#this gold castle STINKS

[daezedglownut]

@l1zardl1ps Sylvando energy lmfaoooo

[fourmoony]

Hi! I don’t know if you’re taking requests right now but your writing is so beautiful and genuinely so captivating!

I was hoping for a possible angst / fluff kinda fic! With Remus x reader

Starting off how the two met in school and how they became friends so fast + the rest of the group…going onto how the two began dating in their 3-4th year at school…onto when they left school into a proposal and marriage.

Then when the war begins again is when the angst slips in..maybe how Remus finds reader under some rocks or even them protecting Remus..for them both to be together at the end with their hands holding and it’s all angsty!

If this isn’t your cup of tea that totally okay! <33

Hi lovely!! Thank you so much for requesting!!

this is heavy on the angst, little on the fluff, hope that's okay!!

remus lupin x reader | masterlist - 1.9k words

from the vaults, since writing gives me the heebies rn

cw - death

Remus remembers the day he met you; your pristine, fresh pressed Hogwarts robes, and your swotty attitude, charging down the Express like a tyrant, wielding confidence he sorely lacked. You'd been on the hunt for whoever set off the stink bomb just outside the carriage you were in (it was James, showing off to Sirius, their friendship quickly and surely bonded together with the residual smoke of that foul little rock). Remus remembers you, often, that way. Always ready to take responsibility - or force it onto others, for their actions - and do what you believed to be right.

He knew in that exact moment, with the soundtrack of James and Sirius' hysterical laughter, the smell of pure, unbridled dung lingering in the air, that you were the bravest person he'd ever known, that when the sorting hat was sat atop your head mere hours later, there'd be no pause, no debate, you were Gryffindor through and through.

The only thing Remus hadn't accounted for, was that he, too would be placed in Gryffindor - with his nauseous stomach, shaking hands, and scars that made him feel small, rodent like, a glint of gold in the window that catches the eye long enough to peak interest, but amounts to nothing worthy of attention; rather, disgust.

Remus still sees a lot of that up-tight, bossy attitude in you, now. But more than anything, your bravery prevails. The war has taken a lot from you, from everyone he holds dearest. The first time, it was hard. Bearable, because James and Lily were alive, because Sirius wasn't locked up and losing his mind in Azkaban. There was hope, because they had Harry, and nothing was going to happen to any of them because everyone had to live to see Harry grow up.

Fools. The lot of them had been fools, he realises. This time, it's different, harder. There are no friends, no family left. It's you, and it's Remus. It breaks Remus' old, cobwebbed heart to see everything that has been taken from you both. The innocence, the joy. All that's left of you, these days, is bravery. Bravery that shines so bright, like a leading light, bravery that holds him together on the bad days, bravery that pulls sad, scared Remus out of his cocoon of dread and fear, forces him into the light. You've always been good at that - at love, at protecting the people whom you love.

It's what you do. They hadn't known it at the time - and really, how could they have? - but James and Sirius set off a stink bomb outside the carriage of a young muggle-born girl, terrified of her new school, her future, what this change would do to her. The stink bomb went off and Mary MacDonald had dissolved into hysterical tears. From the moment you came into Remus' life, you've been a protector. Your heart is your leading light, your entire being, a soul so pure it'd make angels weep.

He shouldn't be surprised. Really. The minute it the south wall of the castle blows up, Remus should know the lengths you'll go to. The things you will do to make sure the people you love are safe.

There's dust and rubble everywhere, clouding his vision, choking him until he can't breathe, and in the minute before the wall crumbles around you, your body taking ninety percent of the blast, hands fast in pushing Remus so hard he has no choice but to stumble back, away, in a daze, he sees your eyes. They're calm. So calm it's unnerving. He knows everything that people will say you never got the chance to tell him. He's known since he was sixteen everything you feel for him, the love, the gratitude, the admiration.

You've had a life together. Not all of it has been good - war and death, losses and pain so unimaginable Remus wonders how either of you ever got through it. But the quiet moments, the happy moments, not marred by battle, or grave stones, weeping, or bone crushing sorrow. The moments where all that mattered was both of you, the love, the happiness; the joy Remus felt with you is nothing he ever thought he'd get to experience, would ever deserve.

He knows. He knows you love him, he knows you're okay with the choice you've just made. But he's surprised.

In all the years you've spent together - all the funerals you've attended together, planned together - he always thought that when the time came, you'd both go together. Asleep, old and decrepit. Something peaceful, after the life you'd shared.

But the blood is still thrumming in his veins, the cogs in his brains till whirring as he stares at the pile of rubble that's fallen around you. He thinks, rather foolishly, and only for a second, that you may have survived. He thinks your sheer will and determination could still be pulsing in your heart, the bravery you wear so honestly wrapped around you like a coat of armour. But the bond that ties you to him, the mating bond, the marriage bond - Remus has never known which is which, it's all an overwhelming amount of love, to him - pulls taught. It snaps, like wisps of smoke between you, and Remus breaks with it.

He breaks so fast and so hard that the world crumbles around him and he loses track of where he is, what he's fighting for. It comes out of nowhere, a flash of light, of bright green light and Remus is grateful to be spared of the agony, because it's barely been two minutes and he had already felt like he was dying, anyway. The pain is nothing, in comparison to losing you, to live in a world without your laugh, your smile, your hard-headed attitude. He couldn't have done it, and so he feels peace as he crumples to a heap on the ground.

Maybe a silly part of him thought that you'd be waiting at the other end. In a way, you are. But, also, you're not. Because he's watching you as you charge down the Astronomy Tower stairs, the fourteen-year-old version of himself hot on your heels. He remembers this like it was yesterday. He'd kept his secret from you so well until that year, when the growth spurt started and the wolf got bigger and the scars ran deeper, in more noticeable places. The one that ran across his face.

You'd been horrified, he remembers. The look of unbridled fury as you demanded to know who on earth had done such a thing. You were never horrified of him. No. Just the mere idea that someone had hurt him, and it made Remus feel loved, protected. You made him feel loved and protected.

He watches as you reach the bottom of the steps, twirling to face him with your signature unimpressed scowl. He feels fondness like a ball of sunlight in his chest, mouthing the words 'you're a dirty liar, Remus Lupin!' along with you, the sound of your posh swotty accent ringing in his ears.

He'd went back to his dorm that night and made the decision to tell you, came up with a plan, the easiest way to break it to you. You arrived at his door two hours later, half way through his idea list, and told him you'd figured it out. He knew then that he loved you. For all you were bossy and uptight, he loved you, your impatience, your brain, your heart. Remus was in love.

You fade from his view and Remus steps forwards as though he might be able to grab you, keep you there. But the sound of your voice ringing out turns him on the spot, and you're by the black lake, picking daisies with Sirius to make daisy chains. The memories come flooding through, reliving his life through the good moments and the bad. He watches you both fight, cry, makeup. Getting together was a long, painful process, too many miscommunications, missed opportunities. You never did nail down how to express any feelings other than anger and frustration.

But the moment he had you, Remus never let go.

He watches the memories flash by, remembers every one with a heart so full it could burst. A beautiful life, is what he had. Painful, marred by coldness and death and a beast in his heart that he could never tame. But it was beautiful, and it was full of laughter and love, and joy because he had you.

There's your first kiss, heated and mid argument - because back then, Remus had to rile you up enough to snap just to get a lick of emotion from you. You were brave in many ways. Emotions were not one of them. All the milestones are there, flitting past faster than Remus would like. The end of O.W.L. exams, the party that followed, the frantic, unpracticed hands that flitted over each other's bodies in a secluded hallway that night. Summers at the Potter Estate, lounging in the meadows by the cool stream, fires and empty cans of cider, laughing until his bones hurt and his eyes shone with tears.

Your first flat, old and dingy, but you'd danced that first night in the kitchen for so long that the broken heater didn't matter. You'd made it a home.

The day Remus proposed, terrified out of his bloody mind, shaking so hard he dropped the ring box and you'd yelped as the silver banded ring went flying. He saved for years for that ring. You'd said yes, tears of joy and love and elation at spending the rest of your life with him, and spent the next hour looking for the ring in the grass with the help of Padfoot.

You walking down the aisle, a vision of pure beauty, that signature smile you reserved only for Remus, who was waiting at the end wondering what on earth he ever did to deserve you.

Snippets of a life well-spent fly past in a hurry, the blink of an eye, and Remus begins to feel melancholy. The rest of eternity as a conscious soul, reliving all of his best memories, but missing you still. He wonders if you feel the same, if you're watching the best parts of your life fly by, wishing there was more time, more words, more everything.

"We wasted so much time forgetting what life was like, then." Your voice is soft, wistful.

Remus turns and you're there, lips pressed in a thin line, looking very much like you're ready to scald him for following you this far. But Remus Lupin decided a long time ago that he'd follow you to the ends of the earth, so what is death, to that?

"I never forgot. It just got hard to get back to that, I suppose." He wants to reach out and touch you, see if you're real, or a figment of his imagination.

You hum in pensive agreement, "I was always happy with you. You know that, don't you."

How could he ever doubt it? "Down to my soul."

That smile. That mischievous, knowing, loving smile that Remus knows like the skin and bone of his body. Your hand extends to him, as real as the day he took yours in his, and promised to love you until death parted you both. Your chin jerks to the white plane ahead, Remus has no idea how far it stretches or where it goes, but he follows you, anyway, hand in yours.

"Everyone's waiting for us." You tell him.

So, Remus follows you home.

[marthawrites]

The Post-Flying Gift

Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem reader

Can be read as a one shot but reads best to pt 3 to "Whore, Pet, Lover"

Word count: 2.2k+

About: A rare fully sunny day beckons Daemon and Rhaenyra to fly their dragons above Dragonstone for hours. You are more than happy to watch them in flight. When they return, their dragonblood runs hot.

Includes: Continued slice of life plot, canon incest (this is canon Daemon and Rhaenyra), f/f, pet play undertones, dumbification understones, pussy eating, vaginal fingering, Daemon is stealthy, m/f, implied dick sucking, implied facefucking, aftercare

Note: Hello lovely reader! Apparently it's been nearly a year since I wrote "the gift that keeps giving". WILD. I definitely wanted to revisit this little mini series because my Daemyra brainrot is always real. As always, reader is non-descript. Please, enjoy! ♥

-

A warm sun glinted off Caraxes’ crimson body as he flew above the ocean of Blackwater Bay with Daemon at his reins. So red, and so swift was he against the blue sky, that he appeared to rend the sky with each passing by. Chasing and playing with the Blood-Wyrm was Rhaenyra upon the yellow-scaled Syrax who shone like burnished gold in the sunshine. They’d been flying at least two hours now–perhaps longer.

You had a perfect view of the Black Queen and her Prince Consort from where you stood upon their private balcony overlooking all of Dragonmount. Castle Dragonstone was as much your home now as your previous home had been. You were a birthday gift for the Queen. Deemed “the prettiest whore in all of Westeros” by Daemon Targareyn. A whore you were, then, and now, their little pet. They’ve never treated you badly. You’d never given them a reason to. Oftentimes in the sweet afterglow of your shared pleasures you daresay you are their lover: more than a whore and more than a pet.

Turning inside, you tidied their martial chambers and made sure to have clothes laid out for them for when they return from dragon riding. They both had special garb to fly in. Dragon smell was a very distinct thing, and in your experience even the most skilled servants had a hard time fully ridding the stink. A platter of herb roasted fish, tart berries, and salted root vegetables also sat awaiting their return. 

With a goblet of wine in hand, you returned to the balcony to watch them in flight. Scanning all over where your eyes could see–and double checking–you didn’t see, or hear, them anywhere. They might finally be done, you thought, and a smile twinkled up to your eyes.

A windswept Rhaenyra was the first to return. Silver strands of hair fell from her once neat braid giving her a wonderfully disheveled appearance. “Your Grace!” You said excitedly.

Rhaenyra grinned, beginning to take her leather riding gloves off. Her eyes were bright and wild. “Hello sweet love.” Flight had a way of elating her like none else could. Her riding garb was a mixture of wool and leather, both ash in color, and embellished with black dragonscales. Silver accents paled only in comparison to red gems highlighting the whole set up: coat, tunic, gloves, pants, boots. Aside from her rich Targaryen gowns, this was her favorite attire. “Did you enjoy watching my husband and I fly together?”

“Always! I could watch you both all day from the balcony.”

Matching Rhaenyra’s eyes, a wild smile took over the rest of her features; something dark and mischievous alike. A challenge and a dare. Proud and amused. “Out of all the gifts my husband has ever gotten me… you are my favorite. By far. My darling little pet,” she cooed as she opened the front of her coat and began unbuckling her belt. She sat in a chair and bent to work the lacings of her boots loose. Kicking them off, she sighed contentedly. “Mayhaps one day I will take you asaddle with me on Syrax. Would you like that?”

If watching your Queen begin to undress didn’t get your blood pumping, then her suggestion of flight surely did. “You mean it?” You asked, half dumbfounded by her proposal. “I would love nothing more!”

Her legs were bare, now, and she tossed her coat over to a nearby chair. The only thing she wore was her linen undershirt and smallclothes. She leaned back comfortably against the chair, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, and  she beckoned you over with one hand. “Come,” she said with a tilt of her head.

The sly little smirk upon her mouth had your belly doing flips as you walked to her. She was so lovely, and radiant, and tension sparked in the air between you two as you stepped between her legs. “Shall I redo your braid?” You asked softly, doing your best to keep your eagerness at a reasonable level. You really didn’t want to seem completely pathetic. Though, Rhaenerya knew how pathetic you could get for both her and Daemon; the glint of her expression told you she noted your anxious yearning.

Leaning up and forward, she gently cupped your face between her warm palms. With fluttering lids she pressed her lips to yours. Soft. Devious. “Not yet,” she whispered between sensuous kisses. “I don’t think that’s what you’re really interested in right now, is it?” 

Between Rhaenyra and Daemon, you didn’t know which one enjoyed making you blush more. She could see right through you. And, assumedly due to the thrill of flying, she wasn’t shy of putting you right on the spot. You shook your head and sighed blissfully against all of her kisses. You could kiss her until your lips were chapped and still kiss her more. “Not really…”

Her laugh was warm honey dripping down your spine. “I didn’t think so. Good girl for being honest about it.” Once again she leaned back against the chair as she looked at you with pride. But, the darkness of lust shadowed her features. “Flying is truly magnificent. It makes me feel… powerful. Invincible. And free.” As she spoke, one hand curled into your hair and began to gently urge you down. “It makes me feel good,” she added, raspy. “Be my good pet and keep making me feel good.”

Any thoughts you might have had going on in your brain were quickly shut down upon Rhaenyra’s request. You kept your eyes on her and shuddered with delight. You followed her downward push until you happily knelt right there in front of her–right between her parted legs. You pressed both hands up her thighs while planting kisses all along the smooth insides. “I love making you feel good,” you said to her, and she answered with a curl of her fingers inside your hair. You smiled; thoughts already dissipating from your brain.

“Such a pretty, sweet thing looking up at me like that,” Rhaenyra cooed approvingly. She shifted her hips slightly, just enough to make your ministrations easier.

The Black Queen smelled like a dragon. On anyone else you’d hate the sharpness of it. The stink. But on her? Somehow, it was perfect. Between the salty sea air on her skin, unclouded sun rays in her hair, and saddle leather where you knelt, she was the Dragon Queen. Tension rolled through your body until it left the buzz of excitement behind in each place it lingered. You were humming from the inside out. Purring. Rhaenyra’s pretty pet. Leaning down, you sat on all fours in front of her, now. You kissed her covered cunt where you knew her clit was.

The softest of a sigh left Rhaenyra’s mouth. “Tease me any longer and I’ll forbid you from watching us for the next fortnight,” she threatened.

“Yes, your Grace,” you simpered. Curling your fingers beneath the waist of her smallclothes, you pulled them fully down and off. Now there was nothing stopping you from what you both wanted. You repeated those same kisses over her pearl; each longer, softer, your lips parting more and more with each until you tasted her on your tongue. 

“There you are,” she rasped. Looking down at you she smirked triumphantly. She ran her fingers through your hair and said, “keep going. Keep making me feel good.” 

A whine broke from you and your tongue slid up through the fullness of Rhaenyra’s slit. When you saw how her head tipped back in bliss, your own head went brainless–focused now only on her pleasure. You lapped, and circled, and gently sucked, over and over again, your whole attention solely on her and her pleasure. Each of her whines, moans, and inhales of breath sent goosebumps pebbling atop your skin.

Make her feel good. Make her feel good. Make her feel good.

You loved the way she tasted. You loved the way she reacted to you. You loved the way she idly stroked through your hair, or pulled it, or held onto your ears. She was never shy in her passions, and neither were you. 

You lavished her clit until your jaw ached, but you never let it stop you. Rhaenyra’s sounds of pleasure were coming quicker now, sharper, and you knew she was getting close. It was then you delicately slipped a finger into her and began to work her from the inside, too.

“More,” she half stammered.

You added a second and moaned against her. It was only then that you realized how wet you were. How utterly soaked and needy your own cunt was. It clenched around nothing, your bud practically throbbing, your thighs pressing together to give you some minor relief from the pent up tension knotting in your belly. Yet never once did your own hand wander to that incredibly yearning space between your thighs. Your eyes were rolled closed. Only Rhaenyra’s building climax mattered. 

More. More. More.

She shuddered when she came undone around your fingers and upon your mouth. Her orgasm was sweet against your tongue; you dripped with self-satisfaction. It continued to roll through her in waves until the aftershocks had her panting softly. But, even still, you gently licked over all of her. Not enough to overstimulate her, but enough to keep her peak going as long as it could. You moaned softly all throughout; purring.

So lost in bliss, and so focused on your Queen, you hadn’t noticed anything else. You didn’t hear the door open or close. Never did you hear the soft scruff of leather on stone. Nor did you take note of a presence behind you. It was only when you felt fingers pressing into you that you paused to think. Those weren’t your fingers. No. They were too big and felt entirely different than your own. You gasped; desperate. Looking over your shoulder you nearly crumbled.

“Valzȳrys” husband, Rhaenyra whispered with half-lidded eyes.

“Ābrazȳrys” wife, he answered. “You two are having all the fun. Have you any idea how fucking wet your little pet is right now?” As if to make a point, Daemon worked his fingers just right to make you squelch. It was borderline obscene.

Your face was hot and for a moment you thought you’d come right then and there. Your spine dipped lower, presenting yourself to him as he knelt behind you.

“Oh… and how pretty she moans.” Daemon crooned, easily sliding two fingers in and out of you at the most devastatingly wonderful pace. “Did she make you feel good?” He asked Rhaenyra, continuing to finger fuck you from behind.

Rhaenyra grinned wide and smiled breathlessly. “Very.”

“That's our girl.”

You shamelessly pushed back against his hand. You were so slick he could have easily slipped a third in. Despite how well you did, however, you didn’t want to seem greedy, and so you took all that you could from those two fingers. 

“Shall I let her come, or do you wish to see her tears first, my Queen?” 

Dread dropped in your stomach because you knew exactly what he meant by that. Rhaenyra fucking loved to watch Daemon edge you until you were crying and begging for release. It was one of the darker games they liked to play with you. If at any time you wanted the game to stop–everyone knew–all you had to do was ask. Yet, never once had you brought the edging to an early end. As much as you hated it, you also fucking loved it. And so did Daemon. 

Rhaenyra shook her head, still basking in the afterglow of climax. “She did extremely well today. Let her come as she pleases.”

That’s all Daemon needed to hear. He indeed pressed a third into you and gave you exactly what he knew you liked. The tension in your belly sunk deeper, and wound tighter, and had you blabbering near gibberish until it snapped. Liquid warmth filled all of your limbs. Storm static clung to each of your nerves. Your pulse pounded in your fingertips. The force of your peak had you collapse forward until your cheek lay flat on the rug-covered stone floor. You panted, dizzy. 

Daemon gave your backside an approving smack. “A very good girl.”

You smiled softly at both of them relishing in the adoration they had for you, and you had for them. Leaning back up, you gently laid in Rhaenyra’s lap and allowed your eyes to close for a few moments. It wasn’t until Daemon called you that you woke. How long had you dozed off?

“Hm?” You asked.

“Crawl to me,” he said from where he sat in a chair, nude from the waist down with his doublet open. He was already hard.

You didn’t have to be asked twice.

You crawled to him and knelt between his thighs, looking up at him sweetly, obediently.

“Now it’s your Queen’s turn to watch. You know how much she likes watching. I don’t have to edge you to make tears fall from those pretty lashes, hm?”

Shaking your head with a tiny smirk, you knew exactly what he meant. With the sweetness of Rhaenyra’s climax still on your tongue, you took the Rogue Prince deep into your throat. You let him fuck your mouth how he wanted to until tears and saliva smeared your face, and and his seed overwhelmed the taste of your Queen.

It was in the sweet afterglow of these pleasures, where you all laughed, drank wine, and shared meals, that you truly felt like their lover.

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

I am redoing my taglist! If you wish to be tagged in any of the fics I write and share (main, aemond, daemon, rhaenyra, harwin, daemyra) PLEASE let me know! Thank you! ♥

Masterlist

[venusmorning]

The Targaryen Prince and I. (Chapter 1 )

Male!Rhaenyra x Alicent Hightower AU (Both Show Version)

Disclaimer: This is not me erasing lesbian representation if anything I prefer the original ship but this is my personal take on what would happen if Rhaenyra had been born a boy and befriended Alicent still. Also: I’m not claiming any works as mine, I don’t own any of the characters or anything house of the dragon related, everything belongs to the rightful owners at HBO and George RR Martin. I have used the original script and I don’t claim the script as my own, plagiarism is wrong.

Notes: Rhaenyra’s name has been changed to Rhaegar.

Words: 1002

Trope: Friends To Lovers.

Warnings: Arranged Marriage (Both Agree Though), mentions of childbirth and pregnancy, but SFW. Mentions of Miscarriages and Stillbirths. Scheming Otto Hightower idk

Summary: The Prince Rhaegar Targaryen has a best friend, the Lady Alicent Hightower. Little do they know the Lord hand Otto Hightower, Alicent’s Father is scheming for them to marry, needless to say King Viserys complies.

The adolescent dragon, Syrax, had just returned with the Prince Rhaegar flying aback. The yellow-gold dragon set herself down gracefully at the command of the Prince, who eventually reached over to pamper the dragon for her memorable flight, but from a distance a carriage had arrived; Lady Alicent stepped out and marvels at Rhaegar’s bravery, very captivated by the strength of her friend. “Dohaerās, Syrax!” Shouted the dragonkeeper, Syrax quickly turned around toward the dragon pit. (The Dragon Keepers leading her of course) Leaving plenty of time for Rhaegar to stroll over to his best friend.

Ser Harrold Westerling, his sworn protector greeting the young prince on the way. At the sight of Alicent his faces lights up, “Syrax is growing quickly, she’ll soon be as large as Caraxes.” Lady Alicent said as Prince Rhaegar shifted closer, “that’s large enough to saddle two.” Prince Rhaegar lets out a smile at imagining being able to fly with his friend.

————————————

“You stink of dragon.” Alicent exclaimed her face mildly scrunching up, “I don’t have time to bathe, I do have time to visit my mother.” He replied. “Although I may need a sworn protector, I imagine she won’t be happy with the smell.” Rhaegar grinned at her but she only rolled her eyes, “I’m afraid I don’t possess any training.” She whispered letting out a little giggle, Rhaegar still determined took her hand in his. “You can appeal to her by kindness, it is quite the feat.” he said as they say travel up the castle stairs. “Mayhaps, I suppose I am at your loyal service my Prince.” She’s teased as they came closer to her mother’s private bedchamber.

There sat Rhaegar’s mother, Queen Aemma. She is croqueting a new piece of work whilst hands maids work busily and ladies in waiting are lighting candles for their soon dinner, it had been good ever since Rhaegar, a boy, was born. No more pregnancies for the Queen, no more grief, no more late afternoons of the 10 year old Prince Rhaegar crying into Alicent’s shoulder for comfort after his mother had suffered another miscarriage. In truth Queen Aemma and King Viserys had been content with their heir, Prince Rhaegar for a while, 8 years even. But still needed a spare in case the sudden death of the young prince. They had left it long enough according to Viserys’s council. They had tried, really tried, but after the third time of failure gave up for the Queen’s sake, no matter what the Kings Council said. They would name Rhaegar as Viserys’s heir officially on his 10th name day, not so long since Aemma’s stillbirth.

But after that, Prince Rhaegar was watched all the time. He was discouraged from riding his dragon, or even a horse, it wasn’t as much the smell of dragon that frightened Queen Aemma but the thought of losing her only living son. The realms delight. He had befriended the hand of the kings daughter, Alicent after Otto had introduced them when they were no more than 8 years old. It was no surprise: Alicent was the hand of the kings daughter. Why wouldn’t she be at court? Although the rumours of Prince Rhaegar and Alicent being betrothed spread like wildfire, it is not true. At least not yet it isn’t.

All this to say, Queen Aemma had addressed Alicent but later lectured the young Prince for flying. After a short while of talking about the upcoming tourney the prince turned around with Alicent in tow, waving goodbye to his mother and making his way back out the castle. Prince Rhaegar made his way to the courtyard to go practise his swordsmanship with Lord Harrold Westerling, Alicent watched in a quiet but peaceful gaze. After a while of fencing he sat down next to Alicent, “Shall we go then?” he says.

——————————————

Alicent is sat down, back against the weirwood tree whilst Rhaegar has his head in her lap. The carved face in the tree seems to stare down at them both, “Did you actually read it?” Alicent says sarcastically, “Of course.” He replies trying to act shocked. “Okay how about this.” She says sitting up slightly and getting ready to test her friend. “When Princess Nymeria came to Dorne, who did she take to husband?” Alicent says, testing him. “If you reply with "Lord Something," Septa Marlow will be furious.” She says bewildered. “So? She's funny when she's furious.” Rhaegar answers. Alicent, utterly frustrated closes the book and gets up wresting away. “Where are you going now?” He says teasing her, Alicent not appreciating his tone of voice. “I’m going home, the hour is late.” She replies. Rhaegar stands up letting out a sigh of annoyance, “Princess Nymeria led her Rhoynar across the Narrow Sea on ten thousand ships to flee their Valyrian pursuers. She took Lord Mors Martell of Dorne to husband and burned her own fleet off Sunspear to show her people that they were finished running.” Rhaegar leans in as Alicent opens the page and smiles amiably at Rhaegar’s knowledge, to her surprise he rips out the page of the book. “What do you think you’re doing?!” She shouts. “So you remember.” He replies handing her the torn piece of parchment. “If the septa sees this book-“ she squabbles before being interrupted, “fuck the septa.” He says a frown emerging. “Rhaegar!” But the both of them only giggle as the birds tweet behind them.

A warm feeling emerged in Rhaegar’s heart as he stared at Alicent, his cousin Laena, had asked many a time when he was planning to wed Alicent, he’d only snort at her as a young child, but now that he was older whenever he would visit Driftmark and bare witness to her teasing, he would simply roll his eyes and ignore the racing of his heart at the thought of marrying Alicent, He doesn’t know it himself, but perhaps he loves that girl. But I’ll tell you who does know. Lord Otto Hightower, and he’s not opposed to it. In fact, he fully welcomes it.

[ghost9whore]

Lightning’s Reign and Thunder’s Roar VI

Male oc x house of the dragon

This one’s for you @jamieclearwater2314

His soft mews were enough to make any man lose his head.

The way his body moved under mine made heart race.

The loss of him would start a war

(Rhaenys’ P.O.V)

“It’s the King’s tournament for his heir and your father is on the king’s small council.” I told my youngest son

“I understand that but why do I have to go?” My son asked back

“It’s rude for you not to go and you’ll be able to see your cousin Rhaenyra” I countered

“No that’s not what I mean it’s just, Queen Aemma has had 4 pregnancies in the past year every one of them has died” Caserys remarked

“Sigh I know but we still have to go for your father and the king.” I finally spoke

That seemed to get through my youngest’s head. He agreed to go but however became excited for it when he learned Daemon would be coming as well.

The Next Day

I decided to accompany my husband on the boat instead of riding Meleys and racing Caserys on Rayraxs. Caserys had struggled in taming his dragon but, one day it seemed like they had clicked. Rayraxs listened to Caserys and Caserys only. My son had still refused to hold his dragon in the dragon pit but didn’t ask my husband and I to make a space for him. They flew together with a speed that is unmatched. Meleys and I were once known as the fastest but upon inspection at my son we were quickly outmatched.

(Caserys’ P.O.V)

King’s Landing hasn’t changed it still has the same stink it always does. The smell of wine and sex an unforgiving scent. I wished to ride on my dragon however Rayraxs had to stay on the far side of the kingdom as to not frighten the people and because I still refused to hold him in the dragon pit.

I was walking around the halls of the King’s Castle when I stumbled upon my cousin Rhaenyra. She hadn’t seem to notice me. She was lost walking away from her mother’s room. I swiftly walked up behind her to spook her and make my presence known.

“Hello dear cousin” I started

“Hello Caserys you startled me” she responded

I linked my arm under hers as we continued to walk.

“How are you doing cousin?” I asked her

“I’m well excited for the tournament” she replied

“Haha I mean with your mothers pregnancy. You will not be the only child anymore” I continued

“I’m happy that my father will finally have his son and I hope that my mother doesn’t have to continue having children.” she confessed

Her confession did startle me. Normally it would be considered treasonous for someone to wish the queen would stop having children and it’s uncouth for the princess to admit that. She as well seemed startled.

“I’m sorry I don’t know why I told you that please don’t tell-“

“Rhaenyra it’s ok I won’t tell anyone” I cut her off comforting her

Rhaenyra’s face soften at my statement. She thanked me and told me she had to go as she was late for her father’s meeting. I didn’t believe we were close enough to share things like that. So why did she tell me that?

(Daemon’s P.O.V)

Walking up the steps of the Castle of King’s Landing feels much better knowing the gold cloaks and I made this city much safer and that this castle would one day be mine.

Entering the throne room I see my prize. What everything I have done has been for, my seat, my power. The Iron Throne. Sitting on this throne feels even better I connect to the seat as if it was made for me. Reveling in my throne I’m interrupted as my niece walks in.

“What are you doing uncle?” she asks me in High Velaryon

“Sitting” I chuckle responding back in Velaryon

(Caserys’ P.O.V)

The cliff near the back of the king’s castle were the only space big enough that could hold Rayraxs as the dragon pit wasn’t a suitable option and he desired to be close to me. I had told him to stay yet if I was in danger he would destroy the entire city trying to look for me. My mother instructed me to greet my father and the king after their small council meeting. Then, after I was to ready myself for the heir’s tournament my mother said that the king was never truly a dragon rider so dragon back wasn’t his favorite scent.

Getting closer to the small council room I hear speaking it’s coming from the council room. I investigate the sound to find a small crack in the wall near the room. This crack is not guarded and is secluded enough that no one could see me here. I begin to listen to the conversation so that I’m able to hear

“Queen Aemma must have this child, If the realm is left to Daemon it will devolve into madness.”

“Daemon is the king’s heir and until this child comes he will stay the king’s heir”

“I can offer a different solution for a different heir.” This voice I recognized as my father

“Corlys you would have your wife as the heir?”

“Rhaenys was stepped over but has produced two male heirs. The throne should go through us.” My father responded to the man

“Enough because you sit as the King’s table does not make you his equal. You forgot yourself Corlys.”

“Your son Caserys would make a better whore than king” another man said

That statement about me was something I had heard before as well as my father. However, that still didn’t hold his anger I could hear him stand up and slam his hands on the table as he stood up.

“Silence do not speak ill of Lord Corlys’ son. My son will be born soon and I will not hear anymore of this until he is” The voice spoke that I recognized as King Viserys

The meeting was coming to an end I needed to leave to be able to greet my father and the king. I slipped out of the crack and walked a few steps down before walking back to see my father exiting the small council room. He looked a little disturbed his hand reached for my arm as he pulled me away before anyone else could see me.

“What are you doing here?” He asked me angrily as looked around

“I had to come to greet you and the King” I told him

“Not here you can greet the King at the tournament” he spoke to me

I could tell he was angry at the the man would made the whore comment at me but I didn’t want to bring it up as he would be angrier that I was listening. I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that the man was right.

I would make a better whore than anything…

The tournament felt as a cover. That their was an underlying issue that wasn’t being spoken about. King Viserys had left halfway. The first tournament player has asked for my mother’s blessing calling her the queen who never was a restraining title. Daemon had asked for Rhaenyra’s friend Alicent’s favor which felt like he was mocking me and the last player named Criston Cole had asked for Rhaenyra’s favor. In the end Criston Cole had won the tournament but the news spread of Queen Aemma’s death and suddenly no one could care for the tournament. Rhaenyra, Alicent, and Daemon had all left my parents as well.

The news was found out to be true. Queen Aemma and her son Prince Baelon had passed away. Their funeral were to take place in the morning. How quickly this joyous day has turned sad. Rayraxs had been staying away as he wouldn’t stay in dragon pit but wasn’t allowed free reign. The funeral was to be as expected. Rhaenyra seemed more angry at her father than mournful with him.

Daemon spooked up behind me.

“Such a tragic what happened to the King’s Heir” he spoke in a whispered manner but I felt the bits of malice in his voice.

He spoke and walked away before I could response to him walking towards Rhaenyra. His expression changed and softened when he spoke to Rhaenyra it seems his words continued to fuel her anger towards her father. Syrax was waiting on top of a rock near Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon’s bodies. Rhaenyra looked to her father to say the word but he was too choked up. That seemed to anger her more and she spoke the command words instead of her father.

“Dracarys” she said with tears in her eyes.

And with the fire went King Viserys’ heir

The whole castle was in mourning of the Queen and Prince’s death or so I thought.

I heard that Daemon rented out an entire whore house in the street of silk to celebrate his new throne. His entire city watch in toe.

Listening to my father speak about Daemon’s actions made me wonder how the King reacted. It didn’t take long before I learned that Daemon had been disowned as heir. He had no heir so my father told me that Otto Hightower had recommended another person. My father told me this because she was my friend and cousin. He felt that our houses should have been united and we should keep the Targaryen’s close.

The King’s heir is

Rhaenyra Targaryen

A/N: it’s been a while and I’ve been very busy with finals but now it’s over and I have something else in store that I’m excited to share

[delightingintragedy]

Sun Correspondences

From Christian Astrology by William Lilly

(It is mostly word for word. I tried to format it to fit into a nice correspondence list, but the information itself is untouched.)

Zodiac: Rules Leo. Detriment in Aquarius, Exalted in Aries, Fall in Libra.

Nature: Naturally Hot, Dry, but more temperate than Mars, is a Masculine, Diurnal Planet, Equivalent, if well dignified to a Fortune.

Profession: Kings, Princes, Emperors, & Dukes, Marquesses, Earls, Barons, Lieutenants, Deputy-Lieutenants of Counties, Magistrates, Gentlemen in general, Courtiers, desirers of Honour and preferment, Justices of Peace, Majors, High-Sheriffs, High-Constables, great Huntsmen, Stewards of Noblemen's houses, the principal Magistrate of any City, Town, Castle or Country Village; yea, thought a petty Constable, where no better, or greater Officer is; Goldsmiths, Braziers, Pewterers, Coppersmiths, Minters of Money.

Sicknesses: Pimple in the Face, Palpitation or Trembling, or any Diseases of the Brain or Heart, Tympanies, Infirmities of the Eyes, Cramps, sudden swoonings, Diseases of the Mouth, and stinking Breaths, Catarrhs, rotten Fevers; principally in man he governs the Heart, the Brain and right Eye, and vital Spirit, in Women the left Eye.

Colours: Yellow, the colour of Gold, the Scarlet or clear Red, some say Purple.

Savours: A mixture of Sour and Sweet together, or the Aromatical flavour, being a little Bitter and Stiptical, but withal Confortative and a little sharp.

Herbs: Those Plants which are subject to the Sun do smell pleasantly, are of good savour, their Flowers are yellow or reddish, are in growth of Majestic form, they love open and Sunshine places, their principal Virtue is to strengthen the Heart, and comfort the Vitals, to clear the Eyesight, resist Poison, or to dissolve any Witchery, or Malignant Planetary Influences; and they are Saffron, the Laurel, the Pomecitron, the Vine, Enula Campana, Saint John's Wort, Amber, Musk, Ginger, Herbgrace, Balm, Marigold, Rosemary, Rosa solis, Cinnamon, Celandine, Eyebright, Peony, Barley, Cinquefoil, Spikenard, Lignum Aloes, Arsenic.

Trees: Ash tree, Palm, Laurel tree, the Myrrh tree, Frankincense, the Cane tree or plant, the Cedar, Heletrepion, the Orange and Lemon tree.

Beasts: The Lion, the Horse, the Ram, the Crocodile, the Bull, Goat, Nightworms or Glowworms.

Fishes: The Sea Calf or Sea Fox, the Crabfish, the Starfish.

Birds: The Eagle, the Cock, the Phoenix, Nightingale, Peacock, the Swan, the Buzzard, the fly Cantharis, the Goshawk.

Places: Houses, Courts of Princes, Palaces, Theatres, all magnificent Structures being clear and decent, Halls, Dining Rooms.

Minerals: Gold

Stones: The Hyacinth, Chrysolite, Adamant, Carbuncle, the Etites stone found in Eagle's nests, the Pantaure, if such a stone be the Ruby.

Weather: He produces weather according to the season; in the Spring gentle moistening Showers; in the Summer heat in extremity if with Mars; in Autumn mists; in Winter small Rain.

Winds: Eastern Winds

Element: Fire

Angel: Michael

Planetary Alliances: His Friends are all of the Planets except Saturn, who is his Enemy.

Week Day: Sunday

Correspondence posts for the other planets: [Moon] [Mercury] [Venus] [Mars] [Jupiter] [Saturn]

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

"Dumb question"

A little one-shot where Julian thought he connected the dots, but he didn't connect crap. With Farmer Miranda! @amishasp

Got inspired by this art and comment about Miranda and Isaac. Also this OST will definitely play when Julian being dummy with his questions 😆

_____________________________

For some, autumn is not a very desirable season, as it brings dampness, rain and melancholy and sadness about the past warm summer days. Others welcome the cooler weather with open arms, rejoice in the nature that has painted the trees in all shades of red, orange and gold, enjoy warming drinks and show off their stylish seasonal outfits.

For farmers, autumn always means hard work and a bountiful harvest.

Miranda and Julian wasted no time picking apples from the trees they had planted a year ago in the small dugout that used to serve Pelican Town residents as a community garden. Lewis offered both farmers a small plot of land with the hope that they would transform the overgrown, unattractive dugout into something that would at least not be an eyesore. Miranda had suggested to her friend that they plant some apple trees, so that they could pick sweet fruit all autumn long. The blond boy had agreed at immediately - apples were his favourite fruit. Miranda had slightly different plans for the apples...

The juicy, ruby-red, sweet fruit fell from the branches as soon as the two farmers started shaking the trees. After putting all the apples in the large baskets, Miranda took one of them, washed the dirt in a barrel of water nearby, and with a knife cut off one part of the apple, dividing it into two small pieces. She held one out to Julian, to which he gratefully put the apple in his mouth immediately, chewing slowly.

"Mmmmm... Sweet as honey. Great harvest," Julian said happily, wiping the apple juice from his lips.

"June's sure to love it..." Miranda realised she'd said it out loud, and at Julian's questioning look, pointed the knife she'd just used to cut the apple in his direction. "You heard nothing." Julian smiled slyly, and showed with a gesture of his hand a "zipping" on his lips, promising that he would take that secret to his grave.

The two farmers, with baskets full of apples, strolled towards home, sharing along the way who would do what they would do next with the large crop of sweet autumn fruits.

"I only recently sold a lot of pumpkins, so I'm thinking of keeping the apples for myself. Jam, cider, pies, that sort of thing," Julian retorted, already tasting homemade apple & cinnamon pie.

"I'll sell most of it after all. Only keep some fruits for... my own use," Miranda blushed a little, and a plan was already in her head about a "chance" meeting with a pianist who really liked apples...

They didn't immediately notice Isaac and Lance, the adventurers from Castle Village, walk past them, not far from the Saloon. The pink-haired man greeted the two colleagues with a polite nod, when all Julian and Miranda heard from the adventurer with the scar was a short snort. The girl turned around and wanted to shout something not too polite to Isaac, only Julian stoped her, explaining that it wasn't worth it.

"I didn't think that prick would annoy me any more than Mr. 'I'll come to your place at the earliest possible hour and bang on the door'. Who the heck does Isaac think he is," the girl flicked her long curls off her shoulder a little irritably. She was itching to point the middle finger at the adventurers.

"Trust me, he's like that to everyone," Julian said, then added: "Heh, you two look alike in some ways, by the way. Both a little explosive and impatient."

Miranda laughed.

"Bullshit." With her free hand, she took an apple from her basket and began eating it. Julian understood the sign, and the two farmers continued on their way in silence.

The thought, however, did not leave the young man. Isaac and Miranda had very similar looks, and from the 'stink eye' Miranda and Isaac gave Lance...

"Say, do you happen to have any relatives from Castle Village?"

Miranda tossed the apple stump into the nearest trash bin, then gave Julian a small but painful flick on the nose to stop her friend from asking stupid questions.

"Don't be ridiculous," Miranda said, quickening her step slightly as Julian stood rubbing his poor nose. He grabbed his basket and ran after his friend, trying not to get left behind.

[francesminos-tt]

greens!wins au

Jacaerys is sent to the Wall and becomes a black cloak, Lucerys is sent to OldTown, and Joffrey becomes Daeron's sworn protector.

Daemon is apparently dead and Alicent begged Aegon to have Rhaenyra and her children sent to a faraway place, making her swear that she would not return to kings landing

Or Joffrey becomes "protected" in OldTown?! 👀

You can decide!

But the point is, Joffrey hates the greens but he swore to his mother to be loyal and not do anything stupid.

And so he grows up, he's not Daeron Targaryen's friend, he's a prisoner.

but anyway they fuck hehe daeron is an idiot sometimes but he has a crush on the boy joff! he hates joff's mocking laugh when daeron asks him to stay after a night of sex, he hates knowing he's not the only one joff fucks, he hates how quick joff is to lash out with cruel words, he hates that joff knows how much daeron wants him but doesn't give a shit.

daeron is an asshole sometimes and makes joff do things just because he has the power! most of the time it's because he's a jealous idiot lol

you can write something about them plss 🥺☹️ thank you in advance:)

Joffrey Rivers was not a knight, though he acted like one, fought like one, spoke like one, and dressed like one. He was only a squire of Daeron the Daring, a heroic knight who earned his name by bravery and valor in battle. Daeron was also a prince, while Joffrey was officially declared a bastard and stripped of all titles and privileges. He was kept in King’s Landing as a prisoner, while his brothers, also declared bastards, were sent to the Wall and Old Town respectively. Jacaerys was made to join the Night Watch, and Lucerys was sent to study in the Citadel. Joffrey was made Daeron’s squire, and was to live under his uncle’s supervision.

The lords and smallfolks alike praised for King Aegon’s mercy towards his half sister and her unholy bastards. Rhaenyra was in exile, never to set foot in King’s Landing again. His mother and his older brothers were all gone, so it was on Joffrey to look after his younger brothers, Aegon and Viserys, who were the King’s wards.

Joffrey cleaned the horse dungs and began to wash the steed for Daeron. It was not his job as a squire to prepare the horses, but Daeron made him do it as a punishment for Joffrey ‘dishonorable behavior’.

Hypocrite. Joffrey cursed silently as he brushed the white horse. The reason why he had to so the stable boy’s job was because Daeron caught him kissing the stable boy, and made a fuss about it.

If you like stables so much, you can stay in here and tend to my horse. Daeron said after he dismissed the stable boy. The poor lad was immediately thrown out of the castle with nothing but a gold dragon and the lingering feeling of Joffrey’s lips.

Joffrey didn’t like the stable boy much. He was just bored and the boy was conveniently there. Not many people could resist Joffrey’s charming smile and teasing touches. Joffrey had grown up beautifully, his jaw softer, his cheeks plumper, his lips fuller, and his eyes dark like the deepest of sea. Few could resist Joffrey’s eyes. One glance from these obsidian orbs was enough to drag men into the abyss of Joffrey’s charms.

Joffrey had taken to bed so many knights that he had lost count. Those knights were called merry knights of the bastard, as they all competed for Joffrey’s affection.

Joffrey took extreme effort to make sure Daeron was one of them.

“There you are.” Daeron’s mocking voice came from the entrance, “I thought you had drowned in horse dung.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I have not, my prince.” Joffrey continued to brush the horse, sparing no glance at the regally dressed prince.”

“You still stink.” Daeron whispered in Joffrey’s ear as he wrapped one arm around Joffrey and buried his nose in the brunette’s nape, “Like a stable boy.”

“That’s what you get for sleeping in the stables.” Joffrey replied coldly.

“Are you playing hard to get now?” Daeron tightened his arm and slapped Joffrey’s ass hard with his free hand.

“Are you the only one allowed to flirt with a stable boy now?” Joffrey half turned his head to spit at Daeron, “You can harass me but I can’t kiss a boy?”

“You are not a stable boy.” Daeron declared, tilting his head forward to lick Joffrey’s mouth.

“No? I have slept in the stables for the past week and done the work of a stable boy. If that doesn’t make me one, what else does?”

“No.” Daeron’s tone was calm compared to Joffrey’s outburst, “You are too high to be a stable boy.”

Joffrey’s breath caught as Daeron’s face came dangerously close.

“I am too low to be your plaything, my prince.” Joffrey threw Daeron a death glare, “Let go of me. I am your prisoner, not your toy.”

But Daeron didn’t let go. Joffrey didn’t know if Daeron was doing this out of spite, or his youngest uncle truly took a liking to him. Daeron grabbed Joffrey’s wrist and dragged him to the corner of the stable, where lay a stack of hay. He turned Joffrey over roughly before taking a hold of the brunette’s ass and began to grope.

Joffrey tried to push him away, but Daeron the Daring was no ordinary knight. He had trained hard and sharpened his skills during these years, and now he had become stronger and more skilled in arms than Joffrey. He was a true prince, while Joffrey was a loser and a bastard.

“I can kill you now.” Joffrey whispered, pulling the dagger he kept in his boots all the time.

“Be my guest.” Daeron shrugged before sliding his finger into Joffrey, a confident smile on his lips.

Joffrey moaned as his grip loosened on the dagger.

[ae-neon]

Reading Throne of Glass (13-15)

Disclaimer

You already know, if you don't, read the previous entries into this series.

Recap for the girlies who haven't read tog (this one's a little long cause it's the first but I'll include little recaps from now on)

Celaena Sardothien is an 18 year old assassin who has spent the last year of her life in a slave mine after being betrayed and arrested.

Training her to take part in the competition to become king's champion is Chaol Westfall - 22 year old captain of the royal guard.

The person who bailed her out is Dorian Havilliard - 20 year old crown prince of Ardalan. A charming prince with a rebelliousness that's putting him at odds with his father.

Dorian's father - Dorian Senior - is the King of Ardalan and lives in a glass castle. Ten years ago he burned Celaena's homeland to the ground as part of his quest to conquer the continent and all its kingdoms.

The world is inhabited by humans, faeries, Fae, witches, shifters etc. But somehow, 10 years ago, the King of Ardalan not only banned magic but actually erased it from the world.

Chapter 13

I like that Chaol is referring to Dorian by his first name, shows he's really relaxing around Celaena. He tells her she stinks but doesn't make fun of her vomiting after the run. When she asks questions, he answers without provoking her and they fall into easy conversation.

Chaol is, as usual, climbing the ranks by being a decent person. Future SJM will forget love interests can do that

The following dawn, (...) Chaol Westfall stopped short when he found the assassin dangling from the beam of the bedroom doorway, repeatedly hoisting herself up to touch her chin to the wooden bar. Sweat soaked her undershirt and ran in rivulets down her pale skin. She’d been exercising for an hour already. Her arms quivered as she lifted herself again. Though she might pretend to be in the middle of the pack, there was no reason to train like it. Even if every repetition made her body scream for her to stop. She wasn’t that out of shape—after all, her pickax in the mines had been heavy. And it definitely had nothing to do with her fellow competitors walloping her at the race yesterday. She already had an edge on them. She just needed it to be a bit sharper.

She didn’t pause her exercising as she smiled at him, panting through her clenched teeth. To her surprise, he smiled back.

I like when Celaena is who she says she is (the irony in this statement, lolol, but you know what I mean)

Also, Chaol's little actions are so attractive.

...a lovely lilac silk dress with pale pink lace accents and pearl beading. If anyone has Celaena fanart in these dresses please link or tag me

Kaltain Rompier!!!

The assassin would have grimaced, but she forgot all about Kaltain as her eyes fell upon her companion. It was an Eyllwe woman. Okay love at first sight

(for the girlies who haven't read the books, most of the slaves in the mines where Celaena had been are people from the country of Ellwye. They are black people.)

She was stunning, long and lean, each of her features perfectly formed and smooth. Her loose white dress contrasted with her creamy brown skin, and a three-plated gold torque covered much of her chest and neck. Bracelets of ivory and gold glimmered around her wrists, and her feet were sandaled beneath matching anklets. A thin circlet comprising dangling gold and jewels crowned her head.

...

The Eyllwe girl was a princess.

Nehemia!!!

Not sjm tryna make Kaltain look racist just so Celaena looks good. Eww.

Chaol bowed low. The princess nodded... Form an alliance, my dear darlings

Celaena knew the name - she had often heard the Eyllwe slaves in Endovier boast of Nehemia��s beauty and bravery. Nehemia, the Light of Eyllwe, who would save them from their plight. Nehemia, who might someday pose a threat to the King of Adarlan’s rule over her home country when she ascended to the throne. Nehemia, they whispered, who smuggled information and supplies to the rebel groups hiding in Eyllwe.

Poor baby has the weight of the world on her shoulders. I wish the only black character wasn't saddled with the "save my people from slavery" plotline.

Celaena dropped into the lowest curtsy she could give without falling and said in Eyllwe, “Welcome to Rifthold, Your Highness.”

Princess Nehemia smiled slowly, and the others gaped. (...) “Thank you,” the princess replied, her voice low. “I imagine you’ve had a long journey,” Celaena continued in Eyllwe. “Have you arrived today, Your Highness?” Nehemia’s guards exchanged glances, and Nehemia’s brows rose slightly. Not too many northerners spoke their language.

What if...I immediately ship this????? (Also low voice Nehemia? I'm instantly seduced)

“What do you make of the castle?”

“It’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever seen,” Nehemia said, EXACTLY

Again, I'm not here for sjm making Kaltain racist just to make Celaena look good, idc

How do you know how to speak Eyllwe so well?” “I”—Celaena thought of a lie—“studied it for several years.” “You use the intonation of the peasants. Is that taught in your books?”

Again, things like this stand out to me so much because not only is it proof that sjm really fleshed out this world and story but also because it's stuff I personally found missing in acotar.

Trying to flesh out the mortal lands in my rewrite had me making languages and even realising that Nesta and Feyre would speak quite differently from each other given their education differences.

The languages or at least the dialects of "modern" humans should be indecipherable to Fae. 500 years is so so so long in language that two people speaking the "same" language would not understand each other.

Back to tog

“If I’m fortunate, I’ll only be here until spring. Unless my father decides that a man from Adarlan might make me a good consort, and then I’ll be here until that matter is settled.”

(...)“Whom would you marry? Prince Dorian?” But Nehemia just clicked her tongue. “That pretty boy? He grinned at me far too much—and you should only see how he winked at the other women in the court. I want a husband to warm my bed, and my bed alone.”

If anyone knows a Dorian and Nehemia political marriage au, let me know

"...in Banjali, the sun burns up everything. And my father’s river palace smells like lotus blossoms.” I want to go there

Nehemia looked toward a rain-splattered window. “Most of our books were burned five years ago, when Adarlan marched in. It didn’t make a difference if the books were about magic”—her voice quieted at the word, even though Chaol and the councilman couldn’t understand them—“or history. They just burned the libraries whole, along with the museums and universities . . .” A familiar ache filled her chest. Celaena nodded. “Eyllwe wasn’t the only country where that happened.”

Okay this is the perfect place to put what I've been thinking: During this talk with Nehemia, Celaena's disassociative habit has disappeared. She has done or said nothing vain, arrogant or distracting. She is being as genuine with Nehemia as she is with herself in her most contemplative moments. Meaning she feels safe.

"Now, most of the books we receive are from Adarlan..." This is called soft power colonialism and it's something the USA actively tries to do in Africa through textbooks.

I really like that Nehemia isn't a perfect, polished, model A princess on the inside. She's pouty and irritated and struggling and frustrated. So human. It's almost insane to think about where SJM is gonna take her.

My rebel princess.

Nehemia said, her eyes bright. “Peace be with you.”

“And with you,” the assassin murmured, watching her leave.

Nehemia and Celaena are Muslim. Ramadan Mubarak to those who celebrate.

After that, she’d sworn never to trust girls again, especially girls with agendas and power of their own. Girls who would do anything to get what they wanted. Sarah, girl, just say you hate women and go

Okay so the king has left on his mysterious journey without any of the guards Chaol suggested and without telling anyone where he's going. Very mysterious.

Not to mention the fact that a few of the royal hounds had gone missing, only to have their half-eaten remains found in the northern wing of the palace. HELLO WHAT THE FUCK

Celaena disparaging women who gossip. This is a friendly reminder that gossip empowers women in their communities, creates networks of information and literally saves lives. Gossip culture in the Philippines is one of the top reasons they have the least serial killers in the world. Know your neighbours, let them know you, know the dangers in your community, protect each other, gossip.

“I just prefer a certain type of woman.” it's me y'all, I'm Chaol's type

There was something great and deadly concealed within her, and he didn’t like it. It's trauma, Chaol, she's traumatized

Chapter 14

Celaena during group training: I will play the middle ground, just enough to not get dissed by Brullo and not good enough to get praise like Cain

Also Celaena: I hate Cain. No one pays attention to how good I'm doing in training. No one is telling me how perfect my form is.

Girl...

Nox Owen from Perranth, which is in Terrasen where Celaena is originally from, I knew he would become an ally.

A large ring of black, iridescent stone glimmered on Cain’s finger... Isn't the gargoyle clock tower thing made from black stone too?

So one of the champions is found dead, ripped open, like the hounds I think. I know who, it's obvious, but whyyyy

Chaol and Dorian are childhood besties, cute. Chaol is from a place called Anielle by some Silver Lake that guards against "hordes" from the White Fang Mountains. (Cain is from here)

Celaena spends so much time thinking about how horrible the genocides committed by Ardalan are, she's literally living with trauma from it. But suddenly she's thankful the people of the White Fang Mountains were among the first wiped out 10 years ago so that Chaol and his people don't have to fight the "hordes" ...Sarah...

The kingdom of Eyllwe has Banjali. The kingdom of Ardalan has Rifthold and Anielle. The kingdom of Terrasen has Orynth and Perranth.

It's not that I'm overly impressed, it's basic worldbuilding really, it's that I'm actually flabbergasted at how she got away with doing nothing in acotar. Like how do you submit a blank map to an editor or publishing house and then even to readers and you're still taken somewhat seriously??

The manor in spring is called The Manor.

The court under the mountain is called Under the Mountain.

The land where mortals live is called The Mortal Lands.

The village where the main character comes from has no name.

On the fan wiki notable places in the mortal land include the barn in Feyre's village and the post office in Feyre's village.

The country shaped like the great British Isle is called Prythian (a name taken from another series but also) after the Welsh - Prydain - the name of the Great British Isle.

The island nation in the place of Ireland aka Hibernia is called Hybern.

The Continent in place of Europe is called the Continent.

I've done a post where I went through all of these lazy names so I won't go on but the icing on the shit show cake is always the Illyrian Steppes:

Steppes are a flat, un-forested grassland. The Illyrian Steppes are a forested, mountainous area.

Back to tog

Chaol has a brother, to whom he abdicated his title.

There was a ghost of a smile on his face as he watched the sky melt into a smear of tangerine. I suddenly understand how sjm brainwashes her readers into falling for these men, why is this so dreamy

Celaena had to break her own right hand to learn to swordfight with her left, she has been through so much. She doesn't need to be Queen, she needs to retire to a small town and get regular therapy

The actual first test is tomorrow. The competition is finally starting.

Chapter 15

Okay, so the first test is archery but all the sponsors are sitting up in the mezzanine, including the crown prince. One troll or criminal bought off by rebels or a scheming courtier could change the future of Ardalan with an arrow through Dorian's neck

They're making fun of the youngest assassin Pelor for not being strong enough to draw a longbow and he says he's more specialised in poisons. Brullo laughs.

Irl Giulia Tofana killed over 600 men in less than 20 years with poison she sold to their wives. She would never have been caught if one of them didn't rat her out.

Pelor is probably one of the most proficient killers in that room.

Celaena is surprised by Nox Owen's skill but he literally told her he was better at archery than knife throwing during their practice. Poor information retention on her part.

Cain has to be on something. We're given the impression the men from the White Fang Mountains are brutes but he's basically a super soldier.

Celaena is upset and goes in on the archery, doing best in the hardest shot, showing off a little even though she knows she shouldn't.

It's interesting how sjm plays with Celaena's arrogance. It's not actually arrogance at all. Celaena is bothered when she isn't recognised or given attention for her skill and talent because that's what she survived on. It's what kept her alive. Without the name Celaena Sardothien and all it carries, she will be forced back to that hopeless, homeless child who watched her family die.

Celaena knows she can't stand out or participate to her full abilities but it scares her and she reacts with anger and bravado. Internally cursing that these men don't know who she is and repeating to herself "I am Celaena Sardothien"

Again, none of this came out when she was with Nehemia - even when Celaena talked about her past.

----

Overall, I enjoyed it as usual.

Glad I finally got to meet Nehemia.

Like I said in my first few chapters read throughs, I know the overall story spoilers but I don't know anything about these characters or the plot details. So it was very interesting to learn Nehemia's unexpected personality. I like her. Honestly I like all of them. These core 4.

It makes me a bit worried, knowing the quality of the series declines with time but for now, I'm happy

[addamvelaryon]

Just thinking about the similarities between Rhaenyra and Daeron, the eldest and youngest children of King Viserys I Targaryen...

Both are known for having beauty and charm:

At the center of the merriment, cherished and adored by all, was their only surviving child, Princess Rhaenyra, the little girl the court singers dubbed “the Realm’s Delight.” Though only six when her father came to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen was a precocious child, bright and bold and beautiful as only one of dragon’s blood can be beautiful.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession

His little brother, Prince Daeron, was the most popular of the queen’s sons, as clever as he was courteous, and most comely as well.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession

Amongst their siblings, they are the only ones to serve as cupbearers:

At eight, the princess was placed into service as a cupbearer…but for her own father, the king.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession

When he turned twelve in 126 AC, Daeron was sent to Oldtown to serve as cupbearer and squire to Lord Hightower.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon: A Question of Succession

It should be noted though, that despite their bright and charming personalities, they have a darker nature underneath that shows itself when they grow angry. In the midst of their anger, they can act in a way that might be viewed as beyond reason:

Then Queen Rhaenyra grew most wroth, Septon Eustace writes. In a voice as cold as ice, she commanded Ser Luthor Largent to take twenty gold cloaks to the Dragonpit and arrest Ser Addam Velaryon. “Question him sharply, and we will learn if he is true or false, beyond a doubt.” As to the girl Nettles, “She is a common thing, with the stink of sorcery upon her,” the queen declared.

[...]

Therefore, let a command be sent at once to Maidenpool, but only for the eyes of Lord Mooton. “Let him take her at table or abed and strike her head off. Only then shall my prince be freed.”

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Triumphant

When Lady Caswell appeared on the ramparts of her castle to ask for the same terms Lady Merryweather had received, Hightower let Prince Daeron give the answer: “You shall receive the same terms you gave my nephew Maelor.” Her ladyship could only watch as Bitterbridge was sacked.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Triumphant

I think it’s also worth considering the impact their living situations might have had on them, re: them developing some type of abandonment issues. The early years of her childhood were a happy time but Rhaenyra ends up losing her mother at a very young age. After Rhaenyra’s father remarries to Alicent, the environment at court becomes a hostile one for Rhaenyra. The grown men around her have dubious intentions as well. When Rhaenyra finally manages to find a safety net for herself in the mini court she creates at Dragonstone, it doesn’t last long and Laena/Laenor/Harwin all die in quick succession. Once the war starts, Rhaenyra ends up losing her children one by one as well. Rhaenyra’s fear about losing her loved ones is a big part of her characterization and influences many of the actions she takes during the Dance. As for Daeron, he is the only one amongst his siblings to be sent away far from home. Even if being fostered with his maternal relatives was something done for his own good, it doesn’t change how a child his age might have felt being shipped off to live in an unfamiliar city while the rest of his siblings remain in the capital with their parents. Not to mention, Daeron is depicted as being a more capable individual than his older brothers but at the same time, he’s described as being always in their shadow. That discrepancy is bound to affect him. No matter how dutiful a person is, there will always remain that underlying feeling that all your efforts will never make you good enough in the eyes of your family.

These two siblings are also the emotional type. However, it’s a trait that does leave them feeling helpless when faced with the violence of war:

Rhaenyra was still so griefsick over the death of her son Lucerys that she absented herself from the war council, giving over her command to the Sea Snake and his wife, Princess Rhaenys.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: The Red Dragon and the Gold

Septon Eustace and Grand Maester Munkun both assert that Prince Daeron was sickened by all he saw and commanded Ser Hobert Hightower to put a stop to it, but Hightower’s efforts proved as ineffectual as the man himself.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Triumphant

My most favourite passage from the book connecting these two, however, is the following quote:

Yet the greatest threat to Rhaenyra’s reign was not Aemond One-Eye, but his younger brother, Prince Daeron the Daring, and the great southron army led by Lord Ormund Hightower.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons: Rhaenyra Triumphant

It greatly exemplifies the tragedy of Rhaenyra’s reign. Daeron is the sibling that’s most like Rhaenyra, and he’s the one who’s positioned as being the biggest threat to her. It could almost be interpreted as Rhaenyra’s downfall being not just because of outside forces but also internal self choices. When she finally came into power, as the Queen on the Iron Throne, she’s in the least ideal situation a monarch could be in: empty treasury, frightened smallfolk, nobles of uncertain loyalty. At the same time, her actions over the course of her reign are presented as the reason people ultimately turn against her (eg. condemning the Dragonseeds and overtaxing the citizens of King’s Landing). 

[iztarshi]

Febuwhump - assumed dead

Fandom: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Notes: A raised by Draxum AU. He's a terrible parent, but he does care.

The Barracks is in its usual state of colourful chaos when Draxum enters. His weapons, his glorious creations, are, when off duty, the messiest creatures Draxum has ever had the displeasure of seeing. The floor is scattered with a layer of huge cushions, food wrappers, game pieces, and outlandish human skateboards. He drew the line at action figures — his creations will not exalt humans. The television itself was a mistake.

Despite this the turtles are standing in a perfect line, all wearing their black outfits and horned half-masks, weapons sheathed neatly. There’s been some squabble, though. Raphael’s fear stink is in the air and Michelangelo is shifting from foot to foot, flicking glances at Leonardo.

“Today, we will emerge in Central Park,” Draxum announced. “Michelangelo and Raphael will corale the puny humans for my oozequitos. Donatello and Leonardo will destroy any enforcers of law who approach.”

Leo leans his weight back on one leg, ruining the neat line as he twists sideways. “So, same as usual?” he whines. “Maybe I’d like a change, you know? Do some coralling, round ‘em up like a cowboy.”

Draxum huffs out a sigh and grabs Leonardo’s shoulders, pushing him back into his place in line. “You are my creation and you will fulfil your role as it has been assigned,” he barks.

Leonardo’s eyes meet his from behind the mask, glinting with something hard. “You’re the boss,” he says.

Huginn leans forward from Draxum’s shoulder, getting in the kid’s face, “Yeah, he’s the boss.”

Draxum steps away, the last thing he wants is Leonardo getting into an argument with one of his gargoyles again. That can go in circles for hours.

Draxum opens his portal and says, “Go. Conquer this petty park.”

The turtles go.

The crowd panics. This is usual, humans are panicky creatures, prone to fleeing at the slightest pain. Michelangelo’s chains and Raphael’s huge form are always enough to block them and turn back the tide.

Except this time he hears Michelangelo call, “LEO,” despite the volume without too much alarm, and when he looks there is a thin figure in black and gold, trying to move against the crowd. Draxum waits for him to make a portal, more frustrated that Leonardo has let this happen to himself than worried, and then the figure falls.

Draxum’s vines shoot out, pushing the crowd aside and he sees the turtle sprawled out on his back, leg bending at the wrong angle and head lolling, black clothes soaked with blood. Leonardo is not moving and that, more than anything else, is wrong.

The other turtles panic. Raphael’s projection and Michelangelo’s chains vanish in the same moment, while Donatello throws himself into the crowd in a way that only stirs it up to further madness, people trampling even over Draxum’s vines as they scramble away from Donatello’s drill.

One of the police officers has a gun trained on Michelangelo where he is standing, frozen. Draxum strangles the human with a vine before calling, “Retreat!”

The turtles charge through the portal he opens, Raphael dragging Michelangelo. Draxum stands in front of it, vines whipping the crowd aside once more. There is no body. Have the police officers now standing among the civilians taken it? Where is Draxum’s creation?

With one last roar of frustration he thrashes his vines through the park, heaving up the ground in jagged plates.

Then he turns and walks through the portal.

The mood in Baron Draxum’s castle is strange in the weeks that follow. He thinks his creations must be grieving, but if so they do not do so in front of him. They barely talk to him at all. Perhaps they blame him for the loss of their brother and perhaps they are right. Draxum had been impatient, had put his creations to work before they had even attained their full strength.

Leonardo will never reach his full strength, his full size. Draxum remembers when he was small enough to carry around in a pocket, when Draxum frequently did carry him around in a pocket because he was the best behaved little turtle imaginable as long as he was pressed against Draxum in some way. His sly and difficult Leonardo had been so easy as an infant.

The small shrine Draxum built to comfort the others is rarely visited by them but he finds himself there daily. He places blue flowers, Leonardo’s favourite colour, and remembers Leonardo trying to argue that his mask should be blue. Perhaps Draxum should have allowed it.

The turtles were made as obedient weapons, so why does he regret saying ‘no’ to them more than he regrets giving them leave to search dumpsters for movies and giving them all their gaudy cushions? Why does he regret putting weapons on the battlefield more than letting them enjoy their time away from it?

He rubs his eyes and pulls his mask on to hide his drooping ears.

“The plan has changed,” Baron Draxum announces. “Despite your strength and tenacity I was wrong to place you in battle before you had attained your full growth. We will not be attacking the humans of New York again until you are ready.”

“Isn’t it a little late to stop now?” Donatello asks. “Both the Hidden City police and NYPD are after us. Delaying the plan for a decade on our side won’t make them delay it on theirs.”

“Donnie, not helping,” Michelangelo and Raphael chorus in what they probably think is a whisper. Draxum can see the relief on both their faces and his heart squeezes hard in his chest for reasons he doesn’t understand.

“My decision is final,” he says.

Then he leaves them and returns to Leonardo’s shrine.

The soft footsteps of the smallest turtle approaching are enough for Draxum to gather himself. This shrine was intended to bring comfort to them, he will leave if one of them wishes to use it.

“Um, Draxum,” Michelangelo calls, stopping in the hallway outside. “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course.”

Michelangelo is the hardest of his creations to see as a weapon, with his soft eyes and rounded features. Now, though, as he draws himself up and hesitance falls away there’s a flash of predatory intent in his eyes. Draxum braces himself for questions about why he put them on the battlefield so soon only to change his mind so late.

“Why have you never asked me and Raph to kill anyone?” Mikey asks.

Draxum blinks. “You were more useful in a defensive role.”

“Really?” says Michelangelo. “‘Cause Leo has portals. He could put everyone back where you wanted them in an instant.”

There’s a heavy silence. Draxum feels pinned under a gaze that will not accept a lie. Which is ridiculous. The Baron Draxum fears nothing and tells no lies to begin with.

“I made you all as weapons,” he says. “But Raphael and yourself did not seem to have quite the spirit, the hardened nature.”

“I don’t think Leo did either,” Michelangelo says. He swings himself up to sit on the shrine and Draxum clenches his teeth at the disrespect but dares not interrupt. “He hasn’t been the same since we started this. Donnie hasn’t either, but he says he’s fine, says it gives him a chance to really use his abilities. Even though it changed him.” Tears spill down Mikey’s cheeks. “But Leo hasn’t been okay for a long time. Not since you made him do this.”

“Are you telling me that child allowed himself to be trampled to death on purpose?” Draxum draws himself up in horror. His bright flame of a creation, as curious about people as Donatello was about plants and machines, full of ideas and foolishness. Snuffed out without Draxum even realising the fingers closing on the wick were his own.

Michelangelo’s confidence seems to desert him and he squirms before finally blurting, “Leo’s not dead! He said he couldn’t do this anymore and he was leaving. It was all fake, we’ve been meeting up with him. I wanted him to talk to you first, but he didn’t think you’d listen, and then he almost tried and you didn’t.”

Draxum lowers himself to sit on the floor, legs shaky as a newborn lamb’s. “Leonardo is alive?”

Michelangelo nods.

“His leg was broken.” The crumpled figure, the way the leg had bent.

“Raph was furious. He wasn’t meant to take it that far, he was meant to go into his shell for the actual trampling part. He said he needed to make it convincing.”

“And you do not believe that was the true reason?”

Michelangelo shakes his head firmly. “It was spite. He said he didn’t believe you cared about him at all, but I think he must have known you did at least a little. Or he wouldn’t have hurt himself just so you had to see it.”

There was that ruthlessness that Draxum had seen in Leonardo, that had convinced him Leonardo would be a fine warrior, would be untouched by the necessities of war. “I was born a warrior,” Draxum says. “I was fighting at your age. Alongside my parents.”

Michelangelo slides off the shrine and gives Draxum one of those hugs Draxum never manages to respond to correctly. “I’ll take you to Leo if you promise you won’t make him fight again,” he says.

“We’re here,” Michelangelo says. They’re perched on a roof, indistinguishable from any other roof as far as Draxum can see. “He’ll be here soon.”

“This is a pre-arranged meeting?”

“Yeah, he’s on the move a lot so he portals in to meet us. It’s my turn to rend-ez-vous tonight.” Michelangelo is jittery, excited or nervous, feet and hands moving constantly. He grabs and lets go of Draxum’s arm at random intervals until Draxum tries patting his head. Michelangelo lets out a breath and beams up at him.

The bright blue of a portal spills over the neon stained darkness of New York and Leonardo steps out. He’s limping slightly, but his leg isn’t in a cast and he can clearly put weight on it. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie with a straw hat and no pants. He’s the best thing Draxum has seen in weeks.

Leonardo jolts to a stop as the portal fades and holds his sword in front of him in an attack stance. “You brought him here?” There’s betrayal in his voice. “Now he’ll never let me go!”

“Leonardo,” Draxum says, raising his hands in what is meant to be placation. Possibly it still seems like looming because Leo shrinks back and raises his sword higher. “I have no intention of forcing you against your will.”

“Yeah? Isn’t that what I’m for? Your perfect weapon. Like I ever had anything against humans, or wanted to pop out of nowhere and kill people who didn’t even believe in me like some kind of movie monster.”

“I did not intend to hurt you like this. I believed you had a warrior’s spirit…”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Leonardo spits. Leonardo’s sword is shaking in his hand, at any moment that tension will translate into the flick of a wrist, into a portal. And Draxum cannot find the right words to make him stay.

Michelangelo steps out of the shadows and takes Leo’s arm in both his hands, gently lowering the sword and Leonardo glares at him. “He’s been mourning you.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“He called off the plan until we’ve reached our full growth.”

“Forever,” Draxum chokes. Both turtles turn to look at him, Michelangelo with an encouraging nod and Leonardo with desperate suspicion. “If you do not wish to take part in it I will no longer require that of you.”

“Then what are you even here for?” Leonardo demands. “You want me back to do what? Skateboard? Lounge around reading comics?”

Draxum shrugs. “If that is your will then yes.”

There are many things Draxum has done wrong in raising his creations but he has never lied to them. Leonardo slowly lowers his sword. “Mikey,” he says. “What the hell did you do to him?”

Michelangelo pats Leonardo’s head and then flits over to rub his face into Draxum’s cheek. “Lots of people rethink their priorities after the death of a loved one.”

“Yeah, but…” Leonardo looks into Draxum’s eyes and despite the mask Draxum finds himself completely unable to meet his gaze. He hunches, folds his arms against his chest and looks at the ground. It’s a deeply analytical gaze, measuring and reassessing. “Heh. Guess I’ll come back for a few days, but I’m keeping the sword close.” He takes Draxum’s other arm, grin too wide and obnoxious to make it a friendly gesture. “And you can think about how you’re going to make this up to me. Because you have a lot to make up for.”

It’s in Leonardo’s nature to press an advantage until something snaps and Draxum can already foresee there are going to be a lot of comics and ice cream in the next few weeks. He hopes he isn’t the thing that snaps. It would hurt, to lose Leonardo again. Draxum rubs Leonardo’s head the way he would Michelangelo’s and is startled by the way those calculating eyes go wide and wet.

“Come on,” Draxum says, opening a portal of his own. “For the time being, let us go home.”

“Yeah, come on,” says Michelangelo, taking Leo’s arm. “I have got to show you the shrine.”

[sage-wilde-va]

Gargoyles X TMNT: The Shadows of New York Chapter 9: Hitchhiking

The eldest of the Wyvern Clan’s rookery children had a gift that set him apart from his brothers; Pycnofibers. Primitive hair-like feathers veiled the scales of his leathery wings, which let him glide and soar like an ancient pterodactyl. Not even Goliath could match his ability to gain altitude and stay airborne. His 20-foot wingspan and flexible tail could catch and direct even the finest and weakest of air currents. 

Unfortunately, there was absolutely no wind tonight. Not that height would help him smell out the stranger who had vanished into the night. His eyes, glowing the faintest white, peered through the brush of the meager little tree that stooped over the road. The branch underneath him creaked softly, all four of his claws clutching tightly and his tail wrapped around the trunk behind. He kept his wings caped, trying to shrink his profile as much as he could.

He sniffed again. There was a human with the stranger now. He smelled the two of them coming well before he saw them. Hunkering low, he tried to melt into the night. 

Two pairs of footfalls pounded towards him. “The hell did you say to piss them off, Casey?!” His quarry huffed. His friend–rich with the stink of a human–replied, out of breath, “I told them LA has better sushi, California's for rich softies, and naming yourself after miners is stupid.” “Where’s the van?” “There!”

They dove into a white van, disappearing from sight. He growled, thoughtful. “So that’s how you’ve been getting around.” He murmured. 

The snap of the van’s doors was quickly followed by the thundering of more feet.

“Where’d they go?” “I dunno, but I’m gonna find that damn Yank and put his head on a pike!”

A knot of humans, clothed in black and gold, swarmed down the street. Five, all male, some elders, but mostly young. He remained as still as possible, slowing his breath. After a few minutes of searching, one of them called out to the others, and they vanished further into the parking lot. 

Well, that was a clear enough signal for him. Now, it was his turn. 

He leapt from the tree to the lamppost, slithering up its height like a lizard to perch from the arm of the light. Balancing carefully on it, he removed the streamer from his belt. Attached to the other end was a small rock. He whirled the streamer in a pinwheel at his side, letting it spin up a blur of green-and-silver momentum, before releasing the foxtail straight up into the air with a snap of his wrist. 

The shimmering streak wouldn’t have meant much to others. In fact, it was likely that most humans wouldn’t have seen it. But he knew that to his smallest rookery brother, a single flying streamer was as vivid as the falling star of a ship’s flare at sea. 

The stone clattered into the road, empty and devoid of vehicles or people. Then, suddenly, he saw two shapes fast approaching him from the air above the stadium. In a moment, his brothers had landed in the darkness of the trees, on the outskirts of the parking lot. He swooped to join them in the dark, tucking down his wings into a more stealthy cape. The three stooped down behind a tall juniper hedge that ringed the checkerboard field of car hoods.

“You found a way out?”

“Yeah.” The eldest jerked a thumb at the van. “You remember that time we snuck out of the castle in a hay wagon?”

The youngest blinked those huge eyes of his. Then he squeezed them shut. “Please tell me I don’t have to hide with the pigs again.”

The eldest wriggled his eyebrows. The smallest groaned. 

“We’re hitching a ride?” The broad one asked.

“We’re hitching a ride.” The red one smirked.

The small one rubbed his eyes. "We are gonna be grounded to the Rookery for another millennium after this."

-

Raphael didn't have time to leap back out of the van. He yanked off his ski mask, giving Casey a wild look. He grabbed him by the collar and yanked them both down and out of sight of the small mob of miners. He put a finger to his lips. His radiation-green eyes, framed by the stripe of his red mask, were saying only one thing; don't make a sound, Casey. Raph pointed to his phone, turning the ringer down to nothing. Casey, seeing this was a good idea, did the same.

They pressed themselves down as tightly as they could under the bucket seats of the van, curling up tight. The metal bars of the seats dug into their backs as they waited. Casey risked just enough movement to remove his mask, pulling it to the side to show his face. He gently spat his mouthguard out into his cupped hand. Casey silently mouthed his condemnation; Poor choice, Raphael.  

Raph winced and groaned inwardly, knowing Splinter was going to say the exact same thing to him later. As soon as they got out of this, at least.

Just as they were about to get up and exit the van, they heard more footsteps again. This time, slower and more casual. Peoples’ voices. Raph risked just enough breath to utter one single curse as the door to the van popped open. Two guys, deep in a conversation in a language that may have been Portuguese or Italian, took the seats up front. They started the van, and Raphael’s stomach plunged when he realized they were suddenly driving away. 

Now, Donnie was prepared for everything. He was sure that if his brother were here he would be doing two things: One, scolding him mercilessly and fretting over him like a frazzled mother. Two, pulling out the GPS that he kept in his bag to tell him where exactly they were going. But, he didn’t have that. He did, however, have a distress beacon linked to it. The question was, did he want to use it and absolutely get his reputation destroyed by his brothers for squealing for help? Or did he want to prove that he and Casey could really take care of themselves and save face?

Poor choice, Raphael.

He and Casey stayed hunkered underneath the seats, legs beginning to fall asleep as the two men started reaching around to the driver’s side pouch to retrieve their road map. The man in the passenger seat continued idly chattering, while the driver cracked open the window and lit a cigarette. 

Raphael closed his eyes to focus. He strained his ears for any familiar words, of any kind. Hackensack. River. Secaucus. Weehawken. His heart ticked down a few beats, not hearing any mention of the word ‘Turnpike’. But he didn’t quite get his hopes up yet, until he heard them say one more word he could understand; Lincoln Tunnel.

Holy shell. Raph quietly thanked anything or anybody listening at that moment. He couldn’t believe their luck. This van was going right back to Manhattan. He looked over at Casey, catching his friend’s eyes. Casey looked relieved too. He grinned, giving his turtle friend a very quiet–but no less enthusiastic–thumbs up.

-

The tarp covering the bed of the truck flapped loudly in the high wind as it cruised down the highway. One’s sharp eyes kept a close watch of the windowless white van ahead of them on the road, ears flapping in the stiff breeze in spite of his hard-fought attempt at staying low. His dorsal digits kept his arm-sails folded tight against his body. Another was hunched low under the wall of the cab, wings caped, carefully making sure his hair was still tied and wouldn’t suddenly fly up like a white flag advertising their position. 

The third was curled underneath the pile of assorted junk in the truck bed, smiling and making funny noises to the huge, fluffy brown dog that rode with them. Clearly having no care for guardianship duties, the dog had promptly begged them for affection upon seeing them. The largest one always had a very soft spot for animals, so he did not complain about the shared ride.

And what a ride it was! Never in all their years had they ever traveled so far, so fast on the ground. If it weren’t for the fact that they needed to stay hidden, they would have been having all kinds of fun. But just watching the lights of the city flash by at impossibly fast speeds was exhilarating enough.

Soon, as the knot of cars drew closer and lingered more, the two sought refuge under the tarp and amidst the junk with their big brother. The traffic began to slow more and more. The smallest risked a peek. 

“It looks like it’s a toll road.” He whispered. “Man, these must be more efficient now than they were back in our day.”

“Yeah.” The white-haired one grumbled. “Because there are a lot more people using them. We’ll never get out of here unseen like this! If we haven’t been spotted already.”

“It looks like we’re about to go into a tunnel.” The large one continued petting the dog, whose lolling tongue was wrapping itself around his talons. He pointed ahead past the toll booths, to a white brick facade and three deep dark throats lined with tiny points of light. “If we get in trouble in there, we aren’t getting out of it.”

“Too late to turn back now.” The eldest said, just above the roar of traffic. “Once we make it out to the other side, we’ll cut the tarp and let it loose. At the same time, we’ll lift off and let the wind from this thing give us some height. Hopefully, the cars behind us will be so distracted by the sheet that they won’t see us take off.”

“Are you sure we’ll be moving fast enough to catch the wind? What if we run out of speed and get dragged back into the traffic?” The green one fretted. “You know my wings aren’t as strong as yours.”

“Hey. It’s just like the downhill slides we used to take when we were hatchlings. Just faster.” The oldest patted his younger brother’s shoulder. “I can carry you up to gliding height. I promise, you won’t get left behind. You trust me, right?”

“I trust you.” He said, hugging his brother close. “I just don’t know if I trust this wagon...”

It was with this that the Lincoln Tunnel engulfed them. 

They looked up and around in awe, their eyes wide as the rows and rows of lights that lit the tunnel whooshed behind them. The roar of the traffic and the ventilation fans inside it drowned out all words that could have been had, the flicker of passing strips of light painting the world in black-and-white strobe flashes. The slick tile of the roof, low and close, reflected the tail lights of the vehicles ahead of them like streaks of red cinders in the night. The dusky reflection of the tunnel in that arching tile roof was like looking up at the sky from underwater. They felt like small fish, being carried along that enormously powerful current of steel, asphalt, and light that all vanished into the tiniest point in the distance. 

Two of the rookery brothers folded their hands over their ears to shut out the noise, keeping their eyes fixed on the floor of the truck bed and holding onto the dog for comfort. But one kept his eyes ahead, soaking in the sight. The eldest breathed softly in reverence at this impossible spectacle. 

“Whoa…”

For a moment, he wondered if this is what it must feel like to be thrown beyond the stars.

Suddenly, he realized this beauty was fading as the car slowed down. To his dismay and horror, he realized that the traffic was beginning to clog the way ahead. The beautiful wind, the thing that would have ensured their escape, faded around his ears. No. No, no, no! We need speed!  

He panicked, tucking his head back down below the height of the truck’s siding. A row of blinking red lights stuffed the tunnel ahead of them. He could still see the windowless white van ahead, but the air hung heavy with the stench of exhaust and old rubber. If his quarry left, he didn’t know if his nose would be able to follow. 

He ducked down, making eye contact with the green one. He tapped his beak, shaking his head. He pointed two claws at his own eyes, to his brother, and then to the van. The smallest nodded, eyes hard and lips thin. He opened his arms for his brother, and the smallest one clambered into them. The broad one nodded, his massive bulk still hidden under the tarp. His claws hooked into the blue plastic, ready to rip it away. He petted the dog’s head one more time.

It looked like they were going to have to run for it.

-

Raphael took a breath, nudging Casey with a finger. He pointed up ahead. Casey nodded, noticing the same thing; traffic stopping, and the light growing brighter. Now would be a great time for them to make their move and escape. Raphael slowly, like a worm through the dirt, reached his hand to his belt pouch. His fingers closed around a single white eggshell, scowling an angry face that was squiggled in marker with a wax blot on one end. He mouthed to Casey; smoke bomb. Don’t breathe.

Casey nodded, popping his mouthguard back into his mouth and pulling his mask back across his face. He closed his eyes, and then nodded. 

Within the span of a second, smoke bloomed in the van with a sharp bang! The back of the van burst open, and the two of them quickly sprinted across the road. Casey planted a hand on a car hood, sliding across it without slowing down. Raphael tucked a front flip, leap-frogging off the roof of the same car as they both made their mad dash to the sidewalk. More smoke spilled out of the back of the vehicle, the men coughing and shouting, horns screaming and beeping at them as they ran. 

They pounded with their feet straight around the corner, down the road. “This way! I took the subway!” Casey cried. Raph followed, letting Casey lead him a few blocks at a dead sprint. As they ran, Raphael frantically jammed the ski mask back on over his head, hoping his up-raised elbow protected enough of his face from being seen. 

Raphael knew that they’d been seen. In disguise, yes, so it wasn’t that bad. But once again, that twinge, that feeling that he was being followed. It struck him again, like an electric tingle that stopped his heart and fluttered his eyes. 

The last thing any of them needed was for the Foot Clan to know they were back in New York.

Casey steered around the corner. Raphael looked over the subway entrance, and spotted exactly what he was hoping he would see; the maintenance hatch for the 42 St - Port Authority Bus Terminal. He skidded in its direction, and Casey turned to follow. Raph found the lip of the manhole cover with his fingers, and he heaved. With a grunt of effort, the heavy iron lid lifted. Casey’s hands found the ladder, and he started skittering down. Raph hauled the manhole cover aside, and quickly followed Casey down. 

Raphael’s feet splashed into the thin, slimy puddle that had built up at the base of the ladder. And for the first time since the game, he allowed himself to relax. He pulled the ski mask off of his head, gasping for breath. Casey was doubled over, his breath making a weird buzzing wheeze through the grills of the skull-like Jason Voorhees mask.

Raph let the humid air of the underground kiss his skin, and his nerves started to ease. Finally, back in the Manhattan underground. His turf. He could relax now, he was safe.

He clapped Casey on the shoulder. They started walking in the direction of the C-Line, back to the warren of tunnels that Raphael and his brothers knew like the knuckles on the back of their Sensei’s hand. “Man, Jones. Starting a fight at a football game? Really? Just how freaked out were the guys findin’ out I was gone?” 

“Freaked out?” Casey looked at him. “The last time you guys went topside, it was the night Leo almost died!”

“Casey, I–”

“Raph, what is the matter with you?!” Casey reeled on his friend. “You guys have spent the last six months at my grandma’s farmhouse keeping Leo on life support in a bathtub! You promised that we wouldn’t do any of the crazy stuff until after you were ready to fight the Foot again!” He shoved Raphael’s chest roughly. 

Raph felt the fire that burned at a low smolder in his chest flare at that remark. “You think I don’t know that?!” He roared. He rolled back his sleeve and elbow pad to show Casey the mark in the crook of his elbow. “I was the one who matched his blood type! I know exactly what he went through!” He snapped the sleeve back down in a huff. 

“Then why do this, man?” Casey stopped walking. “Why risk that? You know what the Shredder will do to you once he finds out Leo’s still alive? Finds out that you guys came back? He’ll come after you again! He’ll come after us! ” Casey put his hands on Raph’s shoulders. “Look, Ma’s not doin’ so hot right now. Doc says she can’t be goin’ through any unnecessary stress. You know what this is, Raph?” Casey gestured to himself, dressed like Friday the 13th and the Fourth of July had a baby. “This is me, breaking my promise to my mom, breaking my promise to Splinter and April, to come after your dumb ass!”

Raphael wanted to say something. He wanted to roar, rant, rave, scream, punch his friend in the face. Because he was right.

“I just wanted things to be normal again.” He whispered hoarsely. "Same as everyone else in that stadium."

Casey blinked at him. It was the kind of blink that Raph knew meant he was pretending he couldn’t cry. “Yeah. Me too, Raph. I wish things could be normal again too.”

They walked down that tunnel in silence for almost an hour. Quietly, Raphael turned the ringer on his phone back up and checked his messages. Almost forty missed calls. Most of them from Leo. He felt his heart sink like an old tin can to the bottom of the Hudson River, and he cursed himself for being an idiot. Again.

He stopped. He straightened up, muscles quivering in his hands.  Casey looked over at him. Raph snarled, shoving Casey down further towards the tunnel. That feeling was back. And it was even stronger. “Casey, we got company!”

The two bolted, splashing through the dry storm pipe on a mad dash away from whatever was following them. Sure enough, Raphael heard a shout–or was it a howl?–and the splashing of at least three more pairs of feet. He veered left, prying his sai underneath a maintenance cover, rushing into where he knew was an abandoned subway line. His feet found concrete and railroad track, and the tunnel opened up into a station. The placards read at the fork: Brooklyn and Points South, 7th Ave - Broadway Station, Lexington Ave - Grand Central Station. 

“You take that one, I’ll go this way!” Raph shouted. “I’ll meet you back at April’s!”

“Got it!” Casey acknowledged. 

Five pairs of pounding footsteps echoed through the tunnels, each going down one of three lines. But none of them knew exactly where they were running to, or who was partaking in this little race.

They just knew that they had to run.

[sadnesslaughs]

The king is hailed as a hero by the poor people of the kingdom for his reforms that improve their lives. What they don’t know is that the king hates poor people above all else; how they look, how they smell, everything. To him, the reforms are simply a way to have fewer poor people.

(A response to a writing prompt)

The king stood on his balcony, like he did every morning. The jewels and gold that coated him, glistening in the sun’s glorious light. He was a figure of god, a man blessed by the heavens. Luck didn’t determine someone’s birthright. No, you had to be chosen for the position. Men like him were the only ones worthy of being called king.

Those heavy arms tucked behind his back, peering at the city below. A beautiful city he had created. Sure, workers had slaved away to make it, but they did so under his orders. If he hadn’t given those orders, they would all be still drinking themselves stupid in taverns. He gave them a purpose, and what did they give him in return? A pitiful display of their mortality.

Lower, outside the castle gates, stood a broken family. A dear and loved mother lowered into the ground, returned to the goddess’s embrace. By the grave kneeled two children, both adults, but still children in the eyes of their recently lost mother. The elderly father clutched his children’s shoulders, trying to be a symbol of strength, even when his soul had broken upon finding her cold in the morning.

As they grieved, all the king could do was grimace. “Disgusting.” He told his guard, who jolted upright, not even being aware of the display. The guard turned, feeling a stabbing in his heart as he saw the family. A funeral, a human sight, one that often stirs memories buried deep in our minds. He thought of his own mother, biting his lip, not daring to make even a sniff before the king.

The king gripped the elegant purple railing, peering down at the group. “I give them everything and they can’t even have the decency to die away from my sight. Even a cockroach finds a corner to scurry to before rolling onto its back.”

“Yes, sir,” was all the guard said, looking now at his greaves. He couldn’t bear the grieving family, the sight too sad to look at. So, he kept his gaze elsewhere. While the king’s words were horrible, one couldn’t deny the impact he had made on the peasants’ lives. Slowly, people were leaving the slums, able to afford a living thanks to the tax reforms. Poverty being slowly reduced, all thanks to a man who was disgusted by the very thought of their existence. Despite his personality and reasoning, he was a great king.

“Look at them, wailing because the person who birthed them died. How many children are born a day? It’s hardly anything special.” The king met the gaze of the father, who looked stunned to see the king of all men looking over their funeral. The father couldn’t help feeling a great deal of comfort after seeing the king, feeling blessed that the man was watching over them, almost protectively.

“I would call them animals, if animals weren’t more important. You can get meat, hide and other miraculous things from animals. What do you get from a peasant human? A bunch of bones that stink up a holy cemetery. Ugh, the thought of sharing the same ground as them turns my stomach. I must go inside or else I’ll be unable to eat my breakfast.”

The father tapped his children, the two stopping their grieving, watching in awe as they saw the king tuck his chin towards his neck in a look that could be interpreted as grief. The king raising his shoulders as he took a deep breath, hurrying inside, unable to keep his disgust hidden any longer.

Though, to the grieving peasants, they thought they saw a shared grief. A man that loves his people so much that he cries with them. That moving even the father to tears, as he hugged his children, praying not only to the goddess but also to the king. Asking them both to grant the special woman in their life a safe passage into the afterlife.

“Hendrick!” the king snapped, in a tone that Hendrick had come to recognize. The tone said, I’m about to give you an important order, so listen up.

Hendricks’ body stopped. Even his breathing softened as he waited on the king’s words. “Sir.”

“You go down there and tell those peasants that they can drag their dead hag out of my ground. We are building them their own cemetery, one away from my gaze. They can go leer at their dead away from my sight. Is that understood? Once you tell them, have the men work on it at once. I don’t want to see a sight like this again.”

“Yes, sir.” Hendrick nodded, rushing to meet the peasants, not wanting to miss them. When he arrived, he told them a very simple version of the king’s orders. Leaving out the part about the dead hag and such. In the knight’s words, they were building a special cemetery, one that would be easy for them to access without having to make the trip close to the castle grounds.

The family was stunned. Not only had the king shared their grief, he had been so moved that he now wanted them to be closer to their dead. They had heard such horrible rumors about the king, being told by others that he was a man who hated the common person, despised them even. Yet, all he had ever done was help them.

Guilt washed over them. To think they had ever let themselves believe such lies about the man. They wailed in thanks, raising their hands towards the castle, while the knight remained silent, watching the gesture, wondering how they would feel if they knew the truth.

As the king went to put a piece of bacon into his mouth, he paused, lowering his golden fork. “What is that awful sound?” He hissed. “Every day I’m forced to listen to their stupid wails. I can’t wait until they're all gone. One day, you won’t be able to distinguish a peasant from a common man. I dream of such a day.” He smiled, continuing his meal.

[nytehavyn-circle]

(Starter from Terran for @tsarnvoiny)

Terran had been checking his pocket watch for not only the time, but to make sure it was still running. He'd been having problems with it in recent days, with it not staying wounds properly, even after he'd wound it up, so he wanted to make sure--

The ground beneath his feet was no longer stone but dirt, covered by leaves and twigs. His cane had been making small, shallow holes in the ground, as well as his footsteps. He raised his pale, icy blue eyes upward and looked around. Trees. He raised his head slowly. Lots of trees. It appeared he was suddenly in a forest.

That was strange. He had merely opened a door to walk through it, he hadn't spoken any spells to the door before opening it. He slowly turned to check behind him, and sure enough, the door was gone.

Dammit. This had only happened on rare occasions - Terran being transported to somewhere else or some time else when he had no desire to have either happen.

Well, the middle of the forest was not the place to be wearing a white suit, to be sure. He inhaled deeply and gave a curt nod. "Right. To find the nearest door," he said aloud and picked a direction to start walking. He kept his senses heightened to be able to hear sounds of a stream or people, or to be able to smell people or if they were near a city or...

There was something strange in the air. It didn't smell congested. Gone was the smell of smog and stink, the cloudy machinations of air-polluting industry. He stopped, looked around, and frowned. He shook his head. He knew something was wrong, but he could place exactly what it was.

It was both hot and cold at the same time. Terran had a small shiver, but he was sweating. He removed his suit jacket, hooked his finger under the collar, and slung it over his shoulder. This left his torso dressed in a black silk shirt, and a white, gold-threaded, white vest. Hhe hems of his white slacks were getting dirty, as were his white dress shoes. He glanced down and his frown depend. He smacked his lips once, clicked his tongue, and sighed heavily. Then he shrugged and continued walking.

Once he cleared the forest and spilled out into the open countryside, he looked around. He intensely searched the horizon for any sign of people or buildings. His brow furrowed and he squinted as he looked off to the right and saw a structure in the distance. He started walking toward it. After aa couple of hundred feet, he recognized what he was seeing, still far in the distance.

It was a castle.

"Shit," he whispered. Now he knew what was wrong, why everything felt off, why the air smelled so clean. He wasn't in the present anymore. Well, the present he came from. And he knew, he could feel it, that he was no longer in his universe; no, he was in an alternate. But figuring out the time frame and exactly where he was, that was trickier. It would be easier to find a person somewhere and try starting a conversation to hear a dialect.

That's what he set out to do. He walked for a while longer until he came to a road. Well, road... it was a worn trail in the hillside. Instead of heading for the castle in the far distance ahead of him, he picked a direction and followed the 'road'. He probably walked for about an hour. He wasn't exactly sure, because when he checked his pocket watch, he found that it had stopped. He sighed in disgust and put it back in his vest pocket.

Finally, he saw a traveler on the road ahead. The man had a sack strapped to his back and was walking slightly hunched over, probably to accommodate his sack being heavy on his back. He waved at the man and the man waved back.

When Terran got closer, he began to speak. "Ho there! I was wondering, good Sir, if you could tell me where I am?"

The man spoke back in another language, confused.

Terran listened. It was... Russian? A variety of Russian. Not modern-day Russian. It was Middle Russian, which was spoken between the 14th or 15th century to the 17th or 18th. Well, that gave him a time frame. Granted, it didn't narrow it down by too much, but at least he knew.

He held up his hand to the man and closed his eyes. He had to remember how to speak Middle Russian. He may have been in a different universe, but the language was practically the same.

There it was, buried deep. He opened his eyes and looked at the man. He gave him a large, warm smile, making sure he gave a closed-lip smile, he didn't need the man running off and screaming at the sight of his fangs. Or, worse yet, immediately trying to kill him.

<<"Good sir, I was wondering if you could tell me who lives in the castle, back there, up on the hill in the distance?">>

The man's brow furrowed and he answered Terran questioningly. <<'Tis Princess Anya, sir. How do you not know where it is you are?>>

<<"Ah, that is the question, is it not? I have traveled far; far from a distant kingdom. I have never been here before and wish to introduce myself to the good rulers of this kingdom, so they know they have a new traveler in their midst.">>

The man nodded and grinned. <<"Ah, yes. Good idea. But make sure to show great respect!">>

<<"Why, of course! I should not do otherwise!">>

<"Good day!">> the man said and continued on.

Terran puffed out his cheeks and blew air through his lips. Dammit. He'd never heard of a Princess Anya before, so he knew this could go sideways, for he knew absolutely nothing about her. But the man mentioned Princess Anya, not Queen Anya, and he didn't mention a King. He wondered why that was. He hoped it was for a good reason and not one that would get him beheaded.

Turning back the way he came, he made his way back toward the castle. The castle began to come more into focus and loomed in the distance. It was pretty, but it looked ominous to him.

Terran had never met Fate, but he was getting tired of what she kept doing to Tolaas and now himself. The only time the portals or doors that he and Tolaas took, only ever jumped track and emptied them out into different places and time frames they never intended to arrive at, was because there was something they were meant to do or someone they were meant to meet.

He filed away in his mind a good talking to if he ever did meet Fate.

He approached the castle with good intentions, but the thought of something going seriously wrong weighed in his mind. He was definitely going to have to turn on the charm. And respect. He had;t bowed to proper royalty in a very long time.

[hbnotthepencils]

Lots of public transport

Well, lots of trains, subways and buses today as we flitted around the length of Kyoto in search of temples and tranquility.

First on the agenda was one of the most famous, revered temples in all of Japan - Ruriko-in. We caught a couple of trains up into the mountains north of Kyoto, and couldn’t really believe our luck - we were the only people there!!

Unfortunately we were the only people there because everyone else probably knew it was closed. ho hum never mind, off to the next one. Wandered through of few old favourites up north before heading back into town to do some of the more touristy spots. The Silver Pavilion is quite famous (not quite as famous as the Gold Pavilion), and it wasn’t too busy, so that was nice. Epic sand-castle! 

Encouraged by the low tourist numbers, we decided to head to the single most famous Kyoto landmark - the Fushimi Inari Taisha (with the 1000 vermilion gates or Tori). BIG MISTAKE. All the tourists that weren’t at the Silver Pavilion were there stinking up the place, so we beat a hasty retreat.

Off to the Art exhibition next - “Kyoto’s young artists”. A few nice pieces (some exquisite carvings and textile pieces), but a lot of ho hum. I thought it was a bit unfair that they were exhibiting in the Shosein Gardens, in the middle of Kyoto. Very pretty, and the location outdid the art quite easily.

We are thoroughly on holiday time now, so sort of forgot that it is Saturday night now. Huge queues at all the food places for dinner, until we stumbled upon a cheap and cheerful ramen place that delivered a humungous bowl of yum in about 5 minutes flat. Very tasty with a beer to wash it down.

Bed soon. Big day tomorrow - heading in to the first day of the Kumano Kodo trail. Should be an epic couple of days. Not sure if I will get a blog in - we shall see what the time, energy and wifi situation looks like at the end of the day.

Cheers.

Stay well and behave

M&D

[inpercepto]

I don’t like scary movies.

Honestly I don’t see the point. Why would anyone shell out good money for two hours of anxiety and the possibility of indelible nightmares? The kind that revisit the back of your eyes on rainy nights of insomnia.

I can’t stand jump scares, needle-in-your-eye shock value, or the sight of gelatinous insides. I don’t like spook-house rides or things that go bump in the night. Blame it on my uncle, who used to pop out from behind the couch and frighten the bejesus out of me when I was way too young to get the joke.

Bob is different. He’s sweet, but kind of an idiot. Loves all that shit, from creepy occult to slasher flicks. Has a Creature from the Black Lagoon beer tap in his man cave, and wears a Ghoulardi lapel pin. 

So when I find him studying the Bijou Theater Revival Series calendar, I know what’s coming.  

“Hey Nancy, are we free the fourteenth?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“The Bijou is showing The Tingler. One time only. They haven’t screened it since it came out in nineteen-fifty-nine.”

“Have fun.” 

“Aw, Nance. Don’t be such a scaredy cat. Vincent Price. Old and corny. Not scary. Not to mention the Percepto! Fun stuff.”

“Percepto? Is that an antacid?”

Bob makes his stink face. “Percepto is a William Castle scare gimmick. Some say his greatest. Theaters would wire some of the seats with electricity. Just enough to give whoever was sitting there a little zap. When the Tingler showed up on screen, you not only saw it, you felt it.” 

“Cute.”

“So c’mon then. Show me how much you love me.”

“Nope.”

“I’m telling you it’s not scary. Pure camp.”

“To you maybe. Remember, I tense up watching Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.” 

“Trust me, you want to see this. Vincent Price performs one of the first on-screen experiments with LSD. And when it was originally released, the distributors sent aircraft deicing motors left over from World War Two to power the seats.”

“I can’t process all that. I’ll come back to the LSD. What motors?”

“Deicing. Used to defrost airplane wings.”

“Fascinating, but no sale. Believe me, you’ll have a better time without me.” 

There is a long silence as Bob mulls his options. “I’ll watch The Crown with you.”

“Whoa. You really want this.”

“Nobody wants to ride a rollercoaster alone.”

“I’m not riding any rollercoasters.” 

“It’s a metaphor.”

I have three episodes left. For Bob it would be the ultimate sacrifice.

“Deal,” says I. 

#

Originally built as a vaudeville house in the late nineteenth century, the Bijou is the oldest movie theater in the city, a treasured gem. A shimmering gold curtain majestically parts to reveal a screen the size of O’Toole’s desert. A monstrous Phantom of the Opera chandelier hangs from an ornamental plaster ceiling. Thalia and Melpomene masks laugh and frown from the proscenium.

This Saturday morning the lobby is crowded. Bob said The Tingler had a cult following, and he wasn’t kidding. Hipsters and geeks stand backed up to the doors for popcorn and jujubes as Bob holds up the box office line, contemplating the seating chart. 

No thanks to Covid, you now have to pre-select your seats which Bob takes very seriously. He finally chooses two in third row center, seats 13 and 14. I’m normally a five-to-seven row back person, but the seat chart was already pretty full. Bob looks to me for the okay, I smile weakly and nod. 

With any luck I’ll be taking a nap.

I get a hot tea and we sidestep to our seats, counting the numbers on the little brass armrest plaques. I settle into #14 comfortably. At five-four and just a bit of a squeeze into a size eight, most theater chairs give me room to spare. Bob, well past his football days and settling farther into life’s couch, has to wriggle into his. 

Bob goes through his pre-show ritual, cleaning his glasses on his tee shirt, and digging out the baggie of homemade Chex Mix he’d smuggled in.

The house lights go down so slowly you don’t realize it’s happening, like your vision dimming before sliding into dream state. Or what I imagine happens in a slow death.

The movie starts with a man in a suit, his back to camera, sitting in a director’s chair. On cue, he stands and turns to address us in glorious black and white.

“I’m William Castle, director of the motion picture you are about to see. I feel obligated to warn you that for the first time in motion picture history, some members of the audience, including you, will actually play a part in the picture and feel some of the shocking sensations experienced by the actors on the screen.” 

Bob nudges me. “Not all these seats may be wired. Be ready to switch if we don’t feel anything.”

Castle continues. “But don’t be alarmed. At any time you are conscious of a tingling sensation, you may obtain immediate relief by screaming.”

Now comes a montage of people screaming. Lots of them. Little mortised screaming faces zooming towards the audience, getting bigger until they dominate the screen. All screaming. 

So much for my nap.

Large white type wipes across the frame. “Don’t be embarrassed to scream, it may save your life!” Followed by… “Guarantee: The Tingler will break loose in this theater while YOU are in the audience.”

Bob’s knees are knocking in anticipatory delight. Like I said, he’s an idiot, albeit a lovable one. But he was right about one thing. This is so dumb I’m actually having fun.  

The movie starts with the same hokey set up you’ve seen plenty of. Mild-mannered, lab-coated Vincent Price is obsessed with the physical effects of fear. He cuts open lots of cadavers who died in horrific circumstances, and determines that extreme fear can actually crack your spine. 

I look over at Bob, carefully chewing his Chex Mix so as not to make sounds in his head.

Ten minutes later a deaf mute woman has a hallucinatory nightmare that she’s being chased by an axe murderer and other scary stuff, and dies in a fit of silent agony. “Cause of Death,” says the coroner’s report, is “Extreme Fright.”

Vincent Price performs the autopsy and discovers a parasite that looks like an Italian sub-sized grub worm attached to the deaf mute’s spine. He hypothesizes that the parasite feeds on fear and, unless that fear is somehow released, can grow strong enough to break your spine. Vincent dubs the creature, “The Tingler.”

 With furrowed brow, Vincent returns to his lab for further research, and decides to induce his own fear by taking a dose of LSD. He freaks out, imagining skeletons are after him and generally overacts his googly eyes out. But when he starts to scream, the apparitions stop.

Bottomline: The only way to survive the Tingler is to scream your bloody head off. And since the deaf mute woman couldn’t scream, she went kaputski.

I can’t believe I’m actually following this. 

I should add that after Vincent Price pulls the Tingler off the woman’s spine, he puts it in a bag and takes it home, like a freakish carnival goldfish. Anyway, you won’t believe this, but the Tingler escapes and hits the town, eventually wandering into a crowded movie theater.

So now we’re sitting in a movie house, watching a movie of people watching a movie in a movie house. The fourth wall comes down, and all hell breaks loose. Here we go. Let the chair-zapping begin.

I’ll admit it was a pretty neat trick. Vincent Price runs into the theater on screen. The audience turns to look at him, and us. Vincent’s voice sounds as if he’s at the back of our theater, and we turn around like suckers just in case he’s really there. He’s not. We turn back to the screen in time to see a woman in the movie get attacked by the Tingler. She screams. A woman somewhere in the back of our theater (possibly a plant?) screams. We all turn around again. 

Which theater am I supposed to be paying attention to? Where am I supposed to look? Somebody’s going to get a case of whiplash.  

There are over-the-top comic screams scattered around the Bijou, though not nearly as many as I expected. My best guess is the wired seats are few and far between and the voltage is weaker than a coin-operated motel Magic Fingers massage. Incidentally I don’t feel a thing, which as far as I’m concerned, is a gift. I would’ve paid twice as much for an unwired seat.

Bob obviously has one. He is bellowing like a stuck gator. I actually jump, sloshing tea on my corduroys.

I make out the silhouette of an usher coming down the aisle, grazing people on the back of their necks with what looks like a rubber lobster. Everybody—our live audience and the on-screen audience—is screaming together.

But Bob is shrieking like he means it, hands clawing his face, wearing an expression of sheer terror. Twisted, strained, quivering.

What a ham.

He’s kind of creeping me out. I give him a shake. “Cool it,” I shush, which he ignores, beginning to twitch. His hands shoot out from his face, catching his eyeglasses, sending them flying in the dark. 

The Tingler is running amok, both on the screen and in the form of two pimple-faced ushers and aforementioned rubber lobsters. People on the screen are running for their lives. People in our audience are hooting it up. 

Suddenly the Tingler is silhouetted on the screen like it’s in our very own projection booth, slithering over the projector’s glass lens. The screen goes dark, as if the Tingler has shut down the projector. The theater plunges into total black, save the exit signs.

Somebody yells, I have no idea who or from where. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please do not panic. But scream! Scream for your lives!”

Bob isn’t epileptic, but you wouldn’t know it. Legs kicking wildly, bucking and convulsing. His screams are so loud he’s getting attention despite the chaos. Not the good kind. I clamp my hand over his mouth. His eyes bug out like ping pong balls. He swats at my hand, but I manage to hold it there. 

The picture on screen resumes in time for us to see Vincent Price throw a net over the Tingler and save the day. The movie wraps up with a happy ending and a sigh of cornball relief.

I take my hand off Bob’s mouth. His head flops sideways, tongue lolling out, eyes rolled back. I hear myself scream.

#

The EMTs got there just before the cops. Bob was no response for a literal heart-stopping four-and-a-half minutes. In a fit of hysteria I told them to check his spine. A cool-headed woman asked for someone to restrain me while she applied a defibrillator, which, after several more shocks to Bob’s system, did the trick. A dopey eyed Bob smiled up at me. One of the sweetest smiles I’ve ever seen. 

The theater manager stood by, a moon-faced guy in his thirties, quietly trembling in scuffed Oxfords. His eyes, vacant and hollow, began to water as Bob rejoined the living.

“I knew this was a mistake,” he said in a weak voice.

This guy was clearly damaged goods. I kept my mouth shut and let him get it off his chest.

“This stupid movie. Bad luck. Bad bad luck. I swore this theater would never show it again after what happened the first time, but I let them talk me into it. This is all on me.”

I stepped towards him. “Happened the first time? How much voltage was in those chairs anyway?”  

Glazed eyes looked at me in incredulous anguish. “Are you insane? I wouldn’t wire those seats if my life depended on it. I don’t need that kind of karma.” 

“Wait, are you saying nobody’s seat was electrified?” 

“Absolutely not. At this point it’s like Rocky Horror. People just play along and scream on cue. The ushers follow the script and do the rubber lobster bit, but that’s it. The whole thing’s just a nostalgia goof. Where’d you get the idea we wired the seats?” 

I looked over at Bob, telling the paramedic he was holding up four fingers when he was only showing three. 

One of the cops was taking notes. “What did happen ‘the first time?’”

The manager sat on the lobby couch and took a deep breath. 

“In nineteen-fifty-nine, when the distributor sent the film, for some reason they didn’t send the motors,  just instructions on how to wire the seats. A low-voltage schematic, but my grandfather didn’t know his AC from his DC and hired some dumb kid to do it. Good kid, looking to impress my grandfather, pretending to know more than he did.

“Kid said he could handle it. Only he forgot the limit switch and neglected to ground it properly. Most of the seats worked okay, but one of them, with a direct line to the power source, was over amped. Four-thousand volts worth. Sizzled a man to his seat on opening night. Took a week to get rid of the smell of burnt hair. Haunted my grandfather for the rest of his life.

“Almost cost him the theater. Luckily, the deceased was a loner, no family, the courts took pity on the kid, and no charges were pressed. By some miracle, it stayed out of the papers.”

“That’s horrible. So why’d you show it?” 

“I didn’t want to. State film board begged me at the behest of some anonymous donor with big bucks and a thing for fifties spook-show publicity stunts. Said this was the only theater that could do it justice. I refused. Then I got a call the tourism board, then the Mayor’s office and then the Mayor himself, for crying out loud.” 

The manager hung his head. “They do a lot for this theater, and not only in state funding. They just nominated us for historic landmark status, which is a huge tax break. I caved.”

I heard Bob softly singing the Banana Splits theme song. Back to his old self. Nevertheless, they wanted to keep him overnight for tests. Said I could ride in the ambulance.

I had one last question, but was almost too afraid to ask. I have trouble enough sleeping as it is. “The man who died. Do you know what seat he was in?”

I shuddered at the answer, the same one you’ve already guessed. If I was a scaredy cat before, from here out, I’ll be a full-blown basket case.