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hairmetal666 · 5 months ago

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No one knows who writes the Hawkins High Tattler. It comes out every week, without fail, has for almost two decades. Everyone reads it, even teachers, even parents. It's caused more the one suspension, grounding, and even--famously--a shipping off to boarding school.

Steve's never let the Tattler get to him much. He's in it, of course, practically a new story every week. But it's just silly gossip.

Of course, Steve is also, currently, the titular Tattler, so. It's not like he's surprised when his name shows up.

It's his third year, his last year, and he knows everything that ever goes on at Hawkins High. It's pretty easy, honestly. Everyone thinks he's ditzy and vapid; nothing more than hairspray and polos. People will say anything around him, assuming he's not listening or not interested, and then bam. It's in next week's Tattler. No one even suspects him.

The confessions locker probably helps. Down by the theater, busted and unusable, the perfect place for people to leave tips, to tattle on their friends (or enemies, as the case may be).

That's what he's doing right now, checking the confessions locker. After 9:30 on a Friday night, the place silent as the tomb, perfect time for it. Pretty standard fare this week. The only thing of interest is that Eddie Munson was the person who broke all Ms. Click's pencils and left the stubs on her desk. This one, he laughs at, can't wait to publish it; can't wait to talk to Munson about it.

He gets a lot of stuff about Eddie. Most of it he doesn't publish because it's bullshit about satanic rituals--the nerdy kids he babysits play dnd, and there's no way Karen Wheeler is letting anything satanic happen in her basement--or about his sexuality, and one thing Steve doesn't do is out people.

Gathering up this week's submissions, he closes the locker with a soft clink, and he swears, swears he hears the squeak of a tennis shoe on the polished tile of the floor. He freezes, heart in his throat. Nobody has been here this late before.

Seconds pass but there's only silence. Confident he's only hearing things, he heads out, the parking lot just as empty as when he arrived.

---

He sees Eddie a few days later, when he's picking up the kids from the arcade. They typically exchange casual greetings, but as Steve waits, Eddie stands with him, offers him a cigarette.

"Read that was you who messed with Click's pencils. Good one."

Eddie shrugs, gives a little bow and a smile. "Happy to be of service."

"It was my class, when she found them. Never seen her so mad."

"No way," Eddie laughs. "Not even when Hagan drew dicks on all the textbooks?"

"Not even then, man. She was throwing pencil stubs everywhere."

"Fuck, sad I missed it." Eddie takes a drag, Steve's eyes following the movement, lingering on his mouth. Something warm and tingling builds at the base of his spine and he forces his gaze away.

"How long you in detention for?"

"I'm not. Swore it wasn't me, and Click doesn't want to admit she reads the Tattler, so. Not much they could do. "

"I've seen it sitting on her desk!"

"I know! She reads it when she has detention duty!"

They lean against Steve's car, laughing, and Steve feels good. This is good. He likes Eddie. He's funny and dramatic and smart and kind. He's not deserving of any of the mean things that get submitted to the Tattler.

The kids come streaming into the parking lot then, and Eddie stubs out his cigarette, says "see you around, Harrington," and Steve finds himself flushing for reasons he can't quite explain.

---

He starts seeing Eddie around way more. He's in school most days, smoking in the parking lot after the last bell, chatting with Steve in the hallways.

It shows up in the Tattler; big news that the King and the Freak are hanging out. Most of the submissions are about it, increasingly elaborate rumors about their supposedly deep, close friendship.

He wishes he could tell Eddie.

Eventually, Eddie invites him to smoke at the quarry. He doesn't hesitate to say yes, doesn't even bother to try ignoring the swoop in his stomach, the speed of his heart.

They sprawl out in the back of the van, Eddie's loud, raucous music pounding around them, sharing a joint back and forth.

Steve gets hazy, boneless, can't stop watching Eddie, the way his lips purse around the joint, his long hair glinting gold in the weak light of the camping lanterns, the pleased shine of his eyes every time he makes Steve laughs.

He likes Eddie so much. Everything about him, honestly. Butterflies ping in his stomach, happy and slow, and he thinks how nice Eddie's lips are, wonders how soft they must be. And he thinks--he's read the submissions, right--he knows the things they say about Eddie, and he wishes it was true, he wants--he wants--

He wants

---

Steve's running late to check the locker. Lost track of time at the diner with Eddie, and it's making him panic.

He stuffs the submissions haphazardly into the pocket of his hoodie, dancing with nerves, willing himself to grab them all and get out.

Locker emptied, he sprints towards the exit. He has a second to process someone barreling towards him in the dark, but he's going too fast to stop, can only brace himself as they collide.

It sends him sliding across the floor, Tattler submissions spilling out of his pocket like snow. He hits the ground, scrabbling for the papers, praying that whoever is here with him can't see them in the low light.

Hands grips his biceps. "Stevie, Steve, we have to get out of here" and there's a second where he's comforted by the familiar rasp of Eddie's voice before terror spikes again.

He pulls himself from Eddie's grasp, searching for any dropped submissions in easy reach. "Wha--why--what's--"

"I ran into Jason Carver and his band of idiots at the gas station. They're on their way to here to try to catch the Tattler in action."

Steve freezes. "I don't--that's not--I--"

In the deep silence of the empty school, they both hear the slamming of a door, a bitten off giggle. Eddie grabs his wrist and they run. Into the theater room, through a door Steve didn't know existed, to the backstage area of the auditorium.

"You should be safe here," Eddie says.

Panic spirals through him. "I can explain. I was just--I forgot a--I needed--"

"Harrington! I know, okay? I already know."

Steve can only blink at him, swallows rough in his throat. "What--Eddie, I--"

"I saw you. Weeks ago. Forgot my notebook in the theater room after Hellfire and had to run back for it. You were there, at the locker."

"You can't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to."

"No, Munson, you really can't. Nobody can know. Nobody--"

"Swe--Stevie, I promise. The secret's safe with me." He rocks back on his heels, chewing on his lip for a second before he continues. " I--I couldn't figure you out, you know? I saw you around with those kids and it didn't make any sense. King Steve, babysitting tiny nerds? But I saw you at the locker and..."

"You're giving me too much credit, man."

"I don't think so. You're never--fuck, Harrington--you're never mean. At least, not in the last couple years. You spread gossip, but you don't punch down, and you're funny as hell. Mean as shit too, but only to the people who deserve it."

His ears burn and he looks down. "Just because I have fucking--fucking editorial standards doesn't mean that I'm anything special."

Eddie scoffs. "Remember, Stevie, I was reading it a year before you were here. Cruel, vapid garbage. Always the most vile, pointless stories about people who couldn't defend themselves. And how many submissions have you gotten about me, for instance, that you've never used?"

Steve clenches his fists. "I would never--"

"I know. Sweetheart, I know. That's why I li--You're so fucking good, Stevie."

He laughs, ears burning. "I'm really not, Eddie. I try to write about fun gossip that can't hurt anyone too much, and nobody's found me out because they think I'm too dumb--"

Eddie reaches out then, fingers connecting softly with the edge of Steve's jaw. He can't help but lean into the touch, eyes flickering closed.

"You don't want to hurt people because you're fucking kind. You know how I know for sure? You must get submissions every week about me, and you've never once printed that I'm--" Eddie stops then, swallowing hard.

Steve's throat goes tight. He rests his hand over Eddie's, still holding his face. "Me too," he whispers. "Kind of. I like--it's both. For me."

"Oh," Eddie breathes, mouth lifting in a bright, beautiful smile that Steve can't help but return.

He's watching, sees when Eddie's gaze drifts his lips, making his breath hitch. He doesn't really think about closing the distance between them, slotting their mouths together in a tentative, gentle kiss.

"You're just full of surprises aren't you, Steve Harrington? Eddie asks when they part.

Steve blushes. "That's sort of the last of them."

"Sure. Next you'll be telling me you've played dnd."

"I have a character."

"What???"

"Human paladin. Dustin worked on it with me. Ready to get out of here?"

"Human paladin," Eddie gapes. "You know--you said--what's happening?"

Steve twines their fingers together, leading Eddie towards the auditorium exit. "Well, first we're going to walk out to my car and then we're going to my house, and we're going to look through Tattler submissions. Maybe makeout a little bit."

Eddie giggles. "What the fuck? Like. What the fuck, sweetheart?"

He turns to face Eddie, smile big and pure and bright with happiness. "If you're really nice to me, I'll let you help write this week's issue."

"Oh, oh. You're going to wreck me." Eddie mumbles, almost to himself.

"If you're lucky." Steve beams.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #fluff #friends to lovers #secret identity #gossip column #first kiss #getting together #steve harrington writes a gossip column #steve harrington is lady whistledown #eddie discovers steve's secret identity #they makeout about it #obviously erica becomes the tattler when she gets to high school. obviously

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swordgrace · 5 months ago

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𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘.

༺ aemond targaryen x fem!reader.

SYNOPSIS: in the aftermath of rook’s rest, you seek aemond out to inquire about his wellbeing. instead, you find him somewhere else — somewhere unexpected. (set after S2 EP4).

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 5.2K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni) , spoilers for s2 ep4, public sex / risk of getting caught, knifeplay, imbalance of power, rough sex, darkish!aemond, dom!aemond, p in v sex (unprotected), oral (f!receiving), fingering, brief tiddy sucking, groping, biting / marking, hair pulling, choking, fucking right in front of the iron throne, inaccurate high valyrian, brief dirty talk, lots of aemond’s inner thoughts, breeding kink if you squint, aemond is extremely possessive of the reader to an unhealthy degree.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: to preface, I am working on requests, this just happened to make its way out of my brain before anything else did. This was inspired by the single shot of Aemond standing in front of the Iron Throne in the S2 EP5 trailer, you can tell how desperate I got as soon as I saw it. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! There will be a Jace fic dropping tomorrow, too! ❤️

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐄 — a seat of power constructed by Aegon the Conqueror in the aftermath of a bloodied war, forged from thousands of surrendered swords.

In the days of Aegon the Conqueror, it was said that the Throne was sometimes too high to climb, a jagged labyrinth of blades melded by dragon’s fire, a throne fit for any ruler. Men impaled themselves upon one another’s blades for it, turned against one another, endless betrayals and treacheries ensued all for the sake of the endgame, to see themselves upon the Throne.

Brother turned against brother — you didn’t expect anything less from Aemond, whose desire to exact revenge boiled just beneath the surface. The Battle at Rook’s Rest had proved a slaughter on all fronts, between the decimation of both Cole’s armies and the castle they laid siege upon, to the death of the Princess Rhaenys and her dragon, Melys.

Whispers spread through the Red Keep in regards to King Aegon’s condition, bones crushed beneath the weight of Sunfyre, who plummeted from the skies in a ball of fire. His flesh was scorched, half of his body melded to the Valyrian Steel armor he wore, burnt beyond recognition.

If they were to be believed, King Aegon was gravely wounded — and if a fatality ensued, who would then bear the mantle of King?

A restless dusk gripped King’s Landing as the surviving soldiers from Cole’s armies arrived at the city gates, King Aegon amongst the wounded. In what you considered to be a mass panic and hysteria, Maesters rushed to diligently attend to their King, who seemed to be meeting a simmering grave inside of his armor — it would be his tomb if they weren’t careful.

Merely a handmaiden and servant to nobility, the antics of your masters didn’t interest you — you were wholly preoccupied with your own survival and self-preservation, amongst other things. It was said that Aemond and Vhagar had swarmed the battlefield and come to King Aegon’s defense, but by the time they had, Aegon had been swallowed by dragonfire.

Part of you had difficulty believing that Aemond truly attempted to save his elder brother, given Aemond’s embittered sentiments. Your relationship with the Prince had transcended all bonds of propriety — and if anyone were to find out, they would likely have your head for sullying his virtue.

Nevertheless, as chaos swarmed around you, you knew exactly who to seek out. Queen Alicent had little desire to be hounded by handmaidens while her eldest son struggled to hang onto his own life, something you could understand. Instead, you made for Aemond’s chambers, the route embedded into your mind.

You sought him — all of him. His lilac hue, a maelstrom of forlorn emotions, and his silvery tresses, like cascading silk, embedded themselves into your mind. His cunning countenance and beguiled expression were like hot-iron brands cast onto your thoughts, tormenting you with each waking moment.

As you stepped closer to the Throne Room, no longer guarded by Kingsguard, you saw the great door ajar — no King atop the throne. You wondered if he would live, Aegon — a drunken, broken man who preferred his cups and whores over ruling — or if he would perish.

You knew who would sit the Iron Throne, should Aegon fall.

A heavy darkness had befallen the throne room, fitting for the many tragedies, like the gloom of a shadow haunting all who dared to enter. Curiosity gripped you as you stepped inside, a place well above your station, yet you wondered if there was anyone inside.

The doors remained shut, save for the one you slipped through, the gap slim. Flickering braziers provided some illumination to such a grandeur hall, but it seemed so dour and lifeless without the presence of the day, without subjects fluttering in and out. Instead, it provided an ominous sense of dread, as if luring those inside with dark omens and false promises.

A familiar crown of silvery tresses stood at the very center, before the throne — he didn’t need to turn around for you to know who it was. He seemed entirely unscathed by the battle at Rook’s Rest, hands carefully folded behind his back, posture poised and dignified.

Aegon’s dagger flashed within his right hand, clutched tightly at his side. You wondered how he had acquired the blade so swiftly after a tragedy — but you knew. You had always known of Aemond’s nature, of his restrained resentment towards his brother, the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Aemond.” Your voice reverberated throughout the throne room, carrying a fair distance as you closed the door behind you. The studded mahogany groaned in protest, yet bent to your will as it closed with a noisy thud. Admittedly, you were surprised to see him here, and not in the comfort of his chambers.

He didn’t move, rigid and still as you quietly approached, dresses sweeping across the smooth stone beneath you. His violet hues remained transfixed upon the Iron Throne, a throne that would soon be his, if fate favored him. So many swords, so much strife and conflict that forged such a chair — so much bloodshed.

Aemond often wondered what the weight of the crown would feel like upon his brow — and even then, he knew he would wear it better than Aegon ever could. He had stood by the wayside for far too long, learned in his studies and a talented swordsman, wondering if it would all have some reward, some payoff.

Now, his opportunity was swiftly approaching.

Whatever anger he’d often kept leashed, it had struck out, like the bite of a poisonous viper, sinking into its prey with all its bitter viciousness. It was the same tempestuous rage that had lashed at Lucerys Velaryon, and now it had struck his brother, Aegon the Magnanimous.

A stupid sobriquet for a stupid man — a drunken fool. Aemond would simply pass it off as an unfortunate accident, with Aegon carelessly stepping into the line of fire whilst tangling with the Queen Who Never Was. Swift decisions had to be made on his part, his brother a victim of such action.

Any silver-tongued words that would placate his Mother, he was prepared to let them fly. Aemond knew enough to know that the consequences would be slim, and those of true action and cruel intentions would take Aegon’s place — men like himself.

Soft footfalls fell across black stone, and you called his name again, like a siren’s song luring the sailor into deeper waters. “Aemond.” It was saccharine, dripping with genuine warmth that the Prince was simply unaccustomed to.

The unexpected lull of your voice broke his fixation, and he looked to you with a gaze full of desire. It was a farcry from the frustrated, despondent man you’d encountered days prior following the incident at the brothel. There was a newfound fire within his eyes, a confidence restored — a sense of triumph.

Admittedly, you were rather perplexed by this invigorated side to Aemond — that wild gleam within his lilac eye only seemed to grow in intensity as you approached him. “I heard the news of what happened to your brother,” You began, pondering his reaction. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

The admiration he had for you only seemed to blossom, knowing that you were simply keeping up appearances for his sake. Aemond’s mouth tilted into the ghost of a smirk, feigning melancholy despite the truth of his own actions. “It was a horrible thing, what happened to the King,” He uttered, glancing toward the throne. “I wish for his swift recovery.”

A facade was a mere understatement — you could almost taste the smug bemusement that rested within Aemond’s tone. The slight quirk of his mouth, the manner in which he spoke — his sympathies for Aegon were nonexistent.

“As any good brother would.” You replied, stepping closer until you stood before the Iron Throne, gaze falling upon the thousands of swords swarming the seat, blades of many shapes and sizes. You wondered about the people behind each sword — who swung it, what their lives must’ve been like.

A brief hum escaped Aemond, who observed you hawkishly as you approached, violet hue greedily drinking you in as he had many times before. You had stood so faithfully by his side, never admonished him for the brash actions taken against his family, never deemed him pathetic for what happened at the brothel.

He cared little for your station, little for your status as a lowborn — if he sat the Iron Throne, he could have whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter if you were a commoner, Aemond could envision you as his wife, a Queen — no longer bowing to the whims of greater men and women who cared little for you.

“Did my Mother dismiss you this evening?” Aemond questioned, digits tense around the pommel of Aegon’s knife — now his. Seeing as he was no longer fit to carry the weapon, it was only just that it pass to his brother, his next of kin.

“She did,” A gentle exhale escaped you, one that allowed you to maintain your composure. Being in Aemond’s presence seemed to make you dizzy with desire with each passing moment — not a new sentiment, but an intoxicating one. “I was coming to find you, to see if you were well after the battle.”

Shamelessly, Aemond became quite aroused at the thought of you wandering about the Red Keep with the single-minded desire to see him. His blood ran hot after the battle — the surge of adrenaline did not lessen in your presence.

His jaw tensed slightly as he appraised you, taking a step closer, brazenly closing the distance between you both. He could smell your perfume, the warm bouquet of flowers and a touch of honey. “How thoughtful.” His voice dropped to a low purr, dripping with the first inklings of lust.

Your breath hitched, words turning to ash upon your tongue as your fingers curled into your dress. Aemond enticed you in ways that no man had before — and he saw you, a woman beneath the gowns of a servant. The hammering of your heart within your chest had stirred something powerful — your want for him consumed you like a tidal wave.

Before you could utter his name, he descended like a starving wolf to kiss you, open-mouthed and bleeding lust. You shivered, wanting to coax him into returning to his chambers before things became heated. His hand dropped to seize your hip, hauling you closer to him until no space was left between your bodies.

You reciprocated his kiss, able to hear a faint growl of approval building up within his throat. It was fiery and hot, with little concern of who might see you. Aemond was growing emboldened, brazen knowing the power he now held within his grasp.

“We should return to your quarters,” You whispered, a strained whimper tearing past your lips as Aemond kissed your jaw, sucking at the flesh of your neck. “Aemond, we can’t — not here.” Your breathy pleas fell upon deaf ears — what better place to claim you than before his new throne?

“We can,” Aemond murmured, pushing your tresses aside as he claimed your throat, laying waste to your flesh in his rabid kisses and hungry bites. “The rest of the Keep is preoccupied.” His reassurance was threadbare at best, but you were beginning to slip off of the deep end, fingers clawing at his tunic.

“What if someone sees?” Fear trickled into your voice, a subtle fright that Aemond found to be enticing. You worried for your own skin — he could understand that. A moan escaped you as Aemond nipped at your jugular, squeezing at your hips.

You failed to comprehend that he would protect you, shield you if needed. He did not need to justify his obsession for you, just as Aegon never offered any justification for his nightly whore hunts. Aemond seemed quick to soothe your worry, hand clasping at the nape of your neck.

“Then I will have their head,” His delectable purr dropped an octave, scratching the itch within your head. “You needn’t worry, ñuha dōna. I can do whatever I wish.” Aemond assured you, a great fire burning within his lilac hue. The leather of his eyepatch concealed the listless sapphire beneath.

He only needed to serve himself — his family cared little for him, and the world was often against him. He looked forward to facing Daemon whenever the time came, should he be bold enough to challenge him. Aemond dismissed it all — Aegon, his mother, Criston Cole — the only thing that mattered were the both of you.

Aemond’s streak of possessiveness had grown into something uncontrollable, a festering desire to keep you close, spiraling into obsession. You were many things to him, many things he coveted for himself.

After a moment of hesitation, you decided to make things tempting for Aemond, loosening the bodice of your dress. His breath hitched, the noise subtle if one wasn’t observant enough. He seized the back of your head once more, hungrily pressing his lips to yours, consuming you in another heated kiss.

A dour portrait of dusk hovers around the Red Keep, its shadowy tendrils slinking into the throne room. Only moonlight and dying braziers are your guide, and Aemond is at his prettiest whenever he’s touched by the silvery rays. It strikes his narrow visage, paints his silky tresses in pale light.

He is closer to a god now than he is a man — fortunately, you were willing to return to religion if it meant that Aemond was who you worshiped. As much as you liked to believe it was the foundation of your relationship, he thought of it alternatively, the roles reversed.

Your digits slip beneath the overcoat he wore, marred by speckled dirt and brimstone. His broad, sinewy shoulders are concealed by his tunic, and he seems vastly overdressed compared to you, still wearing your servant’s clothes. Aemond had gotten you a dress to wear with him before — you never wore it otherwise.

There is a certain intensity in the way he kisses you, as if each embrace might be your last. In the aftermath of a battle, you understand such sentiments, given the fate of the King and the Princess Rhaenys.

A growl reverberates within the depths of his throat as he pries his mouth away from you, gesturing toward the flight of obsidian steps that ascend toward the Iron Throne. “There,” He uttered, more of a command than a suggestion. “Lay down.”

A shudder rolls down the length of your spine, followed by an onslaught of goosebumps that snake across your flesh like a fever. Your stomach churned with anticipation, filling with the sensation of sloshing heat, burning brighter as each moment passed.

Without question, you step toward the throne, noticing the sharpness of some blades, the dullness of others. You find your footing upon the last step, feeling Aemond stalk closer. The rustling of his belt makes you shiver, only to find the steely chill of the Conqueror’s knife pressed against the dip between your shoulder and neck.

Aemond closes in behind you, caging you against his chest, like a predator swarming hapless prey. His narrow nose brushed along your soft tresses as he dragged the tip of the knife from your shoulder to ribcage. “Shall I cut this from you?” He uttered, digging the Valyrian steel into the fabric of your dress.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you brace yourself for the bite of the knife, for the unruly tear of fabric, but it never comes. Instead, Aemond’s mouth pressed vigorous kisses against your neck, hand seizing you by the throat.

“Ao sytilībagon naejot nyke.” Aemond purred, feeling you turn within his grasp. Desire oozed between you both, an onslaught of carnality soon to follow. His lilac hue flickered over your countenance, drinking in your beauty with unrestrained rapture. You belong to me.

From what little High Valyrian you’d learned in the time you’ve been with Aemond, you strung enough of the sentence together to know what he meant. “Iksan aōhon.” A soft whimper emerged from between your parted lips, noticing the way his pupil dilated with amorous intent.

I am yours.

A flame of obsession roared within his gaze, enough to burn you alive where you stood. Aemond reveled in your submission to him, drank in your devotion — a devotion that would prove fruitful, should he ascend the throne. The tip of the knife prodded into your sternum, and you absentmindedly leaned forward.

Aemond captured your mouth once more, laying claim to you — his paramour. There was nothing sweeter than your desperate mewls and reciprocated passion, the succor of your mouth, the saccharine scent of your perfume.

The both of you descended to the floor, icy and stony as it prodded into your back. He knelt between your legs, gaze momentarily flickering between the shadow of the Iron Throne and your mesmerized visage. Aemond kissed you again, nipping at your lower lip before rucking up your skirts, pushing them toward your hips.

With one knee, he bullied his way in between your thighs, breaths heavier, wrought with anticipation as he lowered his mouth to your collarbone. In one smooth tug, he loosened your bodice, wrestling with the coarse material as he buried his face into your silky skin.

The throes of passion filled the air — short gasps and labored pants accompanied by the constant shuffling of fabric. “Aemond,” You moaned, watching as he bit the leather of his glove, removing the garment in one jerk of his head. Flesh to flesh, he moved to drag his digits along your weeping slit. “Aemond.” Urgency crept into your voice, strung-out by need.

“Hm,” His cajoling hum sent shivers down your spine, heat sloshing around within your stomach. Arousal pooled between your thighs, nectar sticky and gathering swiftly. “What a delicious gift you’ve given me.” Aemond uttered, slender digits continuing to stroke at your cunt, his pace agonizingly slow.

Lifting his fingers to his lips, he let them rest upon his tongue, gathering your juices to taste. A satisfied grunt of approval escaped him, one that made you meld into the floor. It was an uncomfortable surface, yet any thought of discomfort dissipated the moment Aemond’s lips pressed against the inside of your knee.

Instinctively, your hands flew toward his crown of silken tresses, digging in with an ironclad hold. Aemond released a low hiss of satisfaction, pressing hot kisses along the inside of your thigh. He dipped lower, breath fanning across your cunt.

His tongue raked hot embers across your aching core, delivering a series of deliberate strokes that were sure to make you squirm. Aemond preferred to savor you, consuming every drop of your nectar as if it were the finest of wines.

“Aemond!” Your voice rose above the cacophony of lewd noises ensuing below, noisy enough to reverberate throughout the throne room. It worried you, the potential of someone finding you with the Prince-Regent between your legs, but pleasure began to outweigh logic.

His name felt sweet from your mouth — if Aemond had it his way, he would make you say it a thousand times over. The sharp bridge of his nose buried itself into your mound, cock twitching within the leather of his breeches.

Another breathy moan left you, stomach pooling with a rush of molten heat. It oozed between your legs as your arousal fell upon the Prince’s tongue, much to his delight. He did not waste a drop, mouth traveling wherever he pleased, lapping at every inch of your cunt.

The Iron Throne overshadowed the both of you, a jagged mess of swords surrounded by dusk. Slats of moonlight trickled in from the stained glass above, falling across his visage, violet hue sparkling with lust. His lips greedily kissed at your clit, causing your hips to lurch forward.

“Look at me.” A pointed demand spoken from an edged tongue, one that commanded your attention without wavering. With a strangled moan, you turned your head to him, furthering the fire within your belly. Your doe-eyed stare locked onto him, lips falling apart.

As your eyes flickered over his poised features, your hand tightened within his tresses, coaxing him closer toward the apex of your thighs. Aemond wasn’t sly at suppressing the delight he felt in that moment, greedily lapping at your cunt.

You watched, enthralled by the ministrations of his mouth, the flick of his tongue, the tantalizing efforts made to draw you back in. His features were carved like marble, by the steady hand of a sculptor — godly, in the best way possible.

Aemond hoped that your blissful cries would alert the guards — perhaps, all could bear witness to his carnal delights, know that you belonged to him and him alone. His lips crawled to a sluggish pace, made only to torment you as he peppered feather-light kisses against your clit. The lack of pressure nearly made you wretch, digits curling into a fist.

Every fiber of your being felt as if it had been set ablaze, washed within the fires of his affection. He knew your body well, as well as he knew his own, tongue dipping to have a taste of your core as it lightly jutted against your entrance. You whimpered, the noise pathetic and pitiful, yet overwhelmingly eager.

“Please,” You moaned, breathy and clawing for some shred of release, canting your hips forward. Aemond retreated, just enough to leave you writing upon the steps before a sly chuckle reverberated between your thighs. His torture of you was playful and intimate, intended to make you beg. “Please, Aemond!”

How could he deny you when you sounded so sweet?

With a soft hum, Aemond returned to devour your cunt, drink from the nectar that oozed between your legs. His hands situated themselves against your thighs, nails digging in enough to leave behind traces of angered crescent marks.

The heat between your legs intensified, arousal stinging your bones, body bent underneath Aemond’s will as he lapped at your core. His lips were accompanied by his spindly digits as two fingers prodded at your entrance, feeling the crescendo of your whimpers before sinking themselves into your tight cunt.

Squelching intermingled with that of brazen pants and your myriad of moans, a cacophony of lust that permeated the throne room. It felt sinful, to defile the steps of a seat of power, but that shame swiftly contorted into bliss — it felt good.

It felt good to be desired, for Aemond to feel not an ounce of regret or remorse for being with you or for the carnage his actions wrought. The darkness that festered within his eye only grew, once a flickering shade, now growing into something sprawling.

At last, his lips pursed around your clit, stimulating that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your back arched from the stone, thighs rattling like falling leaves as he brought about your ruin. His digits viciously pumped in and out of your cunt, preparing you for the act that was to follow.

His tongue lashed across his lower lip, not wasting a drop of what sweetness you provided him with. Aemond’s mouth hastily abandoned your cunt, yet the curling of his fingers seemed to make up for the loss of pleasure. You felt his wet lips purse around the pebbled peak of your breast, suckling like a greedy babe.

Aemond’s senses drowned in desire, cock throbbing within his trousers, desperate to be inside of you. It wouldn’t be much longer now as he bit and kissed your chest, letting the work manifest as love bites, evidence of his carnal want for you.

“I need you, Aemond. I need you inside of me.” The suddenness of your words left him reeling, a snarl stirring within his chest as his teeth gnashed into the soft flesh between your breasts. You longed to feel his cock lay waste to your cunt, for him to fuck away his anger, his frustration.

Hastily, his hand flew to the ties of his breeches, loosening the threads of leather. You grabbed the front of his tunic, enough to effectively grab his attention as you pulled him in for a hot kiss. Passion bled through, and you could taste yourself upon his tongue as it danced with yours.

The warmth of his cockhead prodded against your folds, already slick with your cum and his own. It was messy, an entanglement born of desire, of the will to possess one another — a claim eternal. Aemond’s hand snaked toward your hip, the other keeping himself afloat before he snapped forward.

His cock invaded your cunt without any sluggishness to it, the deliberation gone entirely. A wild shimmer glistened within his eye, a domineering edge that seemed to wrestle with itself. Aemond wanted to submit to you, but in the wake of Rook’s Rest, adrenaline and a desire for power simply wouldn’t allow it.

As he fucked you like a hound, as Aegon had colorfully put it, Aemond could see you seated beside him, a crown upon your brow, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A commoner, crawled from dirt and from nothing, into his arms — into a seat of power that none would dare challenge.

Fantasy consumed him, making him mad with lust. He wanted to crawl beneath your flesh, reside there, hear your heart hammering within your breast. He seemed pleasantly surprised when you claimed his mouth, your tongue advancing past his parted lips.

With your skirts having fallen to the swell of your hips, you hitched one leg around him, hand clawing at his back, between his shoulders. “Aemond,” You moaned, overwhelmed by his barrage of erratic thrusts. His stamina was something to witness as he kept a rather vigorous pace. “My King.”

A low growl stirred within his throat, a stark warning not to continue with your current line of thought. Aemond bit at your lower lip, prompting you to moan into his mouth, but you surprised him again when you reciprocated. Things were intense, far more fiery than they ever had been before.

Battle made him hot — such a sensation wasn’t aided by your presence, intensified tenfold. With Aegon wasting away inside of his chambers, steel melting into his flesh, swarmed by flocks of Maesters, Aemond felt no remorse — none at all as he fucked you before the Iron Throne.

He felt no remorse when he ordered Vhagar to burn his brother, he felt no remorse when he brought you into his bed — and he would feel no remorse when he ascended the throne and made you his Queen.

His cock furiously battered away at your cunt, the lewdness of flesh and intermingled breaths being the only sounds that mattered. That lilac hue of his studied your countenance, the devotion and rapture that rest upon it, your complete and utter joy. Aemond had been blessed with the loveliest creature — you.

The stretch you felt as Aemond invaded your nethers was a pleasant one, your walls tight around his length as he continued to fuck you. Face to face, chest to chest — there was no room left for deception, nowhere left to turn to. With a groan, Aemond kissed you yet again.

“Kesan mazverdagon ao ñuha dāria.” I will make you my Queen; he growled into your ear, biting at the shell, the act enough to make you whimper. He filled your cunt with his cock, the only one that it would ever take. In the heat of the moment, he bit at your neck, hand gripping your thigh so hard that it was bound to leave bruises.

Darkness swallowed the hallowed halls — braziers flickering out completely, leaving only moonlight. Even through the silvery haze, Aemond’s face remained a picture of living perfection, his brow creased with concentration.

The fervor of his pace began to slow, cock throbbing with an onslaught of arousal, one that flooded his body with waves of bliss. He wasn’t neglectful of your needs, swiftly placing a hand between your bodies, thumb rubbing circles around your clit.

Heavy footfalls of guardsmen resonated from outside of the sealed doors, a nightly patrol, prompting you to shiver from worry, but Aemond did not stop — and he wouldn’t. His blazing eye bared down upon you, glistening with the sheen of lust, of obsession, a man starved of the love and devotion he so desperately chased.

Your lips felt swollen, a byproduct of Aemond’s biting, of the many shared kisses that had turned into hunger. You were ravenous for him in ways that you had little knowledge of, scraping the surface of what desire truly meant.

Silky, pale tresses fell through your digits as you threaded them within his hair, gripping it in fistfuls as you continued to kiss him until every wisp of air was stolen from your lungs. Aemond did not relent, continuing to adopt a rhythmic pace of fucking you, cock halfway out before he thrust forward again and again.

As the both of you approached the precipice, falling into a white-hot abyss, you could hear him murmuring something in High Valyrian, strings of sweet praises and compliments. His thumb continued to circle your clit even after you had your release, milking his cock with an onslaught of your nectar.

Aemond grunted, forehead nudging against yours as he snapped forward one final time, cock sheathed inside of you as he found a warm place to spill his seed. The recklessness of it was of little consequence to him — an herbal tea could remedy it, yet the thought of filling you with an heir became tantalizing.

Not yet — not now.

If his seed were to take, it would sow discord across his house, and there was enough of that already. Aemond huffed, gathering his composure as your whimpers dwindled into soft pants. His claws sank so deep into you, talons wrenched into your heart, your body, everything.

He placed a kiss upon your brow, a subtle gesture that reminded you of his lingering duality. Aemond pulled himself out of you with an onslaught of stickiness, a mess that would only be remedied by a long soak in the bath — something he would need you for.

Your chest felt tight, both from exhilaration and the intensity of it all. As you adjusted your skirts back into place, Aemond gently coaxed you to your feet, pressed close against you as he stared at the throne. “Perhaps, once I ascend, we will have to make use of the throne.” His salacious purr made you shudder.

“There is no law forbidding us from acting upon that now,” You challenged, and Aemond had to restrain himself from acting upon such a lascivious impulse. For as coy as you could be, you were just as lustful as he was at times, a quality that he greatly adored. “Your Grace.”

As much as the teasing title seemed to provoke him, Aemond grabbed your hips, lips twitching into his familiar smirk, a near-permanent expression. “Aemond,” He corrected, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “For now, I will need assistance with drawing a bath.”

The Throne’s harrowing shape cast its shadow as the both of you abandoned the dark halls and into the light of Aemond’s chambers.

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not attempt to steal or translate my works onto other platforms or claim it as your own.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #hotd x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd smut #hotd fanfic

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nickthesteamengine · 2 years ago

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Just like that!!! :-)

Phantasm Spiral Wave

#Phantasm Spiral Wave #Phantasm Spiral #Phantasm Spiral Dragon #Fire King High Avatar Garunix #Yu-Gi-Oh!#Equip Spell Card #Equip Spell #anime #manga #volume 5 #tomb of shadows

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dooberific · 1 year ago

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alhaitham x eremite!afab!reader

wc: 1.2k

genre: nsfw with a dash of pet names, light exhibitionism, and creampie bc wtf not

summary: guess you better look under the cut and find out for yourself huh?

You hated Alhaitham.

You hated his dismissive attitude, his condescending tones and sharp replies.

You hated how good he was at manipulating people, how easily he could get what he wanted with minimal effort, how perfectly he had constructed his life and career to cater to his every tiny whim while having the audacity to act bothered.

But what you hated the most about him?

How easily he had got your name added to a group of Driyosh heading to investigate the Khaj-Nisut.

How he knew you wouldn’t refuse the chance and that you would be indispensable in their search for more information on King Deshret’s tomb as you were from a proud Eremite clan.

How easily he had split you away from the rest of the group under the guise of watching your interpretation of the glyphs carved into the walls.

How quickly he had cornered you in the quiet of the abandoned Throne room of King Deshret, and how effective he was at making your body betray itself.

“Shhh, you don’t want them to find you like this now do you?” He chided in your ear. Some part of you despised how calm his voice sounded now, yet that little gripe died quickly at the hand of his ministrations that left you quietly gasping, back arching against his chest as his thick fingers pumped into your pussy.

Your skirt was hiked up past your ass, your panties soaked through with the juices he coaxed out of your body. Your tits spilled out of your blouse, nipples peaked from the chill of the crypt that was a harsh contrast to the hot breath of the Scribe which fanned over your neck as he trailed wet kisses down the column of your throat. Your entire body trembled as he inserted another finger, his long digits curling deeply inside your walls, probing for that spongy spot that would have your knees weak and your head fuzzy from ecstasy.

He knew the exact moment he found it, your body stiffening with a gasp as your hands braced tightly to his arms, as if trying to fight him away from your most intimate places. He didn’t budge, fingers curling into that spot where he could feel your gummy walls clamp tighter around his fingers, his thumb venturing up to roll your clit under its pad.

“Haitham!” You choked out, jerking in his arms as your hips tried to flee from the onslaught only to end up pressing deeper into his own, feeling the stiff outline of his cock straining in his pants against your ass.

So badly you wished you could control your body, yet the foggy haze settling into your brain spurred you on to chase the high that was riding the fingers of the Akademiya’s Scribe in the throne room of the god of your people. Surely you had relinquished your spot in heaven now, hips rolling in an attempt to stimulate yourself further on his fingers.

You could feel a chuckle reverberate through his chest. “You like that, princess?” He mused, rolling your clit in tight and harsh circles, thriving for how your mouth fell open so dumbly, how you begged for his attention, for the breathy gasps of his name already falling from your kiss bitten lips.

A loud clatter snapped both of you back to reality, both freezing in place despite the compromising position you stood in and listening closely to the little sounds that traveled up to the private sanctuary you were in from the larger chambers below. Your walls clamped tightly upon his fingers from your surprise, the mounting distress of the situation only tightening the knot coiling in your stomach.

The voices of the rest of the research team were muffled by the countless stone walls between you, but you could still make out their words. They were bickering about translations, how they really needed to find where you and the Scribe had ventured off too because surely one of you would know the correct answer.

“Did you hear that, princess? They’re looking for us, guess we better hurry things along.” Came Alhaitham’s warm, breathy laugh against the shell of your ear. You shuddered, yet mustered the most hateful tone you could as you forced his fingers out of your weeping cunt and rounded on him, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Oh, think you have it in you, feeble scholar?”

Dual-colored eyes bore into you for a moment, as if sizing up your challenge. “Feeble as I may be,” he relented, raising his hand still sticky with your fluids, spreading his fingers before your eyes as the viscous liquid slowly seeped down towards his covered knuckles, “someone has to take care of this.”

And take care of it he certainly had.

You had kissed every semblance of heaven goodbye. It wasn’t for you anymore. You were perched on the lap of a man not native to the desert, your legs hooked over his thighs and spread widely enough to take him as he bounced you on his cock while sitting on the throne of the dead god of your people.

The wet, slapping sound of sex filled the chamber, echoing back to your ears as Alhaitham bullied your pussy until you had gone dumb in his arms, babbling quiet nonsense while your pussy worked diligently over his intruding length.

You couldn’t count the times you had been taken to the edge of an orgasm only to be overstimulated into the next, a ring of tears lining your lashes from the pleasured cries you had worked so desperately to muffle as to not alert your fellow researchers who’s voices you could hear growing slowly closer to your location.

“I’m close.” Alhaitham warned, giving your clit a sharp pinch as you gasped aloud. His chest pressed against your back, bending you nearly in two as he fucked into you with a new fervor. You could feel the press of his thick cock in your womb, its leaky head ramming into your cervix as you cried his name like a prayer. That coil in your gut he had worked so diligently to form snapped with a sudden white heat, your mind going blank save for the pleasure rolling through your veins like molten metal.

Alhaitham let out a choked noise as your pussy tried to milk him of his seed prematurely, continuing to fuck into you till his own pace stuttered. He bit down onto your shoulder, and with a deep groan gave in to your biological response.

You felt so full it could have driven you crazy as you shakily righted yourself, cringing from the overstimulation of his re-hardened cock against your walls. Your eyes ventured to where you two were connected, a creamy ring having formed at his base of his cock.

You went to rise only for him to catch your hips. “Don’t move.” He hissed as he forced you back onto his cock, a whimper leaving your lips as you squirmed. Despite having barely lifted yourself off of him you could feel the cum sitting deep in your womb shift down with the absence of his cock, the fluid leaking out of your pussy. Your eyes widened, watching as it leaked onto the seat before pooling and running down the face of the throne.

You were totally screwed.

Rey, 2023

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin alhaitham x reader #alhaitham smut #genshin smut #i’m sorry lol #al haitam x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact

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impyssadobsessions · 2 years ago

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Just some doodling concepts randomly. This is King Danny frozen in ice. The idea basically he gets imprisoned like pariah but not for being a tyrant but the ancients feared him. Made a quick short excerpt. Either way.. Justice league finds his resting place after busting a villain for their mine operation of powerful ice crystals. Only to discover an entity frozen behind ice with high power levels. Turns out its possibly the ancient being known as the Ghost King. He is waking up from the mining and disturbance of the Justice League. The ice shatters revealing the ghost king to be a small teen.. broken and in shambles as he realize he had been imprisoned and everyone and thing he knew was most n likely long gone. owo mini excerpt below >w<

The caverns rumbled and roared as the ice crackled and shook from the power emitting from the being trapped behind its crystalize tomb. The heroes could do nothing, but fall to their knees to keep balance and prepare for whatever hell this “Ghost King” could unleash once freed. The crystals started to shatter and burst, until the large one exploded. The heroes shielded themselves and each other, trying to protect from the blast as the cavern filled with icy smoke and crystalize dust. Thick silence hung heavy in the air as the power aura of the being kept the heroes frozen in spot. In the dust a figure stood large and tall, eyes glowing bright green. Piercing through the dense dust. It felt as if the Ghost King could see right into their souls. The heroes watched, baiting and waiting to move. But as the dust clear, they realized the King wasn't going to fight. Yet, they stayed in place hesitant for another reason as the settling of the dust revealed the form behind the silhouette was of a young teen. The teen's eyes dimmed, as the air in the room lightened. The young king's shoulders fell as green eyes drooped. The child slumped back against the remains of his prison, sliding down until he plopped onto the floor. He stared off in front of him, pulling a leg to his chest, looking broken, as if all the weight that was once in the room now had been placed on his shoulders. Steps echoed in the cavern towards the teen, who barely glanced at the figure once they stood in front of him. White rings appearing around the teen as Batman knelt down in front of him. The white hair teen avoiding looking at him until the voice register. “Who are you? Do you know where you are?” The white rings slowly climbed up and down the teen's body. The other heroes tensing and flinching to grab Batman- until they realize the white rings was revealing the teen's true form. The teen stared up at Batman, seeming to think about answering, when he sighed tiredly. Batman tensing at seeing such a defeated expression. “Danny... Phantom.. Ghost king. And...” The white rings revealing a teenage boy with black hair and blue eyes. He glanced back, gesturing to the broken crystal. “This was my prison..”

#danny phantom #danny fenton #ghost king danny #ghost king au #dp x dc #dpxdc #batman #justice league #crossover #this was like a very quick thing LOL #impyelam

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chinesehanfu · 6 months ago

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[Hanfu · 漢服]Chinese Warring States period(475–221 BC) Traditional Clothing Hanfu-Life of Qu Yuan(屈原）

【Historical Artifact Reference】:

China Warring States period (475-221 BC):Silk painting depicting a man riding a dragon (人物御龍帛畫)

it was discovered in the Zidanku Tomb no. 1 in Changsha, Hunan Province in 1973. Now in the Hunan Museum

A man with a sword is riding a dragon by holding the rein. The dragon's body was given the shape of a boat. A little egret is standing at the tail of the dragon. A carp under the dragon is leading the way. The umbrella in the top middle of the picture shows the owner's nobility. The work has become associated with the Chu poet Qu Yuan’s famous verse from his poem Shejiang (涉江, Setting foot in the river), ‘Carrying a long sword with weird colour; Wearing a qieyun–styled high cap.” (帶長鋏之陸離兮, 冠切雲之崔嵬)

Western Zhou Dynasty seven-huang jade pendant with linked beads/西周七璜联珠组玉佩

About Qu Yuan(屈原）

Qu Yuan (c. 340 BC – 278 BC)was a Chinese poet and aristocrat in the State of Chu during the Warring States period. He is known for his patriotism and contributions to classical poetry and verses, especially through the poems of the Chu Ci anthology (also known as The Songs of the South or Songs of Chu): a volume of poems attributed to or considered to be inspired by his verse writing. Together with the Shi Jing, the Chu Ci is one of the two greatest collections of ancient Chinese verse. He is also remembered in connection to the supposed origin of the Dragon Boat Festival.

Historical details about Qu Yuan's life are few, and his authorship of many Chu Ci poems has been questioned at length.[4] However, he is widely accepted to have written "The Lament," a Chu Ci poem. The first known reference to Qu Yuan appears in a poem written in 174 BC by Jia Yi, an official from Luoyang who was slandered by jealous officials and banished to Changsha by Emperor Wen of Han. While traveling, he wrote a poem describing the similar fate of a previous "Qu Yuan."Eighty years later, the first known biography of Qu Yuan's life appeared in Han dynasty historian Sima Qian's Records of the Grand Historian, though it contains a number of contradictory details.

Life of Qu Yuan(屈原）

The only surviving source of information on Qu Yuan's life is Sima Qian's biography of him in Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji), although the biography is circumstantial and probably influenced greatly by Sima's own identification with Qu.Sima wrote that Qu was a member of the Chu royal clan and served as an official under King Huai of Chu (reigned 328–299 BC).

During the early days of King Huai's reign, Qu Yuan was serving the State of Chu as its Left Minister. However, King Huai exiled Qu Yuan to the region north of the Han River, because corrupt ministers slandered him and influenced the king.Eventually, Qu Yuan was reinstated and sent on a diplomatic mission to the State of Qi. He tried to resume relations between Chu and Qi, which King Huai had broken under the false pretense of King Hui of Qin to cede territory near Shangyu.

During King Qingxiang's reign, Prime Minister Zilan slandered Qu Yuan.[9] This caused Qu Yuan's exile to the regions south of the Yangtze River. It is said that Qu Yuan returned first to his home town. In his exile, he spent much of this time collecting legends and rearranging folk odes while traveling the countryside. Furthermore, he wrote some of the greatest poetry in Chinese literature and expressed deep concerns about his state. According to legend, his anxiety brought him to an increasingly troubled state of health. During his depression, he would often take walks near a certain well to look upon his thin and gaunt reflection in the water. This well became known as the "Face Reflection Well." On a hillside in Xiangluping (at present-day Zigui County, Hubei Province), there is a well that is considered to be the original well from the time of Qu Yuan.

In 278 BC, learning of the capture of his country's capital, Ying, by General Bai Qi of the state of Qin, Qu Yuan is said to have collected folktales and written the lengthy poem of lamentation called "Lament for Ying". Eventually, he committed suicide by wading into the Miluo River in today's Hunan Province while holding a rock. The reason why he took his life remained controversial and was argued by Chinese scholars for centuries. Typical explanations including martyrdom for his deeply beloved but falling motherland, which was suggested by the philosopher Zhu Xi of the Song dynasty, or feeling extreme despair to the situation of the politics in Chu while his lifelong political dream would never be realized. But according to "Yu Fu," widely considered to be written by Qu himself or at least, a person who was very familiar with Qu, his suicide was an ultimate way to protect his innocence and life principles.[citation needed]

Qu Yuan is said to have expressed his love for the ruling monarch, King Huai of Chu, through several of this works, including "The Lament" and "Longing for Beauty".

Dragon Boat Festival/端午节

Popular legend has it that villagers carried their dumplings and boats to the middle of the river and desperately tried to save Qu Yuan after he immersed himself in the Miluo but were too late to do so. However, in order to keep fish and evil spirits away from his body, they beat drums and splashed the water with their paddles, and they also threw rice into the water both as a food offering to Qu Yuan's spirit and also to distract the fish away from his body. However, the legend continues, that late one night, the spirit of Qu Yuan appeared before his friends and told them that he died because he had taken himself under the river. Then, he asked his friends to wrap their rice into three-cornered silk packages to ward off the dragon.

These packages became a traditional food known as zongzi, although the lumps of rice are now wrapped in leaves instead of silk. The act of racing to search for his body in boats gradually became the cultural tradition of dragon boat racing, held on the anniversary of his death every year. Today, people still eat zongzi and participate in dragon boat races to commemorate Qu Yuan's sacrifice on the fifth day of the fifth month of the traditional lunisolar Chinese calendar.

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Recreation Work by : @晴南

Xiaohongshu🔗：http://xhslink.com/CU2x9J

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#chinese hanfu #Warring States period(475–221 BC)#Qu Yuan(屈原）#State of Chu #china history #chines history #hanfu #hanfu accessories #hanfu_challenge #chinese traditional clothing #china #chinese #chinese aesthetics #chinese historical fashio #漢服 #汉服 #中華風 #晴南 #Dragon Boat Festival/端午节

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ltwilliammowett · 2 months ago

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The Mast

One of the most important elements of a ship are the masts, because this is where the sails are attached that serve to propel the ship.

History

The oldest evidence for the use of one solid masts comes from the Ubaid site H3 in Kuwait, which dates back to the second half of the sixth millennium BC. There, a clay disc was recovered from a sherd that appears to depict a reed boat with two masts.

A painted clay disc with a diameter of 6.5 cm from site H3 with a design reminiscent of a boat with two masts, second half of the sixth millennium BC

In the West, the concept of a vessel with more than one mast to increase speed under sail and improve sailing characteristics developed in the northern waters of the Mediterranean: the earliest foremast was identified on an Etruscan pyxis from Caere (Italy) from the middle of the 7th century BC: A warship with a furled mainsail attacks an enemy ship and sets a foresail. An Etruscan tomb painting from the period between 475 and 450 BC depicts a two-masted merchant ship with a large foresail on a slightly inclined foremast.

Tomb of the Ship, mid-5th century BC

An artemon (Greek for foresail), which is almost as large as the main sail of the galley, is found on a Corinthian krater as early as the late 6th century BC; otherwise, Greek longships are uniformly depicted without this sail until the 4th century BC. In the East, ancient Indian kingdoms such as the Kalinga are thought to have been built in the 2nd century BC. One of the earliest documented evidence of Indian sail construction is the mural of a three-masted ship in the caves of Ajanta, which is dated to 400-500 AD.

This Ajanta mural depicts an ancient Indian ship with high stem and stern and three oblong sails attached to three masts. Steering-oars can also be seen. Location: Cave No. 2, Ajanta Caves, Aurangabad District, Maharashtra state, India, 400-500 AD

The foremast was used quite frequently on Roman galleys, where, tilted at a 45° angle, it was more like a bowsprit, and the scaled-down foresail attached to it was apparently used as a steering aid rather than for propulsion. While most ancient evidence is iconographic in nature, the existence of foremasts can also be inferred archaeologically from slots in the foremast feet, which were too close to the bow for a mainsail.

Fragment of mosaic depicting "navis tesseraria", a messenger and police boat of the African fleet, 2nd century AD

The artemon, together with the mainsail and the topsail, developed into the standard rigging of seagoing vessels in the Imperial period, which was supplemented by a mizzen on the largest cargo ships. The first recorded three-masters were the huge Syracusia, a prestigious object commissioned by King Hiero II of Syracuse and developed by the polymath Archimedes around 240 BC, as well as other Syracusan merchant ships of the time. The imperial grain freighters that travelled on the routes between Alexandria and Rome also included three-masted ships. A mosaic in Ostia (around 200 AD) shows a freighter with a three-masted rig entering the harbour of Rome. Specialised ships could carry many more masts: Theophrastus (Hist. Plant. 5.8.2) reports that the Romans brought in Corsican timber on a huge raft propelled by up to fifty masts and sails.

Throughout antiquity, both the foresail and the mizzen were secondary in terms of sail size, although they were large enough to require full rigging. In late antiquity, the foremast lost most of its tilt and stood almost upright on some ships.

By the beginning of the early Middle Ages, rigging in Mediterranean shipping had changed fundamentally: The spars, which had long since developed on smaller Greco-Roman ships, replaced the square sail, the most important type of sail in antiquity, which had virtually disappeared from the records by the fourteenth century (while remaining predominant in northern Europe). The dromon, the rowed bireme of the Byzantine fleet, almost certainly had two masts, a larger foremast and one amidships. Their length is estimated at 12 metres and 8 metres respectively, somewhat less than that of the Sicilian war galleys of the time.

Multi-masted sailing ships were reintroduced to the Mediterranean in the late Middle Ages. Large ships became more common and the need for additional masts to steer these ships appropriately grew with the increase in tonnage. Unlike in antiquity, the mizzen mast was introduced on medieval two-masted ships earlier than the foremast, a process that can be traced back to the mid-14th century based on visual material from Venice and Barcelona. To equalise the sail plan, the next obvious step was the addition of a mast in front of the main mast, which first appears in a Catalan ink drawing from 1409. With the establishment of the three-masted ship, propelled by square sails and battens and steered by the pivot-and-piston rudder, all the advanced ship technology required for the great transoceanic voyages was in place by the early 15th century.

In the 16th century, the cross-section of the masts was made up of several pieces of wood and held together with ropes and iron rings.

A lower mast with sections from 1773 to 1800

In order to achieve a greater height, the lower mast is extended, so that a total length of up to 60 metres can be achieved, measured from the keel. From lowest to highest, these were called: lower, top, topgallant, and royal masts. Giving the lower sections sufficient thickness necessitated building them up from separate pieces of wood. Such a section was known as a made mast, as opposed to sections formed from single pieces of timber, which were known as pole masts.

This is a section of HMS Victory's main mast

The forces of the sails on the mast construction are transferred to the hull construction by standing and running rigging, forwards and aft (stern) by stays, and laterally by shrouds or guys. In order to enable sailors to climb up into the rigging, which is particularly necessary for the operation of square riggers, rat lines are knotted into the shrouds like rungs of a ladder. The upper end of a ship's mast is called the masthead.

Mounting

The mast either stands in the mast track on the keel and is passed through the deck or it stands directly on deck. In the first case, the opening must be neatly sealed with a mast collar, otherwise water will penetrate into the living quarters. If the mast is on deck, it must be supported from below on the keel so that the loads do not bend the deck. Practically every sailing ship therefore has a more or less visible vertical support through the cabin.

Masts are usually supported by the standing rigging. The shrouds pull the mast downwards with several times its own weight and thus prevent it from tipping over.

Traditionally, when a sailing ship is built, one or more coins are placed under the mast as a lucky charm (according to my theory, the coins were also used as money to pay Charon the ferryman in the underworld if the ship sank); this custom is still practised today. Just as a horseshoe was nailed to the mast to bring good luck.

Mast types

For square-sail carrying ships, masts in their standard names in bow to stern (front to back) order, are:

Sprit topmast: a small mast set on the end of the bowsprit (discontinued after the early 18th century); not usually counted as a mast, however, when identifying a ship as "two-masted" or "three-masted"

Fore-mast: the mast nearest the bow, or the mast forward of the main-mast. As it is the furthest afore, it may be rigged to the bowsprit. Sections: fore-mast lower, fore topmast, fore topgallant mast

Main-mast: the tallest mast, usually located near the center of the ship Sections: main-mast lower, main topmast, main topgallant mast, royal mast (if fitted)

Mizzen-mast: the aft-most mast. Typically shorter than the fore-mast. Sections: mizzen-mast lower, mizzen topmast, mizzen topgallant mast

Some names given to masts in ships carrying other types of rig (where the naming is less standardised) are:

Bonaventure mizzen: the fourth mast on larger 16th-century galleons, typically lateen-rigged and shorter than the main mizzen.

Jigger-mast: typically, where it is the shortest, the aftmost mast on vessels with more than three masts. Sections: jigger-mast lower, jigger topmast, jigger topgallant mast

When a vessel has two masts, as a general rule, the main mast is the one setting the largest sail. Therefore, in a brig, the forward mast is the foremast and the after mast is the mainmast. In a schooner with two masts, even if the masts are of the same height, the after one usually carries a larger sail (because a longer boom can be used), so the after mast is the mainmast. This contrasts with a ketch or a yawl, where the after mast, and its principal sail, is clearly the smaller of the two, so the terminology is (from forward) mainmast and mizzen. (In a yawl, the term "jigger" is occasionally used for the aftermast.)

Some two-masted luggers have a fore-mast and a mizzen-mast – there is no main-mast. This is because these traditional types used to have three masts, but it was found convenient to dispense with the main-mast and carry larger sails on the remaining masts. This gave more working room, particularly on fishing vessels.

Cock, John. A treatise on mast-making , 1840.

Fincham, John. A Treatise on Masting Ships and Mast Making , 1854. Kipping, Robert. Rudimentary treatise on masting, mast-making, and rigging of ships , 1864.

Steel, David The Elements and Practice of Rigging, Seamanship, and Naval Tactics, Including Sail Making, Mast Making, and Gunnery , 1821.

Steel, David. Steel's Elements Of Mast-making, Sail-making and Rigging , 1794.

Layton, Cyril Walter Thomas, Peter Clissold, and A. G. W. Miller. Dictionary of nautical words and terms. Brown, Son & Ferguson, 1973.

Harland, John. Seamanship in the Age of Sail,1992

Marquardt, Karl Heinz, Bemastung und Takelung von Schiffen des 18. Jahrhunderts, 1986

#naval history #mast #parts of a ship #very long post #sorry #ancient seafaring #medieval seafarinh #age of discovery #age of sail #age of steam

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fraugwinska · 2 months ago

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Hello lovelies! Even though it's hard to follow Hazel, I hope you will enjoy todays little kinky story too!

Somnophilia is a personal favorite of mine, and reimagining it with RadioApple in mind was less a challenge than it was an experience :D I had to keep myself from writing, and who knows if I won't revisit this specific bit in the future? ;> To keep you from missing all the other juicy bits to cum come, I suggest following those beautiful creatures right here 👇🏼

Coven: @hazelfoureyes@minkdelovely@sugoi-writes@macabr3-barbi3@synamartia (banner by Syn!)

Warnings: Somnophilia, Implied but not explicit consent, Mentions of Insomnia, Depictions of depression and nightmares/night terrors, Blowjob, Hand job - Fun times all around!And as usual: Minors Stay away - 🔞

The king of hell was a lousy sleeper.

From the moment he’d moved into the hotel, Alastor noticed the falling angel creeping through the halls in the middle of the night, thick, dark circles under his eyes and an expression he could only describe as tortured.

Hidden in the familiar shadows, he’d stalk Lucifer out, night after night, and the initial delight changed into morbid curiosity. Such a curiosity in fact, that instead of mocking him, he decided to further his investigations. And what he found - well, was rather peculiar. Lucifer, king of hell and royal head of the realm, was afraid of sleep.

Alastor saw him more than once, from the dark corners in Lucifer’s chambers where he concealed himself, pacing around his room, or more accurately: in front of his wide, luxurious bed, pained and conflicted. In most instances he’d sigh, put on his slippers and morning coat, and flee into the empty halls. But on very rare occasions, Lucifer would, with furrowed brows, slide into his bed. And what followed unwillingly elicited a certain kind of sympathy in the Radio Demon.

It must’ve been scarring nightmares that haunted Lucifer, the way he writhed and whimpered, fighting for air and almost choking before he’d shoot up, panicked and halfway transformed to the demonic angel he became after his fall into the depths of depravation. His blonde hair would stick onto his sweaty forehead, swept away only by his trembling hands, and Lucifer would cry, for hours at times, until dawn would break and he’d mask himself in his usual, debonair demeanor again, facing his daughter and the inhabitants of the hotel with another night of lost sleep on his shoulders.

He could've used it against him - it would’ve been a perfect addition to his arsenal. But Alastor knew torturous nightmares just a little too well. They were one of the reasons he, too, was evading sleep as much as he could allow himself. But while his were just draining, Lucifer's seemed to be outright cruel.

So he thought he had the perfect bargaining chip in hand for a rather harmless, little tit-for-tat. Offer his assistance in relieving the king's nightly terrors, in whichever way needed, in exchange for access to his personal collection of ancient (and most certainly rarely known) spellbooks he'd spotted in his nocturnal stake-outs, sitting in his bookshelf where these dreadful ducks weren't occupying the space, adding with a sly smirk:

"And - let's be honest your highness - you're so much more bearable to be with when you're knocked out and not talking."

First, Lucifer had stuttered incoherently. Then had denied, then had laughed nervously, then had said no before hurriedly fleeing from him. But Alastor didn't have to wait even a fortnight after proposing this unusual arrangement for the naive royal to open a portal in his bayou, barking an "Are you fuckin' coming or not?" while waving a mesopotamian tomb about blood magic for good measure.

And Alastor had followed.

The first night of many.

For a few weeks now, the angel would open his his door when he knocked (the privacy-intrusive portaling forbidden by Alastor), less wary than the night before, offer a drink from his personal supply (Alastor had to admit he had a rather pleasant taste in whiskey) and maybe even engage in borderline friendly conversation before they'd settle on the bed: Lucifer under, Alastor over the pristine bedding.

Every night another book and the same steady, even, peaceful breaths. It seemed that the fallen angel’s loneliness was, at last, soothed when another warm body laid next to him.

Until Lucifer would inevitably start to whine. The first time it happened Alastor stared at the twitching man gripping his sheets, grinding his teeth and whimpering like a child. It wasn't as intense as the ones Alastor had witnessed before, this nightmare, but still enough to rattle Lucifer out of his tranquil rest. A silent tear escaped his shut eyes, and Alastor, as if in trance, kept staring at Lucifer as he reached out his hand and, after a moment of hesitation, rested it on his cheek.

That small gesture seemed to do the trick - the demon's erratic, fearful movements slowed down, a low, blissful hum coming from his throat. The frown melted away and Alastors' breath hitched in his own throat as he leaned closer to observe this phenomenon. The relaxed, even serene expression that appeared on Lucifer's features under the palm of his hand…

He had tamed the devil with barely a touch.

Alastor felt triumph surge in his chest, as well as an unexplained feeling of relief he couldn't explain. When Lucifer awoke that morning, Alastors hand in his hair and ever so slightly, almost gently, scratching his scalp, he didn't say anything, and Alastor was thankful for it. But that night changed something, in both of them - Alastor felt it. Soon, his hand on some part of the angel's body became as much a habit as reading a book while Lucifer slept.

"You seem more tense than usual - what, did one of your frivolous ducks explode?"

Alastor smirked at the grumpy growl he received, already settled and propped onto his usual pillows, a sanskrit book about alchemy in hand, as Lucifer threw off his clothes sans the stupidly ridiculous rubber-duck-boxers he usually slept in and climbed in and under the sheets with a hybrid of a huff and a groan.

"Compared to what I had to endure today, I wish. Had to go to the embassy again."

"I do hope this meeting went more favorable than your last?" Alastor queried, reading over some runes he only partially recognized, remembering fragments of the ancient language from an essay he acquired a few decades ago. The poignant look Lucifer shot him made him lower his book. The king pointed at his exhausted face, brows raised.

"With Michael and the other arch-angels present? Look at my face and tell me how it went."

"Ah well," Alastor grinned at him as he disappeared into a pile of duvet, pillows and sheets as if he wanted to burrow himself alive. "If at first you don't succeed, there's always next time."

His ears twitched when he heard a mournful, quiet "Yeah, that's what makes it worse.". After a long moment of silence between Alastor and the mountain of plush fabric, Lucifer's voice traveled damply through the layers. "Can you... pet my head until I'm asleep?"

Alastor startled at the blunt request, watching Lucifer's embarrassed face pop out from the nest he’d built himself. It was the first time that Lucifer outright asked for what Alastor had given unrequested night after night.

"I clearly remember you telling me I'd make a worse nanny than I'd make a hotelier, now you ask me to pamper you? Oh, how the tides turn."

"God, do you have to be such an ass, Alastor?! I'm fucking lonely, and you know you're..." Lucifer stopped himself, biting his lips. He turned away from him, pulling up his shoulders, disappearing into the pile again. "Forget it."

"Now don't be so insolent. I know what, my king? That I'm...?", Alastor tried, raising a single eyebrow at the sulking pile. Lucifer mumbled a short, vehement and very audible string of curses, to Alastor's great delight and even greater curiosity.

"Can you please stop fucking patronizing me and just scratch my goddamn head?!"

"Alas, since you asked so nicely!" To his never-ceasing astonishment, his touch and gentle ministration at the base of his hairline calmed Lucifers entire body down, relaxing the knot of muscles under the touch almost instantly. When he let out a long, content sigh, the deer demon just snickered. "My, my, such obscene noises from the ruler of the realm just for a simple head scratch. I fear what you'd sound like if I put in a little more effort!"

"Then put in more effort." Lucifer mumbled, already on his way to cross the border between awake and sleep, but his voice had a certain, unmistakable edge - a meaning behind so outrageous it hit Alastor like a ton of bricks. He stills, his hand unmoving in Lucifer's blonde locks, his grin slightly tweaking.

"Hm? I don't think I quite catched that right."

"Makes no sense to listen for words, if you aren't ready to receive the message, bambi."

"Oh," Alastor's wide grin returns when Lucifer, to underline his point, rolls his hips teasingly, "If you are insinuating what I think you are then that's quite the daring offer so close to drifting into sleep, even for the devil himself."

Lucifer's voice was quiet and slurred as his head fell deeper against the pillow, eyes shut and sleep already taking hold of his mind. "'Said it yourself - 'y like me best when 'm knocked out and stop talkin'..." And with that cryptic message, Lucifer left the waking world behind, and in it a - for once - speechless Radio Demon.

Hours passed, all the while Alastor tried to concentrate on the runes in his book, while trying not to listen too closely to the slow, calm breathing. He only tore his eyes away from the text whenever Lucifer's hands flexed and fisted in the duvet, or a small whimper broke free, until the pressure subsided. But eventually, Alastor let the spellbook sink as he mulled over the recent developments of their weird relationship - if it even could be called that. The days were still spent with banter and fights, especially when the matter of authority of either demon was challenged by the other. But their nights were something else, something calm and somewhat peaceful, like a truce in the midst of a cold war, and for some ungodly reason, Alastor hadn't felt this relaxed in ages either, which meant that although bizarre, this arrangement turned out to be mutually beneficial after all. But if Lucifer had indeed insinuated what he thought he had insinuated...

The small figure began to shift, slowly tossing and turning. Another nightmare, Alastor thought and returned to stroking the nape of the fallen angel's delicate neck, only to realize it was covered in cold sweat. With wide eyes, Alastor noticed Lucifer's brows drawn together in his torturous dream, breath erratic and frantic as his horns sprouted and grew in sync with his admittedly beautiful wings.

Against all good judgment, Alastor sprung into action. If a simple touch of his hand could soothe a mild nightmare, he'd just have to, well, put in more effort for a bad one. That was the proposed arrangement, wasn't it? The covers were thrown back, and before he could change his mind, Alastor slid under the blankets and sheets, laying down next to the twitching demon. With a sigh, he put an arm around Lucifer, pressing his front against the winged back, and pulled him closer, resting his chin on the crook of his shoulder, his nose and mouth touching the bare skin of his neck.

The Radio Demon tensed and waited. When Lucifer's body began to relax, his horns and wings started to retract and the cries became quiet whimpers, a smile crept over his features and his claws found the golden hair again. As soon as his fingers began to work his scalp, his whines died down and the angel leaned against him. Alastor's heart did a leap.

The king was so close, and his skin so warm where it connected with his lips. So inviting to bite down, taste a bit of that angelic blood that Alastor had always wanted to sample. But waking Lucifer would mean not adhering to the proposal, and he couldn't have that ending. Not when the fallen angel's tired voice rang so temptingly in his ears.

Tentatively, Alastor let one of his hands wander, from where it rested on Lucifer's slender waist, down further, over his hip and to the inside of his thigh.

His grin widened at the change of tune in Lucifer's whine. 'Let's see how much effort my king can take' the Radio Demon thought, the fingers of his other hand combing through his hair, scraping along his skull. It was a risky plan, to indulge Lucifer's frivolously mumbled innuendo, but then again, what could be a greater entertainment than the thrill of having the king of hell defenseless and weak, writhing at his fingertips? Wasn't he all about entertainment?

Letting the fingers that weren't in blonde locks explore, Alastor skirted his talon up the fair and sensible inner thigh, reaching further and further until he found the heated center, finding him semi-hard and tender under the fabric of his boxers. Slowly, he brushed his fingers over it, palming him firmly, earning a sinful moan from the sleeping demon. He listened for any signs of waking and found none as he sliced the offensively hindering piece of clothing open and his thumb began to work his swollen tip.

A flood of goosebumps erupted on his skin as he listened to Lucifer's heaving, irregular breaths, intensifying with every stroke he supplied.

How far could he go with this?

When would Lucifer wake?

He was so open, so sensitive and Alastor found himself enjoying the prospect of putting him at his mercy, teasing him to the edge of consciousness with his every little movement.

As the hand on Lucifer's cock ceased all movement for a moment, the angel breathed out a sound that wasn't a whimper or a moan or a cry - it was something deep and sensual, like an unarticulated plea and his hips bucked weakly into his grip.

Oh, this was fun, so much fun…Alastor could barely stop himself from chuckling, instead deciding on another experimental jerk with his hand. This elicited another noise from Lucifer, more desperate this time and Alastor repeated the action, his tongue trailing from the bottom of his shoulder up to his neck. It tasted salty and slightly sweet and utterly divine. The essence of an angel, and Alastor felt his throat thirsty for more of this heavenly flavor.

Moving swiftly, the deer peeled himself off Lucifer's back, shifting onto his knees and in between the skinny, white legs, eyes fixated on the hard and dripping member he still lazily stroked. The cum glistened in the gloomy light of the room as if it was liquid gold. The need to sample him had him leaning down, his hands pushing Lucifer's thighs further apart, making his hips arch invitingly as he opened his mouth and wrapped his tongue around the wet crown of his erection.The skin here was softer than anything he ever touched before, and oh, the taste!

That indescribable taste he had lusted after was like the perfect morsel on his palate, so divine Alastor feared for a moment he'd go off in flames from the heat that spread through him.

He moaned around the head, sucking on it hungrily as more precome hit his tongue, his ears filled with nothing but ragged and loud breaths. Lucifer was still too far gone into this dream world of bliss to wake, and a thought pierced his mind, one he shouldn't be dwelling on, but one he did, his damned tail swinging wildly from one side to the other:

That he could get addicted to this after all - the feeling of power over the king of hell himself, the taste of the heavenly essence still so prominent in the fallen angel, and the company, even if abrasive and bantering. Lucifer challenged Alastor, and although he'd never tell a soul - unlike so many others, he was at the very least, a worthy sparring partner.

Opening his eyes again and sliding down, taking him all the way, the head touching the back of his throat, he felt a slight stirring above, Lucifer shifting and panting. Just for a few more moments. Alastor pushed a bit deeper, teasing and testing before sliding upwards and setting a steady and firm pace, one hand tightening its hold on Lucifer's hip and the other wandering down, exploring the path over his smooth, tightened balls to the tensed ring of muscle below. Slowly he began circling it, sucking harder and stroking him faster until a noise he had not yet heard pierced his ears. Lucifer, in his dream, moaned his name. And for once, Alastor didn't mind it at all.

Instead, he closed his eyes and just drank in the sound of the sleeping angel moaning like he's dying for him, feeling himself responding to the lewd display of helpless want as his own cock twitches against the strained fabric of his pajama. Without his conscious accord, the tip of his finger entered the hot, willing hole, and his tongue lapped eagerly as he did, searching for another taste and there's nothing - absolutely nothing - better in this whole wretched pandemonium than the sensation of Lucifer arching and curling under him.

"Ngh… Fuck. That's an A for e-effort, if I've e-ever seen one."

Alastors eyes flew open. Lucifer's head was turned to the side, eyes barely open, irises glowing with lust in his hazy gaze. When he tried to retreat, a sudden wave of both disappointment and a weird sense of shame washed over him, Lucifer's immediate grip in his hair was painfully firm, holding him exactly where he was, while a tired smile crept on the kings' lips.

"Don't stop now when you fin-ah... not when y-ou finally gotten the h-hint."

Lucifer panted and sank back into the pillows, legs falling further apart and hips angling, opening even more while Alastor felt the corners of his mouth twitch in renewed excitement. Noting to himself to renegotiate their agreement come morning, he hummed in accordance to Lucifer's mumbled words as he descended onto the slickened heat of the angel's cock again."Not w-with those pleasant dreams you were giving me."

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel fanfiction #radioapple #hazbin hotel smut #kinktober 2024 #covenworks2024 #smut coven

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thorsenmark · 8 months ago

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flickr

Stagecoach and King-on-his-Throne by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: A setting looking to the east while taking in views across eroded formations and sandstone buttes in this southern Utah high desert landscape. This is at a roadside pullout along U.S. Route 163 with a view looking to Stagecoach and King-on-his-Throne.

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i-was-today-years-old-when · 1 year ago

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i learned what are the most mysterious places in the world

Marree Man – The fact that there is not a single witness to the creation of the Marree Man speaks to the absolute isolation of central South Australia. Somehow in 1998, one person or a group of people were able to create a 2.6-mile long line drawing of an aboriginal hunter, without being seen. In the midst of barren, arid land in South Australia, the Marree Man is the largest geoglyph and work of art in the world. Cut into the harsh landscape with lines over 115 feet wide and one foot deep, the towering Marree Man is easily visible from space. Thirteen years after the Marree Man was discovered during a flyover, little is known about its origin. Although we may never know the true origin of the Marree Man, it is certainly one of most intriguing modern day mysteries.

Chocolate Hills – Bohol Island in the Philippines during the dry season, you might notice what looks like thousands of chocolate kisses protruding from the terrain. These mysterious conical mounds are known as the Chocolate Hills. There are approximately 1,268 individual hills, their heights ranging from 100 to 160 feet, though the highest is almost 400 feet high. The hills, which are almost all symmetrical, consist of grass-covered limestone and turn brown during the dry season. Despite the abundance of hills, it is unclear how they were formed. There are multiple geological explanations ranging from oceanic volcano activity to limestone weathering. Numerous legends and tales also exist to explain the Chocolate Hills.

Giants Nest – In 1949 a geologist named Vadim Kolpakov discovered a large mound of limestone in the north of the Irkutsk region in southeastern Siberia. The cone is curiously shaped with a crater at the top and a small mound in the center. The mound is about 40 meters high and 100 meters across at the base. The smaller mound at the top is about 12 meters high. The crater was named Patomskiy, after a nearby river, but local residents call it “the Fiery Eagle’s Nest”. Since the discovery of the crater, there have been many theories as to what could have created it. For a long time it was believed to be a meteorite impact structure. Some linked it to the Tunguska meteorite, whose remains have never been discovered. But the crater does not resemble any other known meteorite site. Even now, the origin of the crater is not discovered.

Richat Structure – In the midst of vast, vacant Sahara desert, just outside of Ouadane, Mauritania, lies a 30-mile wide geological oddity known the Richat Structure, sometimes called the “Eye of Africa.” From space, this natural curiosity forms a distinct and unmistakable bull’s-eye that once served as a geographical landmark for early astronauts as they passed over the Sahara. Once thought to be an impact crater due to its circularity, the unusual formation is now widely believed to have been caused by the erosion of a geological dome formed by pressure from a bulb of molten magma below.

Plain of Jars – The Plain of Jars is a collection of large stone jars interspersed throughout the Xieng Khouang plain in the Lao Highlands. The stone structures are mostly made of sedimentary rock and, ranging from 3 to 10 feet in height, each can weigh up to 14 tons. To date, the origin of the jars is unknown, though archaeologists believe that they were originally used between 1,500 and 2,000 years ago. Many researchers have theorized that the jars may have once served as funerals urns or food storage. As local Laotian legend would have it, the jars were created by Khun Cheung, an ancient king of giants who lived in the highlands. It is said that Cheung, after fighting a long and victorious battle, created the jars in order to brew huge amounts of celebratory lao lao rice wine.

Giant’s Grave of Coddu Vecchiu – Giant’s or Tomba Dei giganti, are megalithic gallery graves that were used as public tombs during the Bronze Age. The massive gravestones were built by the Nuragic civilization, which existed in Sardinia from the 2nd millennium BCE. to the 2nd century CE. Despite the imaginative name, the sites were not the burial site of any giant; they were giant community burial chambers. Though we know the tombs had a funerary purpose, more questions remain. Little is known about the rituals or traditional beliefs that motivated their construction. Were they mass graves? Were they built to facilitate the journey into the afterlife? Since their existence has yet to be justified by scientific research, they have been credited to the supernatural, which has only increased their mystery. Legend also claims that yes, indeed, these were the tombs of powerful giants.

Zone of Silence – Pilot Francisco Sarabia was flying over a patch of desert land in Mexico when his instruments started to act increasingly odd. The man had to make an emergency landing in the middle of nowhere. Little did he know that this "nowhere" would be later dubbed "The Zone of Silence.” Weird radio silence isn't the only oddity of the creepy Zone. Like, what’s that weird trio that locals keep meeting in the Zone? They’re two men and a woman. Every time people see them, they’re wearing bizarre clothing that isn't suitable for a journey in the desert whatsoever. On top of all that, the Zone of Silence is known as a 50 km patch of deserted land where meteorites come crashing down on an eerily regular basis. On July 11, 1970, the US launched an ATHENA rocket from the Air Force base in Green River, Utah. The rocket was supposed to land somewhere in the area of White Sands in New Mexico. Instead, it went off course and, as if being pulled by some external force, crashed right in the heart of the Zone of Silence.

Michigan Triangle – Stretching from Ludington to Benton Harbor, Michigan and to Manitowoc, Wisconsin, the Lake Michigan Triangle has inspired numerous accounts of activity that are difficult to explain by rational thought. The mystery began in 1891, when a schooner named the Thomas Hume set off across the Lake to pick up lumber. Almost overnight in a torrent of wind, the Thomas Hume disappeared along with its crew of seven sailors. The wooden boat was never found. After the turn of the century, strange events happened at steady intervals. Of the more mysterious is the case of the Rosa Belle. In 1921 eleven people inside the ship, who were all members of the Benton Harbor House of David, disappeared and their ship was found overturned and floating in Lake Michigan. While it appeared that the ship had been damaged in a collision, no other ship had reported an accident and no other remains had been found.

Alaska Triangle – The Alaska Triangle is a place in the untouched wilderness where mystery lingers and people go missing at a very high rate. The area began attracting public attention in October 1972, when a small, private plane carrying U.S. House Majority Leader Hale Boggs, Alaska Congressman Nick Begich seemingly vanished into thin air. For more than a month, 50 civilian planes and 40 military aircraft plus dozens of boats, covered a search area of 32,000 square miles, but no trace of the plane, the men, wreckage or debris were ever found. Afterward, more planes went down, hikers went missing, and Alaskan residents and tourists seemed to vanish into thin air. In fact, since 1988, more than 16,000 people have disappeared in the Alaska Triangle, with a missing person rate at more than twice the national average. These disappearances are blamed on everything from severe weather to aliens, to swirling energy vortexes, to an evil shape-shifting demon of Tlingit Indian lore called Kushtaka, with no scientific explanation to the disappearances till today.

The Initiation Well – The Initiation well is 88 feet deep well located on the land of Quinta da Regaleira. Actually, it was used for ceremonial purposes. There is another small well near this well. Both these wells are connected by tunnels. The larger well contains a 27-meter spiral staircase with several small landings and the smaller well contains straight stairs that connect a series of ring-shaped floors to one another. The smaller well is also called the 'Unfinished Well'. The depth of this larger well is equal to the four-storey building, which becomes narrower on going closer to the ground. It is believed that there is some kind of light comes out from the well inside the ground and comes outwards. Surprisingly, there is no system of light inside this well, then where from this light comes, it is the secret. Anyone who comes to visit here, always raises the question of where the light comes from inside the well? Till today this secret is unsolved.

(Image Source : Google)

Thanks for Reading.

#today i learned #facts #truth #history #earth

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