#storm king productions

[thebutcher-5]

Vampires (1998)

Benvenuti o bentornati sul nostro blog. Dopo aver fatto diversi articoli sull’animazione e la Disney, siamo tornati a parlare di live-action e questa volta l’abbiamo fatto con uno dei registi europei che nell’ultimo periodo si è dimostrato veramente abile. Il film in questione è Inexorable. La storia parla di Marcel, uno scrittore divenuto famoso dopo aver pubblicato il suo primo libro,…

[gbhbl]

Horror Movie Review: Ghosts of Mars (2001)

A squad of police officers and a convicted criminal fight against the residents of a mining colony who have been possessed by the ghosts of the planet's original inhabitants.

Ghosts of Mars (titled onscreen as John Carpenter’s Ghosts of Mars) is an action horror film written, directed and scored by John Carpenter. Set on a colonized Mars in the 22nd century, the film follows a squad of police officers and a convicted criminal who fight against the residents of a mining colony who have been possessed by the ghosts of the planet’s original inhabitants. Martian society…

[imjulia-andilikecats]

Day 1 of Roasting Maven Calore

He looks lactose and VERY intolerant.

He eats cheese🧀 like it's Mare's face and chugs milk🍼 like it's the only drinkable liquid left on this earth. His toilet🚽 despises him and is seconds away from serving him divorce papers.

[aimfor-theheart]

☕️ + king lear (since you latched onto cordelia)

omg THANK YOU FOR ASKINGGGG! i hope you’re doing well and having a good day 💞💞

what’s funny is i hated king lear at first. detested it. i said gET THIS OLD COOT OFF STAGE!! DRAG HIM OFF W A CANE!! WHERE ARE MY TOMATOES!!!

but the more i read, the more i warmed to it. i have a strange attachment to it. i think i just want to play cordelia at some point in my life—and when i’m old, i want to play lear and be the old coot myself.

i think we could probably talk plenty about it’s themes: justice, authority, nihilism, forgiveness, betrayal, etc. beyond that, we could of course talk about the very sexist nature of the play. but at the time, when i read it, all i saw was a story about a sick family member and a daughter who remained so loyal it cost her life. and i just resonated with her. and i got woefully attached to her monologue in the beginning of the play that begins with:

“Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave

My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty

According to my bond; no more nor less.”

which just kills me, because this whole monologue is her attempting to tell her father how unjust he is being, asking them to love him above everything. asking them to put him before everyone and anything. that you shouldn’t love someone like that, family or not. and i think the use of “heave” and “heart” strike a particular cord for me too.

and sometimes i have to remind myself that with family members. i love them according to my bond, no more nor less. i love them a great great deal and there is a lot i would do for them, but there is a line. and cordelia, noose and all, tend to remind me of that.

[crheativity]

SUMMARY: Someone's picked a fight with Prefect! But he isn't going to let anyone hurt you anymore. Not on his watch. Part 1! Part 2 with Vil and Silver can be found here.

WARNINGS: Uhhh Prefect (you) gets hit in the face & your nose bleeds. also blackmail.

COMMENTS: I actually wanted to write this firstly for some of my moots! I was gonna write more of their favourites but it accidentally got too long to put in one post, so I'm planning on making a part 2 tomorrow. Anyway, @azulashengrottospiano and @i-like-forgs, enjoy!!

It must be raining.

You were just out in a storm. That’s all.

That would explain the crack of thunder that collided with your face and gave you a throbbing headache. The warm liquid blurring your vision and dripping out of your mouth and nose was just the rain, not some unholy mix of blood and tears. The chills that froze you where you stood was just humidity and the cold, not adrenaline and raw fear.

And yet, even with your desperate brain trying to come up with some reasonable explanation, the only thunderstorm you could see in front of you was a student you couldn’t recognise. Not with your head pounding like this. Not with the thunder in your ears.

There was something about the boy that scared you. That wasn’t uncommon - this school was full of terrifyingly promising mages. But the scariest thing wasn’t how he wielded his magical pen with deadly accuracy, or how strong he so evidently was.

It was just how much he seemed to be enjoying the mix of horror and pain, of blood and tears, that must have been so evidently and delicately splashed across your face.

His smile twisted as he raised his pen again, something in those cruel eyes of his setting off alarm signals in your aching head.

“This’ll teach you not to meddle where you don’t belong.”

The pen glowed, pure magic surrounding it as he prepared to shoot. His sadistic eyes were alight with entertainment. He knew what he was about to do. He didn’t care.

You squeeze your eyes shut and braced for the lightning.

A chuckle and an arm wrapping around your waist made your eyes snap back open.

“C’mon babe, gotta run!”

Pulling you by the waist, the boy broke into a run. You stumbled for a minute, but soon followed after. He released your waist but gently took your hand, tugging you along, urging you to be faster.

A stray spell flew between the two of you.

The boy looked back, an uncharacteristic flash of annoyance creasing his brow.

He caught your eye and winked.

“Split card!”

A second boy seemed to appear next to you. He was an exact copy of the first - the same stylishly ruffled orange hair, the same piercing emerald eyes, the same practiced, perfect smile.

The same red diamond under his right eye.

“Hey, keep ‘em busy for me!”

“You got it, king.” The second boy - the product of Cater Diamond’s unique magic - winked at you. He planted his feet, whirled around and started to cast spell after spell at your assailant.

The real Cater Diamond pulled you along, into the school building. Together you ran, through corridor after corridor, passing empty classroom after empty classroom.

Finally, he slowed to a stop in front of a classroom you’d never seen before. Glancing around and putting his finger in front of his mouth in a shushing motion, he grinned at you.

“In here.”

He held open the door for you, shutting it behind the both of you as you looked around. There were all different kinds of instruments and sheet music scattered around, along with an abandoned satchel. You saw at least one set of drums, along with two electric guitars and one acoustic, amps, even some microphones and music stands.

You supposed this was the Light Music Club’s room.

Cater winced, scratching his nape. “My bad, forgot it was so messy here. Whoever that was won’t find us here, though!” He grinned at you, his smile fading when he noticed the condition you were in.

He took both of your hands and, holding you as though you were made of glass, led you over to an amp. He gently pushed you onto it. It was not the most comfortable thing to sit on, but that was not what you were focusing on.

How could it be?

Cater Diamond was standing in front of you. He glowed like the sun wherever he went, commanding your attention and leaving you blinded.

If he ever called you, you would gladly follow.

The light faded a little as he let go of your hands and stepped away. He walked over to the discarded bag on the ground and started rummaging through it.

“There’s gotta be something… aha, #jackpot!” Pulling out a packet of tissues, he made his way back over to you. Pulling out a tissue, he smiled hesitantly. “Do you mind if I…?”

You blinked. You had forgotten about the pounding in your head, which started to come back with a vengeance. Putting one hand to the side of your head, you gestured for him to go ahead.

He stood just in front of you, one hand cupping your face, the other gently trying to clean as much of the blood off as possible. He didn’t say anything as he went about his work, but there was a look in his eyes as he worked. One filled with kindness and empathy, soft enough to make your heart skip a beat.

He stepped back and, crossing his arms as though to survey his handiwork, he nodded satisfactorily. “The blood on your shirt will be hard to wash off, but the bleeding from your nose has stopped.” He gave you a strained - albeit gentle - smile.

You nodded and placed your hands in your lap, studying them instead of meeting the gentle emerald eyes you could feel searching you.

“Prefect…” he started, the hesitancy in his voice evident. He cautiously sat next to you and you glanced up at him. “Is- are you okay?”

You closed your eyes and leaned into him. He startled a little at your touch, then wrapped his arm around you. “I am now.”

“My my, what have we here?”

“What… the hell?!”

That voice… wait, it couldn’t be-

Blinking rapidly to rid your eyes of the tears, you registered three things.

First, and most obvious, was that the thunderstorm was being contained.

Easily.

I mean, the new arrival held him as easily as a newborn kitten for goodness’ sake. He looked almost as twisted as your assailant, with pure glee in his yellow and olive-brown eyes, his wide grin revealing sharp, pointed teeth. He was evidently enjoying the student’s squirming.

“Got him! I wanna squeeze him ‘til he pops~”

The second thing you registered was the hand resting on your shoulder.

Looking up, you noticed another boy, practically a mirror image of the first. One hand was resting protectively on your shoulder, his other hiding his smile. He looked a lot calmer than the first, but his eyes - the exact opposite of his brother’s - betrayed him. The air around him was crackling with excited energy.

“Not yet, Floyd. I believe that Azul has something he wishes to say to him first.”

“Boo. Hurry up.” Wait.

Azul?

Looking around, you finally registered the third - and final - new arrival. Azul Ashengrotto, the head of the Mostro Lounge, was strolling towards the boy. There was something about him that was different. His curly hair caught the sun, making the silvery colour feel akin to pure, vivid white, as though it was glowing. From this angle, you couldn’t see the face you’d studied so many times - his enchanting grey eyes, or the beauty mark just below his mouth.

There was nothing physically different. So what was wrong?

Ah, that was it. He was angry.

“Do not fret, Floyd.” He stopped in front of the boy, directly in front of you. “You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

“Wh-… what the hell is wrong with you?!” The student shouted, twisting and scratching at Floyd’s arm in a desperate attempt to free himself.

“Wanna find out?” Floyd squeezed the boy tighter and he yelped.

“No! No thank you!”

“Well, at least you have some manners.” Azul drawled.

“What do you want from me?”

“This won’t take long.” Azul fished out some photos from his pocket and showed him. “Do you know who this is?”

“H-… how did you-?!”

“Unimportant.” He waved off the question as though it was simply one about the weather. “However, I believe that it would be in your best interests to leave the Prefect alone now.” “Hah… you’re trying to blackmail me?”

“Blackmail is such an ugly word. I am simply offering you a way out.”

“A way out?” The boy scoffed.

“Certainly. I believe if your mother saw these photos, you would be in a great deal of trouble, would you not? If I am correct, you promised her you’d be on your best behaviour this year. After all, one more incident could be enough for an expulsion, with a track record such as yours.”

“Hey-!”

“It’d be a shame for the school to lose such a promising mage. How about you meet with me in the VIP room tomorrow around 4 o’ clock tomorrow? We can discuss things in more… detail… then.”

The boy glowered but said nothing.

Azul sighed. “I’m a man of my word. As long as no harm will come to the prefect, no harm will come to you in the meantime.”

“Fine.” The boy spat.

“Very well, we have a deal then.” Azul took a step back. “Let him go, Floyd.”

“But he hurt Shrimpy! I don’t wanna~”

“Floyd. There will be plenty of opportunities in the future.”

Floyd complained loudly, but let the boy go. He smoothed his jacket, glaring daggers at you and Azul in turn. Then he whirled around and stormed off.

Three pairs of eyes now turned to you.

You blinked in return.

“Shrimpyyy~!” Floyd bounded over to you and squeezed you in a rib-cracking hug. “Did the bad man hurt you? Don’t worry, you’re with us now, Shrimpy!”

“Give them some air, Floyd.” Jade said and tugged Floyd’s shoulder, attempting to pull him away from you.

“Nooo-“

“Are you alright, Prefect?” Azul asked. He sounded worried.

Floyd and Jade exchanged conspiratorial smirks and Floyd let you go. There was blood on his jacket from where your head had rested against him.

The realness of what just happened began to set in. The pounding sensation in your head came back with a vengeance. “I-…” the world began to spin around you, and Azul grabbed you, panic in his eyes. You felt your legs buckle and he caught you smoothly. “Sorry- I just-“

“It’s quite alright. I will stay with you as long as you need.” Azul reassured you, although you didn’t - couldn’t - miss the quiver in his voice or the pink dusting his face. He pulled out a handkerchief and put it to your face. You took it and applied pressure to your nose, angling your head downwards in order to stop the bleeding, as Azul hesitantly rubbed patterns into your back to help you feel better. The sensation made you feel warm.

With a smile, you realised it wasn’t storming anymore. The sun had finally come out.

♥Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it!!♥

[grimdarling69]

Another de aged Ellie and Dan or otherwise known as Crack

P1 P2 P3

Damian is now regretting every decision that led to where he was at this point in his half-life.

He felt so if he had been battered by a storm all night long and he was pretty sure he was having fever dreams because fucking Lex Luthor is currently dabbing at his head with a damp towel.

Come on, Damian. You're better than this. Get up and fight him. Father would be disappointed if I failed to stop whatever luthor was scheming because of a common cold. He could already see his father's face, his disappointment shrouded in the shadows created by the looming stalactites in the cave. He'd take away Robin, he lose Richard's first gift to him. He couldn't let his baba down.

He tried to shed the blankets but his body failed him and he had to resist a coughing fit. He shivered cold and clammy. His body felt heavy and his clothes were sticking to him uncomfortablely. His hair was a mess and clouded his vision.

"Rest now, ghostling. Your very sick. I need to get you into some new clothes and quickly." he murmured quietly, leaning forward and plying his bangs from his face. For a second he thought he was going to kiss his head and he started struggling again.

"Don't-" He attempted but his voice broke off into a coughing fit. He struggled to catch his breath.

"Shh.. shhh...drink." he gently lifted a glass of water with a childishly pinky bendy straw to his lips. His gentle voice and calm actions remindimg him of his baba and he stupidly started to drink it before he remembered where he was and resisted again.

Luthor didn't seem surprised but didn't attempt to speak to him again and gently pushed him back down onto the bed. His eyes were heavy and he had to repeatedly jerk his head to stay awake.

Ancients, what was wrong with him he was a trained assassin. Not to mention Robin he could survive days without even a second of sleep.

Luthor pushed the door open again and carried soft looking sleepwear in his hands. When did he leave? The sleepwear had little stars and moons and suns periodically spread about. He couldn't help but admire them.

"Please don't fight me, Dani- Damian. You have to get out of those drenched clothes. If you sleep in them, you'll just get sicker. Come on, you love the stars." He tried in vain to fight him off, but eventually Luthor was cringing at him, scratches all over his arms and face, holding the wet clothes in one hand.

"Try to get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning." He turned the lights off and closed the door.

He waited a second to make sure he was actually gone. Once he was sure, he tried to wrangle him self off the bed but kept having to blink and rub his eyes. He had finally succeeded in getting out from under the blanket before he couldn't stay awake any longer and passed out from exhaustion.

---------

Vlad because he was Vlad Masters sometimes known as Vlad Plasmius or ugh the Wisconsin Ghost not Lex Luthor he had spent far to long redeeming himself and becoming a productive member of society to be reincarnated into a cruel ceo who cares only about his image and money and destroys the earth to make it. Creating pollution, ruining lives for no reason, abusing his powers, and trying to kill his archnemesis. Okay, maybe he was being a bit hypocritical, but he was redeemed already, and now he had to start all over!

Every villian worth their salt knows that archenemesiss are for life and he was a redeemed one for goodness sake. He may of fought his godson a lot in his early days but he had been alone for so long. He was a ghost they bonded by fighting! He also apologized for not realized that he didn't know ghost culture yet. He assumed he'd gotten a mentor ghost somewhere like he had the dairy king to teach him and once he realized he made him take lessons with that yeti docter of his.

He was the only one of his kind for decades and it certainly didn't help when his best friends abandoned him after killing him. Jasmine loved to physcoanalyze him she often tried to talk to him about his abandonment issues caused by his parents' deaths worsened by his older sister walking out on him and his future almost destroyed because of Jack Fenton and a fucking soda. That his obsession with Madelyn was caused by the fact he was desperate for family and latched onto the first thing that could give him one.

He didn't approve of cursing, he had kids-god-children that didn't need to hear it but he supposed he could excuse it just this once. Or twice.

When his godson had crashed into his island he felt the presence of his other kids but it was diluted almost. He hoped that whenever Damian woke up he could give him some context.

That was another thing. Somehow, his incredibly gifted and smart godson had apparently but reincarnated as Brucie Wayne's son. He could hardly believe it, but it was also worrying he had found some heavy scaring on him. Everywhere he was covered in scars, some had to be a decade old, at least. Whoever hurt his son was going to pay.

"Mr Luthor, sir?" His assistant knocked on his door.

Ugh, Luthor wasn't terrible he had to admit it had a nice ring to it was just-Lex?... disgusting.

"Come in."

"The um...children's cold medicine is here." She spoke unsure, but handed the specially ordered medicine over. It was brought over by a very good drone from the nearest industrialized island, perks of being a billionaire. He had even more money than in his previous life.

"Aw thank you, Susan." She blinked at him while he took the package she'd been with him since before Konner and so it was understandable she wasn't used to him just now caring to remember her name. Konner... he'll have to contact him to set up a meeting between his new son and his brother soon.

"Will you alert the chefs to cook a simple breakfast for us. No onions and no meat. He'll need to eat with this one. Have it brought to his room." He barely remembered that his godson won't be eating meat anymore after he remembered from one chance meeting at a gala but he had always hated onions and he was quite familiar with his rants about the texture of onions by now.

"Yes, sir. Right away" She quickly exited his office. He still wasn't used to humans being on his island, he typically only had animal ghosts with him or his kids if they weren't busy it was quite strange but he was trying to turn down his Vladness.

He stopped to grab a water bottle and started to head to Damian's room. He knocked on the door and waited. Dead silence met him, the white walls of the hallway was only makeing it worse. He forced himself to not think of the past, his whimpers while he had to stitch him together again for if he made to much sound they would hear him , while slowing opening the door.

He was thankfully asleep, and his fever seemed like it was going down. He packed up the damp towel and started to dab his forehead again. His eyes started to stir.

"Vlad?" His now much younger godson questioned looking even younger he seemed small for his age but he was like that in his past life too.

"I'm here." The sigh of relief spoke for itself. Damian stole the hand not currently in use, a familiar reminder that was common practice for them. His eyes closed again. He took the quiet moment to lament on each of his kids.

Jasmine, the oldest, once told him he was her rich and eccentric uncle. She never needed him in the ways her siblings did. She only lived with him on college breaks anyway. She never needed him to pay for her college, she had no shortage of scholarships. While he loved her, they were still distant. And then she was gone.

Dan, he had adopted him in his originak timeline after...an incident. Dan was always difficult in ways his siblings weren't. Dan was most similar to him, he was half of him afterall, and this often caused many different fights between them. Dan being full ghost often lived with Clockwork anyway. He'd always love him but things were always going to be messy between them.

Ellie, his blood daughter and Daniel's clone. The only one that outright considered him her father but she was very independent and he typically only saw her on weekends too busy traveling the world to have a movie night with her dear old dad. He loved her, but they fought alot she always wanted more independence and he just wanted to see his daughter.

Daniel or Damian now had always seemed to need him the most. Sticking around Amity Park even after the GIWs attack. Always asking questions about being a ghost or being an adult really. And even before that he could often find him somewhere in his house after his patrols around Amity he asked him a few times why he came around even before he had redeemed himself and could only ever get " because it's quiet but now you're here so I have to go. See ya fruitloop" and when Damian came to live with him his friends were usually there and sometimes he felt it was more a teenagers clubhouse than a mayoral manor. But he was really the only constant in his life. And in the beginning he was too injured to be alone, floating at the edge of fading away forever, so they were constantly together and they grew closer and as much as Vlad always saw him as a son he doubts Damian sees him as a father. Jack was his father and Madelyn was his mother. He knows that he still sees them as his parents even after everything he was willing to forgive them. He would never admitt it but sometimes he's glad they never came back as ghosts.

And konner...He wasn't really sure about him. He was his son, his clone he created with Superman. While he of course still had Luthors memories, and luthor seemed to love him but he often pushed him aside. He was second to his goal of killing Superman. He would have to work really hard to repair their relationship but first he needed to get to the Infinate Realms.

Soft knocking broke him out of his thoughts. " Come in."

"Sir. Your food has been prepared." Susan pushed in a large cart with 3 tiers. While this life seemed to be all about the pinnacle of opulence, his first was spent majority in bachelorhood, enough said about that.

She parked the cart close to the bed but not enough to be a hindrance. Damians eyes fluttered at the light but stayed still.

Susan looked at Damian in barely hidden concern and he could tell that Susan Darnaby, mother of three boys ranging from the ages of 24 to 15 had strong maternal instincts. Her oldest apparently worked at the Daily Planet and was apparently the main breadwinner of the family after his dad passed away a few years ago from cancer leaving the family in serious medical debt. He might have reread everybody's file and maybe everything he could find on them. The last thing he needed was one of his employees calling cps on him for stealing a child.

"He has already benefited from his rest last night, this medicine will have him in tip-top shape in no time. There's no need to worry." He attempted to reassurance her.

"Of course sir." For some reason she didn't look very reassured and with once last glance at their hands, left quietly.

"Whuz her." Damian mumbled from where his head was stuffed slightly beneath the pillow to block the light from getting in. He snickered and fixed the pillow. Damian pouted.

"My assistant, Susan. You know she has a son around your age." Damian looked positively scandalized.

"Vlad! I am not dating anyone that is affiliated with you!" He sat up and wacked him with the pillow.

"Oof. Ow." The pillow didn't really hit imhim hard it was worryingly gentle, something Damian would never hold back on he once challenged him to a pillow fight but stuffed his with rocks and we both ended up give each other stitches using the bathroom tiles to ice their bruises.

"You know i never said anything about dating, my boy. Now let's see what was prepared." Damians breakfast consisted of small cake like pancakes shaped like stars with bananas and blueberries arranged like a small constellation. While his was some larger normally shaped pancakes with sliced strawberries and bananas arranged around the outer rim. The other two tiers consisted of several scone and jams and of course clotted cream after on the second day Ellie went on a loud rant right outside the kitchen on how offended she was to not be served clotted cream. The last tier consisted of several small deserts and muffins. He even spotted Damian's favorite muffin, blueberry cheesecake. Or well in his previous life at least, he placed it on his plate anyway, couldn't hurt to try.

"I'm not really hungry." Damian waved him off.

"You have to eat to take this medicine and I know you haven't eaten since you flew in last night, or even longer. Most of this stuff we can cover up and leave out, so you can eat it later if you want." Damian hated when he used logic in his previous life but from what he can remember about his few meetings in this life he liked logic and academics and was quite ahead according to Brucie.

Damian begrudgingly ate the muffin, some fruits and a messily cream and raspberry jamed scone. He only had a bite off the corner star of the pancake before deciding he wasn't a fan of the recipe. Vlad ate both of his pancakes, most of the fruits on his plate, a chocolate muffin, and a cream and apple jam scone. Unfortunately the peace couldn't last because as soon as he deemed Damian had ate enough and gave him the medicine he decided now would be the time to talk.

" I think I'm pregnant." Damian stated calmly staring into his tea cup.

Vlad dropped his own cup and watched the beautiful fine china shatter.

"Your...What?" He spluttered.

"Technically incubation. Dan and Ellies bodies completely destabilized and I merged with their cores to save them. It's something Frostbite briefly taught me." He continued.

Thank god.

"Why didn't you just start with that like a normal person. Are you okay? Is anything hurting not feeling alright?" He could hear himself growing more frantic.

"I'm fine Vlad. There not parasites. Well ellie isn't atleast. We'll have to check with Frostbite for everything else, so we'll need to stsrt the portal as soon as possible"

"You'll need to take the medicine for at least a week before I let you start working around such heavy machinery, but i suppose you can do some calculations up here."

"What! I have to get to Frostbite. How do we know we're doing the right thing? What if...I...do something to hurt them." His voice grew quiet and he closed his eyes both arms came to reach across his stomach and his legs slightly raised and he started to hunch over himself.

"Oh, Damian. I've read about incubation before. Ghosts only allow them selves to merge in such a way with people they must truly trust. If they merged with you, nothing will go wrong. Nothing you can do will hurt them." He moved as he was speaking, sitting down on the bed now. Damian and him had reached the same height in his last life but now his new body was much larger, in both height and muscle, than Damians short height and lean muscle. Made even smaller by him shifting into a ball.

"I don't know. I still had so much to learn and what if we can't open the portal again?" He leaned into him his shoulder more level with his head.

"Have you no trust in your old man? I opened the portal on my own last time with only minor Fenton thievery, thank you. Besides,The only setback I've faced here are the corrupted ectoplasm pools." Damian snickered at him, so he knew his joke wasn't for naught. Until he went rigid suddenly.

"Wait what corrupted pools?"

"The green ectoplasm on this island has pooled together somehow and corrupted itself by laying dormant for sometime. Instrsd of the typical cool and chilling effects the green usually has it seems to be almost acid like. Bubbling and burning things, but I've constructed a purifier that seems to be working well enough." He explained quite confused by Damians sudden change in attitude.

"Why didn't I see i before? Ancients this is worse than i thought..." He stood up suddenly, beginning to pace and run his hands through his hair.

"Slow down. What's going on?" He questioned aiming for placading him, Damian needed rest and minimal stress while sick AND incubating two cores.

"The Lazurus Pits! Their corrupted ectoplasm! Grandfather harnassed them to bring the dead back and get pseudo immortality." He stopped dead at the last word but his back was to Vlad. He's never heard of Lazarus pits before...his grandfather? Thomas Wayne was immortality? But he's dead!

"Thomas Wayne is...immortal?" He questioned as such.

"What? What made you come to that insane conclusion?" He turned to face him, he looked concerned like Vlad was the crazy one muttering.

" Your grandfather?" He looked like a fish, blinking and moving his mouth like he wasn't sur what to say.

"That's actualy not even the craziest thing ive heard actually. No, Ra's al Ghul, the Demon Head is my maternal Grandfather, my mother is Talia al Ghul." What the fuck.

" Brucie Wayne slept with the demons daughter?" Damian couldn't hold back his laughter anymore and burst into laughter turning into a coughing fit, that shook his ribs, and he leant over like he wa going to fall. Vlad quickly moved to support him.

"I'm fine, fruitloop. I just need some water." Vlad steered him to lay back down on the bed. "Stop it fruitloop, your not even my..." he didn't need mind reading powers to know what he was going to say.

" I know." He still tucked him into bed. Moving to turn out the star nightlight out.

"Batman is my father. Batman is Bruce Wayne" I think I'm going to faint.

"The other..." "my siblings." "Of course, no matter what universe we're in you have a crazy family." " You can't talk you made a clone with your archenemy in both lives AND added your own DNA both times."

"It was an accident the first time!" He spluttered.

"Not the second time!" Damian returned.

"I think you need a nap, young man." He sassed.

"Vlad! I am not a baby!" He ignored that remark.

"I'll have Susan wake you up at lunchtime and we'll go to the lab. Is that acceptable for you?"

"Tch." Damian turned around and closed his eyes. He finally succeeded in turning off the lights.

"Sleep well, son." Closing the door softly.

Whatever was a half-ghost to do?

‐--------

Clark Kent was an avid hater of the waiting game. Although he was no stranger to it. It had been now a week since Damian disappeared. Tim had called his sons and broke the news. They had quicky wrapoed everything up and flew back. Jon had yelled at him for hours about having to hear about Damians disappearance from Tim. He just didn't know how to break the news to him. He knew Jon felt betrayed by him especially because they were finally stsrted healing their relationship after everything. Even worse because Jon had finally confided in him how he felt about Damian and now he didn't even tell him when he was kidnapped.

From what he's heard from Bruce, Jon can't hear his heartbeat, but knowing Lex he's most likely kept behind lead so not a totall loss of hope it just means they need detectives not supers.

So he was back at work after parting with Lois he had headed to the break room to get more coffee when he heard it.

"So what Lex has a few sick kids and you think child trafficking? We can't lose another income, mom. Ignore it. Please." He heard his coworker, one he often listened listened in to as his mother coincidentally worked at Lexcorp.

He focused his hearing onto the mother's voice on the other side of the phonecal.

" You don't get it. I can't just ignore it. He experimented on those kids then put them to bed like it was just another day. And then suddenly the kids are gone and the next day another kid is here? It's not right! Something is going on. Wveryday he wakes him up and they est breakfast then they go down to his private lab and dont come out till lunch sometimes until dinner. Last night they didn't come out till midnight and he carried the kid to his own bedroom. There's something going on and I've seen to many rich men take advantage of young children. I can't ignore this again."

Oh god, what if Bruce was wrong about Lex somehow figuring out his identity. What if he noticed him at a gala and took a liking to him. As a reporter he done countless stories on people in high positions who took advantage of their positions of authority to hurt kids. Lex had never seemed that way to him but how well did he really know him anyway? He had some kind of breakdown that changed him anyway. He needed to talk to someone who was familiar with people like this.

He has to call Jason.

A/n I took this chapter to hash out my thoughts on a redeemed father vlad and kis kids. Danny is obviously his favorite, but he does love all of his kids they just don't feel the need to stick around Amity Park like I think Danny would. Danny is also his character foil, and I wanted to tie in both parallels into both him and bruce with vlad. So that is not Canon vlads backstory but something i thought about with the fact he is desperate or obsessed with the idea of a family. Also, if you see any inconsisties between Damian and vlads' povs and the "attack," their might be a reason hint hint. I also wanted to say that vlad and lex are both quite similar in concept but vlad in my au decided to become better for his kids and to choose them first not like lex who loves kon in his own way but is still second to his own mission. vlad very much is more vlad than he is lex mostly because he sees himself in lex if he didn't choose his kids over villainy. While Damian and danny are now more of a mix between each other. I like to think that the danny that saw a random girl who just said she was his cousin and just rolled with it would just roll with the flow if he was reincarnated. I also wanted to bring up the fact that vlad and Damian will pick up the pace and be a lot more worried as you'll see next part and right now the bats are in a disarray trying to find him. Also the supers I only had Jon age up 2 years older than Damian cause he will be a bigger part of the story and I needed him older hint hint he has his mother's purple eyes in this story.

[oceaneyesinla]

Hiiii! Congrats on your milestone! I hope you have many more followers! :)

Id love prompt #6 (giving them a head massage) with Umemiya from Wind Breaker. I’d love to run my fingers through his hair and just listen to him. 🥰

Steph!!!! thank you so much ����🤍 i love Ume so much and i fear it shows - this is disgustingly soft even for me, and we all know how soft and squishy my fluff gets!

Part of my Fluff, Fluff and More Fluff Event - submissions still open!

Prompt 6: giving them a head massage while they listen to the other one talk about their day

Umemiya Hajime x gn!Reader

Divider by @/adornedwithlight

Umemiya Hajime is many things to many people. To the boys of Bofurin, he's a stalwart leader, a pillar of strength they can rely on through fair weather and harsh storms. To his inner circle, his Four Kings, he's a trusted friend, one they confide in and one they stand alongside with pride. To Kotoha, he's the older brother she will never admit she loves to have. She rolls her eyes and shrugs off his open, enthusiastic affection, but you know she appreciates the unconditional love he shows her. To the people of Makochi, he's a jack of all trades - the shop owners shower him in discounted goods and the elderly pinch his cheeks and remark on how he's a 'nice young man’ and the children idolise him, staring up at him with stars in their eyes as he tells them stories and lets them ride on his shoulders.

Umemiya Hajime is everything to everyone, But to you? He's your Hajime. Nothing more, nothing less. You love the man he is outside the walls of your home - strong, passionate and infinitely kind. He fights with his heart and loves with every fibre of his being and sometimes, when you watch him sing to his plants or mentor his kouhai, you feel like your heart will burst with all the affection you feel for him.

You know the responsibility he carries is a heavy load, and you feel honoured that he leaves that load at the door - shrugging off the weight along with his Bofurin jacket, hanging it up on the hook in the hallway and allowing you into the portion of his heart reserved just for you. Instead of being the caretaker, he allows himself to be taken care of. He puts the same trust in you as the members of Bofurin put into him, and you cradle his heart like the most precious treasure of all.

He lets himself soften when it's just the two of you, and there's a part of you that enjoys that fact. The great Umemiya Hajime placed his heart in your hands, and no-one else will ever see him quite the way you do.

Right now, if someone saw him, they would never believe his fearsome reputation. He's stretched out on the couch, silky hair free of product and falling into his eyes. His reading glasses are perched on his nose, though the book he was reading has been abandoned, now resting on his chest. His attention is occupied by the way your hand is gently carding through soft strands, nails lightly scratching over his scalp with each pass. A dopey, affectionate grin is stretching across his face, like he's some kind of Samoyed, and you're sure that if he was, his tail would be wagging,

He loves to be the centre of your attention, and lucky for him, you love to give it to him. It's as relaxing for you as it is for him - he's freshly showered, smelling of his favourite body wash and flowery shampoo, and the weight of his head in your lap is grounding.

"Do you feel better now, Haji? Do your knuckles hurt?” He came home roughed up, knuckles bruised and pretty face bloody. He looked far too content while you were patching him up, and you suspect he was just happy to have your hands on him, wiping the blood away with a gentle touch.

He slides his glasses off, mischief shining in his eyes, "If I say yes, will you kiss them better?”

You know the smile tugging at your lips is nothing short of adoring, and you reach for one hand, lifting it up and pressing a featherlight kiss to the damaged skin of his knuckles, "I'd do it even if you said no, baby.” You place his hand back on his chest, repeating your actions on his other hand. When both hands have been given your magical healing kisses, you lean down to press one to his forehead too, just for good measure.

He's beaming up at you, and your heart swells with love once again. Your hand slides back into his hair, and you resume your soothing rhythm, "Now, for the kisses to work, you've got to tell me about the seedlings we planted last month. Are they growing well?”

It's just an excuse to listen to his voice, and the little laugh that escapes Ume tells you that he's well aware. He indulges you all the same, just as you indulge him, and that's how you spend the rest of your night; Hajime gesticulating excitedly while he told you all about your seedlings, and his tomatoes, and the radishes a reluctant Sakura helped him plant - and you hanging onto his every word like he hung the moon and the stars in the sky, one hand still playing with his hair and the other resting over his heart. It's comfortable, it's familiar, and you're exactly where you always want to be - wrapped up in the love you share.

[skzhocomments]

The Rising Empress - Bang Chan Stray Kids Fanfic (Masterlist)

Main Masterlist

Pairing: Bang Chan (of Stray Kids) x OC (name: Aristia)

Genre: non-idol AU, Royal AU, soft enemies to lovers, angst, romance, mature

Word Count: ~64k words divided in 17 chapters

Warnings: explicit, mature, swearing, feelings of hopelessness, angst, depression, crying, domestic violence, depression, anxiety, angst, etc.

This is just a story that doesn’t describe Stray Kids members' true characters in any way. It’s just a product of my imagination and should be treated as such.

This story is also on Wattpad (click here) and AO3 (click here)

A/N: As any other writer out there, I would appreciate reblogs and your comments on this story. Please let me know if you enjoyed it, and most importantly, have fun!

---

Summary:

“I guarantee you nothing will happen to you. I give you my word.” “How much does your word weigh, though?” Aristia scoffs. “You vowed during our wedding to love, cherish, and protect me no matter what. So far, none of your vows were respected. You said it yourself. You were never a husband to me.” “Neither were yours. In sickness and in health, I will stand by your side. With all that I am and all that I have, I pledge my loyalty and my love to you.” Chris scoffs as well. “You didn’t give me any chance to get close to you. You’ve put up your barriers and thought of me as your enemy since day one.” She comes closer to him. “I had no idea we shared an enemy instead, Aristia. Truly. I thought you were a spy.” “You didn’t even ask me anything. You dead bolted me.” “How could I have trusted you? You are the daughter of my enemy.” Chris frowns. “I don’t know. How can I trust you now, then? You are a man who hates me for simply being born as a princess of the enemy kingdom.” “… I assume you can’t.”

---

The Kingdom of the South and the Empire of the Sun forge an alliance at the expense of Princess Aristia - the daughter of a King who didn’t want her, sent over like a sacrificial lamb to his enemy, a man who doesn’t want her either, who won’t even cast a look at her. She decides she won’t look at him either. Two can play this game. --- Non-idol AU This story takes place in an alternate universe where Bang Chan is Emperor Mature content ahead. 18+ ©storminsidemycore

Hello!

Storm here!

The Rising Empress is a story I've started writing on 17/01/2024 and finished on 28.10.2024.

I've always been an avid Manga and Manhwa reader, so I've pretty much gotten inspiration from the hundreds of things I've read, which is how this story was born.

I hope you will enjoy it, as I'm extremely proud with how it turned out. It's safe to say that for me personally, this is one of my best, if not the best work.

The main character's name (Aristia) is inspired after the Manhwa The Abandoned Empress - which is where I found this name and its meaning. Apparently, "Aristia" means "Rising Empress", which I found quite fitting for this story.

---

The story and cover are original and my property. Any similarities to other stories are purely coincidental. Aristia, the protagonist, is a made-up character.

Stray Kids members or any other famous people mentioned along this story DO NOT represent their true character in any way, they are simply mentioned in order to provide a visual representation for the readers. Their personas obviously have nothing to do with their true personalities. They're just characters I've created for this story, so please don't take this too seriously.

Mature content ahead. Lots of trigger warnings apply, so please read carefully.

---

18+

©storminsidemycore

---

Chapter 1 - The Sacrificial Lamb - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 2 - The Wedding - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 3 - Mistreatment and the Loss of Self - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 4 - The Bearer of Bad News - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 5 - Dirt on the Marble Floors - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 6 - When You're on Your Own - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 7 - When the Emperor Takes Notice - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 8 - Envy and Power - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 9 - Yearning for More - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 10 - The Battlefield inside the Palace - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 11 - Setting the Plan in Motion - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 12 - Aristia's Letter - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 13 - Betraying the Emperor - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 14 - The Punishment - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 15 - A Way Out - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 16 (coming soon)

---

Thank you so much for reading my story, and I'm looking forward to your thoughts!

[helenanell]

Burn Away Like Mist

Aemond Targaryen

Burn Away Like Mist 

⫷⫸

Aemond Targaryen X Baratheon Wife Reader 

Summary: You despise your husband and that hatred is only compounded when you find him gazing up at the Iron Throne after the battle of Rook’s Rest.

Warnings: This is TOXIC, lots of cruelty and manipulative behaviour (on both sides.) Mention of child SA and a blade is drawn (Did someone say knife to throat?) - Enemies to Lovers, except they are so far from lovers in this. (maybe in a part two?) 

Notes: No use of Y/N - Spoilers for S2 Ep 5 - Also, I really am not and have never been an Aemond girly (I will see Luke and Rhaenys avenged!) But I do find Aemond so, so compelling and I just couldn’t get this out of my head. Enjoy?

W.C: 4k

⫷⫸

To those in Westeros who still held to the old Gods or to those who cradled superstitions close to their chests as though they were their own babes, the wind often harboured ill portent; it weaved across the sky, stitching the future there with fate as its thread.

And yet, it was not an ill-wind that had been the true portent of doom. You knew that countless foul fates had been ushered forth with a single foetid breath. 

The breath upon which the order to send dragons to war was uttered, was the breath that began the end. 

The Targaryens had survived the Doom of Valyria, fleeing from fire whilst using it to forge a path to the Iron Throne. And now they were to die in fire, of that you were sure. 

The dragons had begun their dance and a dynasty would die because of it. Your husband had already claimed the lives of two. Two dragons and two dragon riders.

You would never forget Prince Lucerys and how bravely he had stood before your father in the hall of Storm’s End, his chin tilted up defiantly and such an assured, level voice from a boy still so small. He had made you smile. Just looking at him had made you smile because in him you had seen…well, you had seen a boy who had been loved and so could love and care for others in turn. You had felt hope for the realm. 

But then he had been chased into the sky by Aemond Targaryen, a man devoid of love. 

You knew that your husband was a product of both his blood and his upbringing. Boys starved of love grow into men who hunger for something they have never tasted; something they do not understand. Fond feelings and affection cannot find root in inhospitable soil, let alone bloom there. That was not Aemond's fault and yet his actions as a grown man were. His violence and vengefulness was no one’s doing but his own.

The storm into which Prince Lucerys had fled had been a particularly terrible one, it had felt as though the sky was being rent apart with each roll of thunder, the stone beneath your feet trembling as though in terror of it. Or in terror of what was happening above. 

The moment Aemond had left your father’s hall in pursuit of his nephew, some part of you had known what was to come. And yet, when you had heard what had befallen him, you had cried for that sweet boy who had so loved his mother and affirmed his honour by so swiftly declaring he was already betrothed. 

Selfishly, you had wept for yourself too. Grief for the boy you had not known and grief for the life you could have lived had intermingled, the tears that rolled down your cheeks acrid to the point of toxicity upon your tongue. 

Not even a week later, Aemond had returned for you. His dragon blotted out the sun and you had remained in shadow ever since. 

Your father had promised you that the wedding would not take place for some time, but he had not accounted for your betrothed becoming a Kinslayer while his promise to wed you still echoed down the halls of Storm’s End. The greens needed all the support they could get and quickly.

You had been married the day after you had arrived in King’s Landing.

Now, if Aegon did not wake, your new husband would be a Kingslayer too. 

You did not know what had happened during the battle of Rook’s Rest and yet you had seen the truth of it in the brief glimpses you’d caught of your husband since his return. His brother’s state was not only down to Princess Rhaenys and the Red Queen, Meleys. 

Up until now, you had been grateful that Aemond seemed to have no inclination to even converse with you, let alone share your bed, but you couldn’t help but think how much easier it would be to plunge a dagger into his chest if he did. You were no soldier, and you would not waste honour on a man such as your husband, so you truly would have no qualms or quibbles over cutting his throat as he slept.

Ours is the fury. Those were the words of your House.

When you were a girl you had felt such great pride upon hearing them; they roused and emboldened you, filling you with such righteousness as you retained safe and protected in Storm’s End, with your only adversary the wind that battered the walls and howled down the corridors in dismay when it could not reach you. 

Now, when you heard the words you wanted to laugh. 

Baratheon fury was without a doubt that of a storm: irascible and unyielding. And yet…it was water and wind. To Targaryen’s, the wind was something to be ridden and all water was burned away like the morning mist by dragon fire.

You had known even before you had said your vows to Aemond in the Sept of Baelor that he wished that you were that mist. When he looked at you, his gaze harboured a flame that told you he wished that you too were so easily burnt away.

But you refused to burn. 

It was this rapidly growing hatred that drove you to seek him out, to look at him without baulking, if only so he could not sate himself on your fear as well as that of so many others. 

It was not a search that had taken much time. After all that had happened, what would your husband want to do but gaze upon that which he coveted?

You had first met Aemond during a storm and you found him now as another raged outside the walls of the Red Keep. It was an ill omen.

It was the first rumblings of a reckoning. 

Earlier in the day, Aemond had made you stand on the walkway alongside himself and the dowager queen Alicent when Meleys’ head had been paraded through the streets. 

‘Behold the traitor dragon Meleys!’

You had wanted to close your eyes and plunge yourself into darkness to avoid the horror of the sight, but those words would still have rung in your ears, so you forced yourself to bear witness to the tragedy. 

Aemond stood now as he did then, with his hands clasped behind his back and standing so still he might as well have been stone. The movement of his shoulders was almost imperceptible, as if taking breath was something less than vital to him. As though it were beneath him. 

He was standing with his back to you, gazing up at the Iron Throne. He stood at a distance from it, but not out of deference for his dying brother, you knew.

Aemond had considered himself a king long before his Aegon had fallen upon flaming wings from the sky, he was simply enjoying the sight of the seat upon which he would soon sit; the seat he felt he was both owed and that he had earned. 

Another bolt of lightning fractured the darkness and the tips of the swords that formed the Iron Throne glinted in the flash. The white strands of Aemond’s hair were for a moment threads of silver, shimmering like spun stars. 

Then, the lightning retreated and the shadows descended again. Your husband seemed just as comfortable in the light as he did in the dark. Why wouldn’t he be, when he appeared able to thrive in both?

You step forward, peeling away from the side of the room. 

When you speak, your voice has to contend with the thunder, but you are pleased with how indifferent you sound.

‘You may as well sit on it.’ You call out. ‘The arduous task is done with. What difficulty could climbing a few steps pose compared to killing your own kin? Again.’

Aemond’s head tilts as if in contemplation before turning just enough for you to see his face. His impassive expression is lit by a particularly violent bolt of lightning, his one violet eye flashing as brightly as you presume the sapphire in the other socket does when caught in the sunlight. His hands are still clasped behind his back.

‘You are ill-informed, wife. My brother yet lives.’ 

You do not miss that he does not say ‘the king’ and you dare to scoff in response.

 ‘Yes, I imagine you are irritated by that. It would be better for you if his demise was the result of Dragon warfare. That is easier to explain than, say, a pillow over the face? Or will you choose poison?’

Aemond hums, the corner of his mouth lifting in a deceptive manner. He is not amused, but you cannot say exactly what the small movement upon his face means. He turns to face you fully.

 ‘Poison is the weapon of women and cravens.’ Aemond says, his voice languid, almost bored. It infuriates you. 

You want him to be as angry as you are. You want him to burn from the inside out as you do. He is the cause of your pain, so you will be the cause of his. It is this desire that drives you to speak so recklessly to him.

‘Well, you certainly aren’t a woman.’ You answer snidely. 

Your silent implication has the desired effect. Aemond advances towards you, his jaw is clenched and the lines of his face are as hard as the carved stone that adorns the hall. You do not flinch or take so much as a step back. You stand firm, staring him down as he stops barely an arms length in front of you.

He is certainly breathing now, his shoulders heaving as he draws in air with the anger he has that is so often unbridled.

But just when you think you’ve succeeded in provoking him, Aemond lets out a steady exhale, his expression turning imperious as he looks down at you. 

‘Are you so listless that you must come to poke and prod at me as though you were a disgruntled infant?’ He says, his voice hushed and his tone belittling. ‘My good sister is surely in want of company and comfort during such a trying time. Go to her.’

You frown up at him, curling your fingers into fists, nails digging into your palms. 

You’re sure that he dons a mask of indifference around you because he knows it drives you mad. In his eyes, you are deserving of nothing, not even his contempt. 

It makes you that much crueller.

 As you recall an exchange you’d had with a very drunk Aegon a few days prior. Your lips lift into a nasty smile as you step up to Aemond, your chests almost touching. It’s the closest you’ve been since standing before each other in the Sept.

 There’s another low rumbling of thunder. It may well be a warning, but you take it as encouragement.

‘I suppose we have that in common then.’

Aemond’s head tilts to the side, humming with feigned interest. ‘And what is that, ñuha jorrāelagon?’ 

Your skin itches. You hate that you cannot know what he calls you, especially when he has that unknowable glimmer in his eye. You steel yourself and speak the words that you know will place you in peril.

‘It seems we are both prone to bouts of childishness.’ You say, smiling up at him. ‘I know what happened in the brothel, Aemond.  Aegon took great delight in telling me of how he found you: naked and cradled in the arms of the establishments madam as if you were a babe.’ 

The noise that comes from Aemond borders upon the animalistic. So much so, that when he darts forward, his hand curling around the nape of your neck, that you expect to feel the sting of claws piercing your flesh. 

You swallow down a gasp as Aemond drags you closer, forcing you to crane the neck he has in a vice grip in order to look up at him. Lightning gives you a better glimpse of his face that is now tight with fury. 

He does not utter a word, he just glowers down at you as his heaving chest brushes yours. 

You open your mouth to speak and his grip tightens, his nails digging into your neck. You do not know if he’s warning you or urging you on. You’re not entirely sure that he does either. 

Either way, it would not stop you. This is the closest you’ve come to feeling alive since you left Storm’s End. 

‘How old were you when it happened?’ You speak with a softness that you know he will not know how to contend with.

The jarring change in your tone and demeanour works. As Aemond takes in the concern that you force onto your face, his anger falters. It is only for a blink, but it feels like a victory all the same.

You are triumphant in the knowledge that he does not know you well enough to tell if you’re being genuine.

You aren’t, of course; you do not care for your husband. But that does not stop you from feeling sad for the boy that he was.

You have no doubt that the brothel all those years ago was Aegon’s doing; his was no doubt the lecherous hand that had forced Aemond into the arms of a grown woman. Undoubtedly, the sexual act had become conflated with tenderness for Aemond and for a comfort that he had never had. 

Aemond manages to rebuild his cold exterior, but it is not as well fortified as before. He leans down, holding your neck tighter as he forces you to maintain eye contact. 

‘You speak as though it is something which should torment me.’ He says quietly, sounding unconvinced by his own words. ‘As though it was something inflicted upon me, instead of something that I desired.’

‘You didn’t desire it. You were a boy.’ You answer,  disgust dripping from your words at the thought of it. 

Aemond’s hold on the back of your neck loosens, but he does not remove it completely. 

‘Boys must become men.’ He answers flatly.

‘Yes, but that is something that time will take care of without interference. Boys become men, that is an inevitability, it is not a change that can be brought about by abuse-’

‘It was not abuse.’ Aemond hisses, nails digging into you once more.

Aegon had delighted in telling you a great many things.

During the wedding feast–if the rushed, dismal affair could even be afforded such a title–the King had been deeper into his cups than you’d thought possible and he had delighted in telling you any story he could conjure in order to diminish Aemond’s manhood in your eyes. He had spoken in great length about the disappointment you were soon to suffer in the bedchamber, but he had also regaled  you with stories of his brother’s youth that had been rife with ridicule. 

In what you had thought was preparation to defend yourself against Aemond’s coming attempt to bed you, you had sharpened your teeth on the tales of his childhood torment. But after he had spurned you, leaving your marriage unconsummated, you had not been able to bite anything.

Now, you were going to take the chance to bloody your mouth with those sharpened teeth. You meant to take a chunk of flesh.

 ‘Aegon did not make you a man, Aemond, nor did that woman, because you are still that little boy who was given a pig to ride–”

You choke on your own words as air rushes about your ears as you are forced up against the nearest pillar.

Your back slams into the cold stone as Aemond draws a familiar Valyrian steel dagger and presses it up against your throat. The muscles in his neck strain as he lets out a low grunt, as though the effort he is exerting to stop himself from killing you is physically painful. 

 You keep your eyes on your husband’s face, revelling in seeing his mask shatter, even as you feel the blade press into your skin. 

You glower up at him and eagerly continue your tirade. At least if he kills you, you’ll be free of him: ‘Did you have to take the dagger from Aegon’s body, or did it fall to the earth alongside Sunfyre after you attacked them?’

Aemond’s knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip. ‘You wield your tongue as though it were a weapon, wife. It is impressive, truly. But you would do well to remember that only the real thing can cut.’  Aemond’s whisper skims across your cheek as he leans, your neck beginning to sting as he presses the dagger deeper. ‘Only one can draw blood.’

You fail to suppress a hiss of pain as you feel a bead of blood roll down your skin. And Aemond does not cease, almost spurred on by the sound of your pain. He leans in a little more, exerting further pressure on the blade. 

The Baratheon fury that is your birthright flares within you and your hand shoots up. You wrap your fingers around Aemond’s wrist, attempting to stop the press of the weapon. It does not. Your reaction only serves to lift his lips into a sadistic smile. 

‘Do you see now, how useless your words are?’ He coos, lips skimming the shell of your ear. You feel the vibrations of his words in your very bones. ‘How doomed of a rebellion your vitriol is?’ 

You answer by curling your fingers and digging your nails deep into his wrist as he had done with your neck. Nothing happens at first, but as you dig and dig, he leans back to peer down at you, his thin lips pressing into a tight line. 

‘And what of your blade, Aemond?’ You goad, nails digging deeper. ‘What use does it have when you won’t use it? My throat is still yet to be slit.’ 

A shadow that has nothing to do with the darkness of the throne room passes over Aemond’s face. ‘Do you so wish for death, that you would offer yourself up like a lamb to the slaughter?’ He seethes. 

‘But that’s just it, Aemond. You can’t slaughter me, can you?’ You say, sounding almost manic. Your blood has been drawn and both of you can taste it in the air. ‘My hand won Baratheon swords and my death would turn them against you.’ 

‘It would turn them against the Crown. I could cut your throat right here, right now and any retaliation your father offered would still be nothing more than treason. You are of no true consequence.’ 

‘So do it.’ You challenge, perversely energised by the feel of a blood trickling down your neck. ‘You are already a Kinslayer and a Kingslayer too if Aegon succumbs to his wounds. What does an oath sworn to my father mean to you? What are the vows you said to me? Although, now that I come to think of it, you are not truly my husband, are you?’ 

Aemond takes on an expression of mock pity, and tuts at you. ‘You may wish that to be true, but in the eyes of the gods and men, you are mine. My wife.’

You laugh bitterly, tightening your hold on his wrist, almost willing him to dig the steel further into your neck. ‘Am I? Without consummation I belong only to myself.’ 

Aemond lets out another of his characteristic hums that could just as easily signify danger as it could amusement. Another flash of lightning sends his one eye glowing. 

‘You call me a boy and yet it is you with such infantile notions.’ He says. ‘You have never belonged to yourself. Before any man beds you, you belong to your father. You were his to give away the moment you were born and he has…to me.’ 

‘And you sneak out of the Red Keep and into the arms of a woman who you pay to hold you. Do you even know that affection can be something freely given?’ You lift your free hand and place it against his cheek, just below his eye patch. You could swear he flinches. ‘True comfort need not come as part of a contract.’ 

‘Is that what you are offering me?’ There is still a derision dripping from his words, but they lack their usual potency. ‘Affection and comfort? You would give this to me freely?’ 

‘No, I would not.’ You snap. ‘ If I were truly free, I would have taken the knife sheathed on my thigh and plunge it into your heart.’ 

For all your fantasising, you knew what harming, let alone killing your husband would mean for your family. For your dear sisters.

Something flashes in Aemond’s eye at your words. He eases back, the blade lifting from your skin by barely an inch. The wounds stings fiercely as the air hits it but you manage not to wince.

Your husband is tall enough that he can take his free hand and lift up your skirts, all while maintaining eye contact with you. Your breath hitches in indignation as his warm fingers run up your calf and over your knee, splaying out into a flat palm to run up your thigh as he searches.

You do not move.

 When Aemond finds nothing he shifts his hand, moving to the opposite leg. When his fingers land on the dagger contained within the sheath, you see his own breath falter. 

A grin spreads out onto your face. He hadn’t believed you.

You had surprised Aemond Targaryen.

With his eyes still on you and one hand still clutching the sheath on your leg, Aemond returns the Valyrian steel dagger to his belt. The now free hand moves to your neck, the pad of his thumb catching the bead of blood as it rolls down towards your clavicle. 

With his eyes still on you, he pulls back the thumb now stained crimson and takes it into his mouth, lips closing over it and taking part of you into himself. 

Your cheeks flush in fury, feeling that something else has been stolen from you. 

He looks so satisfied, as though what he’s just consumed of you–both emotionally and physically–will feed him for years.

Letting out a furious groan you reach beneath your skirts and pull his hand from your thigh. You know he lets you do it, just as he lets you take your hands and hit out against his chest, shoving him away from you.

And yet, you still feel pleased with yourself when you see his eye widen slightly at the force of your push. He only just stops himself from staggering back, his now clean thumb falling from between his lips.

Aemond takes another step away from you, the carefully crafted impassivity returning to him.

But, the way he’s regarding you has changed. There’s a predatory glint in his eye that had not been there before. The sight of it makes your throat close up. You already miss his emotionless stare. 

‘You should not concern yourself over the lack of consummation. If my brother dies, I will be King. And a King needs heirs. As does a Prince Regent.’ Aemond muses, revelling in the horror that blooms upon your face. ‘Enjoy the solitude while you have it, ñuha jorrāelagon. You may soon bear the burden of a queen.’

And with that he’s turning his back to you, the sound of his footfalls bruising you in a way the storm’s din couldn't. 

But then, just before the towering doors, Aemond stops. He does not turn and yet you feel his attention on you all the same.

When he speaks, it is a whisper. A whisper that you should not hear at such a distance and over the thunder and yet somehow, you do. 

You do not understand him, but you hear your husband's words.

‘Aōha perzys gaomas daor zālagon nyke, ābrazȳrys. Yn nyke raqagon se ōdres hen ziry’

(Your fire does not burn me, wife. But I enjoy the pain of it.)

And then, just like the first time you had met him, Aemond Targaryen departs a hall besieged by a storm, leaving you breathless with hatred in his wake.

[ranticore]

Hi has anyone ever told you Ice Storm Over Kosa has impeccable vibes and feels incredibly innovative and fresh!

In terms of the towns and communities, what types of infrastructure connects them? What kinds of technologies are common vs cutting edge in the setting’s different time periods?

hehe thank you.. i really like how the setting tag is just one of the character's names so it looks like you're saying He has impeccable vibes

<3

So there is a huge huge almost insurmountable limiting factor when it comes to the growth of towns and communities, which is that large aggregations of living creatures will attract the crawly beasts and they pollute the earth, make crops wither and die away, kill livestock, kill people, etc, and humans can't even touch them with protective gloves on since the crawlers' fluids eat through leather

humanity (and monsters) were forced to spread out over a larger surface area. villages and settlements are small and have to be actively defended almost nightly. there has been a slight stagnation of the march of progress, as just fighting off this threat takes up so much of everyone's resources, and forbids institutes of learning and the like from forming. so most of the technological advancements we see, they are in the field of long-range communication, weaponry (falconry too), and material technology that might repel crawling beasts

in prehistory, the land now called "the Ama plains" hosted a gigantic city with a hundred thousand people living in it, called Amphora. it was very advanced for its time period, with working plumbing, hot and cold water even, mass production of cloth and food, etc (not to mention the magic). Amphora no longer exists and most of its innovations were lost.

in the early time period after the arrival of the crawling beasts, humanity and monsterkind are scattered. the only established settlements are those guarded by wyrms, but it took many centuries to reach that point. human towns are ruled by small feudal lords who may form loose alliances with one another but typically rule their land as if it's a lone island in the middle of a vast sea. this is the time of Revelation's march. the most established settlement is the city of Onozar in the far west of Ama, which is ruled by a king who has a hold over many of the neighbouring towns and lords, by virtue of Onozar's size and relative safety. technology levels are low; no firearms, trebuchets and crossbows are cutting edge.

in the time of Twist and Flicker, there is an age of unprecedented cooperation with monsters (Revelation's march might have had something to do with this change). This means that towns and villages are now usually protected by something other than a wyrm - this ranges from willing cooperation to cruel self-styled 'monster tamers' who force monsters to do their bidding. This is the dawning age of harpy falconry as described in the lil story i wrote about Ice Storm of Kosa himself, though back then the old method was to make a contract with an adult harpy and cooperate that way. The infrastructure is still not very advanced; they're still struggling with plumbing and sewage systems, because crawlies come out of the ground and their poison can seep into aquifers. Anyway communication between towns is usually done by pigeon (or pigeon harpy). The ground is not a safe place to be, so houses are typically built on short stilts, or at the very least, residential rooms are upstairs. Water supply is often provided by elevated aqueducts; wells are a last resort, but often the only choice for impoverished villages. There is a culture of fear surrounding large gatherings and groups - sometimes it's unavoidable, and human/monster nature, but that anxiety is always there.

With this increased cooperation between humans and monsters, people are able to gather in larger groups. this enables more learning, more apprenticeships, more farmlands, and a more rapid development of technology. It also means a more centralised ruling system begins to form; it takes a lot of resources to supply a pack of wolfmen or a harpy flock to defend a town, so small towns must make petitions to their more prosperous neighbours, and this develops into a Government of the entire region. firearms develop in this time as a means to kill crawling beasts; they are not that successful, and it takes a while before people realise you can use firearms to kill other things, too.

A century later, developments are progressing well enough. Firearms are still rare but starting to spread. Harpy falconers have developed a new, effective technique for their art, it's called "kidnapping"; steal an egg, and raise the chick to imprint on its human parents. that way it won't want to leave. There is a sense of teetering on an edge; humanity leaning more into forcing monsters to help, instead of cooperating. But this is not the progression; the success of the Kosa flock helps convince many falconers that the kidnapping method isn't the best after all. technology is still uh bad, but this is an era where writing materials are finally becoming more mainstream, literacy rates are slowly rising. the printing press is the hot new thing. they have water towers now to provide the plumbing at a safe elevation. communication between villages is still very dove-based, since flight is the safest method of travel.

fire is the only thing that both kills and neutralises the poison of a crawling beast. by this time, progress has been made to develop "automatic fire machines". so all the R&D people put into guns in the real world was put into flamethrowers instead. it's easy enough to rig up a system that pumps out burning oil, but these devices are usually stationary, heavy, and fixed at the gates of the various more prosperous town walls.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st, forced orgasm, cockwarming, somnophilia. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: I just want to keep giving you all new chapters daily, hahaha its so hard to not especially when I have a chapter ready to go ! The reader deserves a little treat too <3 Enjoy

Chapter 58: Misfortune

The doors to the Kings chambers shut heavily behind you, and you did not slow your pace as you stormed back to your shared chambers. You could feel Aemond following you slowly behind, not racing to catch up with you as he watched you storm ahead, anger rolling from you in waves.

He called your name gently to you, almost in exacerbation, but your pace did not falter as you kept on, your strides quick and long until you reached the chambers. Your own hands pushing the doors open, not waiting for the knight as you stormed into the room. 

The doors crashed loudly against the walls behind as you moved straight to the far wall, filling a goblet with wine before drinking it, pacing in front of the fire angrily as you desperately tried to school your anger. 

‘Dracarys.’  Lucerys’ voice whispered in your head.

You let out a shaken breath, listening to the chamber doors shut behind you as you stopped to stare into the fire, watching the flames. Your chest rose and fell and the anger that you felt boiled you from within. It did not stop climbing the longer you stood there, the anger building, and building, and building, until all that could be heard was the blood rushing in your ears.

“Dracarys.” Lucerys’ voice got louder, and you scrunched your eyes shut, hands tightly in fists as you held your breath. 

You listened to Aemond’s slow, steady steps as he came towards you. His presence coming up from beside.

“Zaldristos.”

You opened your eyes and were met with Aemond’s face. He looked down his nose at you, not cruelly, but expressionless as he watched you react to his brothers mocking. You supposed that he took great pleasure in seeing you like this, and the room began to heat around you the longer you thought of it. Your nails dug sharply into your palms as you all but sneered up at your husband. You blinked, opening your mouth to snap, and that’s when you saw him. 

Lucerys stood behind Aemond, watching you.

His eyes and mouth were bloody, and his robes hung heavily from his body, drenched head to toe from rain. His dark brown brows were drawn into a frown as he looked at you. He looked so angry. So rageful, and yet there was sorrow in his eyes. You gaped in horror as you looked at him.

A product of the man in front of you. 

A small cry left your lips as you watched him sneer. It had been a while since you had seen him like this. So small, so bloody, so haunted. 

So horrifying.

“Dracarys.”

“Enough!” You yelled into the space, watching as Lucerys disappeared with a blink of an eye.

Aemond looked to the space behind him, to where Lucerys had once been, and then looked back at you, head tilted. You did not take your eyes from where Luc had been standing, terrified that he would appear there once again, bloodied from Vhagar’s crushing jaws.

You felt tears well up in your eyes as a sob fell from your lips.

You couldn’t do this anymore. 

You couldn’t do this. 

You couldn’t.

Aemond stepped forward towards you, hand reaching out to touch you softly. You jerked away, wrapping your hands around yourself as you moved back towards the fire, tearing your eyes away from where Luc had been and away from the form of your husband. 

“The Gods must surely hate me.” You uttered to yourself, “Is it not enough that I am married to you?”

You looked down at your hand, fingers trailing up and down the scar of your palm.

Scars that would never leave. 

A brother that would never come back.

“You mustn’t-“

“Nothing that you say will make this better.” You interrupted, losing yourself to the storm building inside, “Nothing that you will do, will make this more bearable.” 

You turned to face him, looking in his eye as you watched his face. His hand dropped back to his side.

“You took him from me. You took him, and he is never coming back.”

“And you took Daeron.” He said quietly, “He is never coming back.”

You sniffed and turned away looking back at the fire. Behind you, Aemond moved to the side of the room, pouring himself a goblet of wine, and refilling yours. He took deliberate steps towards you until he stood in front of you, handing you your wine. 

You took it with no argument.

Aemond seated himself in his usual seat, and looked at the flames, sipping from his goblet in thought. You stayed standing doing the same, desperately trying to calm your anger and sorrow, lest it break free, and you bear the consequences of it at the hands of your husband. 

Again.

When your cup was half drained, Aemond finally spoke. 

“Don’t let him see that he is under your skin. It will only get worse if you do.” His voice was flat, though something else lingered beneath it, “I learnt that giving Aegon joy from your misfortune only feeds his cruelty.”

You let yourself look at your uncle. 

He sat still, looking into the flames, cup to his lips. 

If anyone knew of Aegon’s cruelty, it would be him. 

You grew beside them both and watched how Aegon had picked on Aemond his whole childhood, even serving to mock him now. Aegon and your brothers had never once held back in their teasing, and you of all people, would know this. 

Aemond knew how Aegon’s mind worked. 

You would do well to heed his warning. 

“And you expect me to sit there and take it? To take his mocking of Lucerys? The both of yours?”

“Yes. Like the dutiful little wife you are.” Aemond let his eye meet yours, “Just as I have had to, all my life.” 

“Easier said than done. I have nothing. I have lost everything.”

A pause.

“Mm. It gets easier with practise.”

You watched Aemond’s profile as he stared into the fire. Your eyes traced the sharp line of his nose, to the soft curve of his plump lips, all the way down to his sharp chin and cheeks. His hair looked so soft to the touch, you almost wanted to run your fingers through it. 

Or yank it.

“Why did you stop him?” You asked.

Aemond’s brow furrowed.

“Why did you stop him in the Dungeons?” 

Aemond stood and walked towards you, towering over your form as you clutched tightly onto the goblet in your hand.

He looked down at you, face uncharacteristically gentle.

It set you on edge more than his anger did.

“Because you are mine. And so long as I have breath in my lungs, no-one will touch you but me.”

His smile was so soft that it did not match the meaning of his words. It made your skin prickle as he held your gaze. A small hum erupted from his chest as he brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. You stood still as his hand lingered, his fingers gently caressing the back of your ear before he turned on his foot to make his way towards the bed.

Aemond began to strip himself of his outer robes. The dark heavy leather tunic fell loudly to the floor in a pile, the buckles clinking against each other, similar to the sound of a sword, making you anxious. Next was his undershirt, a thin white tunic which he pulled gracefully over his head.

You watched as the skin of his back was revealed to you. 

You knew that Aemond was lean, but you did not expect to see the outline of his muscles stretching across his back with each movement.

You had not witnessed him undress before.

The low candlelight caught on his hair which shone in the darkness, as he reached at the back of his head with gentle and skilled fingers to undo his small, simple braids. His hair loosened, and the locks that were held in braids all day were now wavy, and fell to the front of his face.

Aemond bent to pick up the leather tunic and placed it on a chair on the side of the room, putting the thin white undershirt on top of it in a messy pile. He did not once turn to meet your gaze as you watched him. 

And you, much to your disgust, found that you could not help but admire the way that he was built. No more was he the gangly little boy you remembered. Aemond was now a tall and muscular, who if anybody else, would entice you into his waiting arms to warm his bed willingly.

But he was not anyone else. 

You felt a familiar tingle in your core as you watched him from across the chambers. Heat speed into your cheeks and settled into your stomach to which you pushed down in anger, finally tearing your eyes from the man to look back at the fire. 

Do not look at him.

The flames danced and swayed around each other, the red and yellow kissing one another as they devoured the logs within. Fire was a beauty all in its own, but one that devoured all in its path. You heard rustling behind you and the sound of a goblet being placed upon a table. A deep sigh flitted across the space of the chambers and you fought the urge to turn around and gaze upon your uncle. 

“The hour is late.” Aemond called across the room to you.

You did not answer.

“Come to bed.”

A command. 

You were stuck in your place, daring not to move. But even as you stood, you could not force yourself to walk across the room willingly. You could not move as you felt fear trickle into your pores at the thought of crawling into bed beside him.

Would he hurt you again?

“Zaldristos.” He called, his patience from the day finally running thin, and that was all it took for you to turn and slowly move towards the bed.

Every inch of your body fought you as you walked towards the bed, tearing your eyes away from the fire. Aemond lay beneath the sheets, propped up by one elbow as he looked at you. His chest was bared, and you could not stop your eyes from flitting down the toned lines of his stomach. A small trail of silver hair working its way down to his-

You looked away to the ground as you got closer, heat rising into your cheeks. Aemond continued to watch you in amusement as you moved across the chambers until finally, you wear but a mere three steps from the bed. 

His hand pulled the sheet from your side back, slowly, an offering for you to crawl into the vipers nest. To lay beside him. To not fight it.

To be a good wife and lay beside your husband and bend to his will.

You gawked at his hand before looking back at him. Your eyes flitted from his face to his shoulder. 

There, nestled between his neck and shoulder was a jagged scar. The flesh was puckered and pink, skin pulled taut around the length of it. It looked thick and deep, and had a strange texture around it, as though it had been cauterised. 

Perhaps it had been. 

It looked a lot larger than you had thought it would have been, and you felt the smallest hint of pride swell inside of you.

There was the proof of your attack. 

The proof of your fire.

The skin looked sore, as though it would have been a difficult place to heal for him, especially with his love for the training yard. The scar was so close to where you had intended, that even the slightest movement of your hands, or his reaction being too slow, would have been fatal. You would have nicked the thick artery right at his neck, and Aemond would have bled out in a pool of his own blood, watched on in horror by his mother and knight.  

A shame you had missed. 

But mixed with this sense of pride, and disappointment of not doing greater harm, there was a quiet voice, lingering in the back of your head. A tiny, stinging pain that rose in your heart that you would not have noticed if it wasn’t for the turmoil that had began to build.

There, deep within you, was regret.

And right beside it sorrow for the damage and pain you had caused.

Was it your inner child that still held onto hope for a better future with him?

Or were you simply reminded that this was your uncle, sins or not, and that you had shared a youth together, and grown together, and had bonded together more fiercely than you had with your own siblings.

Aemond felt you observing where you had stabbed him and he let out a grunt, letting his arm slide beneath him as he laid down onto the pillow to look at you. You moved to crawl into the bed beside him, still in your dress, but his face stopped you in your tracks. 

“Undress.” Was all he said.

Your heart raced away in your chest as you turned away from him, reaching behind you to pull at the laces to loosen the gown and let it slip from your form. But the laces were too high, and each time you made to grasp the thread to unknot it, it would slip from your fingertips. 

You arms ached as you struggled with it until finally you felt the cool press of fingers at your back, goosebumps erupting around the skin as Aemond grasped the ties away from your feeble hands, pulling them with skilled practise away from your body. The dress sagged in your hold as you heard Aemond settle back into your shared bed. 

Letting a held breath pass from your lips, you let go of the gown at your front and let it drop to the floor, leaving you in your thin chemise beside the bed. As soon as the gown hit the floor you crawled into the bed beside him, racing to pull the sheets up to your shoulders before rolling onto your side, not sparing him a glance. 

Aemond huffed a small laugh and rolled away from you. 

You could feel the heat radiating from his body as you laid stiffly on your side.

Why had he not touched you? 

Was he waiting for you to let down your guard?

“Sleep well.” Came his voice from behind you, and you locked your hands tighter around the sheet.

But Aemond did not move once from his position, nor did he move closer to you, nor did a hand snake around your front to caress you. You laid beside him, as he blew out the candle on his side of the bed, and you uneasily did the same. A darkness eventually shrouded the room as the fire dwindled, and you listened to the steady, even breaths of Aemond as he fell asleep. 

Once you had realised that he was sleeping, you found that you could finally relax, drifting off into a dreamless sleep, your body finally giving in to the fatigue that had plagued you since your arrival.

You sunk into the clouded depths, your body so wound up that finally, it let go of everything around you. You did not dream, instead you floated in a state of nothing for some time. Sleep was the only place where you could escape the world around you, and not be present.

It was a peaceful and a reprieve from all.

A break from the horrors of your life.

But then you began to rise from those murky depths, a familiar tickle in your stomach growing with every passing moment. Your mind did not want to rise from its sleep, and so you were sitting in a limbo of half awareness. 

Aware that there was movement behind you, but no desire to break forth from your sleep to the present. But then the familiar tickle grew stronger, and you found yourself rising from your slumber, pleasure being plucked from your core with soft care. 

A sleepy moan escaped your lips as you wriggled, mind still not caught up to what was happening, brain foggy from the depths of your sleep. Fingers swirled gently around your bud, aided by the slick from your core, pulling pleasure from you steadily. 

Another breathy moan escaped you. 

Was this a dream?

You felt movement against your back, something hard rubbing against your cheeks in the bed, whilst hot breath fanned across your neck. A soft hum came from behind and you were suddenly snapped to the present.

Your eyes flicked open.

Aemond’s fingers softly rubbed your bud in circles, dipping down to your entrance to scoop up the slick your body made, as he dragged it back up to your pleasure centre, your core clenching around nothing. His touch was so soft and gentle, almost as though he was desperate to not wake you.

You body was hot and the coil inside of you was already wound tight from his ministrations. How long had he been touching you? Fear and disgust trickled down into you as you thrusted your hips backwards, desperate to escape his hand and their featherlike touch. Your ass ground against his hard, heavy member, which slipped between your thighs at the movement.

You froze.

His length brushed against your folds, sending a shooting heat up into your core.

The One-Eyed Prince continued his fingers swirling, his hips staying still as his cock was nestled between your thighs, pressed against your cunt, until they dipped back down to your entrance, a long thick finger pushing inside of you. A squeak escaped your lips and a blush rose on your cheeks. 

It shouldn’t feel good.

Why did it feel so good?

Aemond rubbed his finger inside of you, up against the soft spongey spot of your core. It happened so quickly that your release came from nowhere, blinding white hot pleasure coursed through you as you let out a breathless gasp, writhing in his grip. Your movements caused the tip of his cock to bump into his own hand between your folds.

His finger did not stop their movements, and instead you were met with a second, pushing into your heat, a dull stinging as they stretched you, pushing you through your pleasure, prolonging your release. Your hand came down to grasp his wrist squeezing it tightly, trying to pull it from within you as he scissored his digits within. 

It was too much. 

You were too sensitive.

A sob flew from your lips as you dug your nails into his hand, trying to tear his fingers out from within you. Aemond slowly pulled his fingers from within, leaving a wet trail along your inner thighs from your release and you twitched in his hold.

Your breathing slowly began to come down as your core fluttered around nothing.

Yet those fingers that were inside of you, were soon replaced with the thick head of your uncles cock, rubbing through your release-slick folds as he thrusted slowly from behind. You froze completely once you felt it, hand still gripping onto his wrist for dear life as he rocked back and forth, breathy moan falling from his lips into the side of your neck.

Your eyes welled with tears as you laid there, unable to do anything. 

You could not stop him. 

His hand parted your folds with great care as he rubbed himself against your centre, tip catching on your entrance as he slowly worked his way inside with, gentle, shallow thrusts, stretching you out as he gave you time to adjust to his length. 

He was only half way inside of you when you felt the burning stretch of his intrusion, though lesser than the first time. Your core clenched around him in pain as fear began to bloom. An uneasy whimper flitted past your lips, making Aemond bring a slick finger back up to your bud, gently drawing circles as he pushed himself fully inside of you. 

"Shhh." He cooed.

You silently cried out, feeling the head of his cock push up against your cervix. Aemond groaned behind you as he adjusted his hips, stilling inside of you as his finger continued to swirl around your pearl. Your core clenched around him as he began to pluck painful pleasure from you, feeling you slicken his length and slowly relax around him. 

Aemond stayed inside of you, feeling your heat flutter around his cock until finally he pulled back slowly, placing a small kiss against the side of your neck as he pushed his hips back into your heat, relishing in the warm, wet pleasure that you brought him. 

"Doing so good for me." He praised.

You clenched around him at the praise, a tiny moan escaping your lips. His finger on your pearl brought you close to another release, your hips squirming in his hold to try and chase it. Which horrified you all the more. 

Why did it feel so good?

You laid on your side as Aemond began to thrust into you, dragging his length through your folds, letting you feel each and every inch of him as he continued to draw pleasure from you with his fingers. He felt so large, and it stretched you deep within. With every slow push, you would swear that you could feel him in your stomach, the flesh bulging from his length. 

Tears welled in your eyes as you laid there.

This was so wrong.

It was so wrong.

Why did it have to feel this way?

Why was he being so gentle? 

Why was he bringing you pleasure?

Tears began to fall from your cheeks and onto the pillow below as he sped up his thrusts, the tip of his cock pressing sharply into your cervix with every thrust. He moaned from behind you as you felt his other hand wrap from underneath you, coming to rest on your lower stomach. 

Aemond pressed down onto your belly as he thrusted, amplifying your pleasure. It tightened everything and heightened your pleasure. You whimpered loudly in his hold. He felt so deep.

“Fuck, Zaldristos.” He moaned from behind, feeling your stomach bulge with every thrust of his cock. 

It made you feel ill, and so more tears fell from your eyes as you silently cried.

But then the coil began to tighten again, and your cunt gripped his shaft tighter with every thrust and roll of his fingers. When Aemond felt you begin to reach your peach, core clenching tighter against him, his hand pressed harder into your stomach, thrusting his hips into you harder. 

Aemond's fingers swirled around your slick bud quickly, and the lewd sound of your wetness and his hurried thrusts filled the chambers. He pushed into you harder, his tip digging painfully into the end of your core as he beat against it with no care. 

The hand on your stomach wound up your body as he continued, coming to palm your breast, rolling a pert nipple in his fingers. Your hips reflexively jerked backwards, his cock rubbing against the rough patch within you, causing the coil to snap once more, and your release flooding through your body. A broken moan falling from your lips

You jerked in his hold as he sped up thrusts, feeling you clench down on him tightly.

“Thats it. Good girl.” He murmured into your neck, placing a wet kiss on the skin as he continued to rub at your pearl, fucking you through your climax as your release coated his cock and your thighs.

More tears fell from your cheeks as he continued, his pace becoming rougher, seeking out his own peak. His hand left your breast, moving up to hold your neck, roughly squeezing it as his other hand finally left your bud, and gripped your hip viciously as he fucked himself into you. 

“So perfect. Always so perfect.” He moaned.

An airy squeak left your lips as he choked you, breathing restricted from his hand, each thrust punching up into you painfully after two releases, the overstimulation making you tense in his arms, but Aemond did not stop.

“So pretty." He grunted from behind, “Īlē vēttan syt nyke.” You were made for me.

His hand left your throat and moved higher, coming to grab your cheeks with his large palm, faltering as they felt the tears that flowed down them. As Aemond felt you crying, a feral growl came from his chest as he thrusted one final time, deep inside of you, pressing the tip of his cock up against your cervix as he came undone.

Aemond moaned behind you as he held your face, feeling the tears roll over his fingers as hot ropes of his spend painted your walls, tightly pressed against your womb. A broken sob left your lips as you felt the warmth of his cum flooding you.

Your core clenched painful around him from the aftershocks of your release, and you heard him grunt from behind you. Aemond sat pressed up inside your heat as he slowly softened in your walls, listening to you silently cry in front of him. His fingers on your cheeks rubbed against you, smearing the tears into your skin. 

You tried to roll away from him, to remove him from inside of you, but as soon as you moved, Aemond’s grip on your hip moved to your waist, pulling you closer to him in an iron grip to keep you were you were. 

Your stomach flipped as the glow of your release left, and shame and disgust crowded you. 

How could you have enjoyed that?

Why did you let him touch you like that?

Aemond stayed snugly inside of you until he fully softened, pulling out of your cunt slowly, as you felt his release leak from between your folds and down onto the sheets below. A hand came to brush against your core, gentle fingers prodding at your entrance, feeling where his spend had begun to leak from you. Another sob fell from your lips. His finger moved back up to your bud, attempting to press down on it again, and you jerked away with a pained yelp.

Only then did Aemond release his grip from you. 

Only then did the heat of his body move away from behind you, leaving your back cold and no longer smothered from the heat of his body.

Only then, once you had jerked yourself from his grip, did he roll over back to his side of the bed and fall easily to sleep, leaving you to bask in the horror of his assault once again. But this time your body felt heavy, and your eyes slide shut.

Exhaustion consumed you as you cried until you could not cry no more, silently beside your husband. The room was still dark, the fireplace was mere embers, and soon your body was dragged back down into the dreamless depths you had let consume you before.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint

Bold is who I cannot tag!

[just-some-random-blogger]

A boyband has taken Westeros by storm with their rock music and ironed suits. This group was borne from the music composed by Gwayne Hightower during his time studying Law at Citadel University, where he would go on to met Criston Cole. The two would proceed to play gigs together and gain notoriety in the alt scene of their city namesake. They would both eventually drop out and pursue Music Production at the Univeristy of King's Landing, where they then would be joined by brothers Aegon and Aemond Targaryen, Hightower's cousins, thus forming Oldtown.

Oldtown Masterlist & Playlist

Rockstar AU Lineup: Gwayne Hightower on Vocals & Guitar, Aemond Targaryen on Guitar & Keys, Criston Cole on Bass, Aegon Targaryen on Drums.

[brain rot post that started this all]

[Fake Album Art] | [Fake Instagrams]

Why Not Me? | Gwayne x Reader

Love is beautiful. Love is lovely. But to you, love is a form of self-harm.

☹ [Teaser] ☹ [Chapter I] ☹ [Chapter II] ☹

[caw4brandon]

The Power of Stop-Motion

Media in today's standard is quick and easy. Rarely is a show more than 2 hours long or 13-epiodes per-season. With that, animated movies are a lot slower than the typical films.

There is a discussion on if animation is suitable for film purposes and while it is often shunned by the Golden Globes or the Oscars or other awards. The very few outliers can prove these awards and the world very wrong.

But that is not what we will be talking about today. Because while animation is popular, there is a dark horse among its sphere. One with a rich history and strong filmography that should be shared. Let's talk about;

- Have I possibly gone daffy? -

Stop-motion is a film making style that compiles multiple still images of an object being physically manipulated in small movements into one whole scene.

Majority of Stop-motion films and videos use [Clay Animation] or [Paper Animation] with several more varieties of new innovations emerging under the umbrella of stop-motion. The most popular of them in the modern era towards kids is [Lego animation] which is the manipulation of Lego models in motion.

The earliest trace of Stop-motion in films is the 1898 short [The Humpty Dumpty Circus] by Albert E. Smith and James Stuart Blackton which is said to be a lost media. To compensate, please watch [A Tribute to Stop Motion]

In its early concept, Stop-motion was used as a method to create impossible things or do practical effects under budget constrains. Such as the iconic King Kong scene at the Empire State building. Since then, Stop-motion has evolved into a full production industry. From Indies; [Righteous Robot] to Juggernauts; [Laika Studios]

- Shimmer a Little at The Edges -

Unconventional media such as stop-motion is often not a style suited for every story. Its a rather expensive type of media that requires worthy innovations top break the niche barrier. Just looking at Laika Studios alone, we see that they've develop a lot of interesting ways to improve visual effects while staying to their stop-motion roots.

One perfect example is seen in < Kubo and the Two Strings > where the animators need to create water in a still image world that feels natural. [A Perfect Storm] one other part of the stop-motion puzzle is the iron-willed discipline it to conceptualize, animate and edit a production that can take about 3 to 5 years to complete. More so of a time frame than a normal film.

This difficult curve lead to budgeted methods such as using models that already exist to tell new stories. Such as; Legos or with crude multi-jointed figures of existing characters. [MOONSHINE]

While I may say its crude, the low budget production is the selling point. Assisted with sound bites taken from gaming sessions or from shows featuring a lot of inside jokes and memes. Also, its hilarious to see a Teletubby turned into a Eldritch monster.

These attempts to make stop-motion productions accessible has captured the attention of other like-minded channels to collaborate and elevate one another. [ERB: Harry Potter vs Luke Skywalker]

- For Better Tomorrows -

With all that is said, what is the power of stop-motion? As a media that is tediously overlapping across processes. What are the better tomorrows for our inanimate subjects?

I like to think, that as filmmaking grows. Stop-motion will continue to remain as a sacred tug against live action films and traditional animation. It can be used to tell complicated stories with concepts that may look strange if its adapted in a live action.

As I have mentioned in [The Beautiful World of Hilda] animation's greatest strength is simplification. Stop-motion takes the opposite side of that philosophy.

Its a higher level of world building of the materials with willingness to accept mistakes and ruggedness that gives them that little flavor of life. As an actual touchable thing, the various cartoonish styles can take on a whole new dimension to heighten the style and give it that detail that is less polished.

Stop-motion shows that filmmaking magic can still exist despite already knowing the tricks. Its a media where every frame shown has a significant purpose that invokes a specific flow. That's the power of stop-motion.

[holycatsandrabbits]

Three Ways to Practice Writing Without Writing

Writers need two things to produce a work: motivation and time. There are sweet blessed moments when we have both, and then those times we’ve only got one. What to do then? Write without writing. 

Case #1: Time and no motivation

Writers need to take breaks. Writers hate to take breaks. It’s like we think taking time off means moving backwards, rather than practicing necessary self-care. If you’re having trouble resting, you might try this writing-adjacent activity: murder. Well, the fictional kind.

A murder mystery party is where you have all your friends over for dinner (or video chat), and along with the pizza, you serve up a whodunit. Writing a game is a great way to practice your creative skills and entertain an audience, without staring at a blank page, muttering incantations to make a short story appear. There are lots of free resources online to help you craft a case, from characters to clues, and anyway, who hasn’t wanted to blame a friend for murder? Right?

Case #2: Motivation and no time

Whether it’s deadlines at work, final exams, kids’ soccer games, or spring cleaning, real life can eat up your time off. In that case, you can play a mental game called What If?

Stephen King was inspired to write his novella The Mist after visiting a grocery store during a storm and imagining an attack by monsters. Because of course he did. But next time you’re in the checkout line, ask yourself this: What is the weirdest thing that could happen right now? Bananas bursting into flames? 100 strangers throwing you a surprise birthday party? Everyone suddenly speaking different languages? Now, what could cause such a strange thing to happen?

Or say you’re on your commute to work or school. Ask yourself, How would this be different if we were on another planet? Would public transit be seats on the back of a giant highway-going serpent? Might there be sentient stop lights who attack if you turn left on red? What if you could hire a quintet of tiny aliens to sit in the backseat and provide live music for your drive?

Playing What If  is a great way to practice creative skills when you can’t be decomposing at your computer. Just remember not to jot down ideas while you’re driving.

Bonus Case: You want to practice

Writing exercises are a fun way to sharpen your skills when you’re not writing anything in particular. You can find lists of these online, and here are a few of mine that use a photograph of scenery.

For practicing tone: Look at the photograph and think of 10 descriptive words, like cloudy, swampy, wintery, etc. Now imagine the photo is the first shot of a horror movie. Think of 10 creepy descriptive words. Now imagine it’s part of a rom-com and think of 10 sweet and upbeat descriptive words. And so on.

For practicing character development: Imagine a character of whatever description you like. This scenery is their workplace. What do they do? How do they feel about it? How did they end up with this job? Now imagine a character who has a recurring dream about this scenery. What does the dream mean? How will they find out? Then imagine a character who makes this place their home. Where do they live? Is it a hidden home or easily found? What do they eat? And so on.

For practicing action writing: Imagine two characters at one edge of your photograph. They’re in a race to get to the other edge, across whatever landscape you’ve got. Describe who wins and how. Now imagine they’re fighting from one edge to another. Then have them dancing, sneaking, or whatever you like.

Thanks for reading! Remember, you’re a writer if you write, even if it’s just in your head, even if it’s just sometimes. You are not your production. You are your creative spark.

This article was first published on my writing blog

DannyeChase.com ~ AO3 ~ Linktree ~ Weird Wednesday writing prompts blog ~ Resources for Writers

Image credit

[fdelopera]

Welcome to the 19th installment of 15 Weeks of Phantom, where I post all 68 sections of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, as they were first printed in Le Gaulois newspaper 115 yeas ago.

In today’s installment, we have Part III of Chapter 8, “Où MM. Firmin Richard et Armand Moncharmin ont l’audace de faire représenter « Faust » dans une salle « maudite » et de l’effroyable événement qui en résulta” (“Where MM. Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin Have the Audacity to Have ‘Faust’ Performed in a ‘Cursed’ House and the Horrifying Event Which Thereby Ensued”).

This section was first printed on Friday, 22 October, 1909.

For anyone following along in David Coward's translation of the First Edition of Phantom of the Opera (either in paperback, or Kindle, or from another vendor -- the ISBN-13 is: 978-0199694570), the text starts in Chapter 8 at, “Moncharmin, ever a man for a joke, said, ‘Actually, quite a good house for a theatre which has a curse on it!'” and goes to Chapter 8, “But a few, who seemed slightly better informed, agreed that 'they'd kick up a storm' at the start of the ballad of the King of Thule, and hurried off to the subscribers' door to tell La Carlotta.”

Please note, however, that a large portion of this section was omitted from Leroux’s First Edition.

There are some significant differences between the Gaulois text and the First Edition. In this section, these include (highlighted in red above):

1) This section in the Gaulois was sadly cut from the First Edition:

The Persian was a living enigma who was beginning to annoy Paris. He spoke to no one. He never smiled. He seemed to love music since he attended all of the musical productions, and yet he was not enthusiastic, he did not applaud, and he never became impassioned.

Here is how M. A.D…, a former journalist who had been the Opéra’s secretary, spoke of the Persian:* “For many years, he has been sneaking his way through our Parisian lives, always alone, always silent, but loving and seeking out the crowds, displaying in broad daylight and by lamplight a stone-faced countenance and a slightly hesitant gait, and well, appearing at every performance with his perpetual attire, a Persian hat and a great, black houppelande coat,** in the sleeves of which he continuously wrings his unceasingly nervous hands.”

That evening, like every evening, our Persian was thus dressed in Persian attire; but the new Ambassador of Persia himself was dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, and there was nothing surprising about this, since he had come directly from London.

The seat occupied by the Persian was located right below the Ambassador’s box. At the close of the curtain, the Persian rose and remained standing, turning his back to the box. But certainly he would soon turn around, and the Ambassador would see him. What would he do? Would he recognize him? Was there even anyone in Persia who knew the Persian? There were those who said that he was a very important figure; well, they were going to see!

They saw nothing at all. M. Moncharmin relates in his Memoirs that the Persian appeared before the Ambassador of Persia without even acknowledging him and that there was in the demeanor of the former more aloofness and quiet disdain than usual. In this regard, M. Moncharmin writes that the Persian was one of the most handsome men that one could see, “of average height, with even features, an expressive and masculine face etched with a profound melancholy, with black eyes*** that are intense and sad, a jet black beard, and an amber colored complexion made golden by the sunlight of the Orient.” M. Moncharmin recounts that when the public’s attention turned to the Persian, one heard in the house the discrete sound of rattling keys. The spectators were wary of the “evil eye.” And he says nothing more about that incident.

When the Managers were once again alone in their box, M. Moncharmin said to M. Richard, still with a light-hearted air: (this is where the First Edition picks back up)

*NOTE: As revealed by Raj Shah in his article, “No Ordinary Skeleton" (read more about his research here), "M. A.D…" was M. Adolphe Dupeuty. He described a real incident which happened at the old Opéra Le Peletier in 1857, in which the Persian Ambassador attended a performance at which the "Persian" (Mohammed Ismaël Khan) was also present. This article was published in "La Vie parisienne à travers le XIXe siècle: Paris de 1800 à 1900 d’après les estampes et les mémoires du temps,” edited by Charles Simond.

In his “factional” style (fact+fiction), Leroux “borrowed” heavily from this article in writing his fictional account of the Persian and the Persian Ambassador. The quote from “M. A.D.” was taken verbatim from Dupeuty’s article.

**NOTE: This image below possibly depicts the outfit that Dupeuty was describing, and that Leroux copied into Le Fantôme de l'Opéra (Leroux described the Persian wearing a houppelande and an Astrakhan cap in his narrative).

This image is from Les Célébrités de la rue, by Charles Yriarte, published in 1864, a book that listed notable figures in Paris in the early to mid 1800s. It was published seven years after the incident described in Dupeuty's article, and so is reasonably contemporary with his account. It was also published during Mohammed Ismaël Khan's lifetime, as M. Khan passed away in 1868.

It is worth noting that the Opera House that M. Khan frequented was the Salle Le Peletier, which was destroyed in a fire in 1873 (five years after M. Khan's death). Two years later in 1875, the Paris Opera was moved to the newly opened Palais Garnier (aka Erik's Opera House). So, M. Khan never actually frequented the Palais Garnier, contrary to what Leroux depicts in Le Fantôme de l'Opéra.

***NOTE: Throughout the rest of the narrative, the Persian’s eyes are described as being “jade” rather than black. This was a case of internal inconsistency. In the Gaulois text of the chapter, "The Vicomte and the Persian" (as well as in the First Edition), Leroux described that the Persian had ebony skin and jade-green eyes (instead of bronze-colored skin and black eyes).

It is also worthy of note that the Persian as a character is an example of Lerouxian trope subversion. The Daroga is a foreigner and an outcast. The Parisian operagoers make no attempt at hiding their prejudice against him. And yet he is one of the heroes of Leroux’s novel, and he puts his life on the line to save the very Tout-Paris who rattle their keychains at him.

2) This sentence was cut from the First Edition:

Yes, this was the appointed replacement for the old madwoman, and with her in place, they would see if Box 5 continued to cause a sensation.

3) These paragraphs were cut from the First Edition:

None of the sounds of the sort that are heard at séances and which, as everyone knows, are generally attributed to interference from the beyond, resounded against or within the partition walls, the ceiling, or the floor; the chair upon which Richard was sitting behaved itself in the most admirable way possible, and the voice, the notorious voice, still remained silent.

The Managers were busy noting this, when the door of their box was abruptly flung open by the panic-stricken stage manager.

4) This sentence was cut from the First Edition:

They would see to this in a little while.

5) Sadly, this section in the Gaulois was cut from the First Edition, and replaced with a brief summary:

At this time, MM. Moncharmin and Richard descended from their box. The wings were already overrun. Having arrived on the stage, they headed immediately to the right, towards La Carlotta’s dressing room, whose windows overlooked the administrative courtyard. They then ran into La Sorelli, who was rushing to see the Comte de Chagny before he returned to his box.

They gestured to her, which she understood, for she straightaway left the Comte and came over to the two Managers who begged her to discretely ask the Comte about what might be the basis of the rumors of a cabal organized against La Carlotta.

While they awaited La Sorelli’s reply, they entered La Carlotta’s dressing room. The room was full of friends and comrades, and high above all the various conversations, one could hear the singer’s voice, which proclaimed a thousand threats against La Daaé.

Of Spanish origin, La Carlotta had retained an accent of a very particular flavor, and when some excessive emotion, like anger, hurried her speech, she expressed herself in such a way that it was difficult for those listening to refrain from smiling. And so despite the gravity of the situation, there were many smiles that evening in La Carlotta’s dressing room.

The two Managers approached the singer, who was in the process of placing upon her magnificent tresses, blacker than the night, another no less magnificent coiffure, paler blonde than the dawn’s first light. It was the wig with two thick plaits worn by the gentle Marguerite. The twinkling of La Carlotta’s jet black eyes stood out even more within this golden frame. She rose when she saw “these gentlemen,” and placing a hand upon her heart, she professed her sincerest feelings to the new management so passionately that certainly MM. Moncharmin and Richard would have been moved to tears if they had been able to understand a word of that astounding gibberish. Finally, she handed them a piece of paper whose writing in red ink had the effect of thoroughly commanding the interest of the two Managers. They had no difficulty recognizing it.

6) Minor differences in punctuation and capitalization.

Click here to see the entire edition of Le Gaulois from 22 October, 1909. This link brings you to page 3 of the newspaper — Le Fantôme is at the bottom of the page in the feuilleton section. Click on the arrow buttons at the bottom of the screen to turn the pages of the newspaper, and click on the Zoom button at the bottom left to magnify the text.