#saint marks square

[wgm-beautiful-world]

V E N E Z I A

[pamietniko]

Ciao Italia

Venice, Italy

[illustratus]

Piazetta San Marco in Moonlight by Friedrich Paul Nerly

[emaadsidiki]

Venice, the feast of life.

– William WordsWorth

[lexalovesbooks]

Still laugh about when my dad brother and I went to Italy together and on the first day, after a flight that arrived at nine am italy-time and 2 am our time, my dad was watching the two of us stumble around Venice half conscious and incapable of mustering even an ounce of enthusiasm for anything because neither of us managed even a minute of sleep on the flights over, and what he took from this was ‘oh my god, my kids don’t even like Italy.’

[poem-today]

A poem by Alice Notley

Poem

St. Mark's Place caught at night in hot summer, Lonely from the beginning of time until now. Tompkins Square Park would be midnight green but only hot. I look through the screens from my 3rd floor apartment As if I could see something. Or as if the bricks and concrete were enough themselves To be seen and found beautiful. And who will know the desolation of St. Mark's Place With Alice Notley's name forgotten and This night never having been?

Alice Notley

Image: Tompkins Square Park

[tottentz]

IN PRIVATE ── honkai star rail, nsfw, mdni ౨ৎ⠀⠀or little nasty things they do during sex ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ gender neutral reader⠀/⠀ft. aventurine, dr. ratio, gepard, blade, sunday, dan heng, jing yuan, argenti. ♡ˎˊ˗

 — AVENTURINE ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho guides your movements. aventurine becomes a gentle orchestrator, leading you through the delicate dance of intimacy. aventurine's presence becomes a steady anchor, guiding with a gentle yet confident touch a soft guidance that navigates the contours of desire with a tender assurance: his hands are soft, gentle, at your skin, at your hips, but his mouth is always brutal, suckling and nipping at any accessible skin. aventurine always busy himself by cleaving at every inch of your skin as if integrating every square inch of your withering figure into memory. each caress is a testament to his innate understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the deeper yearnings that he does not allow himself to express in words. and you just know he mean it when he holds your face with both hands, soft eyes smiling along with him when he succeeded; obtained your focus

— DR. RATIO ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho has gentle but firm control. dr. ratio's touch is a blend of gentle guidance and confident assertion, navigating the dance of desire with a poised assurance. his touch, though restrained, carries a profound sense of understanding and expertise, navigating with precision and care even if he purposefully teased you to receive an earful of whiny whimpers that suggested he promptly exhort additional efforts or his cute, little lover would be compelled to execute empty threats. veritas presence exudes a calm authority, tempered by a keen intellect and a meticulous attention to detail. he struggles when conveying his harbored ardor, submitting to the intensity of heat that blossomed from the kindled fire of his heart, and so he claws the blunt tips of his fingers into your dough-like middle, eyelids fluttered to a gentle close as if he’d never receive another opportunity to hold you in his arms

— DAN HENG ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho likes to mark your body. he doesn't even realize he has this thing until he finds himself immersed in fantasies where your body is adorned with the evidence of his fervent affection—subtle bites and tender marks, and then it became a tendency to leave something of him in you: whether a gentle bite or a lingering touch, it's his desire for connection and a need to leave a lasting impression. dan heng blames his counterpart for such a primal urge to claim and be claimed in return, but he had become so fascinated, bewitchingly enamored, by illustrated wonders of your body, yet he so quickly abandoned his previous enchantment to consume himself with your intoxicating touch. dan heng's gestures reveal a raw honesty, he fervently irons an abundance of disorderly suckles to your neck, bruising the heated skin with contortions molded as the shape of his lips. 

— ARGENTI ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho pace is slow and deliberate. argenti's touch is deliberate and measured, his movements are methodical and precise, revealing a patient nature. in the quiet moments shared, you feel his presence as a steady anchor, guiding the rhythm of shared desire with a tranquil assurance. argenti's deliberate approach reflects a respect for the moment and a commitment to mutual pleasure, because he can’t find the resolve to peel his eyes away because you are a descendant from the heavens; a gift of abundant blessings to an unforgiving mortal who had deemed himself unworthy of your grace, but he were no saint. his calm and composed presence creates a sanctuary where time seems to slow, as he leisurely swallows your exhales of bliss as if previously deprived from the touch of intimacy. argenti always strives to leave your knees weak and buckled.

— BLADE ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho makes intense eye contact. blade harbors an ability to easily strip away what provisional confidence you previously claimed to possess. his gaze is impish; dark, divulging an impending uprising of unruly mischief. his crystalline optics glimmer beneath a murky coating, heavy lids droopy and irises fixated onto your figure as if he were presently eating you whole. blade just love the way he hums softly, cupping your cheek, thumbing away the tears you didn't notice spring into your eyes when he rendered your brain to mush and melted his forefront conscious into a haze of red lining. splotches of white dotted his vision, the colorless patches occasionally fading to reveal roads of gravel that endlessly stretched for miles. blade refuses to blink away the lovely sight of your countenance and meticulously etches the mesmerizing taste of your lips into lasting memory.

— JING YUAN ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho needs to breed you. his focus is singular, his touch deliberate yet gentle, as if every gesture carries the weight of unspoken promises. you always end up burning up, flesh flushed and eyes distant as if you were captivated by reminisce. he always apologizes with a "just one more, please?" and you just know he is not sorry at all, not with his breathy groans and hearty moans, eagerly asking if you'd let her try again. she convinces you that the last attempts were flukes; a warm up for the final challenge he kisses you so so sweet, makes you forgot about the ache in your thighs. he never fails to leave your puckered lips swollen and quivering by the conclusion of his endeavor, leaning away to observe your dazed state with a satisfactory hum of approval, drawing near as to rekindle the bruising force of his lips upon your own.

— SUNDAY ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho loves to see you cry. i'ts nothing, really. he just loves when you are brainless, thoughts melted into pretty pink goo oozing out of your ears onto the sheets, not a single brain cell active enough to answer him; because you are always good for him, always so sweet and kind and willing to give him whatever he wanted. his heart always softens at your tears. how could he say no to you? how could he deny those pretty eyes, so full of adoration and desperation then? so sweet. so lovely. he presses his forehead to you, and promise him the world. he makes you cum all over you again, only so he can see your teary face. and you always do, whining pitifully as you milk his cock for what it’s worth. he’s exhausted and broken and covered in cum and spit and lube, eyes filled with adoration as he looks at you. sunday, who gives you the loveliest pain.

— GEPARD ꩜.ᐟ ˗ˏˋwho overstim you. he hushes you, pace not even slowing down as he chases his own high. but even when you’re gasping for air, for consciousness, fucked into another realm now, he’s still relentless, fucking deep and hard. he fucks you through his own orgasm, not even caring about how sensitive his cock’s gone. he doesn’t care, just wants to take you over and over and over. but you don’t tell him to stop, never tell him to stop. how could you, when you’re the only thing he can take so freel? you’d rather die than take it away from him, so you let him overstimulate you and himself as he murmurs, “one more, please" and then he's holding you so close to him. he’s burning hot, skin flushed and calloused but you find no greater heaven than in his arms, in his embrace, against him flaming skin to flaming skin.

. ࣪✦ ៸៸ tottentz ▐ © 2024 ､ ? 𓄹 ܵ ۪

[thecoiledserpent]

↻ ROMANTIC PARTNERS' APPEARANCE FROM YOUR CHART

basics of vedic astrology. ask box. masterlist.

while there exist many peculiarities and details that may be considered for analysing one's partner, i will be sticking to a certain method here to avoid overcomplicating things. note that i consider more factors when we talk about spouse explicitly, but consider this to be representative of both spouse and other partners.

for those seeking a female partner- check your venus

for those seeking a male partner- check your mars

i use this as a general rule but i haven't had the chance to check this for lesbians / gay / trans people etc so i would recommend following the same rule, unless you have a solid reason not to.

note that for skin colours, undertones and shades, general heights etc, always consider what is considered the norm in your family or bloodline. like for most english people, white skin tone is the norm so when we say 'light skinned', we mean a milky, snow like complexion. when we say 'dark skinned', we mean a tanned complexion. don't go by country, go by what is the norm in your own family or a certain race / nationality that your partner could be most likely from.

MARS / VENUS THROUGH THE SIGNS

MARS / VENUS IN ARIES — the partner's skin is light, and sensitive to strong sunlight. their skin would easily develop a reddish tint in sunlight, and they would have a strong skull with scars present on their upper body. they would be average in height, and walk in long strides. they could have small ears, or small hands. they would be sensitive to the partner's emotional needs and try to cater to it, but are naturally inclined to stubbornness and anger.

MARS / VENUS IN TAURUS — the partner's skin is an earthly, warm shade of brown. it seems to resemble earthly tones and has a fresh touch to it. their face is square in shape, and symmetric; their face is aesthetically pleasing in terms of symmetry and overall body composition. everything appears to be in proportion, and their height may be from short to medium. they could have a love for food and be attracted to luxurious resting places. they would be stubborn, and it would be difficult to convince them. they don't change themselves for others.

MARS / VENUS IN GEMINI — the partner's skin appears to be sun-kissed, as though they are standing in the sun at all times. due to this they may appear to 'wilt' in extremely modernised or rigid surroundings; it doesn't sit with their composition. tanned, naturally warm skin with a tendency towards walking or talking quick. they would be medium to averagely tall in height. they could have a protruding face. they would be extremely unstable in terms of decision making and go from being the wisest saint to the most stubborn person you have ever seen. they are also professional yappers.

MARS / VENUS IN CANCER — the partner's skin would be fair, and their face structure would resemble the moon. either in shape or in marks; beautifully marked. they could have acne, or freckles. they would be short in height and have a disposition towards shyness. they could either be mentally weak or extremely strong, no middle point. they could even be manipulative at times. they would dislike rigidity is structure and would be adjusting in nature themselves to ensure others feel at home. marital bliss can be restricted for female partner seeking natives.

MARS / VENUS IN LEO — their skin could have a glowing look. note the minor difference between gemini and leo, gemini appears to be shining under the sun so artificial environments filled with white lights takes away their shine. leo, on the other hand, is the shine itself so it shines even under scrutiny and artificiality. nothing stops them, and nothing tops them. stubborn people and unwilling to change their ways, even at others' expense. they are medium in height and enjoy bed pleasures. they adore being adored, and are in love with loving.

MARS / VENUS IN VIRGO —— they have warm and naturally soft skin, slightly tanned and on the brownish side. they are usually on the taller side and the female partner is usually rather finicky. they could be extremely detail oriented and unwilling to change their decisions. however they are emotionally perceptive, so if you give them enough reasons, they might adjust with you. they are rather complex with emotions too, and can have a tendency to unintentionally hurt others with their critical nature which stems from their self hurt and extends outwardly.

MARS / VENUS IN LIBRA — the partner's skin tone is dark, but it has a burnt shade to it. like imagine those warm brown shades that make you feel all fuzzy inside. they are quite tall in height and have a certain striking beauty mark or distinct feature about them. perhaps a beauty mark placed perfectly, or symmetric lips, a well tipped and high rise nose, beautiful hands etc. it usually does not influence the hair, eyes, ears and bust. most men having this placement have wives with an hourglass proportion or wider hips. they would have an agreeable personality and be of sacrificing nature for the general good.

MARS / VENUS IN SCORPIO — the partner's skin tone is light, but with a muddy undertone to it. they have an average height and strong shoulders. some sort of scar or mark on the body is present, which may include stretch marks or growth marks as well. they could be unwilling to give up and be extremely stubborn. but don't push them too much, or else they might end up emotionally isolating themselves. they would be lean, and problematic around elders at times.

MARS / VENUS IN SAGITTARIUS — the partner's skin tone is light too, but with deep brown undertones. they could have oily skin, and facial hair in case of a male partner. they are tall in height, and are of dual nature. they keep diverting their opinion about whether or not they wish to change; switching as they will between liberal in the relationship and bring preachy about how the partner should be. they would, regardless, have a certain glow that self assurance and knowledge brings in a person. this is a good placement to have.

MARS / VENUS IN CAPRICORN— the partner's skin tone is muddy brown, and may appear to be blemished in a quiet way. like er, think about skin that has those small dot things which aren't really acne, but not really negligible either. they are on the taller side, and may have hooded eyes with bags under them, the skin there might be bluish or veins might show, but they are quite good looking regardless. seriously overworked, or may have sleeping issues. they are adjusting and caring by nature, but they could be lazy and sullen.

MARS / VENUS IN AQUARIUS — the partner has muddy brownish red skin which accumulates dust quickly. they are quite tall, and of an eccentric style. this is not limited to funky colours; anything that goes against norm and gives them the excitement to be rebellious. like kawaii, punk or goth styles, glitter makeups, or just anything that isn't common in their culture. like in conserved societies like india, even wearing revealing dresses is rebellious. but in more open societies, well it takes more than a revealing dress for a scandal. so apply that as you will. again, the partner will be rigid in their ways and may not see the problem with their approach to life.

MARS / VENUS IN PISCES — the partner's skin tone is fair in the upper portion of the body and grows darker as you move downwards. they have well formed feet, and with strong legs. they appear short when they put on weight and tall when they lose it. their face is narrow at the start and beautifully formed. they are of dual nature and indecisive, often not able to decide how they are supposed to approach matters that inconvenience them but are uncomfortable to speak of.

MARS / VENUS RECEIVING ASPECTS FROM PLANETS

SUN— they could have gallbladder disease. the influence of sun makes them such that they draw others' attention, but it is dependent on their own nature whether or not they are able to retain it. they could have beautiful round eyes that easily entrance others.

MOON— they would be fond of travelling. they could be night owls, due to which they may have eyebags. they could have clear skin, or a pleasant face.

MARS (for venus only) — they could have strong, well built arms and shoulders. they could be built like a bull, or be physically active. this aspect can also lead to fights.

MERCURY— they could have foxy features like a tipped nose, small ears, quickly moving eyes etc.

VENUS— they could have symmetric facial features and have a conventionally attractive physique. people would be easily attracted to them.

JUPITER— they could have a fleshy waist or even a potbelly, not that it's a bad thing. they could have thin hair, or poor hair quality. they could neglect their physical appearance at times.

SATURN— they could have a bluish tinge under the eyes and appear exhausted most of the times. they could be extremely beautiful too, or just be sullen and lazy. that is, if saturn lets you marry at all.

KETU— they could have some sort of beauty cut. like around the eyebrows, or lips etc. it could be natural, or even done by themselves for aesthetic value.

RAHU— they could have moles or beauty marks. they could have seductive or sultry eyes and be of calm disposition, which is mostly a façade.

ॐ नमो भगवते वासुदेवाय नमः

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Dance

for your next poem/story

Allemande - a 17th and 18th century court dance developed in France from a German folk dance; a dance step with arms interlaced

Beguine - a vigorous popular dance of the islands of Saint Lucia and Martinique that somewhat resembles the rumba

Bourrée - a 17th century French dance usually in quick duple time

Cabriole - a ballet leap in which one leg is extended in midair and the other struck against it

Chaconne - an old Spanish dance tune of Latin American origin

Czardas - a Hungarian dance to music in duple time in which the dancers start slowly and finish with a rapid whirl

Estampie - a usually textless, monophonic musical work of the late Middle Ages consisting of several repeated units that probably accompanied a dance

Farandole - a lively Provençal dance in which men and women hold hands, form a chain, and follow a leader through a serpentine course

Gavotte - a dance of French peasant origin marked by the raising rather than sliding of the feet

Hora - a circle dance

Juba - a dance that was accompanied by complex rhythmic hand clapping and slapping of the knees and thighs and that was performed on plantations in the southern U.S. by enslaved Black people

Kolo - a central European folk dance in which dancers form a circle and progress slowly to right or left while one or more dancers perform elaborate steps in the center

Lavolta - an early French couple dance characterized by pivoting and making high springs or bounds

Matachin - a dance performed by a matachin (i.e., a sword dancer in a fantastic costume)

Maxixe - a ballroom dance of Brazilian origin that resembles the two-step

Mazurka - a Polish folk dance in moderate triple measure

Passacaglia - an old dance performed to a passacaglia (i.e., an old Italian or Spanish dance tune consisting of variations usually on a ground bass in moderately slow triple time)

Pavane - a stately court dance by couples that was introduced from southern Europe into England in the 16th century

Quadrille - a square dance for four couples made up of five or six figures chiefly in ⁶/₈ and ²/₄ time

Rigadoon - a lively dance of the 17th and 18th centuries

Saltarello - an Italian dance with a lively hop step beginning each measure

Strathspey - a Scottish dance that is similar to but slower than the reel

Tarantella - a lively folk dance of southern Italy in ⁶/₈ time

Varsovienne - a graceful dance similar to a mazurka and popular in many European countries, Mexico, and the U.S.

Zamacueca - a South American especially Chilean courtship dance

More: Word Lists

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

[aerostaticsurrender]

Jean’s Square Halo

The most popular (for good reason) read of Kim’s portraits center around the very obvious white halo behind him. (The “halo” of light is even referred to as such in the sunrise parabellum scene.)

HOWEVER. Jean’s portait includes a halo as well. Square halo’s are a thing and have a very specific meaning. I did a bit of research into the associations of the square halo. It turns out that the square halo was used in paintings to mark certain living holy men contemporary to the time of the paintings creation. Often these men were donors, patrons, or commissioners of the artworks that depicted them. It was certainly a symbol of respect. So, if the square halo marks a holy man and is a sign of respect, what differentiates it from the circular hallo?

In Christian art, the circle (and therefore the hallo) represents eternity, wholeness, and divinity. This state of eternal wholeness however can only be reached after death—this is why the canonization of a saint can only occur after death. (I could—and probably eventually will—go on about what this means for Harry’s view of Kim, but now is not the time for that.) what matters is the circular halo represents the second, everlasting, new life.

Now, the square. The square (with its four corners) traditionally represents the earth (and its cardinal directions). Squares are also connected to ideas of stability. More than that, the square in Christian art represents the living, here-and-now earth.

It represents the ‘first’ life; this world.

TRUE LOVE IS POSSIBLE
ONLY IN THE NEXT WORLD—FOR NEW PEOPLE

IT IS TOO LATE FOR US

[wgm-beautiful-world]

Albero di Natale - Piazza San Marco a Venezia, Veneto, ITALIA

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Knightmare In Toronto

Chapter 2: Portal Paradox

Main Masterlist | Fic Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

There was a distinct pain in your head when you rose from your slumber, laid on the couch like a drunkard. A blanket had been draped over your prone form, though you chalked it up to an unusually proactive action you'd taken before your nap. Your perfectly normal, fever-dream nap starring medieval men without food allergies who broke into houses.

That is, until you saw one of those men–a new one with dirty blonde hair, a dark green tunic with tan pants, and... were those face tattoos–sitting in your armchair and your fears were realized: today (at least, you think it's still today) was real and there were more strangers in your house.

Ignoring the pang of discomfort in your neck, you shot up, ready to square up to this new threat. "Who are you?"

"Oh! You're awake," the man smiled, which was incredibly weird for a home intruder. "I'm Twilight."

Twilight… why was that familiar? It almost sounded like a gang name, but you highly doubted the aforementioned situation was even remotely affiliated with gangs—though the odds that he had been watching you sleep were a bit close for comfort.

At your lack of response, Twilight's expression shifted to one of concern. "You alright–?"

"I don't want drugs!" You blurted.

"I repeat, we don't have drugs," Four's head popped in from the kitchen, expression a perfect deadpan.

"Only people on drugs talk about portals!" You shot back as black spots danced in the corners of your vision. "Ain't no portals in Toronto!"

"Toronto?" Twilight looked puzzled in the shrill wake of your outburst. What was this guy, a saint?

"Canada," you finished. He stared at you with a baffled expression and you deadpanned. "How do you not know where that is?"

"Because we are not from your world," another, deeper verse answered. You watched in disbelief as yet another man stepped out of your minuscule kitchen. He was tall, wearing a long silver tunic and black pants. Two crimson stripes lay perpendicular beneath his right eye, and there was another blue marking on his forehead.

You opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

"Drugs."

"That's not–" Four sighed, running a hand down his face like a tired dad. "You need sleep."

"You need Jesus."

"Excuse me?" Asked the tallest man, and you wisely shut up.

Twilight, who had been silently observing the exchange, piped up. "About that, sorry for falling on you."

You blinked. So that's why your head hurt like you chugged some bourbon and fought a moose for territory. "Oh, naw, it's fine, you should see what I deal with at work."

"When you say it like that, I don't think I want to."

Your laugh surprised even you, bubbling up your throat like soda. "Smart."

The newcomer cleared his throat, bringing silence back to the room. "Miss..." he looked to Four, who mouthed something suspiciously close to your name. "(Y/n), I know this may seem impossible to you, but this situation is very much real. I can assure you that no one here is under the influence of… substances."

Damnit, you were hoping you could make that joke a few more times. "Okay, well, he," you pointed at Four. "materialized in my living room and that man," you pointed even more aggressively at Twilight, who had the decency to look sheepish. "apparently fell on me. Speaking of, how are you here?"

"The door was unlocked," the tall man said, and you nearly fell over. "About your garden..."

Your expression turned to one of terror. "Not my petunias..."

"I'm afraid you'll have to direct me in finding replacements as none of us are familiar with this world."

Wait.

"Us...?" You parroted, trying and failing to hide your apprehension.

"About that–" Four began, only to be interrupted when yet another crash rang out in your kitchen, followed by a series of loud whoops, and your greatest fear was once again realized: there were more of them.

"Just how many more of there are you?" You asked in horror.

"Currently five, as we are waiting on Legend, Warriors, Sky, and Hyrule."

Oh god, was your first thought, followed by: who the hell names their children that?

"We got Wild!" Wind introduced. "Five down, four to go!"

You could handle this. You would handle this. Like an adult.

"So... you're not from this world?" You asked the tallest of the three, which seemed to be the leader of the current group.

He nodded sagely "Yes, we are from a land called Hyrule."

...Hyrule? Why was that familiar? It certainly wasn’t a place you knew of, but you didn’t think they were lying.

"You seem conflicted," Four observed dryly.

"Quiet, I'm having my midlife crisis," you said, despite the fact that you were nowhere near your fifties. "You try having medieval men poof into your living room like it's a regular Tuesday."

"Gee, that's oddly specific."

Your eye twitched.

"Four," said the tallest man, effectively regaining control of the situation. "Our apologies for causing you strife, but this situation is quite unique."

"No kidding," you muttered, but being upset wasn't going to solve anything. "Okay, what's your plan then?"

The tallest seemed to hesitate, so Twilight took over. "We were hopin' we could wait here until everyone passes through. For safety."

You couldn’t argue with that; they were a long way from home if your suspicions were correct. "Alright, I can do that."

"Much appreciated," he looked like he wanted to say more, but purposefully chose not to.

You would have said more, but Wind chose that exact moment to appear with yet another man in tow. He was lanky and tall, with yellow hair that reached his midback. His tunic was also blue, though considerably shorter than Wind's, and he had various belts criss-crossing his chest. His most defining feature, however, was the large pink scar marring his left cheek and ear. You tried not to look too hard.

"This is Wild," Wind introduced. "Wild, this is (Y/N)."

'Wild' nodded politely. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," you responded, feeling a bit sheepish. You glanced at the clock and realized it was now past five. "Geez, I really slept in, huh?"

"It was for the best," Twilight offered a wry smile. "Better get so"

You waved him off. "You're fine, I'm alive."

"That is good."

"Wait, what's happening?" Wild cut in with a confused expression. "Where is everyone?"

"They haven't appeared yet," Four responded, though his voice was slightly uncertain. He gestured to you. "They've agreed to let us stay until everyone comes through."

"That's so kind," Wind exclaimed. "I knew you were nice."

You couldn't hold back a soft scoff. "I wouldn't be so trusting, l could be an axe murderer."

"Are you an axe murderer?" asked Four.

"Naw, I prefer maces."

"Well, I'M a pirate," interjected Wind, laying a hand on his chest.

"Oo, shiver me timbers," you said on instinct. Wind laughed raucously, and you caught a few others chuckling along. Maybe this wasn't as bad as your reptile brain had made it out to be...

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you pulled it out for inspection, missing the curious glances from the other occupants of the room. In the time it had taken to come to terms with this insanity, you'd managed to miss six messages from your bestie, Brianna, who had invited you to an after-work party a few weeks from now. After typing a quick response, you shoved your phone away and stood up. "So, who's hungry?"

This chapter fought me tooth and nail, so I’m glad it’s finally out there for you all! Enjoy and don’t forget to tell me what you think in the comments!

[severedfromthesource]

Bite Back

Pt 1/3

Original concept from @delicious-beats. Contains F resus, M rescuer, LUCAS thumper, automated CPR, mouth to intubation tube, depictions of gore, trying to resuscitate a zombie

Blackened veins ran in a spiderweb from the holes in Luffy’s shoulder. She shouldn’t have even been out, Elijah had told her again and again, the fucking news had told her, the trucks with megaphones and military personnel blaring up and down her street for the past ten hours had told her. But she needed to know he was okay. She was always trying to look out for him. He’d never hated her selflessness more than right now. 

Her skin was bloodless, her usual dark brown hue sapped until she was completely ashen, the circular row of splotchy red teeth marks and black fissures of veins the only real color left to her body. Her heart was beating arrhythmic on the monitors as the ambulance tried to find a path forward through the streets choked with people fleeing. Her head rolled back on her neck and she looked up with bleary eyes towards him. 

“Eli,” she choked out, her throat tight to the point of almost closing up. 

They’d dealt with bite victims all day. They’d lost all of them, and then had to cut it and run when the old woman or the jogger or, worst, the fucking ten year old who had been playing soccer, reared back up and tried to take a bite out of them. Elijah cradled her head, his mind racing. The symptoms presented differently with everyone they’d encountered. One spewed blood, one just bottomed out and died, but so far complete cardiac arrest had occurred within the first twenty minutes of contact. His eyes darted to his watch. It had been fifteen since she’d screamed over the phone and he had raced to come find her.

He pressed a square of gauze against the wound, his breath shaking. “Okay,” he said, “Okay, Lu? I need you to look at me, focus on me, hey-“ He held her face with one hand and snapped his fingers near her ear with the other. It lolled like a doll with loose joints. “We’ve got a couple minutes before… b-before the first real symptoms kick in, the really bad ones. But I’m gonna get you to the hospital, alright?” He added in an aside to his partner in the front, “How long you think until we get there?” 

“Fuck man,” Jonas spat, “Every street is clogged, the military is setting up choke points on every major road. They’re not gonna let us even through if she’s infected.” 

“I didn’t fucking ask about the stupid fucking military, I asked how long until we get there,” Elijah replied in a tone that warned the other man he would not be accepting any other outcome but Luffy making it to the front doors of Saint Edward’s.

“Twenty minutes, if I can find a decent backstreet. Probably forty if I can’t.”

He nearly sobbed. The air left his body in a rush with a stricken noise he couldn’t hold back. Luffy’s hand reached out and grabbed at his shirt. 

“Eli,” she sputtered again, but there were tears in her voice this time. “I don’t … I d-don’t wanna die…”

Twenty minutes. Probably over that, but he couldn’t think about that. His eyes snapped to his watch again. Three minutes left. He could keep her heart going. If she wasn’t really dead then she couldn’t be undead. He would keep her alive, and they would cure her, and she would live. There was no other option. Not for him.

Spittle dried white at the corner of her lips as he stared down into her face, those lips he had kissed until they were swollen now trembling and pale. He smoothed hair back from her forehead and leaned in close. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he promised in a low voice, cupping her head with both hands. “You’re gonna be alright. You trust me?” She nodded, even as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and slid into the pillow beneath her. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. We take care of each other, right? It’s what we do.” 

Two minutes. Elijah kissed her sweaty forehead and drew back, collecting everything he’d need for an arrest as the ambulance swayed and bounced over uneven terrain. He snatched out epinephrine, pulled out the AED, strapped her to the gurney, all with an efficiency he didn’t even know he was capable of. Already her heart was beginning to skip, throwing out PVCs on the monitor as her jagged heart rate either spiked above the line or dipped far below it. He eyed the restraints they had on hand, the brace boards for trauma victims and cuffs meant for psych patients. As he drew the LUCAS out, he tested the straps on the sides of the large, crescent moon shaped piece of equipment. There was no telling if they’d hold if she tried to take a swipe at him, but maybe. 

Twenty seconds. Elijah gripped the neckline of Luffy’s shirt and tore it down the middle, sweat beginning to drip down the back of his neck and back. She was hardly moving, her bare chest glistening with sweat. Her nipples had lost their color too, and her breasts swayed jerkily with every short, halting breath she managed in. Her eyes were drooping closed. Her jaw twitched open a little and slackened back as she took one more shallow sip of air. Then it left her lungs in a quiet sigh as her chest deflated for the final time. There was one more quick flutter on the monitors, her heart clawing for the last few quivering beats it could manage. Then it stopped. 

Elijah clamped down on the welling nausea to tap the timer on his digital watch. Jonas cursed up front as the EKG hummed a flatline. Wasting no time, he slid the curved backboard under her limp body, lifting the LUCAS and clicking it into place above her. The thing settled between her breasts, the flexible rubber plunger flush against her sternum. One of her arms hung limp off the side of the gurney and he took it by the wrist, fixing it in the straps on one side of the machine, then the other. Her fingers curled against the motor case. Elijah jabbed at the controls and turned it on. 

The machine jabbed the plunger down into her chest with all the force of a trained EMT. It cratered into her heart, the force displacing through the rest of her body so her belly rolled out, her shoulders rippling with the force of a robot that didn’t care if it felt her ribs pulp under its hands. It had never held her. It had never known the warmth of her. The thing pistoned and made a noise far too loud for the cramped space. Zip, zip, zip, zip, zip.

Luffy’s eyes were half mast and empty, lips parted. Elijah checked the timer. A little over a minute had passed since the start of the arrest. Maybe there was still time for intubation. He snatched the laryngoscope and tilted her head back by the jaw, sliding the metal blade past her bloodless lips and over her tongue. The curved blade made an easy track down her throat, bulging it slightly as he maneuvered an intubation tube down the tunnel of her trachea. He slid it home with one hand, the other resting at the pulse point in her neck to feel the blood being forced to circulate. He knew he couldn’t look at her face. He had to focus on her tongue, her mouth, her teeth, the hard bone of her jaw under his fingers. If he looked at her face, he would lose any shred of sanity he had left. But his eyes slid anyway. They moved down to her eyes- only they weren’t half lidded anymore. 

They bore into him, the pupils grey discs in the center of her dark eyes. The whites of her eyes were shot through with red veins. Her jaw clicked as it moved around the intubation tube, her lips peeling back, exposing her teeth.

“Fuck!” Elijah exclaimed and jerked back, his back hitting the wall of the ambulance. 

“What, what?” Jonas shouted from the front seat.

Luffy’s body moved, her arms tugging at the restraints, her legs shifting underneath her. They curled up and kicked out, but the belts around her waist held her down. Her back arched against the LUCAS even as it slammed down against her sternum. Elijah heard something shift sickeningly under the skin. A guttural growl rose up from the tube and she thrashed, shaking her head, rolling back as her teeth gnashed against the tube poking from her mouth. She gargled and sputtered and he realized with a jolt that she was tearing up her throat with her bucking and shaking. 

“Luffy,” he breathed. “Lu… Lu, stop, stop it-“ He lurched forward, grabbing her jaw, but she snapped her head to the side and clicked her teeth within a hairs breadth of his hand. "Fuck, fuck!"

"Eli! What the hell-"

"Focus on the road!" As he snapped this at Jonas, Luffy burbled a mouthful of blood from around the tube in her throat. He managed to throw his arms in front of his face just in time before it might have splattered in his eyes or mouth. The last thing poor Jonas needed was another flesh crazed cannibal in his ambulance. Elijah had already decided he was saving the woman he loved, and he was going to keep that promise; he just needed to stay warm and breathing to do it.

He lunged for her again, clapping his hands on both sides of her head, just out of reach over her bared teeth. "This is definitely not how you're supposed to intubate someone," he panted, already out of breath, "But I know very well you're not breathing for yourself right now." As if in agreement, Luffy gurgled with a throat full of blood, already darkened by the virus until it was almost black. He wrapped his lips around the opening of the tube and forced a breath into it. Might as well, things definitely couldn't get any worse. His eyes flicked to her chest as the LUCAS did its thing, bowing her ribs in against her spine with ruthless efficacy, and blew another breath into her oxygen starved lungs, even as she fought against it. Six minutes in arrest.

Her arms strained against the bindings and he heard the velcro straps start to go, but she was just mindless and angry enough she didn't seem to understand what was keeping her stuck. She twisted her wrists and struggled until the skin was bruised and raw, but the straps held. They'd hold until they couldn't anymore. He considered a neck brace to try and hold her still enough to attach an ambu bag and actually intube her properly, but if he lessened his hold on her for even a moment, she'd snap and flounder, teeth chomping as they lunged for his flesh. The LUCAS had to be good enough. It was all he had. He stood there, bowed over her, filling her lungs. Each breath forced her chest to rise before it was again crushed under the LUCAS as it beat her heart over and over again. Every time he gave her oxygen, she made a wretched wheezing noise and used the breath as fuel to snarl wordlessly at him. Her legs kicked out, banging against the walls of the truck, scattering supplies tucked into corners. Her body tried to roll up and fight the machine as it relentlessly battered her dead heart.

"Please, stay still, Lu." He stroked his thumb against her cheek, trying to suppress the sobs he felt building behind his eyes. Every time the LUCAS pounded against her sternum, it forced what little air was left in her lungs out, often in a grunt or a a hollow rasp in the back of her poor, abused throat. “I got you, baby. I’m not giving up, not until I get you back.”

She snarled again, but the thumper kept cutting into her displeased noises. “Haaar-huk, graa-ack, huk-“

Ten minutes in arrest. Elijah looped his arm under her chin, pinning her in his bicep to keep her head still, and punched the pause button on the LUCAS. He slipped two fingers under his headlock to feel for her pulse, but the monitor returned to a flatline the moment the automatic compressions stopped. She was still dead even as she squirmed under the restraints.

“Come on, fucks sake, Lu. Give me something,” he muttered, slapping the resume button to once more fill the ambulance with the rhythmic zip, zip, zip noise. Her breasts bounced with the force, her hardened nipples drawing lines back and forth in the air. He breathed once more into the intubation tube. The machine forced the breath back out as soon as he’d given it. She didn’t stop her struggles, trying to fight the thing assaulting her motionless heart. He had to wonder if she felt it pushing stale blood through the chambers and ventricles. He could only imagine how much it must hurt to be conscious during CPR. Her ribcage had probably already been rendered into pudding by now. He could see the bruise where the plunger knocked again and again into her. “I’m sorry,” he found himself whispering.

Thirteen minutes in arrest.

He didn’t know how much more he could take. Seeing Luffy’s face contorted, empty even as it moved and made noise, was starting to break Elijah. Or at the very least break some vital piece of him. He ran his thumbs over her temples as tears silently slipped down the bridge of his nose and patted wetly on her face. She didn’t even flinch. There was nothing left of her in those diseased eyes. He held her still enough in another headlock to check her pupil reactivity, but they were fixed and blown wide with dilation. He didn’t know if that meant the virus was doing its job, or if she was beyond saving. Luffy rattled the gurney as she kicked again, thrashing her body as much as she could while being pinned down by the machine punching into her sternum over and over. Sixteen minutes. Sixteen minutes and absolutely zero electrical activity: her heart hadn’t even quivered. It simply lay silent and still while the rest of her kept moving.

Elijah sank into a crouch, holding onto the edge of her bed to keep himself from collapsing utterly. He heard Jonas radioing into the hospital, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the pitiful gasps and grunts Luffy made as the thumper pinned her beneath it. “Stay still, please God just stay still,” he begged her and felt tears spilling over. He couldn’t hold it back any longer. All he could do was sit there and shake with silent sobs. He couldn’t even focus enough to breathe for her. “Baby,” he rasped in a hoarse whisper, “Please… Jesus Christ, please…. Come back…”

“Eli,” Jonas called again for what had been the third time, but was the first time Elijah had heard him. “They say they’ve got some kind of antidote, they’ve tried it on a few of the infected.”

Elijah wiped tears and snot off in his upper arm. “Any results?” he asked, warbling. The greater part of him wanted to tell Jonas not to bother, that it was too late. That she was gone. The most an antidote would do would maybe put her down peacefully so she could rest easy. But there was that little kernel, that one errant thought that said maybe, maybe she could come back.

“A couple people have come back. Not totally, they think it might be brain damage from the time they spent without circulation. But they stop trying to rip people’s faces off.”

They’d been her life support since the moment she turned. Her heart had barely even been given a chance to stop in her chest. The LUCAS had good rates of spontaneous return of circulation; if anyone could come back, Luffy had been given the best chance.

“They know we’re coming?”

“They’re gonna meet us the second we pull in.”

He stared down into the silver discs of her eyes. She was still in there, somewhere. She had to be. “Hold on, Lu. I’m gonna get you back.”

[emaadsidiki]

Saint Mark's Basilica

[aziraphales-library]

Hello and thank you for this blog! Do you have fanfictions where Crowley and Aziraphale (and maybe Jesus) go together on a roadtrip? It doesn't have to be with Jesus, normal roadtrip fic is alright! (I hope the fics would be over 10k words)

Thank you!!

Hi! Here are some road trip fics for you...

Do You Yearn The Way I Do? by leporidaecervinae (E)

A lonely desert road is a meditation's best friend. Aziraphale and Crowley are not talking. Not properly. Armageddon has been averted for a second, and final time. It takes a road trip, and a trip through cosmic uncertainty to investigate exactly why things are left unsaid. The Crooked Roost signals shelter, a safe harbour, and a solution to problems the pair haven't realised they've had yet. For Aziraphale and Crowley, finding their way back to stability is going to entail processing, whether they want it or not. Consent can not be granted when the psyche has not yielded. The ego must be dismantled in order to achieve truth.

Burning Through the Sky by ausgezeichnet (T)

Crowley, panic-stricken about the end of the world, flees into space in defiance of god and gravity, but Aziraphale won’t let him leave so easily. Will Crowley make the brave choice, and turn back to fight alongside Aziraphale for the planet that has become their home? Or: Crowley and Aziraphale go on a very strange road trip. Hijinks ensue.

Pray for Plagues (To Come Down on this Egypt) by A_J_Crowley, veganthranduil (M)

A couple of miles short of the Romanian border, Aziraphale regained consciousness again for a while. “Whose car is this?” He asked. “Someone else’s,” Crowley forced out between gritted teeth. OR how busting your boyfriend out of Heaven and the subsequent escape across the continent might ruin your day, week, and month.

Lonely Planet by Eighty_Sixed (G)

Aziraphale and Crowley go on a road trip to find God. What they find are a magic book, scared relics, dancing mystics, sublime mountaintops, several nice restaurants, and some insights into the human condition. Also, God. Eventually.

My Heart is in Ohio by smokeythewizard (M)

Seven years after assuming the position of Supreme Archangel, Aziraphale is no closer to thwarting the Second Coming despite his efforts in Heaven, until the day he receives a cryptic note from Hell's head office. The End Times have officially begun and the angel and demon are forced into an American roadtrip to save the world.

Part III: Not Single Spies by beardo (E)

A man with pale hair turns up in Saint Peter's Square, naked and without memory, and Crowley's old sense of Aziraphale's location snaps like a twig. Heaven is down another Supreme Archangel—but the new Christ is already on Earth (in France, to be precise) and the Second Coming is well underway. And Crowley works for Hell now, but really, he works for the good of humanity; pulling on every friend he has to stop the end of the world. Everything comes to a head with a delivery van, a flaming sword, a road trip, a prophecy, a wheat field and a miracle of rather significant proportions. NB The E-rating only applies to a small number of sections, and they're all clearly marked and skippable. The rest of the fic is T.

- Mod D