter, a cloaked figure stumbling inside the kitchens. The dark figure knocked over a stack of pots that were yet to be washed, slamming an empty goblet on the crowded table.

"You are not supposed to be in the kitchens," You placed down a bowl of cream, the wooden spoon still sticking up in the mixture, "Leave now before I call for the guards,"

The stranger stilled. It was as if the sound of your voice had brought him back to his senses.

Aemond tugged back his hood, his eyes zoning onto you. It really was you. His chest burned, thankful it wasn't just his mind playing tricks on him. You were alone standing on the opposite side of the table. Due to the suffocating heat that had risen in the kitchens, you had rolled up the sleeves of your dress, your face attractively glistened with sweat. Your heavenly crimson eyes, widened at the sight of his face, your mouth slightly parting. He was about to grin when he remembered the broken eye patch in his hands.

Aemond wasn't usually one to be self-conscious. However, the memory of the petrified looks others gave at the sight of his gnarly scar flooded back to him at this moment.

You studied his face, in awe of his scar. The jagged pink lines, the raised flesh, and a sapphire where his eye ought to be. Aemond suddenly covered his right eye, misreading your expression.

"Unsightly isn't it," He mumbled.

"I disagree," Your voice genuine, "I think it adds character to your face,"

Something inside of Aemond swelled, "You aren't afraid?" He studied you closer, daring to take a step forward.

"It'll take a lot more than a scar and a missing eye to scare the likes of me," You felt emboldened to reply.

Aemond's lip curled, slowly removing his hand. He circled the table before stopping beside you, "My Darling Flower," He finally broke the silence, the smell of liquor all the stronger.

You unintentionally shivered, they were the same words he'd used in his letter.  

"Are you baking me a cake?" He observed the flour, butter, and milk.

You swallowed, in actuality were just practicing. You had no real concept of how a Winter Cake was made. You'd had hoped you could experiment with flavors, find a combination that worked and pass it off as the real thing.

Aemond pulled up a seat, leaning his elbow against the counter, "I was promised a cake," He sounded almost childish.

"Yes," You decided to risk it, "I'm making you a cake."

Aemond's eyes lip up, making his face all the more youthful.

"But I ask for your patience my Prince, it is still to be baked." You quickly added.

"I'm known for my patience," He wasn't. But for you, he'd be willing to wait.

You tried to ignore the heat behind his gaze, as you picked up the mixing bowl and continued to stir the cream. You added cinnamon and cloves and a dash of wine, praying to the gods that this cake was to his liking.

Aemond intently watched as you worked, noticing a decent-sized scar that ran on your outer hand, between your thumb and index finger. He recognize the wound to be a common one among those who wielded swords.

"You have experienced with blades, not just knives but swords too?" Aemond pried.

You considered lying, however, Aemond had already seen you place steel against Ser Harold Lansdale's throat, and thought there was no point in feigning otherwise.

"I can handle a sword, all Vermillion children can." You spoke, carefully retrieving the cake from the furnace, "However, I have a preference for half swords or daggers, unlike yourself," You referred to his sheathed Valyrian-steel longsword. You found the average longsword too heavy to swing about. Your talent and expertise relied on speed and you couldn't afford to be weighed down.

"Valyrian-steel is light and easy to wield," He commented as if he had read your thoughts, "I'll let you spar with it sometime," He added.

You bit the inside of your cheek, as much as it tempted you so, you couldn't go around handling swords without spying eyes. You had an image to upkeep.

You lathered the cream over the top of the cooled cake, before adding a handful of ripened blackberries on top. You made another quick prayer before slicing a piece. The inside looked soft, neither over nor undercooked. It wasn't until you had picked up the slice that you realize you had forgotten to set any plates.  

"Ah," Your ears burned, "Give me a moment, I'll get a plate from one of the cupboards," You tried to bypass, Aemond to no avail.

He caught your wrist, his rough finger pads grazing against your skin. He effortlessly tugged you near, pulling your hand with the slice of cake to his mouth. Without warning, he took a large bite. You felt his lips and the gentle nip of his teeth against your fingers.

He lifted his stare, noticing how your eyelids beautifully fluttered. "Delicious," He smirked, taking another bite.

You told yourself to breathe. Reminding yourself, Aemond Targaryen was a Prince and a dangerous one at that.

"Helena was right, you do know what tastes people crave."

You brushed off his praise, merely thankful the "Winter Cake" was to his liking.

"You have a little something," You referred to cake crumbs on Aemond's chin.

"Here?" Aemond purposely missed the spot, you'd pointed to.

"The other side," You tried to explain.

He missed again.

You bit your lip, yielding against your better judgment, and wiped the crumbs for him. He noted the black and red silken handkerchief you used. The same handkerchief he'd used to wrap his parcel to you. The closer you were, the more you noticed, like the subtle split in Aemond's lip and the faint reddened outline of a hand on his cheek.

"You were struck," The words were no louder than a whisper.

Aemond's expression hardened, "A punishment for objecting against my mother." He sounded rather bitter.

Your thoughts floated to your earlier conversation with Jeyne Merryweather and how furious his mother Alicent was that her son had offended the Lannisters.

"I'm sorry,"

Aemond's look softened. A silence lulled between the both of you, you stepped away folding the handkerchief and putting it back into your dress pocket.

"You are?" He breathed.

Duty was a fickle thing. The things one does, the things one sacrifices in the name of family. You could understand Aemond's aversion to marriage and certainly a match with someone he didn't care for.

"Yes," You answered.

TAGS: @elleraelockwood | @hawsx3

[skyheaven1231]

Goro wasn’t even surprised when the ground started to shake again.

It was either the foundation of the building growing more and more unstable with the aftershocks of the earthquake, or his exhaustion only made it seem as though the world was turning upside-down.

He couldn‘t even tell how long they’d been stuck in this place.

Hours. Days. Maybe even a week.

Next to him, Akira struggled to keep going with the makeshift bandages around his broken ankle and the exhaustion settling into his bones.

Both of them were at their limit but the way out of this hellhole was so close.

They couldn’t stop now that they were already seeing the light of the outside streaming in through the only door that hadn’t been buried by rubble.

“Almost there! Come on, Kurusu!“ he tightened his hold on the other boy‘s waist, practically dragging him towards the exit.

“I should get injured more often if that‘s the only way to get a hug from you!“, Akira joked.

“Shut up! You‘re not funny!“

How this sentimental idiot was still able to crack one joke after the other was beyond Goro.

The next quake hit with a lot more force.

So much so that Goro lost his grip on Akira, who stumbled backwards and away from his reach.

He noticed the little cracks that were forming on the floor between them but it was already too late.

A giant hole opened up beneath Akira’s feet, swallowing everything in it‘s proximity.

All he was able to hear - beside the rumbling of falling stone, wood and whatever else this building was made out of - was a pained groan.

Fuck.

“KURUSU!“ Goro yelled, hurrying to the edge.

He couldn‘t see anything at first, the dust of the debris clouding his vision.

When it finally cleared and he was able to make out the damage, he felt all the previous hope of leaving this place vanish from his mind.

Akira was lying on the floor, surrounded by giant pieces of concrete.

At first one might have thought he’d been lucky, not having been crushed to death by any fallen stones, but the metal pipe boring right through Akira’s stomach left no room for optimistic delusions.

FUCK.

[heartfulselkie]

It started with the horrible sound of something crunching under the force of Chat’s pull. But it wasn't the links in the chain that broke. With wood being weaker than iron, the looming structure of the gallows didn't stand a chance against a monster's fury.

The growl quaking within his throat reached fever pitch, escalating into a bloodcurdling roar. The wooden beams that formed the platform started to snap and splinter where the chains had been locked down. And then all at once, the entire platform exploded. In a burst of nails and planks, the gallows were torn in half as their foundation was all but ripped away. A spray of wood chips and dust erupted across the courtyard, but Chat Blanc remained unfazed. Slowly, he turned his head to look over his shoulder. As his piercing blue gaze fell upon her, Ladybug knew it was far from over.