#bisecting planes

[archtechposts]

Brazilian Modernism

Paulo Mendes da Rocha, Casa Junqueira en São Paulo, Brasil, 1976-80

[cait-sith]

October 2023, Day 1: Mutation

Two dragonborn from my homebrew setting, Heris and Alfald, who were born blind and missing an arm each.

[luveline]

Oh please do a blurb with hotch and shy!reader😭

ty for ur request! fem!reader

The sky has turned a brilliant shade of honeysuckle purple when you leave work that night. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of it, the winter air crisp and cold where it nips at your nose. 

"We haven't seen the sunset in a while," Hotch says, stopping at your side. 

You glance between him and the breathtaking sky sheepishly. "Not one like this," you say. 

He looks up with you. You haven't felt this brand of wonder in so long, it's better than a hit of any drug. The purple transcends into a cherry pink that sinks further to a buttery orange. The horizon is cut apart by dark buildings, the sun hidden, huge shadows stretching from their monolith figures.

You snap out of it, pulling your coat tighter. Hotch spends a frankly unhealthy amount of time behind a desk. You doubt he wants to stand watching the sky change colours with you when he could be home, unwinding for the night. 

Stepping toward the parking lot, you're quickly stopped, a big hand enclosing your own. "Wait a second, honey," Hotch says. 

Your pulse explodes at the pet name. You're more used to his touch, but even that makes you nervous. He slides his fingers between yours and squeezes them together. 

"Uh," you say, hating yourself for how awkward you are. 

You don't suppose Hotch has done much hand-holding lately. Do older men hold hands? But he does it expertly, thumb drawing a steady back and forth, his grip not strangling nor limp. You take a hesitant step toward him and let your arms press together. 

Following his lead, you look back up. A white trail arcs across an otherwise unblemished sky. Your pulse is so loud you worry Hotch can hear it. 

"Are you happy?" he asks. 

You follow the white trail to the start, where an plane bisects the sky. "Yeah." 

"With me?" he asks. 

He deserves to be looked at and reassured, but it's all you can do to stay standing in one space. Intimacy makes you nervous —you want it badly, but getting it is almost painful sometimes, unused to the intensity of being cared for as Hotch cares for you. 

"I've never been this happy in my life," you confess. You wonder how you both look, two silhouettes in the darkening landscape outside of your office, faces turned up to the purple-pink sky, hand in hand. 

Hotch kisses you on the cheek. His smile is palpable. "I'm happy, too. Now let's go home. Your face is like ice." 

You look down and let him lead you to the parking lot. Your cheeks soon heat with the pleasure of his affection, though he doesn't need to know that. The colder he believes you to be, the freer his doting comes as you reach the car. "Are you still cold, honey? I'll turn the heaters on."

You combust in the passenger seat of his car as he pulls out of his suit jacket and spreads it over your legs, giving your thigh a quick squeeze through fabric. It stays there as long as it can, rubbing up and down, trying to create some friction. It's pointless (you're piping hot by this point), but you won't tell him. You're enjoying the feeling, and honestly, you probably couldn't form intelligible conversation if you wanted to. 

Hotch pretends not to notice. He'll tease you with it at another time, you're sure. 

[ww2yaoi]

[here's a little taste of a multi-chapter clegan post-war fic I've been working on. note: I've taken creative liberties with the timeline and John and Gale's post-war lives. it's very much intentional]

Winter 1948

Marjorie Cleven dies on a Tuesday in December, two weeks before Christmas Eve.

John gets the call a few days later. Gale’s voice is steady on the other end of the line, but John knows his heart is broken. It’s the first time they’ve spoken since Marge got sick. After the wedding, there had been some letters exchanged, few and far between, but John has always been a crummy pen pal. There were reunions, but those were annual at most, and John rarely stuck around past a couple of drinks and a war story or two. When they got back stateside in ‘45, he thought the distance would be good for Gale, thought it would help put their past far behind them.

Now, in hindsight, it seems futile. John feels it all rushing back, like VE Day was just yesterday and Gale’s boots are still underneath his bed.

It’s warm in southern Florida. The sun beams down on the tarmac, hot enough to fry an egg on the airfield, sunny-side-up. John watches from the control tower as planes taxi below him. His trainees will be on furlough soon, but he won’t be going home for Christmas this year. Any excuse to maintain the two thousand miles between him and Gale.

It doesn’t last. John should’ve known he could never keep away for long.

Spring 1949

The back of the cab smells like menthol cigarettes and cheap cologne. John drums his fingers against his thigh, feeling suddenly restricted by his uniform now that he’s been let loose in the civilian world. Laramie, Wyoming passes by his window, a cluster of shops and banks and schools on a stretch of agricultural land bisected by historical railways and boxed in by mountains on all sides. The air is thinner here than in Manitowoc, and there are no waterfronts to be found. The terra firma is dusty and brown, the sun a sepia pinprick hanging low in the sky.

The cab weaves through neighbourhoods of modest-looking houses. John had handed the driver the address on a slip of yellowy paper, which Gale had relayed over the phone. John doesn’t know how close they are to his destination, but he can feel his anxiety rising like bile in his throat. He makes nervous conversation, the driver mentioning the geology museum, the fact that the town was named after a French fur trapper who disappeared somewhere in the mountains. It doesn’t do much to calm John’s nerves.

“What brings you to Laramie?” the driver asks, glancing up at the rear-view mirror to get a glimpse of John.

He’s young, probably around Gale’s age. Young enough to have served at least, but he doesn’t comment on John’s uniform. He just peers at him curiously, eyes darting back and forth from the road.

“Visiting an old friend,” John says and tries not to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze. “He goes to school here.”

A moment later, the cab slows to a halt outside of a quaint-looking bungalow. John regards it from his window: white siding, yellow door, slate roof. Rose bushes line the walk-up, not yet blooming, and the grass has recently been mowed.

“Thanks,” John says, fishing a few bills from his pocket and handing them to the driver. “Keep the change.”

The driver smiles at him, close-mouthed, and pops the trunk. John slowly gets out of the car, like he’s trying to delay the inevitable, then fetches his suitcase from the back. He rests it on the sidewalk for a moment while the cab speeds away, looking at the house once more. A gaggle of kids darts down the street on bicycles. A few doors down, a lawnmower springs to life. It’s picturesque, like a postcard Gale might’ve sent him a few years back. John immediately feels out of place, still used to Nissen huts and crowded mess halls and military time. If he wants to turn back, now’s his chance, but he picks up his suitcase from the ground and forces his feet forward, climbing up the porch steps.

He thumbs the doorbell and it chimes. A dog barks gruffly inside the house. John removes his cap from his head and smoothes out his hair. He feels ridiculous, like a socially awkward teenager picking up his sweetheart for prom. His heart is in his throat as the door opens gradually, almost startling as a golden retriever pokes its head through the opening. It squeezes outside and dashes into the yard, yelping happily.

“Archie, get back here!”

John recognizes that voice. The door opens all the way, and suddenly, Gale is standing in front of him. Everything John had thought to say on his way over dies on his tongue. Gale looks practically the same, if not a bit filled out in his middle than he was during the war. His cheeks are smooth and shaven, flaxen hair styled off his forehead in a coif. John could never get used to seeing Gale in civilian clothes, but that’s how he appears in front of him now, crisp, white button-down hanging off his shoulders, navy slacks belted around his waist and brown cap-toe shoes on his feet.

They look at each other for a moment, unspeaking, then a smile splits Gale’s face in two. “Hello stranger,” he says.

“Gale.” John can’t help but return his grin. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

He holds out his hand for Gale to shake it, but Gale takes one look at his outstretched palm and instead, pulls John into a hug. It surprises John, so much so that almost all the air shoots out of his lungs at the contact. Gale’s fingers meld into the muscle of John’s back. It takes John a moment, but he eventually returns the gesture, squeezing Gale gently. They part and Gale turns his attention towards the dog, Archie, who’s taken it upon himself to start digging around in the garden.

Gale whistles. “Come here, boy,” he shouts, clapping his hands, and Archie bounds over.

He pauses to sniff John’s shoes. John crouches down and pats the dog, rubbing his ears, and is instantly reminded of Meatball.

“He’s usually not so ill-behaved,” Gale says. “He gets excited around visitors.”

“I don’t mind,” John replies, smiling down at the dog.

Archie pants, long, pink tongue hanging from his mouth, then he retreats back inside the house. Gale reaches down and picks up John’s suitcase from the porch. John straightens. They look at each other again, a bit too long without words to be comfortable, but John knows they’re both adjusting to being in close proximity again after so long.

“Lead the way,” he says, motioning towards the open front door.

Gale seems to snap out of it. “Of course, come on in.”

John steps inside the foyer and closes the door behind him. The interior is small, but well-decorated and tidy. The ocean blue walls are hung with artwork, the hardwood floors carpeted with rugs. John sets his cap down on a table peppered with framed photographs but doesn’t stop to look at any of them. He follows Gale past the dining room, down a hallway, and through the kitchen to another hallway at the back of the house. Gale opens one of the four doors that line the hall and carries the suitcase inside. John peeks his head into the guest bedroom. A double bed sits against the far wall, night tables on either side of it that host brass lamps with cream shades. On the other end of the room is a cherry wood wardrobe and an armchair to its left, upholstered in a muted green. Above it lies a square window, lace curtains pulled together to drown out the harsh afternoon light. The bedroom is sparse and unlived in, like most guest bedrooms are, but John appreciates it just the same.

“Hopefully this suits you alright,” Gale says, setting the suitcase down beside the bed.

John nods. “Suits me just fine,” he says. “Better than what I have back at base. That’s for sure.”

Gale looks at him. An emotion John can’t exactly pinpoint passes over Gale’s face, something like recognition, bordering on wistfulness.

They return to the kitchen, and Gale beckons John to sit down at a round table in the corner. Archie laps water from a bowl as Gale putters around the kitchen, opening cabinets. He appears tense, but not in his usual stiff, reserved way. His energy is almost jittery, nervous, and he taps a rhythm on the countertop. It’s not like him, at least not like the Gale John knew during the war. He pretends not to notice.

“So, how was your flight?” Gale asks eventually.

“Good,” John says and adjusts his uniform, crossing his legs. “Felt strange not being the one flying the plane.”

“I’ll bet,” Gale replies with a suggestion of a smile. “Do you want something to eat? Some coffee?” He reaches into the cabinet and produces a tin of Foldgers.

“Just coffee, thanks,” John says.

He looks around the kitchen as Gale spoons coffee grounds into the machine. His eyes trace the checkered red wallpaper, the white-tiled backsplash, the laminate countertops, the icebox in the corner. He’s never seen Gale in such a domestic setting, not even during the wedding. Maybe that’s why he stayed away for so long, even when he was invited time and time again. Perhaps he didn’t want to experience Gale so far removed from the world they both inhabited for so many years, a world where the only people they could rely on were their men and each other. Now, there’s no avoiding it. It’s all laid out for John to see.

The coffee maker beeps and steams. Gale rests his elbows against the kitchen counter and looks over in John’s general direction, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. John doesn’t know what to say to him. He doesn’t know how to fall back into the easy camaraderie they had at the beginning, before the stalag, before the march, before the end of the war. Seeing Gale has ushered back a slew of emotions John has been distancing himself from since they parted ways four years ago. He feels like an intruder in Gale’s home, looking for Marge in the corners of the room but not finding her. Guilt stirs in his stomach, and he asks himself again what the hell he’s doing here. This isn’t his place. This isn’t his life.

“How’s training?” Gale asks. “Are the boys following their orders, Lieutenant Colonel?”

John smirks at that, partly to hide his discomfort. It feels wrong that he should outrank Gale after everything they’ve been through, flight school, then serving together, then imprisonment.

“It’s busy,” John replies and drums his fingers against the table. “They’re good kids. Fucking caterpillars though. So damn young.”

Gale smiles softly. “Were we ever that young?”

“Maybe you were,” John quips. “I feel like my bones have been creaking since before our war even started.”

Gale laughs, and the sound hits John like a fist to his sternum. He realizes suddenly that he’s missed Gale’s laugh so goddamn much. It rings in his ears, out-of-reach and yet familiar, like a favourite song of his he hasn’t heard in years has come on the radio out of the blue. For a brief moment, John regrets denying himself this for so long, even if it was the only way he could get on with his life.

“How’s school?” John asks in turn. “Master’s coming along?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Gale says, nodding. “I like my classes. Lots of grading, lots of writing, some teaching. I’ve got a meeting on Tuesday with my advisor about my thesis.”

“Well, well, look at that,” John says, the corner of his lips twisting into a grin. “Professor Cleven.”

Gale dips his chin towards his chest, almost shy. “Not just yet, John.”

“You’re getting there,” John says. “Y’know Marge wrote to me about your thesis a year or so back, not that I understood a word. Astrophysics, not exactly my wheelhouse.”

Gale’s face falters imperceptibly at the mention of his late wife’s name, and John immediately feels apologetic for bringing her up without much warning.

“It’s not done yet,” Gale says flatly, his gaze falling from John’s face to look at his interlocked fingers resting on top of the counter. “You can read what I have though if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I might,” John says and grimaces at his own inadeptness while Gale’s eyes are elsewhere.

The coffee maker beeps and Gale goes to it, removing two mugs from the cabinet and setting them down beside it. He takes the sugar out of the cupboard and the cream from the icebox.

John bites the inside of his cheek, knowing what he needs to say but unsure if he has it in him to say it. “Buck?”

Gale’s head snaps up at the sound of the nickname. He regards John with a puzzled look, like he’s no longer used to being called anything other than Gale to his face. The name is a relic from a different time, John supposes, something that belonged to them only, and when John was no longer around to use it, there was no one else around to take up the task.

After a moment, the expression on Gale’s face smoothes out. “What is it, Bucky?”

John swallows, then pushes the words out. “I’m sorry, y’know, that I, uh, I couldn’t make it. To the funeral.”

Gale looks at him for a moment, then his face softens. “It’s alright,” he says. “Marge didn’t much like being the centre of attention anyway.” He pours coffee into the two mugs, then adds sugar to one and cream to the other. “My mother-in-law appreciated the flowers you sent.”

“Oh, good,” John says. “Azaleas were Marge’s favourite, right? I remember them from her wedding bouquet.”

Gale’s eyes grow heavy with sadness. He nods. “Yeah, they were.”

As if on cue, John hears a grumbly cry coming from one of the bedrooms down the hall. It starts off quiet, like a baby stirring from sleep, then gradually gets louder until it becomes a full-blown wail. Archie’s ears perk up before he quickly sulks away.

“Sorry,” Gale says as he grips the coffee with sugar and hands it to John. “I just put her down for her afternoon nap, but she’s in that phase where she’s rebelling against sleep.”

John says nothing, frozen in his seat as Gale crosses the kitchen into the hallway and slips inside the bedroom. John had been so caught up in seeing Gale again that he’d almost forgotten. He stares into the inky well of his coffee, too stunned to drink from it.

Gale emerges a moment later with a bundle in his arms. Now calm, the little girl clings to him, her head tucked into the crook of Gale’s neck as she sucks her thumb into her mouth. She’s wearing cream-coloured footie pyjamas with pink roses on them, her curly blonde hair tangled from sleep. Gale draws circles against her back, rocking her slightly from side-to-side. John regards her carefully. She must be at least a year and a half now, much bigger than she was in the pictures Gale had sent him however long ago.

Gale approaches the table where John is sitting. “Lucy, this is your Uncle Bucky,” he says, pointing over at John. “Can you say hello?”

Lucy turns her head and looks straight at John, and John sees the Marge in her face right away, the slight upturn of her nose, the fullness of her cheeks, the pink purse of her lips, but her eyes are all Gale, blue and round and yawning. She quickly looks away, hiding her face back in her father’s neck.

“Sorry,” Gale says again and rubs her back. “She gets shy around strangers.”

John doesn’t expect it to, but the comment stings. The fact that any child of Gale’s could be a stranger to him is borderline unforgivable.

[To be continued...]

[archtechposts]

Angular geometry

The Grid Architects

Beton Brut Residence, 2022

[terezis]

i was looking at the transcripts of the episode where lup and barry become liches and i realized, at no point does griffin say they found the means to do the spell/ritual/etc on that plane. i never really thought about it that hard but i guess i just assumed that was what happened?? since it was described as a planar system where they were so into magic that they accidentally bisected the plane of magic into their prime material plane, and the ruins they found were filled with books etc

but the usual way to do lichdom involves murder and soul sacrifices. right. but the way barry and lup do it, it seems like they anchor their soul through emotion. but then i was like wait. no shit. it's through bonds. you know like the thing that powers their magic ship. duh. i guess it's still possible that they figured it out on that plane but they definitely came up with this ritual themselves huh

[redsrooftopprincess]

Coming Home, Part 1

Fem Reader (but can easily be ignored) x Raphael

No warnings

Violent-orange geometric shapes of sunlight bisect the tops of buildings, as purple shadows bleed up from the streets below. You'd timed your flight perfectly.

The moment you step off the plane into the legendary insanity of JFK, you instantly relax into the chaos of home. You follow the veins and arteries of exhausted humans and eventually ascend to the streets to make your way to your brother's apartment.

Twilight bleeds through the city streets like ink. Nighttime always descends first at street level, the forest of trees blocking the sunlight from the floor below. It's early still, the calm before the evening rush on the block of apartment buildings.

Something small shoots across your vision and you stop short looking at where whatever it was went. Beside you, embedded in a flower pot of pink daisies, is a thin wooden dart. The red ribbon tied around the end flutters gently as it settles against the chipped ceramic. A smile blooms on your face.

You glance at the trajectory. Alley. Street level. He hasn't even made it to the rooftops yet. He must be as excited as you are.

You grab the dart and pocket it, then check for cars before picking up your suitcase and running across the street.

You slow to a stop as the shadows welcome you. In the darkness, an imposing figure has been waiting here for the last two hours, wildly oscillating between excitement and dread. It's been months since he last saw you. Ten in fact.

He knows what's coming. The inevitable train of longing that's going to hit him full force as soon as he catches your scent. But if your time apart has taught him anything, it's that he would rather have you here. He'll take this hit and every one after gratefully if it means he can just be near you.

As your eyes adjust to the gloom, your smile breaks into a grin. His does, too. He opens up his massive arms. "Welcome home, Princess," he rumbles. His voice is like quiet thunder, the first sign of rain after a ten month drought.

You don't need a second invitation. You drop your suitcase and dash forward into his arms. He wastes no time scooping you up, and spinning you in a circle, holding you tight against him. You're both laughing, whether in joy or relief neither of you are really sure and you honestly don't care.

You can feel his laughter in your chest and you bury your head in his shoulder to hide the tears that suddenly spring to your eyes. "Hi," you say softly.

"Hi," he sighs, chuckling.

You stay like that for several long moments, just holding each other, breathing each other in. You run your hands over the skipping stone texture of his shoulders, and he pulls you in tighter.

When the two of you first became friends, he was so touch-starved that he would feel you in his skin for days. The first time you held his hand, it had been hours and he'd still almost lost a sai while out on patrol. You'd noticed. You tried to minimize unintentional contact, and you always asked first. He always said yes.

He wanted it. Craved it, even. That's what scared him the most. Eventually, he began to seek it out. You stopped asking, because you no longer needed to.

It started small, a slight lean against you while standing in the same room, a hand on your shoulder while reaching for something over your head. It was slow going, but worth the wait. The first time he put his arm around you while you were watching a movie together, you were so happy you still have no idea what the second half of the movie was about.

Then hugs happened.

The first time he wrapped those big green arms around you, you melted, and you never stopped melting. In his arms was the warmest, safest place in the universe.

Over time, physical contact became your own secret language. You could say a thousand words with a single touch. Right now, there was only one.

Finally.

He breathes deep, filling his lungs with you. He can feel your scent bloom like roses inside his chest, and reawaken something that had withered since you left.

He buries his head in your hair to hide the stinging in his own eyes. Bramble vines of want and need wrap around his heart and dig in deep, and he can barely breathe around the sudden ache in his chest. He knows those thorns aren't going anywhere anytime soon, but the petal softness of you scattering inside him soothes the hurt. It's worth it for the roses.

He squeezes you tighter before setting you down. He holds your waist to steady you, and can't bring himself to let go for a moment.

When he does, your skin screams out in protest. You catch his hand before he gets too far, and he squeezes yours in return, smiling down at you.

"Come on, I'll take you home." He jerks his head in the direction of your brother's apartment, unable to stop smiling. It's only temporary, your living situation, until you can find your own place. But as he starts to lead the way, you dont move.

He turns and looks at you quizzically.

"Actually..." you say slowly, "I was kinda hoping I could stay at the lair tonight?" pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes You give him your sweetest, most hopeful, convincing grin, you even bat your eyes for emphasis. You don't need to.

His smile lights him up like the sun and he rocks back on his heels. It's all he can do not to jump up and down like a little kid. Christmas came early! "Yeah, of course! Everyone'd love to see you!"

Your bright grin matches his and you bounce in place, "Okay, cool."

You release his hand for only a moment to run and grab your suitcase. He uses the opportunity to remove the manhole cover. When you return, he takes the suitcase from you. You don't bother protesting. Wouldn't do any good anyway.

You grip freshly taped metal rungs and descend into the depths of the city. The moment you step off the ladder, he lands beside you, having jumped down. You roll your eyes, but can't help the smile on your face. "Showoff."

He smirks and shrugs, taking your hand, "Hey, if you got it." he swaps the remainder of the lyric for a rakish wink. The rush of warmth in your cheeks makes you very glad it's dark down here.

Ten months. Ten. Long. Months. A once-in-a-lifetime dream job had landed in your lap. The night you told him, you'd sat with him on the rooftop of your building, silently begging him to ask you to stay. You'd asked him if he could think of a reason why you shouldn't go.

That night had confirmed that you were alone in this. That this pull was one-sided and you were basically just like a sister to him. There was no reason for you to stay. So you went.

And you hated it.

It wasn't the job itself. That was great. It wasn't even the people. People are the same everywhere. It was him. You'd talked every single night, and he still texted you every time he got home after patrol, but it wasn't enough.

You couldn't run to him when things got overwhelming. You couldn't relax with him and unwind on your days off. And when a coworker got handsy, he couldn't just "gently convince" the guy to leave you alone. You'd made sure that guy got his, you didn't need any help and he knew that, but Donnie had still caught him looking up cargo flights.

You used to laugh at those stupid "I miss you" cards where one [insert random thing here] is missing [insert other random thing here], but you'd felt incomplete. Like the thing holding you together was suddenly missing and all the different pieces of you were just floating in free space. You'd clung desperately to any piece of him that might keep you from floating away entirely.

The night you realized the blanket he'd made no longer smelled like him, you'd cried yourself to sleep.

That hollow feeling persisted until he wrapped you in his arms. He swept you up and all the broken pieces of you came back together. Some parts weren't the same. Some had jagged edges like the night he told you go. But for the first time in ten months, you were whole again.

You walk towards the lair catching up and telling stories, as if you hadn't spoken on the phone every single night.

"You know, I was thinking about this the other day," he says, smiling down at you, "it's weird how it was you and me, right?"

You give him a quizzical look, "What do you mean?"

"That we're the ones that got close." He clarifies, "I mean, you're a huge fucking nerd."

"Acknowledged and appreciated," you interject with a nod and a grin.

"Anyone'd think you'd be closest with Donnie," he continued.

"What are you talking about?" You say, almost indignantly, "I love Donnie! He's my best friend!" You voice softens as you descend further into the labyrinth. "You're... something else."

He chuckles, suddenly nervous at your change in tone, "Something good, I hope."

You stop and pull free from his grasp, "Nope, you're awful, I hate you, I'm leaving, where's my plane?" you put your nose up in the air, turn around, and start marching back the way you came, but you're unable to suppress your smile.

He snatches your hand back, and pulls you into his plastron, "So what am I, then?" He asks, smiling down at you. He holds your hand to his chest, the other on your waist. Whatever he is to you, he's yours, and he's grateful.

He looks down at you with that soft smirk reserved only for you, and you need a second to catch your breath. Your hands itch to take his face in them, pull him down to you, and kiss him until he's having as hard a time breathing as you are.

But it only lasts a second. You compose yourself, looking down and away, thinking.

"You know... how... when things are really bad, there's that little kid voice in the back of your head screaming, 'I want to go home?'" You look up at him with everything you wanted to scream into the phone for the last ten months, and now he's the one who can't breathe. "That's what you are," you say softly with your own only-for-him smile, "you're Home."

The thorns dig in deeper, and the pain is exquisite.

You inhale and pull away, against everything pulling you closer, and continue down the tunnels. Your heart is pounding, and you know that if you stay there in his arms, you're going to kiss him or say something stupid, or start crying and ruin everything. You just got back, you don't want to lose him already.

"So what about you? What changed your mind about me?" At first, he was blunt and standoffish, especially suspicious when you just accepted them as they are without question or, even more surprisingly, screaming. But you wore him down.

"I don't know, I guess at first it was because you were the first person to treat me like I'm normal, you know? And not the kind of normal where you treat me like I'm human, and then very carefully tiptoe around the fact that I am very much not." He takes a moment to help you over a large gap in the tunnel. "You treat me like I'm normal, like all the weird turtle shit is normal."

You take his hand and continue walking, swinging your arms together, "It is normal, Raph."

He scoffs quietly.

"It is," you reiterate, stopping when the two of you reach the door, pulling him to a stop with you, "it's your normal, and you're the most important person in my life, so... it's my normal too," you say with a shrug and a smile.

Your roses fill his chest and soothe the hurt. He looks down at you with warm honey eyes, and prays that you never stop breaking his heart.

He places his hand on the wheel to the vault door, "Ready?"

You look at him with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, "Red, is anyone ever really ready for your family?"

"Good point," he nods, he looks at you almost sympathetically, inhaling a breath through his teeth, but a grin hides in the corner of his mouth, "Deep breath."

He spins the wheel and the door swings open.

...

Tag list:

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[arynchris]

Geography is a very big factor in some of the plots of Mirror.  To be clear-- the geography came first, and then I figured out that, for example, *there’s a story* in Michella’s journey to Zart, because two years is a pretty long time to be traveling!  *There’s a deeper meaning* in Ivy choosing to go to Hawqiing, who lives so close yet, due to the geographic quirks, is kind of a one-way journey.  But it seems to me that I haven’t done well yet in explaining *why* the geography is causing these problems. Why does it take 2 years to cross the mountains *into* Zart, but only a week and a half to go the other direction?  How is it possible (and easy) to travel directly from the far east to the far west of the continent, but nearly impossible to visit Hawqiing’s kingdom, which you are passing right through? This picture is remarkably similar to the one in my head, so please examine it closely. Now. There is a steep, narrow mountain range between Hawqiing’s kingdom and Zart.  It’s generally impassable, unless you are a dragon or some other high-flying thing.  (Or a goat, but that’s apocryphal, we don’t talk about the mysterious disappearing-reappearing goat)  So even though the kingdom and Zart are side-by-side on a map, they have almost no interaction. *But they used to.* There is a VERY major trade route passing through both countries, the continent-spanning road that Violet takes clear to the Sun Empire, and which Eve has to solve the riddle of later.  In their time, the road does not benefit Hawqiing’s kingdom at all; Very Much Like the painting above, the road bridges across natural rock formations, but does NOT branch down into the land underneath.  There was once a short road from the top of the rocks into the valley, but as the creeks and seasonal floods wore away at the landscape, that road collapsed into a footpath... then collapsed completely. In the era most of the books take place in, there is no consistent, viable way up and down, even for great climbers and clever engineers, because the rocks are just too unstable.  Messages by bird or rope can be exchanged, and people or objects can be parachuted down, but for the kingdom, the road passes through only on a map.  They are cut off from its economic benefits, and have been for a very long time. Road travelers can tell you that it only takes the better part of a day to reach the Kingdom Gaps from the Zartese Capital, so why does it take Ivy a week and a half to get there?  In fact, why do almost *all* travelers take a week and a half, and come from the Zartese side?  Well, because of the Zartese River.  The kingdom is full of creeks and rivers, but Zart is a single large valley with only one, very big, river-- at the bottom (south) end of the country, the valley closes and the river flows out and down in a series of rough rapids and small waterfalls.  The harsh terrain makes travel upstream *into* Zart impossible, but travel *down*stream has been mastered by this time, as long as you’re willing to do a bit of canoe-hauling and hiking at each of the falls.  The journey requires stamina, but in a week and a half, you can dock on the banks of the kingdom. Compared to a very, very, very long rope or tricky parachute journey (there are NO safe landing spots) at the Gaps, most travelers prefer a canoe ride. However, the river doesn’t actually stop there; you can keep traveling south, and people do!  Some folks actually make a living of the complete route:  guiding passengers from Zart to the kingdom, from the kingdom to points south (and back again-- most of the river is traversable in both directions), and all the way down to the ocean and around the eastern coast of the continent, where they will eventually take rivers inward back to Zart.  Ivy was guided through the rapids; a generation earlier, Michella took the rest of the route, all two years of it.

Bridge and gorges of Dala river in Leukerbad, view towards the mountain

by Caspar Wolf

[nonsensical-shitposting]

Decided to comb through a few separate playthroughs of Indigo Park with the intention of tracking down potential bits of foreshadowing that I haven't seen anyone recognize as such yet. Here's what I've got in no particular order, along with a few accompanying theories:

The player's screenname on the Discord expy seen in the opening cutscene is eEnsign. My first instinct is to say this is just a hint towards their surname, as their presumable first name is Ed and Indigo Park has already established a precedent for alliterative names: so, their full name could be "Ed Ensign." I do think there could be more to it symbolism-wise, though, so I'll just leave you with these definitions I grabbed from Wiktionary and let you come to your own conclusions about the potential implications for Ed's backstory, narrative role, and/or fate:

Could just be me reading too much into it, but Rambley's "or did you just get plastic surgery?" joke may be a hint that Ed will suffer some form of facial damage or alteration in a future chapter.

The power generators don't feel like they were "originally" part of the park, but rather seem to me as if they were a more recent addition- the only question is when and why. Rambley says the employees stopped showing up before the guests, so maybe they were installed during the time before the last employees ditched the park in an attempt to keep it functioning in their absence for as long as possible. Alternatively, maybe Mollie made them after the park was evacuated: she's already been established as good with machines, assuming her plane-building habits carried over from the character to the mascot.

Salem's cardboard cutout is bisected at the waist, which could be a hint that a similar fate has befallen the "real-world" mascot (there's precedent for this sort of foreshadowing with the headless Mollie standee at the park entrance). Similarly, on the cluster of screens Rambley appears on after the Rambley's Railway section the screen over where his right eye "should be" is noticeably deactivated, which could be a hint that his mascot counterpart (if it exists) is missing its right eye. Alternatively, Rambley might suffer a similar kind of damage in a future chapter- in that case, I'd interpret the potential foreshadowing more metaphorically in that the damage'll leave him "half-blind" in a sense, such as something that knocks out most of the park's security cameras or just locks him out of using them.

I think the general consensus by this point is that the Critter Cuff's resuscitation ability Rambley mentions will be unlocked and/or come into play somehow in a future chapter, but I haven't seen anyone dwelling on the implications of this- or, rather, the implications of this coexisting with how we've seen Rambley simply unlock a higher access level on Ed's cuff with zero physical modification to the device and no on-site capability to physically modify the cuffs that we've seen yet. I don't think it's a stretch to suggest that the resuscitation ability is likely pre-installed on all Critter Cuffs but only gets unlocked for the higher access levels, which. Y'know. Doesn't say great things about how Indigo Park treats its human employees or its customers. (I'm not saying this is a plausibility issue, mind you- as far as we know, Indigo Park is located somewhere in America- but still!)

I've watched over the scene where Lloyd attacks Ed multiple times now, and it looks to me like Lloyd specifically goes to grab at his nose/muzzle area when the Critter Cuff starts emitting the high-pitched frequency that drives him off. Building off of this and the fact that Mollie appears to be bleeding from her beak immediately prior to and throughout her chase sequence, my theory is that the park set the mascots up with some kind of multi-component implant located in the nasopharynx and Eustachian tube, and the implants themselves are what triggers the Critter Cuff to start emitting what I'm just going to refer to as "the deterrent frequency" from here onward for simplicity's sake. My best guess would be that the implants and Critter Cuff work in tandem via proximity detectors in both the implants and the cuff, which are in turn linked back to the heartbeat monitor and mood ring features of the Critter Cuff to determine whether a visitor seems to be in danger of being attacked by a mascot and automatically sets off the deterrent frequency if these conditions are all simultaneously present. (Granted, this does seem a bit advanced for the time period if we're working under the assumption that this was all developed before the park closed down in 2015-ish, but Rambley's AI would also be anachronistically advanced for even the present day, let alone 2015, so I don't think it's a stretch to say that Indigo Park was working with some pretty cutting-edge technology before its closure. Either that, or the Indigo Park universe is just more technologically advanced than ours.) If I'm right about the implants/their placement, the deterrent frequency probably drives the mascots off via both the high-pitched noise we already know of that hurts their ears and by screwing with their middle-ear pressure... which I think would induce some form of barotrauma in the long run, especially if it's repeatedly used? I'm not a doctor and I don't know if the game's going to go that deep into scientific explanations, though, so don't take my word for it without researching the topic yourself and/or seeking input from an actual medical professional.

Anyway, working from this assumption about how the deterrent frequency functions, this suddenly explains the apparent weirdness in Mollie's chase sequence. It seems clear that she was watching when Ed's cuff set off the deterrent frequency to drive Lloyd away, which would've tipped Mollie off that the deterrent frequency is still functioning; I think that this led to her deciding to tear out her implant beforehand. This would explain why she's visibly bleeding in the leadup to the chase sequence and why Ed's Critter Cuff never emits the deterrent frequency when she first appears or starts chasing them down, and it also explains the different high-pitched frequency heard at the very end of the chase sequence: based on the above theory, my assumption is that Rambley tried to set off a backup deterrent frequency to get Mollie to leave (which didn't work because Mollie tore out her implant), and when that failed he panicked and slammed the door shut.

I feel like Ed having been employed on the spot by Rambley is going to be of major relevance later. If it ends up being important for the ending, maybe there'll be some kind of weird legal loophole where, due to Ed being the only person working at Indigo Park at the time, ownership thereof automatically defaults to them? If the full game has multiple endings, this would also be an easy way to make choice-based multiple endings work, as if you do something that rubs Rambley the wrong way he could easily send security recordings of Ed breaking into Indigo Park to the authorities to ensure Ed can't exploit the loophole to gain ownership of Indigo Park, while on the flipside having Ed's hard work pay off with them getting rewarded for helping Rambley restore the park (rather than the company just swooping in after the fact to reassert control and reaping the benefit of Ed's work while Ed gets nothing but a fine for trespassing) could be a nice way to close things out... or alternatively, it could be a conduit for an anticapitalist "you cannot fix the system by working within its constraints, the whole rotten edifice must be dismantled" message, especially if Ed turns out to be more of a morally-gray character than we thought.

This is more instinct than anything else, but the references to Indigo Park as a "kingdom" that appear in the trailer and in Rambley's song feel like something that's going to be a recurring thematic motif rather than just a metaphor that gets used in a few throwaway lines. Not quite sure what relevance this could end up having, though.

I don't think I'm the only one to have noticed this, but Rambley seems to have a tendency to become more animated and use more in-between frames the more he opens up and/or deviates from what was likely programmed into him. However, I don't think this is an automatic or unconscious thing, but is instead an active choice to communicate genuineness and sincerity. He has been left running without pause for almost eight years, which as far as I know is Very Bad for computers, so if anything I'd be shocked if he had the remaining system resources to fluidly animate himself 24/7; as such, I think he physically can't do the higher-quality, more fluid animations all the time, so he chooses to save them for when it "matters" most.

[kckt88]

Gēlenka Zaldrīzes I

Summary:

Events of Dynasty through Aemond's POV.

(There will be a part II)

Warning(s): Pain, Eye Injury, Suffering, Medical Procedures, Non-Con Encounter & the Aftermath, Swearing, Kissing, Falling in Love, P in V Sex, Lactation Kink, Violence, Child Loss, Suicide Attempt, Fear, Arguments, Death.

Word Count: 5720.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

Author Note: A companion piece to Courtship/Wedding & Consummation/Bath Time/Arrival(s)/Mother & Father/Petitions & Final Tributes/The Hand, The King & The Dragon/Dragonstone/Blood & Cheese/A Time for Grief/ Rooks Rest & the Silver King/The Gullet/Taking of a City/Harrenhal and the Rivers/The Gods Eye/The Fallen Queen/New Beginnings/Ravenous/Don't Leave Me & Another Plane of Existence.

But can be read as a one-shot.

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Aemond was laid on his bed weeping, the left side of his face covered by thick bandages.

He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. As if losing his eye wasn’t bad enough, now he had to suffer through the agony of the Maester’s slicing through his eye lid.

The Maester on Driftmark had stitched the wound as best he could, but soon after he’d arrived back at the Red Keep an infection had set in and he’d needed urgent treatment.

Not even milk of the poppy was enough to dull the searing pain he’d felt as the Maester’s blade sliced through his stitches.

It took three of them to hold him down as they went about their business.

His mother had hide her face behind her hands as he begged and pleaded for the pain to stop.

"Prince Aemond's recovery will be long and painful, Your Grace”.

"How many more procedures must he endure?" asked Alicent.

"I'm afraid I cannot say Your Grace. Only time will tell".

Alicent took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

"Come now Alicent, the boy needs to rest" urged Otto.

Aemond prayed to the seven that he would not have to endure that agony again.

Unfortunately, the gods were unwilling to answer his prayers as he suffered through another two agonizing procedures before the Maester’s were satisfied.

The scar that bisected his face was red and angry and would forever mar his features, the left side of his face disfigured.

His upper and lower eyelids had been removed completely and the empty hollow where his eye had once been was now a grotesque mess and Aemond couldn’t bring himself to face his reflection.

The eyepatch he had started to wear would often irritate the still healing scar and he would often hide in his chambers or the library to avoid the pitying and horrified stares of Lord and Ladies of the court.

Aemond also had to spend hours relearning the most basic of things because without his eye his depth perception had changed.

He was completely blind to things from the left and would often have to turn his body to see what was going on which frustrated him to no end.

But he was a dragon and he would endure his fate.

On his thirteenth name day, his brother Aegon had dragged him to one of his favourite whore houses on the streets of silk to ensure he was properly educated in the art of pleasing women.

“Come now brother, your betrothed will thank me for this on your wedding night” yelled Aegon gleefully as he pushed Aemond towards a lady much older in her years than he.

The entire act made Aemond feel sick to his stomach, the whore wouldn’t stop touching him and making exaggerated sounds as she moved on top of him.

Afterwards, Aemond ran back to the Red Keep and locked himself in his chambers, it made him feel dirty, and disgusting, he wanted to wait until he was married before he lay with a woman.

Aemond thought of his betrothed and wept, she had been so kind to him when she had lived in the Red Keep, the innocent memories of their moments hiding together in the gardens after she had stolen sweets and honey cakes from the kitchens, were now tainted by the touch of a whore.

Aemond had suffered much at the hands of his brother and those bastard strong boys, but Vaera wasn’t like that. She was kind and generous. She was also one of most beautiful creatures that Aemond had ever seen in his whole life.

The day she’d left the Red Keep and moved to Dragonstone made Aemond feel like a huge hole had been punched through his chest.

His only friend had been taken away from him and now because of his brother he was tainted.

That night as he bathed Aemond scrubbed his skin raw, he wanted to erase every single touch and trace of that old whore and he vowed never to return to the street of silk again.

Aegon of course tried to tempt him numerous times to return to the whore that took his innocence, but he flat out refused and would often hide out in his chambers, until his stupid twat of a brother got the message and left him alone.

Afterwards, Aemond dedicated himself to reading history and philosophy, he trained daily with the sword, and he spent hours flying with Vhagar soaring amongst the clouds.

On his fourteenth name day, his mother had gifted him a sapphire to replace his missing eye.

The stone felt foreign and heavy as it was fitted into the empty socket, but it filled the void and gave the socket some shape and structure.

Of course, he kept it hidden beneath the eye patch, but it made him feel more complete, that it wasn’t just an empty space.

He only had a year before his betrothed would return to the Red Keep and he was determined to be a man worthy of her.

Aegon soured at Aemond’s dedication to his training, but his hard work was beginning to pay off, he grew stronger, more focused, and deadly. His precision with the sword was unmatched.

His brother wasted himself with whores and wine, yet Aemond remained steadfast in his determination to be the best.

Aemond was the luckiest man in the seven kingdoms.

Most people get married for political gain, or even wealth. Very few got to marry for love, yet he was one of the lucky ones and despite only just getting married it was already filled with enough love to burst the seams.

His sweet wife was perfection in human form, she never looked upon him with scorn or disgust, she treated him with respect and reverence, even when he’d confessed to his misadventure on the streets of silk.

She was everything he’d ever wanted in a wife.

But she wasn’t without her own struggles, and when he heard of how lonely she’d been on Dragonstone, his heart broke.

She’d also suffered at the hands of her bastard brothers, and it made his blood boil to know that his sweet girl had been made to feel like she less than nothing.

As long as he was breathing, he would never make her feel like that.

He desired her, worshipped her, and would love her until the end of his days and beyond.

After his embarrassing effort during their initial consummation, Aemond was determined that his wife would enjoy the pleasures of the marriage bed.

After the Maester had departed, he reached for her again.

“That was for duty. Now this is for us. I wish to have you again my sweet wife”.

His hunger for her had been awakened that night, and he was not satisfied until he’d filled her with his seed another three times.

They emerged from their shared chambers very late the next day.

He thought his encounter on the streets of silk would forever haunt him, but what he experienced wasn't love. It was seedy and nothing compared to what he had with his wife and when they lay together, it was pleasurable and made him want her all the more.

He would bed his wife at every given opportunity, sometimes he would catch her in the corridor and take her in secluded alcoves, he would even take her against the bookshelves in the library.

Even the secluded island near the stepstones, they would fly their dragons there and Aemond loved laying in the sand as naked as his name day and have Vaera ride him as though he was an unclaimed dragon.

They’d even taken an impromptu trip to the Kingswood and Aemond delighted in his wife’s laughter as he chased her through the trees on horseback. She had looked so beautiful that day, her silver hair wild and untamed, her cheeks-tinged pink. Aemond had to have her.

Needless to say, his mother was not impressed when they both returned to the Red Keep, looking thoroughly dishevelled. Aemond had torn Vaera’s dress in his haste to remove it, and it was covered in numerous grass stains. Her silver hair had bits of dried grass and dead twigs stuck in it and Aemond’s appearance wasn’t fairing any better, his normally immaculate leather tunic and breeches were splattered with mud and his hair was knotted and unkempt.

Aegon found the entire situation hilarious and almost died laughing when Alicent scolded both Aemond and Vaera for being depraved and warned them both that laying with one another should be confined to the privacy of their bed chambers.

They were ordered to bathe and wash away the filth of their indulgence, and never act like that again. Did they listen? Of course, they didn’t. If anything, it made Aemond more determined to indulge in the pleasures of his wife’s soft flesh.

The day his wife had given birth to his sons was perhaps one of the best days of his existence.

Aemon and Rhaegar, his little dragons.

Becoming a father terrified Aemond, his own father wasn’t exactly a shining example of what a father should be, and he was worried that he wouldn’t know what to do or even how to love his children.

But the moment he held those tiny babes in his arms, he knew he would burn the world for them.

The need to protect these precious little dragons washed over him like a wave, he wanted to be involved with every single aspect of their upbringing.

He would read to them and snuggle them in his arms as they slept.

He would help to bathe them and changed their soiled cloths, his brother teased him and even his own grandsire told him that such things were not befitting of a Prince, but he didn’t care.

He was determined that his children would know his love, and they would grow up knowing that he loved their mother with every fibre of his being.

Aemond would wake in the night and attend to one of the twins as his wife took turns feeding them.

He was in awe of her, it was customary for royal babes to have a wet nurse, but Vaera refused. She insisted on providing their sons with her own mothers milk, and of course Aemond insisted on trying it for himself when his wife welcomed him within her body once again.

He took his time worshipping her mother’s body, her soft curves, and swollen breasts. He would run his fingers slowly along her rosy nipples and delight in her soft gasps and moans as she found her pleasure with him.

The mere thought of his wife moaning his name as he made sweet love to her made his cock harden in his breeches.

She was his heart, his soul, and his reason for existence. Never in his life did he ever think he would ever be so lucky as to call her his wife.

Aegon would often mock him for being soppy and cuntstruck, but he didn’t care. Nothing in the world mattered except his sweet wife and their little dragons.

Speaking of little dragons, the day Aemon and Rhaegar’s eggs hatched was probably one of the proudest moments of his life. The hatchlings Brightfyre and Valaerys were welcomed with open wings so to speak.

Vaera was determined that the tiny dragons would not be chained in the dragon pit and despite some initial fears, she got her wish.

Aemond once asked her why she was so openly opposed to the dragon pit, and she told him that dragons were far more intelligent that people gave them credit for, and they were magnificent creatures that didn’t deserve to be locked up. She was also of the belief that locking them away was stunting their growth.

Vhagar had spent most of her life free of chains and she was the largest dragon in the world, even Cannibal was on the larger side. No other dragons could even compete with the sheer size of Vhagar and Cannibal, so Aemond decided there had to be some credibility to what Vaera was saying. But the council were unwilling to make the Dragon Pit open access. Which broke his wife’s heart, but Aemond was determined that one day he would see her wish granted.

The audacity of his bitch sister to think she can summon his wife and their children to her side at a moment’s notice.

Rhaenyra hadn’t bothered with her own daughter since her wedding day, and she certainly hadn’t come to visit her grandchildren since their birth almost two years prior.

Now because her darling strong bastard was on the cusp of losing his false birthright, she could drag herself to Kings Landing to defend him.

The look on her face when Vaera refused her and stood beside him in the throne room, made Aemond feel all giddy inside, her own actions caused the mess she was in, and it couldn’t have been any sweeter.

Well, it could have been if Vaemond had been successful in seizing the Driftwood Throne, but his father rosed himself from his sick bed and defended the claim of his favourite child and her bastard boy.

The moment his rotting father had lumbered his way to the Iron Throne, Aemond knew it was over. Even when Princess Rhaenys announced the betrothals of her granddaughters to the strong boys, it was done. But Vaemond wouldn’t accept defeat and he lost his head for it.

Daemon swung his sword with precision and ease. Dark Sister sliced through meat and bone like it was nothing, proving to the Lords and Ladies of the realm that were present that he would defend his lady wife and the bastards at all costs.

The family gathering that night was so tense that you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

Aemond had no desire to break bread with people he considered the enemy.

All he wanted to do was go back to his chambers and fuck his wife into the mattress.

Vaera looked so beautiful that evening. Her supple body covered in the blue silk of her dress and her long silver hair unbound and cascading down her back like a waterfall.

Aemond wanted to bury his hands in his wife’s long tresses as he filled her cunny with his seed.

But alas they both had to sit and maintain the air of decorum and propriety.

Soon the King entered, and everyone rose from their seats as Viserys was carried to the table.

"How good it is to see you all tonight together" wheezed Viserys once everyone was seated.

"Prayer before we begin. May the mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest”.

"This is a cause for celebration. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, shall marry their cousins, Rhaena and Baela, to further strengthen the bond between our families. A toast to the young princes, and their betrothed" said Viserys.

Aemond felt Vaera’s hand squeeze his thigh under the table, her touch grounding him as his father’s wheezing voice echoed around the dining room.

Aemond hated it, having to sit at the same table as those bastards and play nice.

Of course, Aegon tried to liven things up a little bit, but it didn’t last.

Then Vaera had to leave feast to attend to their son Rhaegar who no doubt wanted one last snuggle before it was time for him to go to sleep.

However, that little strong bastard had the audacity to laugh at him, after everything he’d put him through. All the pain and suffering he’d had to endure.

Sat there smirking and laughing as the roasted pig was placed in front of him.

‘Behold the pink dread’.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews. Jace and Luke. Each of them, handsome, wise and strong”

“Aemond” warned Alicent.

“Come, let us drain our cups, to these two strong boys”.

“I dare you to say that again” snarled Jace.

“Why? It was only a compliment; do you not think yourself strong?”.

His mother of course did not take to kindly to his tribute.

Not his fault that his strong nephews were so sensitive.

His mood was rather sour as he marched out of the dining room, he needed his wife. To feel her touch, to know she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

“A-Aemond. What’s wrong?” asked Vaera as he stormed into their chambers.

“Tell me you love me” muttered Aemond as he pulled his wife to him.

“I love you”.

“Tell me you need me” begged Aemond as he lowered his head and pressed his face into Vaera’s shoulder.

“I need you”.

“Tell me you want me” whispered Aemond placing gentle kisses along the column of Vaera’s neck.

“I want you”.

“Hm” muttered Aemond as his fingers began untying the laces of her shift.

“I-I haven’t bathed tonight” said Vaera shivering as the shift slipped from her body, leaving her standing naked.

“I don’t care. I need you. Please” muttered Aemond as he began pulling off his own clothes.

Vaera nodded wordlessly as Aemond kissed her, walking them backwards towards the bed.

His father was dead and now his wastrel of a brother was King.

Perhaps what angered him the most was the doubts regarding his wife’s loyalty.

Sure, she was Rhaenyra’s daughter, but she loyal to him and their sons. He never had any doubt when it came to his wife.

His grandsire had travelled to Dragonstone to deliver terms to his half-sister, but he clearly didn’t trust her so now he had to fly to Storms End and offer his brother Daeron’s hand in marriage to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters in exchange for his support.

His mother had foolishly let it slip that Jasper Wyle the preening shit had suggested that their own marriage should be annulled in favour of a more beneficial match.

Of course, he did not take to kindly to hearing the news and had promptly seized Jasper by the collar and threatened to slit his throat if he ever dared to make such a suggestion again.

It was only the intervention of both his mother and Vaera that seem to pacify him.

He didn’t want to leave his wife or their sons, but he had no choice.

He had hoped that his meeting with the Baratheon Lord would go smoothly.

How his hope died when Lucerys Velaryon showed up.

Preening little shit had the audacity to try and petition for Baratheon’s support.

Little Luke almost pissed his pants when he showed him the sapphire that had replaced his eye.

Demanding his eye was a spur of the moment thing, as was chasing him through the stormy skies on the back of Vhagar.

It gave him a sense of satisfaction that now it was Luke who was afraid. That the bastard boy was no longer laughing at him.

He could end it, Vhagar could devour little Lucerys Velaryon, and the debt would be paid. But he couldn’t do that to Vaera, even though she wasn’t particularly close to the boy he was still her brother and killing him would do more harm than good.

So, he let him go.

He watched solemnly as the bastards tiny mouse of a dragon disappeared into the clouds.

Vhagar made her anger known, she had grown bored of chasing the little dragon through the skies and Aemond knew better than to ignore his grumpy old girl.

So, he directed her to return to Kings Landing.

He’d secured an alliance with the Baratheon’s and now all he wanted to do was climb into bed with his wife and sleep.

If the birth of his sons was one of the best days of his existence, then the death of Aemon was the worst.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him that day.

His wife cradling the lifeless body of their son in her arms.

The utter despair and devastation.

His whole world had just collapsed on itself.

“Our boy. They took our boy” wailed Vaera as she clutched Aemon’s body.

Aemond didn’t know what to do. He felt completely useless.

Following Aemon’s death, his wife had completely shut down.

She’d lost herself to her grief and wouldn’t speak to anyone.

The only reaction she had was when Rhaegar was out of her sight, she would scream like a banshee until he was returned to her.

Rhaegar was also suffering in the wake of his twins death. He had nightmares and would only sleep if he was sandwiched between Aemond and Vaera. During the day, he would hover around his mother, clinging to her skirts as she sat staring into space.

 Even though he was grieving for his son and nephew, Aemond had to remain strong, yet inside he was a wreck. He kept waking in the night to ensure that Rhaegar was still breathing, and taking care of Vaera was immensely difficult.

He had to force her to eat and drink, he even had to force her to use the toilet and bathe. It broke his heart to see his once bright wife, withering away into nothing and Helaena wasn’t any better.

It turned out that she had been forced to choose between Jaehaerys and Maelor, and in her desperation she had chosen Maelor only for Blood to slit Jaehaerys’ throat instead and now she couldn’t bring herself to look at any of her children.

The goons who had murdered two innocent children, had been caught and tortured to within an inch of their lives. They revealed that they’d been hired by a whore called Mysaria at the request of Daemon.

'A life for a life'

Jaehaerys for Visenya and Aemon for Lucerys.

It made Aemond feel sick to his stomach that Daemon had arranged for his own grandsons murder, that he’d willingly inflicted that pain upon his own daughter.

Even more so that he was being blamed for the death of Lucerys.

The bastard boy had been alive the last time he'd seen him.

What ever harm had befallen the boy it was nothing to do with him, but people still whispered kinslayer.

The funerals were difficult, his heart had been in his mouth when his sweet Rhaegar requested to say goodbye to his brother.

So, Aemond lifted his son into his arms and took him over to the funeral pyre.

“Geros ilas lēkia” whispered Rhaegar (Goodbye brother).

Aemond squeezed his eye shut at the sound of Rhaegar’s sweet voice.

“Avy jorrāelan” said Rhaegar sweetly (I love you).

Rhaegar suddenly lurched forward and gently placed his stuffed dragon teddy on his brother’s wrapped body.

“So, you’re not alone” muttered Rhaegar as he leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss on his brother’s forehead.

“Come on sweet boy” said Aemond as he carried Rhaegar back to his mother.

“-It’s Princess Vaera. S-She’s going to jump” shouted the young squire as he whirled around and raced out of the council chambers.

“WHAT” shrieked Aemond as he took off running after the squire, ignoring the frantic calls of his mother and brother.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he chased after the squire. Not to their chambers, but to the room where Aemon and Jaehaerys had been killed.

Ser Arryk was hovering near the door softly calling Vaera’s name, seemingly terrified to take another step inside the room.

When he came to a stop at the door, he understood Ser Arryk’s hesitation. 

Vaera was standing at the open window, her hands gripping the frame as she teetered on the edge.

“Issa jorrāelagon” (My love).

“Nyke jaelagon naejot ūndegon zirȳla aril” replied Vaera (I want to see him again).

“Nyke gīmigon ao gaomagon, yn daor raqagon bisa” (I know you do, but not like this).

Vaera shook her head and closed her eyes.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” (Please, my love).

“We’re never going to hear his laugh or see his face again” cried Vaera.

“W-We will. In our hearts”

“He made us so happy. Him and Rhaegar” said Vaera.

“We will talk about him, every single day and we’ll laugh, and we will cry. Vaera, no one will remember Aemon like we do”.

“How do I stop this pain? How do I make it go away” sobbed Vaera as she staggered on the edge of the windowsill.

“We deal with it together”

“I-I just want him back. I want him in my arms” wailed Vaera.

“I know you do. But please Vaera, don’t do this. Think about Rhaegar, he still needs his mother” cried Aemond as he motioned for the Kings guard to stay where they were.

He didn’t want to spook Vaera, she was so close to the edge. One wrong move and she’d either slip or impulsively jump.

The Cannibal and Vhagar were roaring ferociously in the distance.

“I don’t know how to live without Aemon”.

“Please, my love. Do not let me also suffer the agony of losing my wife”

“A-Aemond I-I can’t-“

“You are the love of my life, my reason for existence. If you die. I die. I cannot live without you. Please come away from the ledge. Please don’t-“

“I don’t want to forget him” said Vaera quietly as her body shook.

“We won’t. I promise”

She was so close to the edge, one slip and it was over.

Without skipping a beat, he quickly lurched forward, secured his arms around Vaera’s waist, and yanked her back from the window.

Ever since he’d pulled Vaera back from the window, he and Rhaegar were helping Vaera during her darkest of days. They would often curl up together as a family in their chambers and hold one another until the darkness ebbed.

Even though his ashes had been entered into the great sept. Aemond had a special plaque made in the gardens for Aemon. Despite his desire to be just like his father, Aemon always loved the gardens, especially when he would chase after Rhaegar the pair of them would roll on the grass together giggling.

It gave Vaera a sense of comfort, as she would often spend hours just sitting in front of Aemon’s plaque talking and reading his favourite book.

Her other salvation came in the form of Cannibal. Her fiercely loyal dragon who gracefully took to the skies with his rider and flew for as long as they both needed too. Sometimes Brightfyre and Vhagar would accompany them, the dark blue scales of Aemon’s dragon shimmering in the sunlight as he broke through the clouds, chirping expectantly at Cannibal who had no qualms about keeping his hatchling in line as he would often throw a customary snarl in his direction.

But the war between the Greens and the Blacks still raged.

He didn’t want to leave Vaera and Rhaegar, but he had too.

They had laid a trap at Rooks Rest for the Blacks, and nine days later, Rhaenys Targaryen, and her dragon, Meleys arrived above Rook's Rest to aid Lord Staunton.

Vhagar and Sunfyre engaged Meleys in a combined and coordinated attack, which resulted in the death of Meleys and left Rhaenys and Aegon severely injured.

Rhaenys was sent back to Driftmark to recover from her injuries and Aegon was carried back to Kings Landing atop Vhagar.

The heads of Lord Staunton and Meleys were paraded through the streets of Kings Landing in a show of the Greens victory over the Blacks.

After Rooks Rest, Aegon was far too injured to carry on serving the realm as King, so he was chosen to wear the conquerors crown instead.

He fashioned himself as Prince Regent and the Lords bent their knee to him.

But ever since the crown had touched his head, his wife had grown more distant from him.

His duties as Prince Regent kept him very busy and quite often it was late into the night when he would finally return to his chambers, utterly exhausted and desperate to seek the comfort of his wife.

But she would pull away from him and quite often she would sneak out of bed and sleep in Rhaegar’s chambers.

There were days where she would even look at him, much less speak.

Even his son wouldn’t call for him anymore, it used to be his favourite thing to do. Snuggle under the covers at night-time and read Rhaegar his favourite story, but now he called for his mama instead.

He’d even stopped asking him to take him to see his dragon Valaerys, which was a bitter blow as it was something the two of them liked to do together as father and son.

Just when things couldn’t get any worse, Vaera confronted him in their shared chambers, and they had a huge argument.

She accused him of failing in his duties as a husband and father and threatened to take Rhaegar away from him and fly across the narrow sea.

He was livid. How fucking dare she speak to him like that. He had raged at her for what she’d said but then something crazy took hold of him and he kissed her.

They’d not been intimate in some time and just one touch of her lips upon his had reignited that fire in his blood.

He was an animal, untamed and unleashed. All the pent-up anger and frustration just poured out of him as he brutally fucked his wife. His hips relentlessly pounding against hers as he chased his release.

Gods she felt amazing, her warm, wet heat wrapped around him.

She took everything he gave her, screaming his name as she peaked, her cunny clenching his cock so tight as he spilled his seed into her, he was groaning so loud he was sure the entirety of the Red Keep had heard their coupling.

Afterwards when he saw her tears, he was horrified at what he’d done.

He'd never been so rough with her before and he was scared he'd hurt her.

But his sweet wife reassured him that she wasn’t crying because of what they’d just done, she was crying because of what she’d said, the threat she’d made, she didn’t mean it.

His heart broke because he knew deep down it was his own fault, he’d neglected both her and Rhaegar.

The responsibility of the crown had completely taken over his life.

It had to stop. He couldn’t be without his wife or their son.

He had vowed on their wedding day, to love her forever and by the gods he’d meant it.

“Lord Corlys is back on Driftmark caring for my grandmother. Meleys is dead. We should take the dragons and attack the Velaryon fleet. Destroy the blockade and free the Gullet”.

“It’s too dangerous” replied Otto.

“Dangerous for who exactly? If we destroy the blockade, sea born trade will resume. The people of Kings Landing are starving. We need to act now. Otherwise, you’ll have a riot on your hands” snapped Vaera.

“Your Grace if we-“

“-No. The time for sending letters is over. My love please see reason” urged Vaera.

Aemond knew Vaera was right, the people of Kings Landing were starting to get desperate, crime rates were up, and food was becoming scarcer. It was only a matter of time before everything came to a head.

But the idea of Vaera flying into battle on the back of Cannibal filled Aemond with a sense of dread that was incomprehensible. Aemon’s death was still so fresh, as was Vaera’s attempt to end her own life. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not ever.

“I-I will take Vhagar and attack the Velaryon fleet” said Aemond firmly.

“You are the Prince Regent. We cannot allow you to take that risk,” said Otto.

“I will not sit behind the walls of the Red Keep and cower like some frightened dog. Vhagar is more than capable”.

“It’s not about Vhagar, it’s about you. All it takes is one stray arrow and that’s it,” said Criston.

“So, I sit here and do nothing” snarled Aemond.

“I could take Cannibal, he’s-“ said Vaera.

“-NO. You will remain here in the Red Keep with our son” ordered Aemond.

“Cannibal is the second largest dragon in the world. Surely you knew it would come to this. We have dragons, we should use them” said Vaera.

“They have dragons as well or have you forgotten” snapped Aemond.

“Caraxes is at Harrenhal with Daemon, Meleys and Arrax are dead. Syrax, Vermax, Moon Dancer and Storm Cloud are the only dragons on Dragonstone that have riders and even they are no match for Vhagar or Cannibal. This is our best chance”.

“The Princess is right,” said Tyland.

“The answer is still no and that’s final” yelled Aemond slamming his fist into the table.

“Your Grace” replied Vaera, before she stormed out of the council chambers, and slammed the door.

After an hour or so, the council meeting ended and Aemond retreated to his chambers, he hesitated slightly before he took a deep breath and opened the heavy wooden door, fully prepared to deal with his wife’s anger upon his entrance.

Ever since their argument, they had decided to be more honest and open with one another and instead of letting things fester they would talk and make time for one another.

But to his great surprise, he was greeted with a warm smile as Vaera lounged on their bed reading a book.

“Your back early”.

“I decided to end the meeting early” replied Aemond as he took of the conqueror’s crown and placed it on Vaera’s vanity.

“Probably for the best, maybe a good night’s rest will clear the mind” suggested Vaera.

“I-I thought you would be angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry?” asked Vaera cocking her head to the side.

“B-Because I wouldn’t let you take Cannibal to destroy the Velaryon fleet” replied Aemond feeling slightly unnerved at his wife’s rather calm demeanour.

“Your decision came from a place of love. I might not have understood that at the time, but I do now” said Vaera sweetly.

“Hm”

“Come to bed husband” said Vaera as she closed her book and placed it on the bedside table.

Aemond watched as his wife, began untying the laces of her shift. Clearly trying to tempt him in the most delicious of ways.

After a stressful day of endless meetings, he needed his wife. He needed to feel her wet heat wrapped around him. He needed to fuck her into the mattress.

He needed her now.

Aemond tore off his clothes and jumped on top of his wife, his desire for her clouding his mind. All that mattered in that moment was the two of them, writhing together, their bodies joined as one.

Hours later, he was fast asleep. Satisfied beyond all comprehension.

He didn’t notice his wife slipping out their bed and pulling on her riding leathers.

Slumbering sweetly as she snuck from their chambers and headed towards her Cannibal, and under the cover of nightfall they took to the skies and headed for the Gullet.

[ydteus]

A little exploration of my Star Spawn hybrid, Seren! She’s a homebrew race called a Gatekeeper, little holes line her body, including a massive split bisecting her center. These gates are used to release star spawn from the outer planes to the material.

[chibireylo]

Another manip for Junkyard_Jedi's A Rare and Gentle Thing. Here we have the large, silver fox, Mr. Ben Solo.

"~~his silver and dark hair, waving a touch too long around his ears, and the odd planes of his face that fit together crookedly, bisected by the cruel scar. A scar older than she was, she realized with a wild thought."

[thebrandywine]

7, 10 and 17? :3

hi fon!!!!!!!

7. What is your favorite scene you’ve written so far?

okay i REALLY liked this whole section between chris and leon immediately after the events of re6. here's a little snippet

Chris finds him when Leon is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the breezeway that stretches between the emergency and non-emergency wings. He’s tucked as close to the floor-to-ceiling windows as he can get just so that he isn’t in anyone’s way, his back against one of the window frames and his good shoulder pressed to the glass as he stares out at the campus. It’s big, a lot bigger than he thought it’d be for some reason— ten floors up, the walkways are cluttered with ant-like people, an unending stream of troop movement and training and helicopters lifting off and landing on the roof. It’s hard for him to conceptualize working at a place like this; the DSO is the biggest agency he’s ever been part of, aside from his stint training with the spec ops side of the military, and even that’s pretty small. It would be weird to have so many people around, he thinks, but at least you’d always have backup. That’s probably pretty nice. “I’ve been looking for you,” Chris says. It’s sudden but Leon had heard him coming, attuned to this man’s stomping like little else. “Can you not be difficult for five fucking seconds?” “You were kind of on the warpath,” he says, eyes following a plane overhead. The intercom beeps and a low string of words spills out— something about something. “Just… needed a little space.” Chris sighs and comes to stand next to him, the man bracing his hands on the rail that bisects the windows. He leans into the grip with his elbows locked and his head sinking on his neck, haggard when Leon rolls his head over to look at him, to watch him also stare out at this place they’ve both found themselves in. He probably feels no more familiar with it than Leon does, not when he’s this far from home. “You doing okay?” Leon asks. “No,” Chris says. He doesn’t blink. Leon takes a deep breath and feels his stitches pull with the motion. “Yeah. Me neither.”

10. What is the last line of dialogue you’ve written?

the last bit of dialogue from THIS section is:

Chris squeezes his shoulder and clears his throat, says, “Lee, I’m really fucking glad you’re okay.” Leon can’t hug with the sling so he presses as close as he can when he says, “Chris, I really fucking missed you.”

17. Share the previous 5 sentences. 

Leon laughs, can’t help it, and tips forward to rest against Chris’s chest with his head on the man’s shoulder. Chris is unbothered by the extra weight as always, Leon breathing a little easier knowing that he has someone who will hold him up no matter what. Their hands are still in a comfortable grip between their stomachs, Chris’s other hand lifting to settle on Leon’s good shoulder as his head tilts to rest on Leon’s greasy hair. They stand there for a second, Leon taking the chance to just… acknowledge that they’re both still here. That’s worth a hell of a lot these days. “You reek.” “Yeah, I know.”

Chris squeezes his shoulder and clears his throat, says, “Lee, I’m really fucking glad you’re okay.” Leon can’t hug with the sling so he presses as close as he can when he says, “Chris, I really fucking missed you.”

[delinquentbookworm]

Prompt: post canon starbreaker on the run

Ohhhh this is good!!! There's already an incredible fic written on this premise, so I've tried to take it somewhere different, hopefully this is the sort of thing you had in mind.

Content warning for blood and violence in this one.

It turns out, Henry Hopclap is an extremely skilled artificer. At the beginning of the year, Jace had decided they needed a contingency plan. A last resort, for if all else failed. It hadn't taken much more than a Suggestion to convince Henry that it was a fantastic idea to build a working replica of Arthur's chronomantic watch. Supposedly, after it was finished, it was given to Grix for safe keeping. Supposedly. Oisin really is a marvel at Modifying Memories.

Jace watches the love of his life get cleaved in two by a sword big enough to defy reason, and for a moment all he can do is scream. He feels like his heart has just been pulled from its ribcage and crushed right before his eyes. His bard is gone, his cleric is gone. There's no one who can cast Resurrection. Maybe if they'd had a fucking paladin to protect them they'd still be here.

Jace wants to collapse where he stands, but he forces his shaking hand into his jacket pocket, and pulls out the watch. It's a fucking miracle the thing is still ticking after all the shit he's been through in this fight. A miracle is what he needs. The watch thrums with arcane power. Up until now, Jace has been too scared to use it. But those old fears don't matter anymore. If it kills him, it kills him. If it causes another fucking time quangle, so be it. Nothing matters except erasing what just happened.

Ideally, he would rewind a full minute, to before the battle started. He could tell Porter the name of the god before the fighting started, tell Oisin to cast invisibility on himself immediately, warn Kipperlily to stay out of harm's way, let everyone know that the Bad Kids are immune to lava. The little hand on the watch won't go back that far.

Jace blinks out of existence and reappears moments before the Abernant girl is about to send a Detect Thoughts Porter's way. The first time round, he hadn't been able to Counter, he'd been too far away. This time he can, smacking it out of the air with one of highest level spell slots he has left.

"Porter, we can't win this. It's time to leave." He doesn't bother to wait for Porter's reply, just grabs Porter's arm and forcibly Plane Shifts them away. The Feywilds are lovely this time of year.

Porter is furious. Of course he is.

"You idiot! I was so close! Do you have any idea what you've done?!" He roars, his voice bellowing through the strange purple forest they landed in.

He nearly kills Jace, nearly beats him to death for his insolence. Jace is shaking, inches away from death, bones broken, hair matted down with blood. Still, he can't bring himself to raise a hand against Porter. Not after what he's just seen. He's terrified that even so much as a Frostbite will remind Porter's body of the state it's supposed to be in, will have that wound re-opening, will have him suddenly bisected on the floor in front of Jace. He has no idea how chronomancy works, if he has erased that other future or if he has only delayed the inevitable.

"If you kill me you'll be stuck here. You can't Plane Shift. If you want me to get us back to the Material Plane, you need to stop." Jace gasps out, each breath a disgusting wet rattle as one of his lungs fills with blood, Porter having shattered several of his ribs.

That seems to do the trick. Porter stops hitting him. Finally, he calms down enough to listen.

Jace is crying by the time he's done speaking, as he finishes describing what he saw, the way Ankarna struck Porter down like it was nothing, like she was swatting a fly. As much as he tries, he can't do it justice, he's stumbling over his words. He wishes Porter had Detect Thoughts, wishes Porter could look at his memories and see exactly what he saw.

"You rewound time for me?" Porter's voice is softer than it's been all day as he pulls Jace to his chest, brushes his tears away and begins to heal him.

He doesn't apologize, he never apologizes, but he kisses Jace so softly as he heals him, calling him such sweet names, his beautiful saint Stardiamond.

That confirms it. They're trying again. They're not taking no for an answer. Aguefort is out, they can't use Elmville anymore, but they're going to keep trying. Either Porter becomes a god or Porter dies trying. There is no third option.

[sqrkyclean]

exceptionally epic idea: neopets paintbrush that turns u into a beanie baby or webkinz

Do you think a webkinz is aware that it’s soul has been bisected between the physical and digital planes

[monstersdownthepath]

Been on a binge of rereading one of my favorite shonen manga series, and got inspired to ask this because it's actually related to a thing I'm writing: How would you say characters from that kind of battle media would compare *physically* in Pathfinder? I specify *physically* because magic makes things go weird, even if we put the reality-altering power of Wish off the table. Greater Teleport, Plane Shift, Dominate Person... most of that power isn't in direct confrontation, but rather ending the fight the moment, or before it even begins. On the other hand, d20 systems struggle from giving martials supremely world-altering power through raw might. A +47 to hit on eleven attacks every six seconds is nuts to be sure and can absolutely end a fight the moment the enemy gets in range, but it doesn't have the flair of 'I'm going to punch you so hard into the ground the entire city is going to be folded around you like a sandwich'. Or 'I am going to swing my sword, and proceed to cut this glacier in half from a quarter of a kilometre away'. Even at 30, 40 Str you just can't pull off those sorts of stunts. A Level 20 Barbarian is strong, to be sure, and with Mythic can do whack things like throw people into orbit (Limitless Range + Body Bludgeon my beloved), but overall there's not much 'spectacle' baked into combat in Pathfinder. You're usually limited to theatre of the mind or 3rd-party like Path of War. Which is, admittedly, excellent. but that's neither here nor there.

Bonus points if you know which series I'm talking about.

Pathfinder is, unfortunately, quite limited in what insane nonsense martial characters can do. Sure, when you're standing right next to someone, absolutely blending them with TWF is impressive... on paper. In practice, it relies a lot on the DM going full theater of the mind to make it match the spectacle of what Wizards can do.

I suppose that's the horrible price Pathfinder pays for being a relatively grounded and gritty fantasy setting instead of the off-the-wall shounen. A 20th level or, hell, even a 12th Fighter in Pathfinder is downright superhuman, but they're superhuman in a "medieval live-action fantasy" way, not a "logic-defying cartoon physics" way. I'm certain if a DM was willing to work with the player, they could pull off the same wacky/awe-inspiring stunts! But sadly, base Pathfinder has no feats that allow you to slash your sword so hard you can bisect an entire 300-foot long dreadnought. Yet.