#embossing effect

[rotyolk]

one must imagine a greasy, slimy exhaust pipe of a maid

[ennaih]

Father Brown | every Hercule Flambeau appearance | The Blue Cross (s01e10)

[melrosing]

bookbinding is so fun you should totally do it

I am v tempted, just need to look into how much kit is actually required….

[papercutsmp3]

I HATE IT WHEN I COMPLAIN ABOUT THINGS KPOP i sound just like all my enemies

[kwalityoffsetprinters]

Kwality Offset Printers has been offering label printing services to leading companies for over 50 years now. We have been following our legacy of providing exceptional quality and services to our clients. As one of the leading labels specialists of India, we cater mainly to FMCG companies including liquor, food and healthcare.

[transform4u]

The Society: Chad

The heavy, oak door creaked open as Eric stepped into the dimly lit room, his heart pounding with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The invitation had been mysterious, arriving in an unmarked envelope with a gold-embossed seal. It spoke of a society that could help him achieve his greatest ambitions. Despite his reservations, Eric's drive to effect meaningful change compelled him to investigate further.

The room was lavishly decorated, a stark contrast to the dim lighting. Rich, mahogany walls were adorned with intricate tapestries and portraits of men from various eras, their eyes seeming to follow him as he moved. At the far end of the room, a long table stretched out, laden with an array of decadent food and drink. At the head of the table sat Jason, his youthful visage betraying an ageless wisdom. His eyes, sharp and knowing, locked onto Eric with a calculating intensity.

"Welcome, Eric," Jason said, his voice smooth and commanding. "We've been expecting you."

Eric hesitated, his instincts screaming caution, but he was determined to see this through. He had faced tougher crowds and more hostile environments in his political career. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the room and took a seat opposite Jason.

"You've come a long way, my friend," Jason continued, leaning forward. "Your work in New York has not gone unnoticed. Your passion, your dedication to equality and justice—these are qualities we value deeply in The Society."

Eric frowned slightly, unsure where this was leading. "Thank you, but I'm not sure what this has to do with your... organization."

Jason's smile widened, a glint of something almost predatory in his eyes. "The Society exists to elevate men, to help them achieve their fullest potential. We believe in harnessing the unique strengths of individuals like yourself to create a better world. But sometimes, the path to greatness requires a transformation."

"Transformation?" Eric echoed, his unease growing. "What kind of transformation are we talking about?"

Jason stood and began to pace, his movements graceful and deliberate. "We use a blend of ancient practices and modern techniques, a touch of the occult, to help men tap into their deepest strengths. It's a process, but I assure you, the results are extraordinary."

Eric's skepticism was evident, but he couldn't deny the allure of the promise. "And what do you expect in return?"

"Your loyalty, your commitment to our cause," Jason replied smoothly. "We have the power to amplify your voice, to expand your influence far beyond what you could achieve alone. But you must be willing to embrace the change."

A shiver ran down Eric's spine. There was something both thrilling and terrifying about the proposition. He had always believed in the power of transformation, in personal growth and evolution. But the idea of subjecting himself to the unknown methods of The Society was daunting.

"And if I refuse?" Eric asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Jason stopped pacing and fixed Eric with a piercing gaze. "If you refuse, you continue on your current path, making incremental changes, fighting battles one at a time. But if you accept, you gain the power to reshape society on a grand scale."

The weight of the decision hung heavily in the air. Eric's mind raced, considering the implications. He had dedicated his life to making the world a better place, to fighting for those who couldn't fight for themselves. The opportunity to amplify his efforts was tempting, almost irresistibly so.

With a deep breath, Eric nodded. "Alright. I'll do it."

Jason's smile was almost triumphant. "Excellent. The process will begin immediately. Trust in the journey, Eric. The man you will become is someone you could never have imagined."

As the shadows in the room seemed to deepen and swirl around him, Eric couldn't shake the feeling that he had just crossed a threshold from which there would be no return.

As the room’s ambiance grew more surreal, a conservatively dressed man approached Eric, carrying a silver tray with a single, ornate goblet. The liquid inside shimmered with an ethereal glow, casting faint, dancing reflections on the dark wood of the table.

Jason gestured toward the goblet. “Drink, and the transformation will commence.”

Eric took the goblet, its cool metal sending a shiver through his fingers. He hesitated for a moment, then, with a resolve born of desperation and ambition, he brought it to his lips and drank deeply. The liquid was surprisingly warm, with a rich, spicy flavor that seemed to ignite a fire within his chest.

Almost immediately, Eric felt a strange sensation ripple through his body. His heart began to race, and he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself as an intense heat spread from his core. He watched in awe as his arms began to bulge, muscles swelling and expanding, veins rising to the surface of his skin. His fingers, once slender and artistic, thickened, the nails becoming more rugged and defined.

His shirt strained against his growing frame, seams stretching and then tearing as his chest broadened and his shoulders widened. He could feel his spine straightening, his posture shifting from the slightly stooped stance of someone always leaning over books or a guitar to the confident, commanding presence of an athlete. Eric’s legs, too, transformed, his thighs and calves gaining definition and power.

As the physical changes continued, Eric glanced at his reflection in a nearby polished surface. He watched, mesmerized, as the lines and wrinkles that had begun to mark his face vanished, replaced by smooth, taut skin. His features, once gentle and expressive, sharpened into a more chiseled, rugged handsomeness. His hair, which had started to show the first hints of gray, darkened to a rich, youthful hue.

Eric’s breathing quickened, a mix of exhilaration and fear surging through him. He flexed his hands, feeling the newfound strength coursing through his body. The sensation was intoxicating, yet disorienting. He looked down at himself, hardly recognizing the muscular, youthful figure he had become. His clothes, now in tatters, hung loosely from his transformed frame.

“What’s happening to me?” Eric gasped, his voice deeper and more resonant than before.

Jason’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “You are becoming your most powerful self, Eric. The potential that lay dormant within you is being unlocked. Embrace it.”

Eric took a step back, nearly stumbling as he adjusted to his altered center of gravity. He felt a rush of conflicting emotions—pride in his newfound strength, confusion at the rapid changes, and a creeping sense of loss for the person he once was. He touched his face, his fingers tracing the unfamiliar contours of his jaw and cheekbones.

“Is this really me?” he murmured, a mixture of wonder and trepidation in his tone.

Jason nodded. “This is the beginning, Eric. You are now in a position to wield the influence and power necessary to reshape society. The Society will guide you, but it is up to you to harness your potential.”

As the initial shock of the transformation began to wear off, Eric felt a burgeoning confidence rising within him. He straightened to his full height, feeling a sense of power and capability he had never known before. The memories of his former self—his ideals, his passions—remained, but they were now infused with a newfound vigor and determination.

“I… I think I understand,” Eric said slowly, his voice steadying. “I can do more. Be more.”

Jason’s smile was approving. “Exactly. You are now ready to embark on the next phase of your journey. The Society will support you, but remember, true change comes from within.”

Eric nodded, feeling a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. He glanced once more at his reflection, a sense of awe filling him at the sight of the powerful, confident young man staring back. The transformation was complete, but his journey was just beginning.

As he followed Jason out of the room, Eric couldn’t help but feel that his life, and his mission, had irrevocably changed. The world would soon meet a new Eric—one who was ready to seize his destiny and reshape the world in ways he had never before imagined.

As Eric stepped out of the dimly lit room, he was led into a spacious, opulently furnished lounge where several men were gathered, engaged in animated conversation. Their attire ranged from tailored suits to casual yet expensive-looking attire, each man exuding confidence and authority. The air was thick with the aroma of cigars and expensive whiskey, adding to the heady atmosphere.

Jason introduced Eric to the group, who greeted him with hearty handshakes and claps on the back. He could sense their approval, their eyes appraising his transformed physique. They began to talk, their voices a mix of joviality and intensity.

“So, Eric,” one man said, offering him a glass of whiskey, “what do you think about the state of masculinity today?”

Eric took the glass, his mind still buzzing from the transformation. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I think it’s important to have a balanced approach, respecting everyone’s rights and identities.”

The men exchanged glances, a few smirks playing on their lips. Another man, broad-shouldered and brash, leaned forward. “Sure, but what about real men? Guys who aren’t afraid to speak their minds, take charge, and push back against all this politically correct nonsense?”

Eric felt a flicker of discomfort but also a strange pull. He had always believed in respectful discourse, yet there was something compelling about the raw confidence these men exuded. “I suppose there’s value in being direct and assertive,” he conceded.

The conversation shifted, each man sharing his vision of the ideal fraternity—a place for strong, outspoken men who didn’t shy away from controversy. They painted a picture of a loud, boisterous brotherhood, where camaraderie was forged through shared challenges and unfiltered honesty.

“We need leaders who aren’t afraid to ruffle feathers,” one man declared. “Someone who can handle the banter, the parties, and still keep everyone in line. A real alpha.”

Eric found himself nodding along, the initial resistance in his mind weakening. The more they spoke, the more their words resonated with a primal part of him. His memories of advocating for inclusivity and respect seemed to blur, replaced by an emerging desire to fit in with these powerful men.

Another man chimed in, his tone conspiratorial. “Think about it, Eric. A leader who can throw back shots, tell it like it is, and doesn’t give a damn about stepping on toes. That’s what we need. Someone who can rally the guys and lead by example. No more of this sensitive, touchy-feely stuff.”

Eric felt a strange warmth in his chest, a sense of belonging he hadn’t realized he was craving. The idea of leading such a group, of embodying this brash, unapologetic masculinity, began to appeal to him. His thoughts grew clouded, his previous convictions fading like a distant dream.

“Yeah,” Eric found himself saying, a new conviction in his voice. “Guys need to be able to express themselves without holding back. It’s about being real, being honest.”

The men cheered, raising their glasses in a toast. “Now you’re talking, Eric! Welcome to the brotherhood.”

As the night wore on, Eric’s transformation continued, not just physically but mentally. His language grew coarser, his laughter louder. He found himself embracing the crude jokes, the competitive banter, and the boisterous energy of the group. The liberal ideals he once held dear seemed naïve and distant, replaced by a burgeoning belief in the raw, unfiltered masculinity these men championed.

By the end of the evening, Eric felt like a different person. The gentle, artistic politician from New York was gone, replaced by a loud-mouthed, confident young man who was ready to lead this new fraternity. He reveled in the approval of his new peers, eager to prove himself in this new role.

As he left the lounge, Eric’s thoughts were consumed with plans for the future. He envisioned a fraternity that was strong, outspoken, and unapologetically masculine. He would be the leader they needed, the one who could bring their vision to life. And in doing so, he would reshape not only his destiny but the very fabric of society.

The Society had succeeded in molding him into their ideal—an agent of their grand design, ready to fight for what they deemed the proper way of life.

The following morning, Eric—or “Chad” as the men had started to call him—awoke in a luxurious suite, his mind foggy from the previous night’s revelry. The remnants of his former self felt like a distant memory, overshadowed by the new, overpowering personality that had emerged. He glanced in the mirror and saw not the thoughtful, compassionate politician, but a rugged, muscular young man with a carefree, almost vacant expression.

He flexed his biceps, admiring the bulging muscles and feeling a surge of pride. The faint echoes of his past ideals and passions were buried deep beneath layers of newfound bravado and arrogance. His once bright, earnest eyes now gleamed with a mischievous, almost predatory glint.

As he joined the other men for breakfast, the transformation was complete. They greeted him with hearty slaps on the back and crude jokes, which he met with a dumb, hearty giggle that surprised even himself. It felt good to be accepted, to be one of them. He reveled in their approval, the camaraderie intoxicating.

“Morning, Chad!” one of the men called out. “Ready for another day of setting the world straight?”

“Hell yeah, bro!” Chad replied, his voice booming with newfound confidence. He downed a shot of whiskey that was handed to him, not even flinching at the burn. “Let’s show these losers how real men roll!”

The men laughed, a raucous sound that filled the room. One of them, a burly guy with a thick beard, leaned over and started telling a crude, homophobic joke. Chad felt a flicker of something—perhaps a distant echo of the old Eric—but it was quickly drowned out by the need to fit in, to be part of the group.

As the punchline hit, Chad let out a loud, stupid laugh, slapping his knee. The others roared with laughter too, and he felt a twisted sense of pride at their approval. The thoughtful, compassionate Eric who had championed civil rights and equality was gone, replaced by this new persona that thrived on crude humor and superficial charm.

Throughout the day, Chad’s behavior continued to reflect his transformation. He ogled women openly, making lewd comments and reveling in the attention he received. His interactions were marked by a blatant disregard for the respect and equality he once fervently championed. Women were now mere playthings, objects for his amusement.

He started filming TikTok videos with the other guys, their content filled with dumb, crude jokes and obnoxious behavior. They staged pranks, made sexist comments, and mocked those who didn’t fit their mold of “real men.” The videos quickly gained traction, their follower count skyrocketing as they played to the lowest common denominator.

One afternoon, as they lounged around a pool, filming yet another video, Chad caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water. For a fleeting moment, the face staring back at him was not just the brash, muscular frat bro but also a faint echo of who he used to be. The guitar-playing, theater-loving advocate for equality and justice. But as quickly as the thought came, it was drowned out by the booming laughter of his new friends and the thrill of their approval.

“Yo, Chad, get over here! We need you for this next prank!” one of them called out.

Chad grinned, letting the remnants of his former self slip away completely. “Coming, bro!” he shouted, rushing over with a swagger.

The transformation was complete. The sweet, compassionate Eric was gone, replaced by a 22-year-old, dumb-as-nails frat bro who lived for parties, crude jokes, and superficial thrills. The Society had molded him into their ideal—a loud, obnoxious figurehead for their new frat house, ready to spread their vision of a “proper” way of life. And Chad embraced it all with open arms, leaving behind any trace of the man he once was.

He now stood tall and broad-shouldered, his muscular frame a testament to hours spent at the gym, sculpting his body into a vision of hyper-masculine strength. His biceps bulged under the tight sleeves of his shirt, and his chest stretched the fabric to its limits.

Gone were the casual, artistic clothes Eric used to favor. Chad’s wardrobe was now a gaudy display of designer brands and ostentatious style. Today, he wore a skin-tight, bright red polo shirt with a large logo emblazoned on the chest, the buttons straining against his broad pectorals. Around his neck hung a heavy, gold cross necklace that gleamed under the light, a symbol of his newfound conservative identity.

His jeans were equally tight, designed to show off his muscular legs and sculpted rear. They were distressed, with strategic rips that highlighted his tan skin. On his feet, he wore expensive, brightly colored sneakers that added an extra inch to his already imposing height. His belt had a large, flashy buckle, the kind that drew attention and signaled his new, brash persona.

Chad’s face had undergone just as dramatic a change. His once gentle, expressive features were now sharp and defined. He sported a meticulously groomed chinstrap beard, a style that framed his jawline and added to his overall look of a stereotypical douchebag. His hair was gelled back in a style that screamed for attention, perfectly complementing his overall appearance.

A pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses often perched on his head or over his eyes, completing the ensemble. His skin had a perpetual tan, either from hours spent in the sun or a tanning booth, further enhancing the look of a man who prioritized appearances above all else.

Chad’s demeanor matched his appearance. He moved with a swagger, his every step exuding confidence and arrogance. His loud, boisterous laughter often filled the room, accompanied by crude jokes and derogatory comments. He reveled in the attention and admiration of his new peers, basking in their approval.

To those who knew Eric, Chad was unrecognizable. The sweet, thoughtful young politician who once championed equality and social justice had been completely replaced. Chad was now the embodiment of the Society's ideal—a straight, Republican douchebag with big muscles, gaudy clothes, a cross necklace, and a chinstrap beard. He lived for the parties, the attention, and the superficial thrills, leaving behind any trace of his former self in the process.

[rcmclachlan]

Return of the Mack

For @alchemistc. Hope you feel better soon!

At the fire academy, three things are beaten out of every trainee: fear, a normal sleep schedule, and the social influences that prevent one from intervening in the event of an emergency. Some have jokingly called the third one the Anti-Bystander Effect, because if someone needs assistance—whether it's to stop an assault, run into a burning building, or help a little old lady find a quarter she dropped—a firefighter will immediately rush in to save the day. It's a special brand of classical conditioning that instills an elevated sense of responsibility in every trainee, and it's paid in full by the state of California.

Which is why it's so odd for there to be three capable firefighters standing around doing nothing while there's an old man clearly in need of dire assistance. If the LAFD higher-ups knew they were actively choosing to watch the carnage unfold instead of lifting a finger to help, they'd all be shitcanned. 

Luckily, there's a fourth firefighter on the scene doing the absolute most. 

"I thought we made a pact to keep him from using his powers for evil," Eddie says, taking a dispassionate sip of his coffee. 

"Is it evil if he's actually using them in service of a greater good?" Hen's attention is half on what's going down and half on the Notes app on her phone, where she's typing out the week's grocery list. "You know, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

Draped over the railing like his bones have melted, Chimney gives a sage nod. "He's like a one-man Suicide Squad." 

In the apparatus bay, they watch as Vincent Gerrard uses the distraction of B Shift heading home to duck behind one of the engines, most likely to regroup after being thoroughly ambushed the second he stepped into the station five minutes ago. He slumps back and breathes. The moment of weakness costs him: a grinning demon rounds the corner and makes a bee-line for him as though he can taste blood in the air.

"So, which one of you said 'spreadsheet' three times in a mirror?" Ravi sidles up next to Chimney and unwraps a breakfast burrito from Delia's. 

Chimney gives him the stink-eye. "I hope you brought enough for the whole class."

"Nope," Ravi says, taking a cheerful bite.

"None of us summoned him," Eddie says. He leans down to try and catch the conversation being had, but he's too high up. For a second, he thinks he hears the words 'crack whore' but it's probably a trick of the bay's acoustics. "He's everywhere, always, just watching and waiting for you to slip up. Like God."

"Or the Devil," Hen says in agreement.

"Or Santa," Chimney adds.

Ravi chews thoughtfully. "I thought we threw out all the clipboards. Who gave him that one?"

"Tommy," Eddie, Hen, and Chimney say through a simultaneous, long-suffering sigh. 

It's not just any clipboard. It's the king of clipboards. It's the only clipboard that has ever fucked. The thing is a navy blue polycarbonate beast with "Buckley 118" embossed in fire engine red on the back, and the clip looks like it was forged in the fires of Staples HQ. 

At the bi-weekly Beer and Bitch Night last Friday at Golden Road Pub, Tommy had pulled it out of a bag and presented it on one knee like he was proposing, or bestowing a sword to a king. The entire brewery was then given front-row seats to an intense game of tonsil hockey that nearly went into overtime until Eddie threatened to call Athena because Bobby looked like he was seriously reconsidering sobriety.

"Does he know what he's unleashed?" Ravi sounds genuinely curious. 

As if on cue, Chimney's, Eddie's, and Hen's phones chime with three incoming messages. 

T.K. 07:26am: Has it started? T.K. 07:26am: Remember: you promised one of you would film it T.K. 07:27am: I'm offering 3 nights of free babysitting to the first person who delivers

That last one is followed by a gif of J. Jonah Jameson shouting "Bring me Spiderman!"

Hen frowns down at her phone. "Who the hell is that?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Chimney mutters.

H.W. 07:28am: Why are you so desperate for video?  E.D. 07:28am: What 40-something year old still pinky swears? H.H. 07:28am: Clipboard Buck better not be a weird sex thing for you, Kinard

Tommy's typing indicator appears, then disappears. Then appears and disappears again. Then appears—

"Yeah, no." Chimney hastily pockets his phone. "Those two were made in a lab for each other, I swear to god."

Down in the bay, Gerrard has moved to stand almost directly underneath them. While they can't hear what Gerrard says to Melanie Wu, an electrician so talented she could probably take down the entire grid with her eyes closed, that puts such a dour expression on her face, they can hear it when Buck, popping up behind Gerrard like an insane Jack-in-the-box, says, "Don't worry, Melanie! This is something to bring up during Thursday's workplace conflict seminar."

"What seminar?!"

Buck isn't cowed. He taps his clipboard and says, "The one I scheduled with Chief Alonso. You know, the mandatory one we all need to do in order to keep our certification—well, we'll keep it as long as nothing comes up during the seminar that might call into question our ability to do the job."

There's a charged moment where it almost looks like Gerrard might take a swing at Buck, but then he notices the audience hanging above him like a Greek chorus and shouts, "Someone'd better top off the fuel and DEF or—"

"Already done, Cap." Buck makes a show of turning to the second page on his clipboard and lists off, "All fuel, DEF, oil, and coolant are set. Tires have been aired up. Hoses have been drained and cleaned, and re-rolled. Engines were all waxed yesterday, all medical supplies have been inventoried and stocked, and I've made a list of the harnesses and cutting torches that need replacing. Just need you to sign off on everything. Sir."

The ingratiating smile on Buck's face would fool even the wiliest of senior officers, and Gerrard himself looks like even he's not sure if what just happened was disrespectful, but they know better. 

"Diabolical," Ravi whispers, awed. 

Hissing through his teeth, Gerrard spins on his heel and storms away in the direction of the little office in the administrative section of the firehouse where he's taken to holing up like a miserable groundhog until they get a call that forces him back out. If he sees his shadow on the firehouse wall, it's six more hours of bullshit.

As soon as he's gone, all the firefighters that had stopped to watch the show burst into laughter and applause, and Buck cracks up, taking sweeping bows and blowing kisses to his adoring fans. 

Chimney rolls his eyes and looks to see what Hen's expression is doing, because no one gives good face like she does, but she's holding her phone in a way that clearly means—

"You're filming this?" Chimney demands, betrayed.

She gives an unrepentant shrug. "Three nights of free babysitting? I'm not proud."

"You do know this means Buck's going to get laid and be absolutely insufferable about it, right?"

"Three nights," Hen bites out through very audible regret.

Buck looks up, flashes a grin, and the second he clocks the phone he salutes it with the clipboard. Then he struts after Gerrard, calling almost lazily, "Cap, wait up! I wanted to talk about setting up a mock exam for everyone who's planning on taking the TCFP D/O!"

They all watch him go. Silently, Hen sends off the video with the air of someone about to make a drug drop. 

"So, when does Taylor Kelly's exposé come out again?" Eddie makes a dubious face in the direction of the administrative offices. "Because I don't know that Gerrard won't off himself before it does."

"We win either way," Chimney points out. 

"It comes out next Monday," Hen says, slipping her phone into her pocket and elbowing Chimney in the arm on her way to the stairs. "Karen and I are hosting a watch party that night and you're all invited."

Ravi beams. "Thanks, Hen. I'll definitely be there."

"And you'll be bringing dinner from Taco Azteca—for everybody. Make sure you get enough carne," Chimney calls over his shoulder as he follows Hen. 

"I'm not a probie anymore," Ravi whines. "You can't haze me like this."

Snickering, Eddie pats him on the shoulder and says, "You do this and I'll make sure you're not sitting anywhere near Buck and Tommy when Taylor drops the bomb about Gerrard and Ortiz."

"Extra al pastor and buche it is!"

[heartlaboratory]

In the short movie represented, taken from the university archive, you can look at a curious experiment that took place in the firs years of the '900, when physiologist were working on the relationship between electricity and the human body. A brief report accompanies the movie. Colette De La Beatrix was the countess of a small town called "Holy Lady in the Countryside", she was married to a professor of that time. Unfortunately at the age of 32 she suffered a terrible accident while riding her horse. She was embossed down from the saddle and the horse stomped her right in the center of her chest, destroying the frontal part of her rib cage. She was saved miraculously by the university's surgeon that had to remove her sternum leaving her most vital organ covered only by a thin layer of skin. Usually she wore an iron plate to cover and protect her exposed heart. Her husband convinced her to take advantage of the events and participate in his studies about electrophysiology. She happily took part to them and once results were gathered they decided to show them to the other professors and film the experiment. The movie starts with the countess sitting on a woodden bench. her entire chest is exposed and the shape of her beating heart is clearly visible. A rudimental microphone, linked to a gramophone, is held by a belt on the center of her chest and picks up her heartbeat. Two electrodes are attached on the oppiside sides of her heart linking the organ with what was probably a battery. The report is divided into different parts:

Initial- Countess initial heart rate: 85 bpm Showing the audience her condition and her synus rhythm at rest. Single electrical pulses are charged on her heart to demonstrate electricity can start artificial systoles. Audience is encouraged to feel the countess' carotid pulse to further proove the experiment effectiveness. This part ends with a note hand-written. "remember to tell the audience to never directly touch her heart to avoid dangerous ahrrythmias".

Part 2- Artificial pacing at 120bpm The machine delivers a series of consecutive impulses to create an artificial rhythm. The countess's heart reacts to each pulse correctly contracting in a new manually-induced pace. Audience is encouraged to feel the countess' carotid pulse under the influence of the continuous pulses. NOTE: After the pulses are interrupted the countess' heart recovers its initial pace immediately.

Part 3- Reaching physiological limit, 187bpm To demonstrate total control on the countess' heart rhythm the heart is artificially paced at her maximum heart rate (220 - her age 32). electrical pacing can realize the same results as a strenuous physical effort. The battery completely bypassed her local pacemaker. Audience is encouraged to feel the countess' carotid pulse and look at her beating heart. NOTE: Frank and Starling were right, the artificial rhythm seems hard to sustain for her system. The fast her heart gets the less efective its beating becomes. NOTE2: Her heart takes some long pauses in order to recover.

Part 4- Beyond physiological limits 240bpm The domain over her natural pacemaker is so absolute that its natural limit can be higly bypassed. The heart is paced at an innatural rhythm. Audience is encouraged to feel the countess' carotid pulse and look at her beating heart. NOTE: Audience report that just a very tiny wave of blood can be felt at her neck after each heart contraction. NOTE2: The countess's heart seems unable to follow each electrical pulse as some dyastoles seem abolished in a tetanus like manner. NOTE3: The procedure is interrupted as the countess lost consciousness for a brief period of time. NOTE4: Once the machine is turned off a long period of asystole is seen with subsequent ahrrythmias after the spontaneous pulsation restarted. Heart exhaustion? another hand-written part: "I should have never tried this on my wife"

What the report doesn't says is that countess Colette De La Beatrix died of sudden cardiac arrest few days late.

[rninies]

✮ she looks just like a dream

౨ৎ sunday x reader. fluff, fem!reader, ceo!sunday is really hot idc, inspired by tears of themis marius card (iykyk), sunday might be ooc im sorry </3 — wc: 2,836

notes. guys i love sunday i want him so bad please

you hold on to the folds of your dress as you look around at the throng of people around you. two days ago, sunday extended an invitation to you to come to a charity auction he would be hosting tonight. one of his assistants had picked you up soon after you had finished with your paperwork, and here you are, taking in the wondrous architecture of a famous resort’s lobby.

everything looks so expensive here, you think, a grim expression on your face. rich people do have it easy, huh.

“please wait here a moment,” his assistant tells you. “i’ll get your registration finalized for you.”

“thank you.” you smile at him, watching her round the corner and leave you alone. again. you desperately want to give sunday a call, but you know he must be busy greeting guests and taking care of the preparations, so with a heavy sigh, you decide against it.

as you watch the stream of wealthy-looking people come in, a conversation catches your interest.

“who does sunday think he is? ordering people around like that!” you turn your head to see two people, seemingly a bit older than you, talking to each other. “i’ve been in the family's corporations longer than him, so there’s nothing to be afraid of!”

you are just about to approach them, but his assistant bustles back with papers. “your registration is done. come with me, i’ll lead you to the venue.” you turn your head back, about to protest, but causing a scene would be more than you bargained for, so you reluctantly follow him into the elevator.

an awkward silence engulfs the metal box you both are standing in before the assistant breaks it. “you don’t have to worry about what he said. he’s been like this for a long time.”

“eh?” you chirp, shocked. “y-you heard that?”

“yes,” he chuckles. “it’s quite common, i would say. i’m quite used to hearing those awful remarks they say about master sunday. he said he doesn’t mind, anyway, so it’s no use trying to defend him.”

you smile a bit at that. typical, indifferent sunday. “yeah… that’s true,” you murmur as the elevator comes to a halt. when you step out, you immediately feel overwhelmed by the flood of people greeting you.

maybe it’s because you’re used to only seeing a few people in the law firm and the fact that you don’t go out to parties often that you feel nauseous at the sight of the overcrowded room. you tried searching for sunday through the mass, but your height makes it harder for you to see above people’s heads.

you eventually spot him reclining in a chair, talking to a few people you recognize as the VIPs of the event. he looks like he isn’t going to finish any time soon, so you wave your hand and mouth that you’ll be waiting for him as sunday glances at you. your boyfriend gives you a small smile before turning his attention back to the group.

there is something different about sunday on this occasion, you decide. you’re used to seeing him in suits at important events, but the fact that his family crest is embossed on the suit makes it so much different. he looks so… different.

“y/n?” sunday's voice knocks you out of your daydream and back into reality. “why do you look so dazed? do i look so attractive that you aren’t able to take your eyes off me?”

your face flushes red, quickly turning away. “w-what are you talking about? you don’t look attractive. i was simply thinking about what drink to get,” you say, regaining your composure. though, you aren’t able to deny the fact that sunday is indeed attractive, even in his normal attire.

curse him and his family genes, you think to yourself.

“eh? love, why are you so mean to me these days?” sunday whines, his infamous puppy dog eyes coming into play. he always uses them on you, knowing they have such an effect on you. there isn’t a single moment in which the use of his puppy dog eyes doesn't make you tell the truth or agree to something he suggested. you, however, learned how to resist sunday's temptations.

“never mind that, mr. sunday,” you remark, a twinkle in your eyes as you look up at him. “if you were busy, you didn’t have to come to me. it looks like people are still wanting to talk to you,” you say, looking around at the throng almost surrounding you both. sunday gives a little chuckle.

“mm, that’s true. i’m quite famous, aren’t i?” sunday returns rather smugly, making you frown. “i’m just kidding! either way, i’m pretty sure they already understand that if I am currently talking to you, i don’t want to be disturbed because no one is trying to disturb-”

“excuse me, master sunday,” sunday's assistant appears, cutting sunday off abruptly. “there’s someone here who’d  like to speak to you.”

the heir of the family sighs. “you really had to choose the worst timing,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair. “okay, i’ll be back, so stay put,” sunday continues, leaving to follow his assistant. you watch him until he’s out of sight, getting up to choose a drink. refreshers in every shade of color are laid out on the table that you almost don’t know which to pick.

“are you having trouble choosing a drink, my lady?” an unfamiliar voice emerges behind you, and turning around you realize that it is one of the men complaining about sunday in the lobby. “you don’t look too familiar with these drinks so how about you let me help you, hm?”

you cringe slightly at the attempt to flirt, but you offer him a smile in hopes of being polite. “oh, um, no thank you. i can get someone else to help me.”

the man shows no signs of leaving you alone, making you even more uncomfortable. “are you sure? all of the staff are busy as of the moment, so i can help.”

i might as well accept his offer. he doesn’t look like he’ll take no as an answer, you grimace before forcing a pleasant smile on your face. “okay, sure. which drink should-”

“ah, there you are!” sunday materializes, wrapping a hand around your waist and leaning over you. “i’ve been looking all over for you, sweetheart,” he drawls, you raise an eyebrow at the use of the new pet name. you soon catch up with the fact that he’s trying to help you out of this awkward situation.

“sunday! sorry for disappearing. i got thirsty and wanted to get something to drink so here i am,” you take a look at the man beside you, who lets out a ‘tch’ with a scowl on his face and leaves, allowing you to let your breath go. “thanks, sunday. he wouldn’t leave me alone ever since i got to this table.”

“yuki, huh,” sunday mutters, arm still around you. “he’s always been trying to get on my nerves. ever since i was revealed to be the heir to family corporation, that is.”

“really?” you query, surprise crossing over your face. “i overheard him- oh!” an exclamation leaves your sentence hanging as a waiter accidentally bumps into you, spilling the drinks he was carrying onto your dress.

“ah! i am so sorry, madam!” the waiter panics, whipping out a few napkins in an attempt to wipe away the mess on your dress. “i wasn’t watching my step, please forgive me!” he looks even more nervous when he glimpses sunday standing beside you with a minuscule frown on his face.

“hey, hey! it’s okay! this happens a lot during parties anyway,” your try at calming the waiter down wasn’t working, so you nudge sunday to help you reassure the former.

“ow!” sunday hisses, tenderly rubbing the area you elbowed. “i-it’s okay. just be more careful of where you’re going next time, okay?”

“yes!” the waiter squeaks out and leaves, but not before gracing you with another ‘sorry!’ for his mistake. as soon as he disappears, a small pout envelops your face.

“aw, now what am i supposed to do?” you wonder, patting your stained dress with a few more tissues sunday offers you. “I don’t have any spare clothes.”

“hehe,” sunday's little laugh catches your attention, and you furrow your eyebrows in reply. “you, my lady, are in luck because you have the sunday as your boyfriend and he’s always prepared for emergencies like this. come on, let’s go to the guest room.”

“why are we going there?” you question. you’re used to sunday and his little surprises, but you never imagined that he would have a spare change of clothes lying around for you to wear.

“to get you to change, of course!” sunday responds enthusiastically, grabbing a hold of your hand. he finds his assistant first, though, “if anyone asks where i am, tell them i have an important matter to take care of.”

you let out a giggle. “really? important matter? how is this important?”

“that’s because you’re always the most important in my eyes,” sunday tells you with his boyish grin, and he says with such ease that your cheeks are dusted pretty pink. you smile to yourself, a giddy grin, feeling as if it were only you and sunday in the world.

“okay, here we are,” sunday says as you arrive at a room, unlocking it with a gold-clasped key he procures from his pocket. “you can go ahead and change. i’ll wait out here.”

you nod in agreement, entering the room and shutting the door behind you. your gaze immediately falls upon a strikingly gorgeous violet dress laid out on the bed before you, adorned with layers and layers of deep purple that glows under the soft moonlight; complimenting the necklace spread out beside it.

at first glance, it seems like a normal necklace anyone could find in jewelry stores, but as you step forward to take a closer look, you let out a soft gasp: your name is engraved on it. you pick it up, noting how the necklace itself feels expensive.

though, you suppose, you should be used to expensive gifts from sunday. the man had been doing this even before they were dating. you let out a fond sigh; a small smile on your face as you take your dirty dress off to change into the one sunday had prepared.

sunday didn’t have to wait long for you, for you soon opens the door. sunday eyes widen, staring at you in the dress and the necklace he had bought two weeks previously. you look stunning.

you look like you had just stepped out of a fantasy royal novel.

a princess.

you look just like a dream. the prettiest girl sunday has ever seen.

“sunday? hello?” you wave a hand in front of his face, pulling him out of his daydream. “h-how do i look?”

“gorgeous,” sunday isn’t able to say anything other than that; his mind malfunctioning faster than his coffee machine had done this morning. “it-it looks really nice on you. i mean, of course it does, i was the one who chose that dress anyway.”

you press a quick, gentle kiss on sunday's lips, causing sunday to freeze on the spot for the second time that evening. “thank you, sunday. i loved the necklace too, by the way.”

sunday gives you a small smile and another peck on the cheek. “let’s go. the auction is about to start soon,” he says, extending his hand to you and feeling his heart flutter as you take it.

the room they had left is filled with even more people, and if you were being honest, it was suffocating you. you take a seat close to the brightly decorated stage, watching sunday take control of the whole room.

“everyone, welcome to the second charity auction event hosted by the family corporation!” sunday exclaims joyously, as the people in the venue applaud politely. “i won’t be taking too much time for tonight’s opening ceremony, so, without further ado, let the event start!” sunday bows, and signals to the auctioneer to take the lead as he returns to your side.

the auction, with quite a few bidders raising the prices of objects you think shouldn’t cost more than a few hundred dollars, goes smoothly until it reaches the last object.

“alright, our last item for tonight! an amethyst hairpin starting at the cost of one thousand dollars!” the auctioneer states, waiting for bids.

“two thousand!” a hand emerges from the crowd.

“tch… three thousand!”

“three thousand five hundred!”

“four thousand!”

“ten thousand,” sunday interrupts smoothly, shocking both you and the audience. you stare wide-eyed at him, in disbelief that he would bid that much in an auction you didn’t expect him to participate in.

“ten thousand dollars from mr. sunday! going once,” counting down, the auctioneer stares around, but no one seems ready to object. “going twice… sold to mr. sunday at ten thousand dollars!” applause erupts from the audience, congratulating sunday for obtaining the hairpin. you clap as well, figuring out who sunday would spend that much money on a hairpin for (though, to be honest, you already have a feeling who it’s for).

you soon find out though - his assistant soon brings the hairpin over to sunday, who inspects it closely, smiling as he hands it over to you. “here, it’s for you.”

“eh?!” you cry out, in shock, that sunday would be giving you something worth more than your whole apartment. “wh-what do you mean? i thought- wait, huh?!”

sunday only laughs gaily at your reaction, eliciting the attention of bystanders. “why are you so shocked? the necklace you’re wearing costs almost as much as this hairpin. plus, this is a thank-you gift. i know you don’t really like going to big events like this but you still came.”

“of course i did,” you beam softly. “you’re my boyfriend after all - wouldn’t miss any of your events for the world. now, did you want to place the hairpin on me?”

sunday nods, sliding the hairpin slowly into your beautiful hair. the light shade of purple the hairpin reflects matches the dress you had on, and the sight makes sunday's heart fill with joy. 

there’s something about you that feels different in sunday's eyes. you look so… dazzling and gorgeous that he fumbles for words to express himself.

“hm, it matches you very well as expected,” sunday says, a soft tone engulfing his usual cheeky voice. “now then, would you like to escape, my lady?”

“huh?” the sound barely leaves your mouth before sunday drags you away from the auction site, quickly getting into an elevator and pressing the doors shut before anyone could catch up to them. as soon as it opens again at the lobby, sunday makes a beeline for the exit, you thankfully not tripping on your heels.

sunday spots an empty park up ahead, and as expected sunday dashes across to it, letting go of your hand as you both drop to the grass.

you both lie in silence for a few moments, panting, before bursting into sweet laughter that interrupts the solace of the quiet evening.

“that… was probably one of the most epic moments i had… since forever!” sunday exclaims, turning to you with happiness painted over his face. “i was surprised you didn’t try protesting in the elevator.”

“how could i?” you return, out of breath. “i wanted to get out of there… as well. as much as i liked being with you in the family's events, i’d rather have it this way. just the two of us.”

“hm. just the two of us, huh? aw, you flatter me, baby,” sunday coos at you. he suddenly sits up, fumbling through the folds of his suit and sighing in relief when he holds his phone up. “oh, thank god. i thought i left my phone back there,” giving you a small smile, a familiar song starts playing. “would you like to dance, my lady?”

you take his smooth, outstretched hand, placing both hands on his broad shoulders while sunday places one of his hands on your waist.

you both aren’t doing anything special, barely any experience in dancing, and yet your bodies flow gracefully to the tune of the gentle song across the chilly night wind, dancing slowly under the glow of the moon. 

with your foreheads pressed against each other’s, you lock eyes, basking in the beautiful moment together. relaxing never came easy to you both, given your incredibly busy schedules, but once given the chance, you both will take it in a heartbeat.

the familiar worries of being rude don’t cross your mind at all, realizing that you’re too focused on sunday. slow dancing in the dark with only the moon to light their dance floor, away from the chatter of the crowd. absolutely perfect.

the song quickly comes to an end, ending your lover’s dance with a small brush of lips.

“i love you so much, sunday” you whisper softly.

“i love you more, love,” sunday replies, the ghost of a grin upon his lips.

[hanasnx]

INDY I WILL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU TO INDY-FY ANDY BIERSACK HE WAS MY FIRST CELEBRITY CRUSH I NEED HIM SO BAD -🍊

“ EVERYTHING’S CLEAN EXCEPT FOR MY THOUGHTS ” — andy biersack.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader | dom andy | size difference | sexual content | established relationship | p in v | mating press | spitting | use of good girl.

Something about ANDY BIERSACK has you thanking the evolution of human anatomy to create a specimen so pretty. Everything from his batting dark lashes when he blinks, to his filling ribcage when he takes a breath has you mesmerized. Even his long and nimble fingers captivate you, especially when they pinch your jaw to tuck your chin in the web, all to angle you up to look at him as he towers over you. "What're you lookin' at, pretty?" he purrs, an amused curl to his plump lips as he searches your spacey expression.

"I like you." you tell him, that same spacey way about you. Lost in thoughts about the events of last night and devising a plan to recreate them.

Endeared, Andy scoffs through his nose at such an innocent confession, one he knows all too well. "Yeah?" he asks anyway, goading you on to keep telling him what he already knows. "Yeah, baby, you like me?" That clamp on your cheeks tightens, squishing your lips together while you nod, brows upturning from the motion shooting straight to the space between your legs. His smile only stretches, embossing his subtle dimples as he gazes at you through his lashes. The act of his head held high when you have such distance between your heights makes you feel infinitely smaller.

"I really do." you respond to his shameless bait, and your lips in this position muffle your words so in turn he chuckles at you. That grin of his makes you go weak in the knees, held up by his grip on you. He leans in—and very sweetly—plants a kiss on your pliant lips that are unable to pucker further than he's manually forcing them to.

That little move he does to you manifests in other circumstances apart from heart-warming exchanges of PG kisses. Later on that night when he's got you on your back, he tucks your cheeks between his fingers and thumb again for a different purpose. "How you feelin', sweets?" he asks, voice husky from effort as his full body flexes with the endeavor of fucking you, having folded you over yourself to get at your hole. Your ankles have found their rightful home on his shoulders, plowing into you while his lips hang open watching yours be pried apart.

The tips of his fingers dig in, effectively separating your jaws as you flinch from both the ache in your buccal and the stretch of your pussy accommodating his length. His weight gradually presses you further into the mattress, and you feel the burn in your thighs from your flexible position. Unable to form words with your occupied mouth—quickly drying as you pant hard through it—you moan out various "uh-huhs" enough for that dreamy grin to reappear on his handsome features. Draped over you, his hair and silver chain alike flop with each roll of his hips. His tongue peeks out to moisten his lips, and he constricts your breathing room as he lays atop you, close enough for his nose to brush yours. You recognize the ripple in his jaw, and you know exactly why he's got a hold on yours now.

Obediently, you raise your head as he reaches for you, forming a gob of spit only to spit it directly into your willing mouth. That ache in your face doesn't subside as he keeps it open, watching with interest as you take his spit and let it slide down the pad of your tongue. Only when he twists his wrist to palm the underside of your chin and shut your trap do you swallow like the good girl he knows you are.

[guyfieriii]

Sad Girl

This piece is dedicated to the lovely @randomchick546 for this ask. Thank you so so much for patiently waiting! This is so long overdue, I just hope its worth the wait and I did your prompt justice!

Be prepared for a bucket full of angst and then some.

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Warnings: Explicit Sexual Scenes

You’re embossed with memories of his touch, his lips. 

It’s jarring — just how often your mind hurtles to a place, a moment, a memory you’ve shared. You walk by the smoke shop, half a mile out of your usual route to campus just to breathe it in. Wafts of tobacco, spice, and a lingering sweetness — you’re right back there with him. 

“Something on your mind, love?” 

Fuck. 

He sounds so genuine in his concern, the truth almost slips out.

You’re leaving tomorrow, John.

“I — Nothing.” There’s this constant pressure that’s settled deep within your chest — it tightens ever so slightly. It coils around and travels upwards, burning your throat like bile. Unspoken truths, veiled emotions. It obturates your mind and you bite back the impulse to succumb to the cacoethes. The strain of it makes you ache.  

It’s better than the alternative. 

You wonder if you’ve left as much of a lasting effect on him, as he has on you. You must have. Why else would he come back? 

He’s gone, often for months at a time, but every time he comes back home, he goes searching for you. 

It’s always the same. 

Can I see you? Let me see you. 

You make the obligatory half-assed attempt at resisting his call. It’s a pasquinade. A pitiful farce you undergo to make yourself feel better. Make you feel less desperate. Which you are. 

Desperate to stay away for self-preservation and yet desperate for another moment back in his arms. 

You’re pulled taut, being ushered by the opacity of pure need and want. It’s thick and it clings. 

So you dither for a moment, pretend to pause before saying yes. 

As if you haven’t been counting the days. 

He must, too. Why else would he come back? 

In all likelihood, it’s just another form of casuistry you’ve contrived as a balm for that ache. 

Wishful thinking. 

Laughable. Arbitrary. 

Yes, John. 

Always, John. 

You think back to the moment you met him. It wasn’t happenstance. Not the kind of meet-cute you see in films and hear about in songs. 

This isn’t that kind of story. 

It was utterly manufactured. From the second you laid eyes on him. He was seated at the far end of the bar, staring into a half-empty glass clasped firmly in his grip. He looked at it as though it was his only place of solace. 

Until he met you.

He seemed lost, but his posture betrayed him — rigid, attentive, in absolute cognizance of his surroundings. 

It’s a fragmentary attempt, then, to try and find relief. 

You stare. You assess. You memorize. For a moment too long, perhaps. 

There’s a pulse in his shoulder, as he lifts his glass to his lips. As though he notices you out of peripherals.

A revelation that doesn’t come to you quickly enough, and suddenly you’re caught. He looks at you, brow raised in a silent question. Shame and embarrassment creep up your chest and you’re left speechless, caught red-handed in your voyeuristic tendencies. 

What he does next, is unexpected. 

He raises his glass to you, a whisper of a smile beneath his moustache. It’s a gesture you reciprocate. 

Moments pass and neither of you looks away. It’s unnerving, being the subject of unremitting attention. A pharisaic thought coming from you, regardless, it’s somehow agitating and euphoric in equal measures. 

You’re hyperaware of his gaze on you, everything else in the background seems to meld into a kaleidoscope of cobalt and azure. 

Neither of you makes an attempt to move and eventually the spell breaks and he turns away. 

You have no right to feel as disappointed as you do. 

A precursor, really, for what’s to come. 

You see him again, the two of you still seated at opposite ends of the bar. A sea of people between you, painfully present yet quite inconsequential. There are friends commemorating something or the other, couples locked in intimate conversations, some closer than others, and a few singles, out on the prowl. Then there’s you and him. 

Your silent exchange resumes. You raise your glasses in unspoken cheers, locked eyes, fighting the urge to stand and cross this trodden path to the other side. 

You try and imagine it — his voice. 

The way it would eclipse you, weighted, full of husk and honeyed, it would cling to your memory. The way it would carry through the room, cut through the sea of noise in succinct clarity. It would set you alight, much like his gaze. 

You don’t mind it. 

You’d prefer it. The burn — a similar way to the scotch he just bought you.

The bartender had placed the glass down promptly just as you took your seat. 

“From the gentleman down the bar.” He said. 

Somehow, without looking, you knew. 

You couldn’t know for certain, of course. Not unless you crossed the distance between you and him. It’s an enticing prospect, but you hold back. 

So does he. 

A week goes by, the two of you are locked in a battle for consistency. The only meaningful exchange that happens, is the swap of your drinks. A scotch for you, a gin and tonic for him. You almost laughed at the near-comical look he pulled when you bought him one, but he drank it all, nevertheless. 

It started out as engaging, almost tantalizing, given that both of you were clearly holding back. A little tease. Some back and forth. No words are spoken, yet a conversation is held. His measured cadences are all conveyed in a single look, and you’re left wanting for more. 

A clear sign, if there ever was one. 

Eventually, you’ve had enough. Your impatience gets the better of you, however, you can’t be the one to make the first move. So you wait. You wait at the threshold of the pub, unwilling to cross it, watching him from afar. Trying to find that same impatience that one could wring out of you within him. 

Wishful thinking. 

You walk around the block once, twice, before taking another quick glance to see him still at the bar. You watch the late-night traffic pass by in a haze of taillights just to pass the time. 

An hour goes by, and you’re worried you’ve miscalculated. By the looks of it, he seems to be leisurely enjoying a drink, and you’re the fool who’s freezing out in the cold to prove a point. The late autumn chill sets deep within your bones and you almost cave in just for the warmth but you persevere, and your tenacity is rewarded. 

“I missed you in there.” His voice is just as you had imagined it. 

It does burn. 

You wait a breath before turning around to see him, nonchalant, leaning against the brick wall of the pub. He has a knowing smile on his face like he’s known what you’ve been up to all this time. 

“Been waiting out here for long, love?” He deftly lights a cigar, taking in a short puff, smoke wafting out from the cusp of his lips in quick bursts. 

“I—” You had words planned. Intricately thought out, in an effort to be clever. In an effort to impress. You blame the academic in you, you’re always out to galvanize your way onto someone’s memory through the sheer virtuosity of your intellect. So, you prepare and agonize over every interaction. 

He did it without even trying. 

“Yes.” There’s something about him, something within the way he looks at you that you don’t even bother with a lie. 

“Like to make a man wait, do you?” He takes a step forward, unyielding in his gaze.

“In some cases. It’s not like you were itching to make a move.” You challenge back, your heart thrumming in your chest, your breath quickening as he takes another step forth. 

“I was biding my time.” He says, simply. 

“For what?” You counter. 

“Wanted to see if I—” He’s inches away from you now, the scent of him engulfs you — firewood smoke, vanilla, and spice. You wonder if he tastes the same. 

“Yes?” You rasp, mouth suddenly dry. You run your tongue across your bottom lip, as your gaze falls on his, the cigar still clutched between his teeth. 

“Does it matter?” He asks in a way that seems redundant. Like he already knows the answer. 

“Not really.” You whisper and he smiles. 

“Can I see you, darling?”

A year has passed. His effect on you remains the same. Some kind of trance in a form of limbo. Forever stuck between the rapture that comes with having captured John’s attention the way you have, and the longing in the time that holds in between. There is no moderation, only extremes. 

“Can I see you, darling?” He asks again.

No, John. I don’t like it when you go away.

“Yes, John.” 

It’s a prison of your own making, because he was nothing if not upfront about his situation. The moment the two of you realized you wanted this to be more than a one-night thing he had been straightforward about his circumstances. 

“I’ll be gone for long stretches, darling. Is that something—”

“You worry too much, John. What’s that they say about absences and hearts?”

He looks pleased and you’re elated. 

The longest he had been away at a stretch was eight weeks. The first two went by fairly quickly. 

You were still in a state of bliss after an entire week spent with him. All your time was split evenly in between classes and John. You’d often go to a class with his shirt on, the smell of him clinging to you. 

The same shirt now hangs in your closet. It doesn’t smell like him anymore.

Your limbs ached and your mind was left reeling after a week of sleep deprivation and sex, but you revelled in it. All that remained was lasting proof of your time with him — something to cling on to. 

The third and fourth week, that feeling had subsided and your memory of him faltered. Late at night you’d lay in bed, hands nestled between your thighs as you desperately rummaged through memories of your time with him. If your imagination did its work right, his hands would replace yours. You could feel the weight of his body, the shape of him, the warmth. His voice in your ear, breathless, wanting. 

“Tell me how bad you want it, darling. Fuckin’ tell me an’ I’ll give it to ya.”

It still burned. 

Even when he’s not there.

The last stretch of the time spent in his absence was pure agony. You try find a substitute, nothing perfect but something to pass the time. 

All in vain. 

Any hands that aren’t his just make the lack of them all the more apparent. John’s hands, you feel, were made for you — to mold and shape and caress. Ruin, even. 

His absence transforms the ruin into absolution. 

Any seeming imitation just adds insult to injury, no matter who it is. You’re left desiring, more than you were before. A feeling that once simmered beneath the surface would surge through, impossible to ignore. 

Your skin itches, trying its hardest to grasp at the remnants of his touch, but the slate is practically wiped clean. All you can do is wait. Patiently, as far as outward expressions go. You’re composed for John’s benefit. Indifferent, almost. 

Cool. Calm. Collected. 

Or perhaps—

“Do you think about me when you’re away?”

There’s a pause. A slight hitch in his breath. His cock still sheathed deep within you, brows furrowing in confusion as though he might have misheard what you said. 

You instantly wish you could take it back. It’s a meaningless question anyway, one uttered in a moment of mind-numbing bliss as walls crumbled down and you faltered. You forgot the carefully constructed façade you maintained. Just long enough for a transitory spill of some truth. 

It’s freeing — you want to keep going, but you can’t. You feel it bubble beneath the surface, pressing outward and up. You turn away — you have to. The prying look that shadows his expression threatens to wring you out of every thought you’ve ever had. You’d spill them all. Open, like a faucet. What would flow through is months of hunger, ache. Enduring an itch that never fucking subsides. You’d confess to it all — on your knees. Every sin. Every passing iniquity. 

And hope for absolution. 

Wishful fucking thinking. 

His fingers grasp your chin in a firm hold. Not bruising, not even one that ushers you to look back at him. Just firm. Like he’s allowing you to continue, asking for more rather than demand it. 

You’re a creature of habit. 

You concede. 

You’re met with a fierce look, accusation lay plain like a chrisom shading his eyes. It doesn’t frighten you. You’re exhilarated, now that the shame has passed. 

What you said, it cannot be undone. You’ve forced his hand, drawn out a reaction. 

He must confess as well. 

He must—

“What do you want me to tell you?” He whispers harshly. 

“John—“ You begin,

His hips jerk forward — forceful, emphatic. Like he’s trying to make his question sink in deeper.

“Fuck— John, I—” You barely gasp out, lungs burning under the pressure of this sudden change. You’re breathless, quivering, and oh so ready. You’re primed — because this is it. It takes every ounce of self-control you have not to make your gratification too apparent. 

You sense it. His confession. It’s what you’ve spent months wondering, finally coming to light. 

His thrusts are unforgivable, deep and hard. The kind that reverberate up your spine and make your teeth shatter. 

“Think about nothin’ else but you, my darling.” His chuckle is humourless and disbelieving like he can’t fathom how you’ve managed to yield this confession out of him.

Makes it feel like an accomplishment all the more. 

You don’t even bother to hide your grin. 

“You’re a fuckin’ menace, y’know that?” His lips are at your ear, your entire frame now eclipsed by his. Your hands find purchase across his shoulders, wide, rippling with tense musculature as he presses himself into you, every inch of skin between the two of you aligned. The warmth that rolls off him has you nearly feverish. 

Your fingers trace constellations of gunshot wounds that embellish the broad expanse of his back. Had you more timed you’d have counted them all, asked for the story behind each one. Ease the memory, perhaps with a kiss. He’d indulge you, you’re sure of it. 

You might not have been before, but now—

“Get off on it, don’t ya?” The timing of his words is immaculate — your cunt spasming around his cock in synchronicity with every twitch his as he spills himself into you. You come undone, once again with a shivered moan and a breathy chorus of ‘Yes, John’. 

“That’s fucking right. Just like that.“ He murmurs appreciatively, tracing your collarbone with a delicate swipe of his tongue. “So good for me.”

He’s showered you with praise before, even with repetition. He’s told you how well you take him. He’s confessed to how good he feels buried in you. It’s evident with how he remains within — till he softens, just encased in your warmth like he’s meant to be there. He’ll taste you like a man starved and declare he’d die a happy man buried between your legs. You’ve heard it before. 

For a little while, it had lost its novelty. 

But now—

You’re invigorated in this new achievement of yours, in this latest revelation. You’re not the only one who suffers. 

He aches, too. 

There is something to be said about this feeling of solidarity. Knowing you’re not alone somehow serves as a balm. You’re apart and it’s torturous, but he feels it too. 

Or— 

Or maybe it’s just your ego that likes being stroked. 

If you were to go off of the near perverse triumph you feel right now, you’d bet on the latter. 

“I’ll send you off with a little present.” You say. “Since you miss me so much.”

“Mm? What’s that?” He husks lazily, placid oases gleaming back at you. It’s painfully intimate — this moment. You want to let the time still, with the two of you under this canopy of bliss and deepened confessions. You want to let the words sink in and let the seconds pass slower. 

They don’t. 

“Get your phone, John.” 

“Sending a soldier off with a little photo, are you?”

“Not a photo. No.” 

That gets this attention. 

He fucks you again as a way of thanks, and as the hours dwindle to the early morning and you lay enveloped in each other's arms, you remind him of it. 

It’s not how you expect it to go. It’s gentle, almost loving. He takes his time with you, prolongs every action, savours every response. He treats this gift like a genuine one, unwrapping you with care and precision. 

Or maybe that’s just the army man in him. 

He follows your lead for most of it, save for one request he makes at the end. 

“Say it.”

“What, John?”

“Say you’ll miss me.”

You pause. He falters for a moment, unsure.

But still--

“I’ll miss you.”

It hurts that he looks surprised. 

You see him again, two months later. He says it’s different. He says he’s staying longer this time. 

“Spend it with me?” He asks. 

He asks. 

You’d think after all this time he’d know better. 

You brace yourself not to answer too quickly and give yourself away. Barring the one time, there haven’t been any clandestine confessions made between the two of you.  

It’s a gift — more time. A thing that only existed in the confines of your imagination now dares to turn into a reality. 

You almost don’t believe it. It’s too good to be true. 

You’re too used to missing him, it’s made you wary of the alternative. 

You just can’t help yourself. 

“Don’t you have other people to see, John?”

There’s an unmistakable clench in his jaw when he sharply turns away as if you slapped him. You wait with bated breath for the pin to drop, for a crack in the armour. You’d spend all this added time just trying to chisel at fissures that form — they have in the past only to close too soon. 

And now—

You hurt him. If only he’d admit it. 

“Rather see you, is all.”

It’s a statement. Blank. Matter of fact. It might assuage most people, but you aren’t most people. They aren’t the ones who get attached in an untenable situation. They don’t keep a distance as a form of self-preservation, definitely not as unsuccessfully as yourself at any rate. They would see Captain Price for the man he is — dutiful. Unattainable. Larger than life, even. They’d be pleased with his unvarnished reasoning and take what they are given with a smile. 

So do you. 

It’s just not real. 

You’re a glutton for agony. It’s like you’re hardwired to seek it. Persistence is second nature — even when you set yourself up for circumstances that are less than ideal, you’ll see your way through to the end.

You fuck. Relentlessly. Despite having the extra time on hand, both you and he act like it’s a dwindling commodity. 

You try to find your chance in between the heated touches, the whines, and the moans. Your name is a song perpetually at the cusp of his lips — at times a form of supplication in a chorale of many others. 

“Please, love.”

“Jus’ like that. Fuckin’ take it.”

“So pretty. So perfect.”

“That’s it, darling.”

His touch remains impenitent — hard, rough, relentless. 

His voice is a take dragging across a pebbled path — textured, heavy. It travels down your skin in a shroud of his warm breath. 

The words caress, but his voice—

Burns.  

It’s only his words that at the outlier. The striking contrast of white along a canvas of red. 

That’s how you picture it. 

They never cease, even when it’s you and him, breathless, coming down from a high. You’re spent, covered in a sheen of sweat. Limbs tingling from the exertion. Your eyes are heavy with sleep. The slight movement of his chest, the even timed up and down of his breathing are practically soporific. 

However, you maintain your wits long enough to find a moment’s interlude, just to say—

“John, I’m—”

Sorry. 

Too late. There’s nothing to chisel at, no gap slither past. 

“Shhh. Don’t.”

You know better than to make another attempt. 

Feigned apathy, then. For the remainder of the time. 

It’s somehow harder now and you’re not sure why. It’s not as if you haven’t perfected the art of quiet disappointment. Perhaps it’s because you’ve seen past the rubble, and into the man. You’ve experienced a slice of that torturous ‘what if?’. Maybe now, the evident reality of your situation isn’t that easy to ignore. 

When he leaves, as he always does you come to a decision. Since you can’t possibly ask for more, it’s the to cut your losses. You move on. You’ve memorized and cataloged enough of him to simmer the pain. You won’t be sad. It’ll be fine. You’ll be good. 

You’ll be—

“Can I see you, love? Just tonight.”

“Yes, John.”

[the-griffons-saddlebag]

💎 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Lucky Bowl
Wondrous item, uncommon ___ This bowl is embossed with various laughing monks. A ring is attached to its lip for easy carrying on a belt. When you make an ability check to use the bowl to beg or busk, you gain a +5 bonus to the roll. A creature that drops one or more coins in the bowl magically hears a soft and bell-like laugh from it. When you finish a short or long rest while holding the bowl, you can make a DC 13 Intelligence (Religion) check. On a successful check, the bowl is magically filled with a meal’s worth of warm and fluffy rice, and this property of the bowl can’t be used again until the next dawn. Alternatively, if you place an object inside the bowl and use an action to offer it as a gift to another humanoid, that humanoid must succeed on a DC 13 Wisdom saving throw or be charmed by you for 1 hour. The save DC increases to 14 if the given object was worth 1–10 gp, and 15 if it was worth more than 10 gp. The effect ends early if you or your companions do anything harmful to it. For the duration, the charmed creature regards you as a friendly acquaintance. When the effect ends, the creature knows it was charmed by you. Once this property of the bowl has been used, it can’t be used again until the next dawn. ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!

[talonabraxas]

Blue Lotus: Flower of Intuitive Ascension

Blue Lotus (Nymphaea caerulea) is a beautiful, water-dwelling flower with mild psychoactive properties. Sacred to the Ancient Egyptians, depictions of Blue Lotus flower are ubiquitous in Egyptian art. Though alluring to our modern imaginations and worth further investigation, Blue Lotus is rarely used in Western herbalism as it is not currently a well-understood plant, nor is it native to or abundant in North America.

Etymology & Botany Blue Lotus is a tropical, aquatic plant in the Water Lily family that features day-blooming, light blue flowers which sit on the water’s surface. Long petioles connect the visible leaves with the deep, underwater rhizomes. The star-shaped flowers typically bloom for 3-5 days, moving with the sun and closing at night; Ancient Egyptians noticed this solar attunement and believed the flower’s golden center to be where the sun god, Ra, emerged from. All parts of the Blue Lotus plant (flowers, leaves, rhizomes, petioles) can be used medicinally.

Traditional Uses Once naturally abundant and extensively cultivated in temple lakes and along the Nile River, Blue Lotus was a highly revered and sought after crop. It was exported throughout the Mediterranean, Greece, the Middle East, Tibet, and as far as the Alexandrian empire extended.

Origin While it’s rare to find this flower growing along the Nile now, it is native to northern and central Africa. Ancient Egytian temples and monuments are a testament to how well loved this emblematic flower was to their culture; Blue Lotus can be seen embossed on everything from thrones to calcite drinking chalices to papyrus. The herb was used ceremonially but was also made into cosmetics and perfumes; imbibed as a tea or elixir; and simply inhaled for its relaxing, intoxicating fragrance. The flowers and buds were often used recreationally as well, for their narcotic and aphrodisiac effects.

Spiritual History In addition to being the birthplace of the sun god, Ra, this herb came to be associated with the afterlife and rebirth in Egyptian culture, specifically the Osiris myth. Brought back to life by the assistance of his sister and wife, Isis, Osiris became a symbol of life after death and rebirth through the legacy of Egyptian royalty. Thus, this herb was also considered to be the symbol of royalty and rulers, and indeed many royal accoutrement featured depictions of the flower; King Tutankhamun’s mummy was found covered with dried Blue Lotus flowers when exhumed hundreds of years later.

Herbal Indications for Blue Lotus Blue Lotus is bitter, aromatic, and warm energetically. In modern, Western herbalism, it is considered a sedative, febrifuge, aphrodisiac, antidepressant, antioxidant, anti-convulsant, and anti-inflammatory herb. It has been successfully used to purify the blood, treat tuberculosis, expel worms and parasites, relieve edema, enhance libido and treat erectile dysfunction, improve lactation, alleviate anxiety and depression, staunch internal bleeding, and balance blood sugar levels. Blue Lotus has a particular affinity for the kidneys, heart, and nervous system.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 87

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 87: The Sworn Shield or The Boy

AO3 - Masterlist

That morning, Mertha had taken it upon herself to attend to Daenera, much to her displeasure. Daenera found herself dressed in a deep emerald green dress, its fabric thick and enveloping her heavily in the style favored by the Queen Mother–a long dress that fell modestly around her, its sleeves split and sweeping the floor, with a light underdress that added to the volume, it’s sleeves ending around her wrists. Daenera never disliked green; she appreciated all its shades, from the soft hues of meadow greens to the rich depths of forest greens, and she had always found gems like emeralds and jade particularly appealing. Green had once seemed flattering to her, but now, it constricted her chest with apprehension. The color now represented yet another tether, another filament in the web  the Hightowers were weaving around her, another bare in the cage that confined her. 

Nevertheless, she donned the dress, suppressing her growing disdain for it as Mertha arranged the thick fabric around her. She had other battles to fight than that of the color of her dress. 

Daenera’s mind had been set on the task at hand, fully prepared to make the sacrifices that were needed for it. As Mertha had attended to her, she had worn a deep scowl, her lips moving slightly as she muttered prayers below her breath until Daenera was fully dressed and ready for the day. 

“We should visit the sept today,” Mertha had suggested then, her hands carefully picking up her weathered book of prayers. The leather was worn, its pages yellowed and frayed from frequent use, and the golden seven-pointed star embossed on its surface had nearly faded away–a testament to its constant handling. 

And Daenera had agreed with a measured, “Very well,” betraying none of her inner turmoil. 

The Royal Sept nestled within the towering walls of the Red Keep was smaller that the Great Sept but no less splendid. Yet, Daenera’s attention was not on the sept as she walked away from Maegor’s Holdfast. With Mertha and Ser Oliver Norrey close behind, she turned towards the Red Keep, ascending the steps with a determined stride that led her not to the sept but towards the Council Chambers. 

Mertha, taken aback by the sudden change in direction, tried to grasp Daenera’s arm without drawing attention. Her efforts were in vain as Daenera deftly avoided her touch. Her steps quickened, her focus fixed on the door of the Council Chambers. 

“Princess,” Ser Arryk Cargyll called out in greeting, stepping firmly in front of her and effectively blocking the entrance to the Council Chambers. His brow was lightly furrowed in unease, though his eyes remained sharp and serious–the difference that told her which twin he was.  

Daenera lifted her gaze to meet his, looking past the gleaming white armor of the Kingsguard. “Ser Arryk, has the Council gathered?”

“They have, Princess,” Ser Arryk replied, his tone careful, a query beneath his words.

“Good,” Daenera responded, her posture resolute, her head held high. At that moment, Mertha’s hand clamped down on the soft flesh just above Daenera’s elbow. Her thin fingers pressed into Daenera’s skin with a bruising force as she tugged slightly on her arm, whispering with a venomous undertone, “And what do you think you’re doing?”

With a rough pull, Daenera extricated her arm from Mertha’s grip, meeting her gaze with a cool, unflinching expression before redirecting her attention back to the Kingsgaurd. “Inform the Hand that I wish to speak with him and the Council.”

“The Council has more pressing matters to attend to than the complaints of a princess,” Mertha interjected tersely. Her remark, however, was blatantly ignored by Daenera, whose eyes remained locked on Ser Arryk, waiting for his response. 

“Forgive me, Princess,” Ser Arryk replied with a respectful tone, “The Council in session is to remain undisturbed.”

“Then I shall wait until they’ve concluded.”

“You will not,” Mertha retorted sharply, her scowl deepening the wrinkles on her face and aging her beyond her years. Had it not been for her persistent scorn, she might have aged with some semblance of grace. But the venom seemed to flow freely through her veins. She would have made a proficient Septa.  

“I will,” Daenera countered firmly, her tone resolute. “Unless you wish to create another spectacle here, in front of the court,” she added, her words underscored by the bustling noise of the court, “and add to the spectacle I made yesterday…”

Mertha clenched her teeth. “I could have you dragged from here–”

“You could,” Daenera interrupted sharply, leaning slightly into Mertha’s space, her voice cutting. “But it wouldn’t serve the Hightowers.”

It was a challenge–a dare for Mertha to command Ser Oliver to seize her and drag her through the Red Keep, kicking and screaming, turning the scene into a true spectacle that would be whispered about within and beyond the walls. Such an act would unequivocally confirm her status as a hostage, one treated with marked harshness. It would lend credence to the true reason she had appeared at the feast the previous evening, clad in her mother’s color of red, a bold stand of defiance. 

“You insolent, cursed child,” Mertha seethed, clutching her book of prayers so tightly that it seemed on the verge of tearing. 

Daenera shifted her focus back to Ser Arryk, who stood resolutely before her, guarding the entrance to the Council Chambers like a steadfast sentinel. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, his posture embodying the calm readiness of the Kingsguard. Consciously dismissing Mertha’s exasperated huff, Daenera maintained her stance before the doors of the Council Chambers, her gaze fixed on the knight in front of her. 

After a prolonged moment of stillness, Daenera broke the silence with a question, “Where is your prettier half?”

Her gaze briefly flicked towards Ser Ricard Thorne, who stood stoically beside the doors, his stern expression unwavering as he observed the interaction. Typically the twins were stationed together outside the Council Chambers, each flanking a side of the entrance, their presence almost symmetrical, reflecting one another. But today, the usual balance was disrupted, emphasizing Ser Ricard’s distinct features–dark eyes and hair, a thick, neatly trimmed beard, and brows bushy and furrowed together in seriousness. 

Something flickered across Ser Arryk’s face, a slight hardening of his blue eyes betraying a change in his demeanor. After a brief pause, his voice emerged cold and terse, “Gone, Princess.” 

Daenera’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Gone?”

Her gaze dropped momentarily to where Ser Arryk’s hand clutched the pommel of his sword, his grip so tight that the skin over his knuckles was stretched taut and pale. Raising her eyes to meet his again, she observed him closely, noting the rigid set of his features and the tense muscles of his face. The muscle in his jaw twitched visibly as he gritted his teeth in anger. It took her a moment to understand the shift, then realized that it was betrayal that flickered in his eyes.

Ser Erryk Cargyll, it seemed, had parted ways with his brother and, by extension, his duties in the Kingsguard. The tightness of Ser Arryk’s expression and the betrayal in his gaze led her to surmise that Erryk had not just left his post but had chosen to align himself with her mother–declaring Rhaenyra Targaryen as his rightful queen. At least one of the twins had kept his honor intact. 

“Ah,” Daenera remarked, a faint, knowing smile playing at her lips, “the prettier and better half, it would seem. Your brother seems to be the only one whose honor remains. You should have gone with him.”

Ser Arryk’s gaze fixed on her, cold and unforgiving. “I swore an oath to protect and defend the royal family. I have worn this cloak since I was eight and ten, Princess, and have served the King since that day. I will continue to serve the King now…” A brief flicker of agony crossed his features, deeping the furrows in his brow as he continued in a muted tone, “My brother has lost his way… And we both suffer for it.”

The pain was evident in his expression revealed the conflict within him–a man torn between his duty to the crown and the love he held for his brother. His commitment to his oath remained unwavering, that was why he stood here after all, yet the personal cost of such fidelity was clearly etched across his face.

There was a time when Daenera might have felt sympathy for Ser Arryk, but those reserves of compassion had long since been depleted. Now, all that remained was a familiar kindling of anger–a seed of cruelty that had taken root within her, growing stronger as she endured and endured. 

“Hmm… It seems your brother has his honor, and you have yours,” Daenera mused softly, her voice laced with irony. “A shame yours makes you a traitor.”

“My brother is the one who abandoned his honor with his vows, not I,” Ser Arryk retorted, his voice as firm as the stone floors underfoot. His armor whispered with the soft sound of moment as he took a deliberate step back, distancing himself. “You may wait here a while, the Council is not soon to conclude.”

Resuming his original stance, Ser Arryk became once again the sentinel outside the Council doors–an imperfect mirror in the absence of his twin, his face no longer reflected at the other side of the doors. 

With a quiet sigh, Daenera resigned herself to waiting outside the Council doors. She stood there, her gaze fixed intently on the wooden barrier that separated her from the chambers she sought to enter. Around her, the castle life murmured on; the air was filled with the low buzz of conversations as nobles chatted along the path of the Grand Stairwell behind her, and the soft scurrying sounds of the servants bustling about their duties echoed subtly in the background.

As the first hour passed, Daenera had become intimately familiar with every curve and groove of the Council Chamber doors. She noted each detail: the deep grooves of the elaborate carvings, where dark wood swirled into lighter shades, etched by gilded edges that caught the light from the windows and the nearby torches. How many secrets had those doors held from the realm? How many dirty deeds did they protect now? And how long was she going to stand there, willing them open?

As another half hour slowly dragged by, discomfort began to grow at the base of her spine. Her lower back ached, muscles stiffening due to the prolonged standing. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to ease the discomfort in her weary muscles. As she moved, she felt her hips creak, protesting the movement. And as time wore on, this discomfort spread to her knees and feet. Each throb seemed to anchor her more firmly to the spot. The heavy sensation in her stomach grew into a tangible knot of tension as she stared at the doors. 

The restlessness that began as a mere prickle in her fingertips grew into a tingling urge to move, to pace, to do anything but standidly. Boredom, too, crept into her consciousness, an unwelcome yet persistent guest that muddled her thoughts as she began to ponder how she could get into the Council Chambers. She contemplated a sudden outburst, a loud demand to open the doors and allow her entry. However, she quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it would likely prompt Ser Oliver–who was casually leaning against the wall, idly picking at the calluses on his palm–to intervene. Similarly, any attempt to force her way through would be thwarted by Ser Arryk Cargyll, and not his twin, Ser Ricard Thorne, who would surely step in before she could even reach the door, resulting in her being forcibly removed and locked away somewhere.

Her thoughts then ventured towards a more theatrical solution: scaling the exterior walls to access the chamber through the balcony. Yet, the risk of plummeting to her death loomed far too great for it to be an option. The desperation of it was almost laughable. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to scale the walls if she managed to find a long, sturdy plank of wood. She could then make a bridge from one balcony to another. This too, while less perilous than scaling the walls, presented it’s own challenges. Where would she even find such a plank? How would she transport it unnoticed? And even if she could manage these feats, the ever-watchful eyes of Mertha followed her closely, making such a plan practically impossible. 

Each plan Daenera considered quickly unraveled under scrutiny, revealing its inherent flaws. Thus, she found herself resigned to standing and waiting, outwardly exuding an air of patience while a current of impatience prickled beneath her skin. 

After what seemed like ages, the doors to the Council Chambers finally swung open, releasing the members of the Council one by one. Ser Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, emerged first, his gaze briefly meeting Daenera’s. His eyes, weary yet acknowledging, offered her a respectful nod as he passed. Following him was Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, who seemed to dismiss her presence entirely with a curt shake of his head, as if she were merely an inconvenient part of the scenery. 

Grand Maester Orwyle came next, the distinctive clinking of his maester’s chains announcing his approach before he even appeared. As he walked past Daenera, his eyes gave her a quick once-over–a fleeting glance that carried a hint of curiosity before he too moved on, absorbed in his own thoughts

Daenera stepped forward, ignoring the displeasured sputter of Mertha who reached out for her in a futile attempt to restrain her. Now that the doors were open, Daenera refused to be held back. Standing poised at the threshold, her eyes immediately found Otto Hightower, whose gaze was as cold and discernible as ever. “I wish to speak with the Council.”

“This council meeting has adjourned,” Otto declared with a sense of finality, closing the leather-bound book with a definitive snap. He straightened to his full height, the sigil of The Hand of the King pinned prominently to his chest, marking his authority in the King’s absence. Notably, the King’s chair remained empty–Aegon was absent from this meeting. The absence of even a goblet of wine on the table hinted that he had never attended at all. 

“I wish to discuss my betrothal,” Daenera asserted, her voice steady as she stood her ground. She could feel his gaze on her–chilling like a cold draft along her spine, a sensation that brushed against her skin almost like a caress, one she adamantly refused to acknowledge further. He moved through the shadows, his attention sharp and invasive–pressed against her like a blade at her neck. Yet, Daenera refused to meet his one-eyed gaze, focusing her attention on the Lord Hand. 

Otto regarded her with a weary scrutiny. “What is there to discuss? Your betrothal has been decided. The wedding is set.”

“Perhaps, but my compliance is not,” Daenera retorted, her resolve steely as she crossed the threshold and ascended the steps leading to the Council Chambers. With measured strides, she climbed to the level where the chamber’s table stood, positioning herself to confront those who remained. There was a challenge in her words, pointed and jeering–a promise. 

The Queen Mother, who had been standing by the balcony, turned to face Daenera, her expression marked by a deep frown. One hand absentmindedly traced her lips, betraying her concern. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, the round shudders creating circular patches of light onto the floor, where dust motes danced in the gentle breeze wafting through the open windows and balcony doors. Despite the abundance of light, the peripheries of the room remained dim, shadows lingering among the columns, adding a somber tone to the setting. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

The long table dominated the center of the room, bathed in light that framed the King’s chair, which itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, ornately carved and edged with silver and gold. Above the door to the balcony, a seven-pointed star was prominently mounted–a symbol courtesy of the Hightowers, no doubt intended as a reminder for the Council and the King of the higher power that would judge them upon their deaths. Yet, the presence of this symbol did little to deter the actions that had let to usurpation and kinslaying. 

Daenera deliberately ignored Aemond as he emerged from the shadows. Though she avoided looking directly at him, she acutely felt his presence, much like one senses a looming shadow. Her chest tightened.

“You said it yourself, Lord Hand–the entirety of Maegor’s Holdfast, the realm, knows of my grief,” Daenera asserted, fixing her gaze on Otto Hightower, whose cold eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of annoyance passing through them. “Your standing with the realm is already precarious–the act of kinslaying is unlikely to endear the lords of the realm, or inspire them to rally to your cause. After all, there are none so accursed as the kinslayer.” 

She sensed the shift in the air, as tangible as the scent of rain carried on the breeze just before a storm–it was thick and heavy and solemn, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she felt his gaze intensify. Calmly, she folded her hand in front of her, her thumb absently brushing over the bandaged wounds on her palm, a subtle gesture that belied the tension she felt under his scrutiny. “Moreover, the realm would find the celebration of a kinslayer in poor taste–grossly so. Worse yet, to have the grieving sister of the boy that was murdered attend such a celebration, to have her sit beside her brother’s murderer and endure the king’s taunts…”

Daenera’s head tilted slightly as she pondered aloud, “The realm will think you cruel.”

Alicent’s voice snapped through the air, tinged with a harsh edge as she addressed Daenera. “You are fortunate we did not imprison you alongside your men for the spectacle you made yesterday.”

“You cannot,” Daenera stated, her voice carrying a simple, unwavering challenge, undisturbed by the threat. “It wouldn’t suit the narrative you’re attempting to weave.”

The lines of Otto Hightower’s forehead deepened as the usual stern expression carved itself more firmly into his features. With a begrudging silence, the Lord Hand sank into his chair at the right-hand side of where the King’s empty seat loomed. “What is it you want?”

“You cannot seriously be considering this,” Alicent interjected sharply, her voice laden with exasperation. She strode away from the balcony, her green skirts whispering across the stone floor with a soft rustle. Approaching the King’s chair, she clutched the top of it, as though to steady herself as her gaze settled more firmly on her father. 

“I wish for the remainder of my men to be released from the dungeons and seen safely out of the city,” Daenera stated firmly, her request clear and unwavering.

Alicent huffed in disbelief–the sound bordering on a scoff–as her head shook. “Releasing your men would only embolden you to defy us further. The very reason we hold them is to ensure your compliance.”

“If you do not release my men and continue to threaten their lives, I might as well consider them dead already,” Daenera countered sharply, her voice tinged with cold resolve. The weight of her words settled heavily in her stomach. The images of her fallen men–Joyce, Sithric, Kevan, Darvin, and Edam–hung limply in her memory, their lifeless bodies haunting the presence in the inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. Now, only Fenrick, Eddin, and Patrick remained. 

If the threats to their lives persisted as a means to control her actions, she would have to resign herself to the likelihood of their deaths. And if they were to die anyway, she might as well consider them as such. 

“If you desire for me to agree to this mockery of a wedding, then you will release my men,” Daenera asserted, her tone resolute. She sensed his movement–like the ripples made when moving through water–felt the shift of his presence as he stepped into the light. From the periphery of her vision, she saw him take the position to the left of his mother, opposite the Lord Hand, his hand resting atop the back of a chair, clenched tightly. His stare sharpened, felt like a blade’s caress–threatening yet intimate in a way that made her skin tingle and her heart twist. She despised the sensation–wished that his presence didn’t have an effect on her. “Should you decide not to release my men, then I swear to you, I will show you a true spectacle–one that will not be forgotten. Force me to the altar and know that I will resist every step, every inch; you will have to drag me, kicking and screaming. And I will ensure that every lord, lady, and commoner in the realm knows that this marriage is without my consent.”

Her heart pounded, the thick silence engulfing the room feeling nearly suffocating as she faced them. The Lord Hand appeared visibly annoyed, his brows knitted together in contemplation, his eyes sharp with cold calculation. Beside him, the Queen Mother’s expression was one of exasperated disbelief, her fingers twitching nervously. Though Daenera avoided looking directly at Aemond, his presence was palpable, pressing against her senses.

The threat seemed to thrive in the silence only to be cut short by Aemond’s low, gentle murmur. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys iksā.”

You are my wife.

Their eyes locked, and in his gaze, she saw the same gentleness and terrible sharpness of the dragonglass that had once cut into her palm–a distant, now painful memory. Her look was steely, her heart bludgeoning itself against the composed, icy facade he presented–was it even a facade? She could no longer be sure. The sting of betrayal was acute, and she felt the prickle of tears burn behind her eyes. 

“I’ve had your consent.” The sharp etch of his lips remained curved, but there was cruel gentleness to it, his voice low and soft. “You’ve already given your consent when we wed in the tradition of our house.”

Daenera’s heart constricted painfully, as if a dagger twisted between her ribs, accompanied by the haunting sensation of his lips betraying her once more–she could almost feel his breath ghost against the exposed flesh of her neck, even at this distance. 

“You are my wife,” Aemond stated, his focus solely on her. 

“It is your word against mine, Kinslayer,” Daemera retorted sharply, her voice laced with venom. She pressed her thumb against the stitched wound on her hand, the familiar pain anchoring her–a preferable agony to the chaotic beating of her heart. She pressed harder into the wound, the one that had traced the damned scar halfway through, each wound a vow. The memory of that night haunted her; two fools, mistaken in their love, unwilling to admit that that was what it was, sealing their fate with vows neither of them understood, oblivious to the consequences they wrought and the doom for which they were heading. If they had known the destruction their love would bring, would they have ever uttered those vows? Would they still find themselves standing amid the ruins of what they had once cherished?

The boy she had once loved seemed to have vanished into the sea along with her brother, only his body had returned, cold and cruel–a specter in the form of a living man. How strange it was to be haunted by someone who still drew breath, and stranger still, to be tormented by the fragments of a shattered heart–there should be nothing remaining, just emptiness, but there wasn’t. It would have been simpler to feel nothing at all. Yet, since indifference was an impossibility, she grasped at the hatred she knew intimately, the only sentiment that felt unequivocally real. 

With her gaze locked on his, Daenera’s voice was icy, her words slicing through the air as she suppressed the quiver threatening to betray her emotions, “There was no Maester or priest to bless the ceremony, no witnesses to attest to its validity. In the eyes of the Faith and the court, the union lacks recognition.”

The edges of his mouth tightened, as she noted the flash of anger in his eyes, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he clenched his teeth. With her chin lifted, Daenera delivered her words like a dagger, aimed straight for his core, twisting with a calculated cruelty. “It is as though it never really happened.”

Aemond moved towards her, his movements predatory. With lithe fingers, he seized her wrist with his fingers, raising her hand between them for emphasis. His grasp was firm, his hold assertive, but not bruising–the touch startled her, her heart shuddering in her chest. He hissed, inches from her face, his anger palpable. “Do we not bear the same scars, ābrazȳrys?” 

As Daenera fought to steady her heartbeat, he pressed on, his voice a menacing murmur, so awfully soft, “Do we not bear the evidence upon our palms?” He paused, his breath mingling with hers, his demand for acknowledgement sharp and clear, “Did we not seal our vows in blood?”

Daenera wrenched her wrist from his grip, shooting him a scathing look. Her skin still burned where his fingers had clutched her. “What is one scar from another? That is no evidence.”

His fury enveloped him like flames, the unmistakable scent of dragon–smoke and fire–clinging to him. She sensed his desperate need to possess her, to mark her as his own with ferocious intensity, regardless of her own desires. But she knew too well that her resistance gnawed at him, burrowing deep into his vulnerabilities. Holding his fierce gaze a moment longer, she steeled herself against the tide of his rage before finally turning her attention to the Hand of the King and the Queen Mother, steadfast in her defiance. 

Daenera watched as Alicent gripped the back of the king’s chair tightly, eyes wide with fury and fear, voice filled with shocked reproach, “Aemond…”

From the periphery, Daenera observed Aemond grit his teeth, his features tightening in visible frustration. For a fleeting moment, he averted his gaze, his expression wounded–the mask then settled upon his features, smoothing out the vulnerability into something more steely. He took a deliberate step back, his eye settling upon Daenera with a cold, detached intensity, the space between them expanding yet she felt his presence lingering like a ghost in the shattered hallways of her heart. 

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Alicent pressed, her voice climbing as she rounded the table, her skirts whispering urgently across the stone floor. She reached Aemond and grasped his arms, seeking the truth in a plea that vibrated with desperation. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you aren’t this–this foolish!”

Aemond remained silent, the truth suspended between them like the dust motes caught in the beams of light. 

Alicent’s voice pitched higher, almost shrill with despair, “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me you didn’t marry that cursed girl!”

“Alicent,” Otto chided with a restrained firmness, though his admonishment seemed to evaporate in the heated air, unnoticed as Alicent clasped Aemond’s arms, her grip seeming to tighten with a mother’s urgency. Her voice rose, edged with a trembling fierceness, “Do you grasp the gravity of your actions–whom you’ve bound yourself to? She will see you cursed–she will see you suffer for what you did to her brother! She will doom us all–”

“Mother, enough!” Aemond’s voice broke through, commanding and sharp as he pulled away from her grasp, the sound of her nails dragging against his doublet audible in the tense silence. He fixed a stern gaze upon her, his annoyance palpable. “It is done–”

“It is not,” Alicent interjected insistently, her voice laced with desperation. “There’s still a chance to undo this. As she herself declared, it’s merely your word against hers. No witnesses, no priest, nothing to consecrate the vows. The gods do not recognize it.”

“Compose yourself, daughter,” Otto commanded with unwavering firmness, his presence imposing even as he remained seated. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the aged leather of his ledger, which was stuffed with haphazardly arranged parchments. A weary resignation permeated his voice as he continued, “What’s done is done. It is of no consequence now.”

“‘Of no consequence?’” Alicent’s voice echoed sharply, eyes aflame with a mother’s fierce protectiveness and brimming with disbelief. She turned towards her father, her head shaking as if to dispel his words. 

Otto’s voice was steady and dismissive of his daughter’s distress, “The legitimacy of their union matters little at this juncture. Our priority is the forthcoming wedding–” his eyes settled reproachfully on Aemond, “one that aligns with our faith and is witnessed by the eyes of the court.”

“You’re condemning him with this marriage,” Alicent charged, her voice thick with emotion as she advanced towards the table, pressing a hand against her abdomen as if to quell her inner turmoil. She met her father’s gaze with a blend of disbelief and quiet desperation, silently imploring him to reconsider his decision, but Otto Hightower was not moved by his daughter's plea. 

“The wedding is set.”

Alicent shook her head in dismay, turning her gaze out the windows as she stepped away from the table, wrapping her arms around herself. Otto then fixed his eyes on Aemond, “How long have you kept this from us?”

Daenera’s gaze met Aemond’s, her heart pounding furiously, eyes burning with angry tears. A silent plea passed between them–a desperate urge for him to keep their secret, to preserve the last shred of sanctity their vows once held. He had shared their vows, exposing them to the harsh light of day. What they shared should have stayed veiled by the night, cherished in the quiet spaces of their hearts, untouched and pure–a fond memory eroding by the touch of cruelty. How strange it was, to have kept it in the shadows of night, where it flourished in the quiet solitude they had once shared, untainted by the daylight–it had been wondrous, almost sacred. Now exposed, it seemed grotesque, marred by layers of betrayal so deep, that bitterness seemed its only essence. What was one more scar upon their already tainted bond?

As Aemond averted his eyes, Daenera knew he would concede to the truth. She had denied him the acknowledgement he desired–had denied their vows–and so, perhaps to punish her, he answered with the truth. With a soft yet resonant voice, he betrayed her again, “Four months.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to the ornamental marble spheres arrayed at the center of the table, nestled within their holder like delicate eggs. A fleeting impulse prickled at her fingertips, an urge to seize those marble balls and fling them at Aemond in a fit of rage. Yet, the logistics of moving past the expansive table and push between the chairs deterred her–she would need to lean over its broad expanse, exposing herself further, and Aemond would likely stop her before she could even graze the balls. She briefly considered removing her shoes and flinging them at him, though they seemed too insubstantial to inflict the impact she desired. Her eyes then settled on the hefty, hardwood chair before her, lamenting the lack of strength required to wield it as a weapon against the betrayal she felt. 

With no means to inflict the damage she desired, she remained still.

“Four months?” Alicent repeated, spinning back to face them, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, her hand brushing at her lips as though attempting to soothe herself. Her brows knitted together in a mixture of surprise and displeasure. “Since her husband’s death?”

“We married soon after,” Aemond answered, giving Daenera the grace of not telling the full truth–that they had married the night her husband had died, that they had both had a hand in it. 

Otto reclined in his chair, his gaze shifting between Aemond and Daenera, weighting the gravity of the situation in a prolonged, silent assessment. Daenera felt the tightening of invisible threads around her, woven by Otto’s scheming mind. These threads seemed to bind her wrists and ankles, constricting around her neck, making her into nothing more than a mere puppet. After a long pause, Otto finally broke the silence again. “This may be to our advantage.”

“How can this possibly serve our interests?!” Alicent countered, her voice rising with incredulity. “Lord Borros Baratheon will surely sever ties with us once he discovers his brother’s widow has remarried so swiftly after his death. He will suspect Aemond of having a hand in his brother’s demise and he will demand justice.”

“Lord Borros is a prideful man and has already pledged his loyalty to us. It would tarnish his honor to withdraw now,” Otto answered, his expression stern as he regarded his daughter. “He wants for a royal alliance and the power of a dragon at his command. He won’t risk losing that.” His gaze then shifted to Aemond and Daenera, voice lowering slightly, “However, we must censure that the nature of Boris Baratheons accident remains beyond reproach…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, her thumb pressing into the wound on her–the one that had traced the bottom of the scar once left by the dragonglass. She contemplated exposing Aemond’s involvement in the death of her husband, even if it meant revealing her own. It was mutually assured destruction, as she had always intended–and as she had always hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Yet, here she was, considering it. But if she truly desired his death above all else, she would have driven the blade into his neck when she had the chance. 

“We announce that their union was sealed a few weeks ago, perhaps a month, in a small ceremony, meant to keep her mother’s wrath at bay,” Otto continued, weaving his web of schemes. “We’ll weave the narrative of forbidden love, and the coming nuptials will be a formal ceremony that aligns with both the Faith and tradition, presenting the union to the court.”

“That is if I comply…” Daenera stood her ground, her voice strong. “I have an inherent obstinance, Your Grace…” Her eyes flicked towards Alicent, watching the scowl grow, then settled her gaze back on Otto. “You may weave your narrative, Lord Hand, but if I resist, your schemes will unravel. You have shown your cruelty by having me attend the celebration of my brother’s death–how will your plans fare when I am to be dragged down the aisle, tears running down my face, resisting every step?” 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to Aemond for a brief moment before returning to Otto, continuing, “How do you think the realm will respond to you forcing me to marry my brother’s murderer? How do you think my mother would react? And Daemon?”

Aemond scoffed, his eye flashing with intensity as he retorted, his tone sharp and biting, “And how will she respond when she learns you married me willingly? Daemon had his suspicions of our relationship–how do you think he would react? Would he see it as a betrayal?”

“Do you think they’ll believe the tale that we married weeks ago, when I am dragged, crying, to the altar?” Daenera snapped back, eyes narrowing. 

Aemond regarded her with a measure of coldness, his voice lowering, “Do you think they won’t?” 

Daenera’s heart pounded in her chest, a flush of heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks as she fixed him with a glare. Each word he spoke seemed to bear down upon her, her resolve bending under the weight of it–like a branch bending under pressure, threatening to snap. It would have been kinder, she thought, if he had plunged the knife at his hip between her ribs rather than seek to unravel her certainties. She clung to the belief that her mother and Daemon would understand her intentions, but deep down, she knew such assurance was a fragile, fallible thing–and he knew it too. 

Aemond possessed a disturbing ability for finding which thread of her’s to tug on. He pulled at these threads relentlessly, unraveling her, exposing her vulnerabilities and uncertainties without any regard for her desires. It seemed he derived a twisted form of pleasure from dissecting her composure, piece by piece, revealing her innermost fears to the world–fears he would exploit. Once the act of unraveling her had welcome, once she thought she could unravel him too. What a lie that was, and yet there was a strange intimacy in the way he sought to strike at her vulnerabilities–how he knew exactly how to unsettle her.  

Daemon had been incensed when he had learned about their relationship–had warned her against it. He had known, had sensed her feelings even before she recognized or deigned to acknowledge them herself. He had feared she’d fallen in love with him–feared that she’d betray them for this newfound affection. 

Her heart had betrayed them as much as it had her, and she despised herself for it. 

The thought of her mother perceiving her actions as a betrayal twisted her stomach into knots. Her blood ran cold with dread at the idea that Daemon might see her as a traitor.

Daenera steeled herself against the gnawing doubt that threatened to overwhelm her–threatened to unravel her ploy. The doubt seemed to crawl down her spine like chill, burrowing beneath her skin and turning her bones to ice. Her heart thudded heavily, uneasily within her chest as she swallowed her fears, masking them beneath a veneer of confidence. She clung to the hope that they would see the truth–that she was merely a pawn in the Hightower’s game, that the marriage was nothing more than a farce, even as she smiled and played her part. They had to understand, she reassured herself, they would come to see it clearly. 

With a deliberate effort, she tore her gaze away from Aemond’s.

Otto  fixed her with a look that mingled appreciation with annoyance. After a moment, he declared firmly, “If we release your men, you will consent to the marriage.”

It was not a question but a statement. Daenera responded nevertheless, “Yes.”

Daenera was acutely aware of the implications. Her acquiescence to the wedding would only strengthen Otto’s narrative surrounding her presence at the celebration of her brother’s death. She knew well that word of it would soon be reaching Dragonstone, if it hadn’t already. And once they heard of her compliance in the wedding, they’d begin to doubt her loyalty. Yet, this was the sole leverage she possessed, her only means to secure the release of her men from the dark confines of the dungeons, away from the perpetual threat hanging over them like an executioner’s blade. Daenera clung to the hope that her mother and Daemon would recognize her actions for the desperate charade they were. And with her men freed, she trusted they would convey the truth. 

However much this ploy may wound her–however much it may cost her, it was a sacrifice she was willing to make, and in truth, it was the only thing she could do. 

The Lord Hand’s gaze hardened. “From this day forward, you will embody the perfect bride–beautiful, radiant–and subsequently, the role of a devoted and loving wife.”

Alicent interjected with a voice tight with scorn, “You surely cannot be considering her terms?”

Otto Hightower looked at his daughter, his expression unyielding as he dismissed her with a small, dismissive gesture. Turning his attention back to Daenera, he spoke, “We cannot release both of your men. You must choose between the Sworn Shield and the boy. Once you fulfill your part of the arrangement, we will release the one you have chosen.”

Daenera did not need time for consideration or give the situation undue thoughts–even though one of her men was ominously unmentioned. She stepped forward decisively, gripping the back of a chair, nails tracing over the grooves carved into the wood, declaring, “The Sworn Shield. Fenrick.”

Alicent’s eyebrows lifted in reproachful surprised before her expression hardened into something scornful. “You choose not to save the boy? How heartless of you to leave him languishing in captivity.”

The rest of the accusation hung quietly in the air–and under threat no less. A boy of three and ten now, with a noose tied around his neck, just waiting for you to misstep and have the stool kicked out from beneath him. The decision was out of pragmatism, not cruelty. She knew too well that Patrick’s chances of making it outside the city walls were bleak; he was more likely to be murdered and left in the gutter. Fenrick, on the other hand, had a chance of reaching Dragonstone, of escaping the city walls, despite the likelihood that the Hightowers would send men after him to ensure that he’d never leave the city gates. 

“Release Fenrick.”

Responding with a slow nod, Otto straightened in his chair, “Upon your marriage to Aemond, your man will be released. The boy, however, will stay with us as insurance.”

Daenera’s voice was steady, masking the urgency she felt. “When is the wedding to be held?”

Her gaze fleetingly met Aemond’s; he lingered in the shadows of a column, his expression stoic as if hewn from the stone itself–sulking. The brief contact was enough to reignite the familiar heaviness in her chest, and she forced herself to avert her gaze. 

“Seven days from now,” Otto declared, standing to signify the end of their discussion.

So, I am back! And I'm working really hard to get things down on paper. I haven't gotten as much done as I wanted because I always underestimate just how long things takes to write lol. That being said, this chapter may be shorter than expected, but I have updated chapter 84 with 6k words for a scene of Aemond with the council. Next chapter will come at the heels of this one: Alicent takes Daenera to the Sept for a 'chat' and let's just say that we get some reminiscing, some cruelty, some threats...

[monsterblogging]

Fuck JKR: How To Create A Harry Potter-Esque Aesthetic Without Any Harry Potter In It

So I saw a few posts from people mentioning that a reason people might be into Harry Potter is because of the aesthetic or atmosphere, and ya know what? I can't even argue that, because if there's one thing about HP, it's that it Sure Does Have Aesthetic And Atmosphere.

So! I'm gonna tell you how to STEAL ITS LOOK! Because:

JK Rowling considers ANY support of her work to be support of her politics.

Fan content/fan merch is still free advertisement for Rowling's work. YOU might not choose to give her money, but you can't be sure you won't pull people into the fandom who will.

Everyone should create more things that aren't tied to corporate-owned IP, period.

So. Most things in these films have an aged, antique look. You'll see a lot of brown hues, both on sets and on people's clothes. There's a lot of near-blacks (especially charcoals and walnuts) and lighter grays on the sets, especially from the third film onwards. (Wood is more often than not stained dark, while lighter hues are often provided by bricks or plaster.) The last two films use a lot of stormy blues and grays. Prisoner of Azkaban also emphasizes contrast between tones, which heightens a sense of texture. True black also appears throughout the films, such as on students' uniforms and many Death Eaters' outfits, and on the chairs in Malfoy Manor. White appears occasionally, especially on Hedwig, students' shirts, or during winter scenes, but pure white isn't otherwise really common. Paper or parchment is usually warm beige. There's also a lot of silver, gold, and brass, often appearing on things like dishware, tools, trinkets, Christmas baubles, and so forth. Bronze also comes up occasionally.

Reds, yellows, blues, and greens are pretty common throughout the films, even outside of Hogwarts, though you'll see just about every color somewhere. For example, orange is often found around the Weasleys, and orange, maroon, and purple feature in the divination classroom. Teal features prominently in Grimmauld Place (contrasted with saffron yellows).

Most colors aren't really super bright; a lot of the time they look a little faded, or like they're colored with natural dyes. If you use medieval illustrations to source your colors, or aim for earth tones and jewel tones, you'll be about right for a lot of what you see in the films. Bright colors are pretty rare; some of the brights we do see are in Honeydukes, Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, and certain magical effects, such as Floo fire.

A lot of light is provided by candles, torches, or fireplaces, which cast a warm yellow/orange light. Moonlight is represented by blue light in the first and second films. Blue light is also used for the Goblet of Fire and the penseive.

Another thing you gotta have in there is clutter. It should look kinda antique and give off a kind of magical or mystical atmosphere. Think books, storage jars, orreries, crystal balls, old lamps, antique clocks, vintage glassware, antique mirrors, old teapots, and little metal trinkets. (If you're trying to decorate a physical room, your stuff doesn't have to actually be antique, of course; antique-styled is fine.)

Texture is also very important, which can be represented with full or top grain leather book covers, stone walls, dents and scratches, cracks, embellishments, and embossing. Additionally, all damage and wear gives a sense of oldness to things. Stains and variegated colors also add interest. (If you're decorating a physical space, you might look into aging/distressing/antiquing techniques.)

If you want a space to look cozy, you don't really want bare or blank walls. Shelves, paintings, tapestries, and wallpaper can all help with that. Again, use brown, rather than black. Warm, yellow lighting will also help. If you lean toward blacks and cool lighting, you're going to have a colder-looking space.

Fashion in the wizarding world is extremely all over the place, ranging from stereotypical fantasy witch and wizard clothing, to pretty normal vintage clothing, to some wacky vintage-inspired looks, to the kind of fashion that would be put under the cozycore umbrella, to ordinary modern clothing. One thing that's absent is subculture fashion as we know it. (Bellatrix Lestrange does look kinda goth, but it's less a subculture thing, and more a "yeah we're putting our bad guys in fancy black stuff" thing.)

If you're trying to lean into the whole quirky/eccentric/old-fashioned kinda thing, you'll want to pass over the more modern and obviously synthetic type stuff. Also, patterns, textured fabrics, knits, mixed colors, lace, and other embellishments can add interest to outfits.

Architecture is also all over the place. Hogwarts is pretty medieval, while places like Diagon Alley give more Victorian vibe. The main thing is looking old fashioned and quaint.

To try and summarize all of that:

Browns. Lots and lots and lots of browns. Blacks and grays, too. Contrast between light and dark browns and blacks/grays.

More beige and gray than pure white; more charcoal gray and dark walnut brown than true black.

Among other colors, mostly earth tones and jewel tones. Very limited brights.

Polished metal and glass also add shininess.

Old-fashioned. Vintage. Antique.

Clutter, texture, patterns, variegation. Minimalist/clean aesthetic avoided.

Aged and distressed.

Lighting often yellow/orange due to coming from fire. Blue/teal light often coming from moonlight and certain magical light sources.

Now, here are some things we actually don't see. I'm not mentioning them to discourage you from using them if they're what you really want, but to inform you about them so you can consider whether they might throw off the vibe for you:

Green/purple/black combos.

Purple/silver/black combos. Pink/purple/teal combos.

Pink/black combos.

Orange/black combos.

Green/orange/purple combos.

Red/black combos.

Basically a lot of combos commonly associated with Halloween, witches, or vampires.

Big raw crystals. We see crystal balls now and then, but that's it.

Other natural items used as decorations - feathers, pinecones, sticks, etc. The one exception I can think of are the shells embedded in the walls of Shell Cottage.

Crushed velvet. Lots of fantasy uses this, HP films don't.

If you need inspiration, go look up medieval and renaissance diagrams and illustrations of stuff like the four elements, the zodiac, the solar system, and all that. Go look up alchemical symbols and emblems. Search up pre-WWII vintage ephemera. Go look up Victorian clipart. Look up stuff like botanical, zoological, and astronomical books and art from the 17th-19th centuries. Look up vintage wallpaper and fabric patterns. Look at vintage-style crafts. Research period architecture and fashion. Research European heraldry.

If you're wondering what exactly you're going to design around without Hogwarts and the Four Houses, here are some suggestions:

The four classical elements (earth, air, fire, and water)

The four seasons

Card suits - Tarot, French, whatever you want

Holidays - Halloween, Christmas, whatever

Fairy tales

Flowers

Mythical creatures

Bugs

Birds

Any other animals you like

Ecosystems

Your own original worldbuilding

So yeah, there ya go. You don't need to keep participating in HP to indulge in the aesthetic.

[NOTICE: Anybody who clowns on this post by making this about them and their childhood, patting themselves on the back about their chosen means of "ethical" participation, praising the fandom, or adding any other form of irrelevant bullshit is getting blocked. Also, I don't want to hear about PJO or Earthsea again for the millionth time, either.]

[pampushky]

Foot of the Gallows

trafalgar d. water law/reader - chapter 2 - 3.7k

ao3 link | masterlist | series masterlist | next chapter

2.) thunder root

thunder root: a jagged, sharp root that gains a rubber-like quality after being properly dried and treated. after isolating the starch from this tuber, it can be used to soften the blows of an enemy once cooked into a meal although it has a calming, drowsy effect, making it useless in battle.

The next five minutes are silent, aside from Law’s ragged breaths and both of your footsteps on the cobbled city streets. His wrists are bony, the skin rubbed raw from spending his time in mana-draining shackles. If he were his own doctor at this moment, he’d be giving you a rather aggressive lecture on the negative effects of sudden bouts of intense cardio after nearly three weeks of not being able to move properly. But, you don’t seem to pay him any heed, moving quickly through the city for the next half hour, almost as if you’re trying to lose anyone who could be following the two of you.

You don’t look back at Law as you maneuver him through back alleys and yards, eyes trained ahead. He hadn’t even known most of these little paths existed, looking at the brick walls of houses and buildings around him transition into wooden fences, and then to the wrought-iron fencing of a bridge that lead to the northern side of the city, where your shop is. You tighten your grip when he grunts and pulls slightly, looking back at him with a glare. 

“Stop that, you should be thanking me!” You snapped, turning on him with a snarl, and dropping his wrist when the two of you finally came to the back door of your little shop, “I’m going to kill Bepo for convincing me to do this for you,”

“Bepo masterminded this?” Law says incredulously, with eyes the size of a dinner plate when he looks at you. The door is open, and just as he makes a move to go in, you pull him back by his shoulder and reach up to rub away a string of runes on the door above it, hidden by a small slab of wood. Law frowns at the smudged chalk, and lifts the plank of wood, only to have you smack the back of his hand, making him look at you in shock “What was that?”

“Your lifetime ban being erased,” you sigh, almost sadly, and then shove him inside. There are still traces of the spell that would have kept him out lingering as he crossed the threshold, a wave of dizziness hitting him, but eventually fading as you sit on the small stool behind your little counter. The shop is the same as he remembered it, though with the blinds drawn, and the lanterns unlit in the corners. “Sanji’s gonna be pissed— it took him a week to formulate that, you know.”

“I…. didn’t know you were friends with that pervert,” Law mumbles, as you take your cloak off. You freeze, for a moment, and then start to laugh. 

“He’s better than you,” You don’t even turn to look at him and grant him some form of recognition for his insult and instead open up a drawer near you. “And he’s not a pervert, he’s gotten some deeply unsettling issues with a succubus possession his husband is helping him through.” 

“Ah.” 

Law doesn’t really respond after that and just moves around the shop. It’s… still the same, from your childhood, and the hours he’d spent in it as a kid, waiting for Corazon to pick him up on his way back from the the barracks. Still the same jars, probably not the same herbs. An orange, ribbed jar catches his attention, and he studies it. There’s a label with the scientific name, and then the little, embossed with the small language of dashes and dots, entirely unique to the apothecary profession. And just as he goes to run his fingertips over it, you smack the back of his hand again, even though you’re across the room. Instead, one of the large and winding pothos plants that hangs in the window has stretched and smacked him.

“Don’t touch that,” You only look up briefly, scowling. 

“I see your earthen magic got stronger,” Law scowls back at you, even if you’re not looking at him, rubbing at his hand as the pothos returns to its normal state, though he swears he can hear it laughing at him.

“And you’re still an asshole, but the world keeps turning,” You pull out a watering can, and reward the little bastard of a vine that slapped him. “Good job, Gertrude, always protecting my product,”

“You’re…. Talking to a plant,” Law lifts his eyebrows, and lets out a huff of disbelief, “Wow, you have really started to lose it— ow !” 

“Their name is Gertrude, and they agree that you’re an asshole,” You grin at him as if you’re taking pleasure in the plant hitting him again, smacking the back of his head when he wasn’t looking directly at it. Or, them, Law supposes, based on how you had addressed….Gertrude. 

“Fine, I take it back,” Law rubs the new sore spot on the back of his head. His hat has long since been lost, which does hurt a bit— it was a gift from his long-since passed sister. You, meanwhile, continue to search through your drawers for something, and when you’ve found it, you add it to the growing pile of tiny jars, salves, and strips of cloth on your counter.

With a final flourish, you pull out what looks like an eyedropper of some oily substance and add it to the pile. You look at him pointedly, arms folded as you jerk your head to the stool behind the counter. Law stares dumbly at you, and you let out an annoyed huff, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Sit there. You’re wounded, and I won’t have you contaminating my shop— it’s bad enough that I’ll need to clean down here from you mucking about with your shoes,” You look more upset at the dusty prints on your floor than him being hurt. 

If Law winces when you dab a bit of whatever salve or tonic you’re cleaning and dressing his wounds with, he doesn’t complain, nor thank you for being more delicate as you continue. Your touch is… oddly soft, for someone who has as much loathing for Law as you claim to have, but it’s the trained motions of someone who has been doing this for a long time, and he is the last person who will question why you have this medical knowledge. Your family was a long, respected lineage of apothecaries, both adopted and biological, it did not matter— your founding member was claimed to be the very deity of the earth and sky itself, and were not all mortals and immortals alike their child?

There’s a storm, though, clouding your eyes, especially when you bring the oily eyedropper out again, carefully unscrewing it to reveal a tiny brush, coated in a shimmering, amber slime from within the bottle. 

“Where are the more serious wounds?” Your voice is flat, and you watch as he carefully reveals a rather nasty bruise, some parts still tender and red, not even bruised yet, on his ribcage. You grimace and examine it with a hiss. “How’d that happen?”

“Member of the guard,” Law says simply, watching and you gently pull up a part of his shirt, eyes glued to the injury. “Said he’d show me, for using Lunar magic.”

You scoff, but bring the little brush close, and start to murmur. The bristles make contact with his skin, and Law moans, the pain suddenly condensed completely into the spot where you trace your tool as you draw a singular, continuous line, eventually forming one of the most complex circular runic equations that Law’s ever had the pleasure of seeing, the last line of your activation slipping past your lips just as the pain grows so intense that he feels he’s going to pass out before it stops just a second before he was certain he was going to die.

There’s no bruise left behind. Not even a scar, or a trace of what happened. The substance is gone, and you’re already tucking it somewhere Law doesn’t see— probably aided by ancient illusion spells— before he can so much as ask what that was. 

Whatever you did, it completely healed his cracked ribs. It probably helped with his left lung, too, as if you completely regenerated the entirety of that patch of his body—- reversing time itself to when he hadn’t been injured. It’s amazing, even as he touches his skin in wonder— it’s not even sensitive, blending seamlessly together, as though you had knit and split cells yourself, not just accelerating the growth through magic. There is no soreness, no aches, no puffy red skin— just… the same little splotches of pale white on tan and the ink of his tattoos. 

“What… was that?” 

“…family secret, I will pass to an heir one day,” you speak solemnly, and then pale as the sentence leaves your mouth. “…. Oh, fuck,” And you disappear up the set of stairs that separates the home from the shop, all your supplies still on the counter, some open. 

Law’s mind is blank, until he really has the chance to process how he got here, and isn’t currently a corpse in a cadaver lab. The walk to the gallows. The screaming of the crowd. Bepo not being there. The boredom on the face of the medical student as they waited for the execution to end, arms folded as they leaned against the wagon. The tone of Kizaru’s voice as you objected, and then the…proposal. The rather quick marriage ceremony— oh gods, had he even said a vow? 

You were married to him. Actually, legally married to him. Had saved him at the last possible second, dragged him away to your childhood home and shop, cared for his wounds, and then gone up the stairs as if this was a normal day. Somewhere, in the very back of his mind, this had been a long since given up on desire, wanting to spend his life with you, one that he himself had ruined all those years ago with anger and hurt. This…. Wasn’t how he’d imagined it happening, even in the dreams where he somehow did make it up to you. 

Would he ever, really, make it up to you?

Cautiously, he goes up the stairs, still remembering which ones creak, and comes into the kitchen-and-den hybrid that you had grown up in. The building that hosted your centuries-long family business and home was always changing, the layout shifting every hundred years or so. The current home is the same as he recalls, with the worn wooden floor covered in thick woven rugs, to keep the house warm and cozy. The island with the lava-stone stovetop, which your grandfather had ordered specifically from one of the more hellish realms to use in cooking and potion brewing.

He vividly remembers when he’d had to help wrap your hand after you’d burnt it by unknowingly placing your palm on it. Your tears, the way you’d whimpered at his touch even as your father told you not to cry so much, teasing you enough to distract you from the pain. You’d been ten, and he’d been twelve, starting to feel the strange stirrings in his heart that being around you brought. 

There are more plants now that you’re the main resident. Cooking herbs, with personal balls of solar light you’d conjured to hover over them sit against the wall under the cabinets. There’s a little cactus, dozens of tropical ferns, and well-maintained shrubs that make Law feel as though he’s walked straight into a greenhouse, rather than the home he had once known. A familiar, white-marbled pothos is wrapped around the top of the kitchen cabinets, and he even watches as one of the vines turns the faucet in the sink on, lifting up glass for you, where you stand, muttering to yourself in the kitchen. 

“I didn’t say you could follow me up here.” You don’t turn to address him, but take the glass from Gertrude, sipping it with a slight shake in your hands. 

“I didn’t know I needed your permission,” Law keeps himself at the top of the stairs. You seem… oddly vulnerable, despite his general asshole behavior, until you straighten up, and face him, scowling. 

“Fine, let’s get straight to business then,” You stride to stand right in front of him, eyes alight with frustration as you place your hands on your hips. “I am not the one who masterminded this bullshit. Bepo came to my shop directly after talking to you yesterday. As much as you are a prick I absolutely detest, you are unfortunately a half-decent doctor, and I’d hate to see your patients suffer because you decided to break the law by using illegal magic.” 

“Wow, how kind of you,” Law drawls, and your left eye twitches a bit. Must he always make it so difficult for you to be the bigger person? You’d love nothing more than to let his body be chewed on by dogs, or so you try to convince yourself. “I should be kissing your feet and worshiping you, I suppose now. Oh, great merciful apothecary, how shall I thank you?” Law's tone is painfully dry, and you fight the urge to punch him in the mouth.

“I’m not the one who used illegal magic,” you scoff and fold your arms, “Bepo found some ancient law that allows foot-of-the-gallows marriages, and after rather pathetically begging for me to save you—”

“Get off your high horse, jackass —”

“—oh, save your comments, this was quite literally the only way you’d still be living,” Deep breaths. You can be the bigger person, just float above, ignore his little jabs, and don’t sink down to his level, “I hate this just as much as you do. But, again, your patients don’t deserve to be out a doctor because you wanted to play with fire.”

“Do you even know what lunar magic is?”

“The opposite of solar magic.”

“.... gods help me, I’m going to ask your uncle to kill me, this is already worse than death,” 

“Oh, save me the dramatics! I haven’t even gotten to explaining everything yet!”

Law is desperately trying not to drag his hands down his face and let his composure cave. Every time he thought about reconnecting with you and making right his countless wrongs against you, this would happen. Picking and poking at each other would eventually and undoubtedly turn into screaming matches because you both had to get the last word in any discussion about who had done the other wrong more. Yes, he had started it, but dammit, you had elevated it to this point!

Like now, because he’s completely tuned out your ranting until you let out a loud curse, and scream “We’re lawfully married now, you utter dickhead! No take-backs, unless you want to die for real!” 

Law blinks once. 

Twice. 

And then you have to catch him before he falls ass over kettle down the stairs because he’s so shocked that he forgot he was just standing at the top of the staircase, and took a step backward. Both of your hands are tightly gripping his collar with a force that surprises him, you pull him back up, and he lands squarely on top of you, crushing you into the floor as you let out a little huff of shock. He's oddly heavy, and feels well-muscled, despite the circumstances he's been facing.

You smell so familiar to him. Medicinal, but not in the chemical way. Like the herbal teas and spicy desserts he got to try while across the ocean during his apprenticeship. He’s going into shock— he knows this, and can’t do much to help himself until you manage to squirm your way from underneath him, sighing. “What am I gonna do with you?” You mumble, chin in your palm, as you drag him to the couch. This is quite the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Your parents will no doubt hear of this— Kizaru is an old war buddy of your uncle’s, and once your mother hears it from him, they’ll be sending countless ravens and your poor sending stone may crack from the number of calls it’ll no doubt receive when your uncle lets the news slip to your parents. 

They’ll be more pissed you didn’t tell them of your plan. Then be even more upset when they realize they’ve missed your wedding, even if it was just a high official in the guard using a binding spell for a placeholder until he could legally marry the two of you. 

“You could have let me die.”

You don’t respond and just keep your eyes forward, nodding.

Law just lays there in shock, eyes on the ceiling, even as you slump into the cushions beside him, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms with an exhausted groan. There are bags under your eyes he hadn’t noticed until now, and he chides himself. This hadn’t been an easy decision for you. Tying yourself to him for the foreseeable future, and stirring up trouble between your family and the guard when the relationship was already strained. 

Why had you done it though? 

He’d been nothing but a dick to you, now for over… nine years. Nearly a decade. You weren’t the teary-eyed fifteen-year-old, just at the start of your apprenticeship under your father, but now the owner of the family shop, a tired twenty-four-year-old with dark bags under your eyes and a wariness that most people didn’t have until their fifties. 

You were a good person, he knew this. Really hated you for it, sometimes. It had made you incredibly hard to hate, and the fact that avoiding you had been next to impossible, especially when you were the only reputable apothecary and source for medicinal herbs. 

“Why?”

“...no comment,” You stand from the couch. He can hear your murmuring over the stove, and the whistling of a kettle— was it the same, pale green one, with the wisteria and lichen sculpted onto it, from your childhood? He looked over the couch, watching as you made a cup of tea, sighing as you returned with an extra mug. “...You’re going to take a bath after this, and I’m going to use some of the most vile cleaning spells I can think of on… those,” you gesture to his outfit, frowning. “I think I have extras of my fathers, for the time being.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Law holds the mug carefully, eyeing you with a barely disguised look of suspicion as you start to go through the chest off to the side beside the dining table. You return, with a mustard yellow tunic, black trousers, and a dark-gray woven belt to bring in the waist of the tunic. 

“They’re covered in mud and… gods, Law is that blood?” 

Hearing you speak his name, how it rolls so naturally off your tongue after nine years of ignoring him and only addressing him with insults and anger makes him shudder. The horror in your eyes, the stiffness of your shoulders as you look at him. You don’t drop your mug, but he can see how your hand shakes a bit. The concern is there for a second before it fades when he doesn’t answer after a few seconds. 

“.... You know where the guest room is—”

You’re interrupted by the sound of something bouncing off of a barrier, and a scream of pain. Both of you stand abruptly, and scramble down the stairs, to which you throw open the front door, seeing Penguin rubbing his forehead, with Bepo, Shachi, and Ikkaku standing over him. You let out an annoyed groan, and look at Law as if he’s responsible for this. 

“You’re going to let them in, aren’t you?” Law only prompts, looking down at his friend, who is being helped upwards by his husband. 

“... a month, it took to formulate those,” You grumble and walk to the back of the shop, returning with chalk-dusted hands and a deep scowl, as the two men manage to drag themselves through the front door, shuddering as the remnants of the boundary spell 

“You put a boundary spell on the shop?” Penguin groans, holding his forehead, and you scowl at him. 

“Only for you, your husband, and the dickhead,” You turn on your heel and shout over your shoulder as you walk up the stairs. “They’re still not allowed up in the home proper, Dr. Trafalgar!”

“...charming,” Shachi watches as you walk up the stairs, and winces when Gertrude goes on the attack, tugging at his ear. Bepo is terrified that he’s been added to the lifetime ban list, while Ikkaku just sits on the counter where you normally work, studying the four men before her. 

“Honestly, I can’t blame her,” 

“Whose side are you on?!” Penguin yelps, batting at very angry Gertrude the pothos plant, who seems rather set on cuffing his ears until he leaves or dies— whichever comes first. 

“The two people who just got tied together for what is likely to be a very rocky marriage,” Ikkaku snaps, glaring at the two men. Bepo cowers, even when she’s not looking at him. Law just rubs his forehead and lets himself slump onto the first step of the stairs. He’s too confused right now to really process that he is married. He can feel the binding spell that links him to you, it’s not quite choking, but it’s tight enough around his heart to remind him ever so often that it’s there, squeezing ever so slightly when he least expects it. 

“No one asked her to do this!” Shachi throws his hands in the air and makes sure that he’s said it loud enough for you to hear, regardless of being upstairs. 

Bepo lets out a nervous whine, that sounds like a balloon deflating slowly, loud, and high-pitched, eyes darting around the room between the four confused faces of the humans in the room, which are turning ever more suspicious when the whine doesn’t stop, and only continues to somehow get higher. 

You come down the stairs with a tray of teacups, a loaf of bread, and the kettle, looking unimpressed by the current state of the mink, who is now lying with his back on the floor of your shop, still letting out the whining noise, even as you settle on the stool in the corner, looking at the other five people with a heavy frown. 

“I think it’s time we talk then, no?”