#stratosphere tower

[autism-calzone]

💖 grandpa's fucken PISSED 💖

[emaadsidiki]

Vegas is where the party never ends.

[tare-otome]

The Stillsands - Dunehollow - Las Vegas 2/?

After much procrastinating exploring, i finally allowed myself to venture into the ruins of Las Vegas.

So much buried under the sand. Buildings buried up to their ears (if they had ears)!

The ruins of the Strat (formerly the Stratosphere) Hotel & Casino & Tower...

Such a desolate place swallowed by the sea of sand...

[phantomrose96]

Extremely generic, typical isekai anime where the main character is a high school boy who's so good at video games in his day-to-day life, but people don't respect gamers :( so he's a loser :( ...until he ends up isekai'd into a fantasy world that RUNS on video game logic.

Except this main character is a speed runner.

World record holding speed runner.

Elf-woman in the introductory episode shares the long, sad history of her realm at odds with the Demon Lord and his reign. She looks up just as she's about to describe the moment the Demon Lord killed her husband, and main character is... gone.

Several many fields away.

Naked as the day god made him because equipping the intro clothes takes 3 seconds between menu opening and character re-rendering.

The Wall of the Unfathomable, which has sealed these villagers within their own walls for generations unknown, sees its first breach in a millennium as Main Character scales it ass-backwards clipping and ragdolling up its scaffolding by abusing the collision detection logic and its impact on speed reversal.

NPCs launch into speeches which bewilder and confuse even them because they should NOT be saying anything about the deep sacred mana that can defeat the Dark Demon Lord but the fucker standing in front of him in tighty-whiteys with a level 99 helmet and the Hero Sceptor (which he should NOT have yet but) is compelling the NPC for reasons they cannot begin to comprehend.

The Demon Lord is alerted by holographic message from his most trusted underling that some disturbance has just rippled through from Elf Realm and that some portal may have just opened from the human world, which warrants some caution as the prophesied hero is said to--cut off by the MC catapulting past all 18 floors of Demon Tower security using the infinite speed jump glitch and one-shotting the Demon Lord with a single rag-doll spastic thrust through his heart which launches the Demon Lord along with MC into a 500mph spiral into the stratosphere... And somewhere, the end credits play.

[cleo-fox]

Unraveled

Summary: It was all fun and games until Loki started wearing that goddamn sweater.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, dirty talk, praise kink, teasing, orgasm delay, sex, vaginal fingering, godly refractory periods, kitchen sex, semi public sex, Loki in a sweater.

A/N: My explanation for this one is that I saw too many pictures of Tom Hiddleston in a sweater and it gave me thoughts.

Being an Avenger has made you pretty good at rolling with the punches. After your third or fourth encounter with some alien/wizard/android bullshit, your perspective is fundamentally altered and real life seems manageable in a way that it didn’t before. You have to call your insurance company to dispute a claim? Big deal, you’ve negotiated with terrorists; you can handle Garth from Member Services.

The thing is, having that kind of perspective means that the things that do get to you can rattle you a lot more than they should. Natasha had warned you about that, but you were riding high on the thrill of successfully conquering Blue Cross Blue Shield and you kind of got to thinking she was exaggerating.

And then the seasons started to turn and Loki started wearing that goddamn sweater.

You can recognize when someone is out of your league. When you first moved into the Tower, it had been relatively easy for you to assign Loki to that category: he was a god. He’d been featured in last month’s GQ. You were mortal and your most recent press had been a TMZ story featuring unflattering paparazzi photos of you leaving a bodega in your pajamas at seven o’clock in the morning, a bagel halfway into your mouth. You were clearly not the same.

Up until the sweater, you’d managed to keep your cool around Loki and keep your attraction confined to daydreams and the occasional surreptitious lustful glance. Hell, you’d even had the nerve to be proud of yourself for keeping your shit together in front of him.

The sweater lays waste to all of that.

On the surface, it doesn’t seem like a sweater that is capable of completely destroying your carefully constructed composure. It’s a fairly standard crew neck in a deep green so dark it almost looks black at a first glance. But on Loki it just…does things to you. The fabric is well fitted, clinging to his biceps, pulling taut across his chest, emphasizing the line of his pectorals. It somehow accentuates how muscular he is while also still making him look lean and lithe.

The first time he wears it, you find your eyes just trail to him of their own volition, like an incredibly horny moth to the flame. It’s a day of catching yourself staring, panicking, pretending that you were actually looking at something else, and then repeating the process five minutes later when your gaze inevitably wandered again. It almost would have been funny if it didn’t put your blood pressure into the stratosphere.

To make matters worse, at the end of that day’s debriefing, he rises from his chair and raises his arms to the ceiling in a long stretch. The hem of the sweater creeps up, exposing the firm, flat muscles of his stomach, lightly dusted with a trail of hair that meanders in a tantalizing path down to his belt buckle.

You promptly choke on your own spit. Clint claps you hard on the back and asks if you’re okay, which is a question you don’t know how to answer (ultimately, you stick to a thumbs up and mumble something about dust getting caught in your throat). Loki is too preoccupied complaining about the entire concept of office furniture to notice. Or at least you’re pretty sure he doesn’t notice.

You might have been okay if that had been the only incident, but the sweater makes a repeat appearance on Friday. The following Tuesday features the deadly combination of the sweater with a pair of tight, dark wash jeans that nearly send you into cardiac arrest. Your fantasies suddenly become much more frequent and detailed.

You are not really sure what to do about this—it’s not like you can talk to anyone about it, nor can you ask him to stop wearing it without prompting some very uncomfortable questions. The idea that you’ll get used to it is laughable. 

You look at your calendar and note that spring is six months away. At least.

Fucking hell.

*

It’s a Saturday afternoon and in a strange quirk of scheduling, almost everyone is out of town for a mission or a personal obligation, leaving the Tower unusually quiet. As much as you enjoy the daily clatter and chaos that comes with living here, you find a lot of comfort in these moments of quiet, however infrequent they may be.

You intended to make yourself a late afternoon snack. That was the plan, anyway. But as you’re standing at the kitchen counter and cutting up the fruit you just washed, you realize that you’re not entirely alone. From this vantage point, you can see Loki lounging on the couch in the next room and reading.

He’s wearing the sweater. Of course he’s wearing the sweater. And the so-tight-they-should-be-illegal dark wash jeans.

Goddammit.

You have the sense to set the knife down at least. The last thing you need is a trip to the hospital because you got too distracted by your hot colleague while handling a knife.

You let your gaze travel along the firm muscles of his chest. It’s just a sweater. It shouldn’t look this good. It shouldn’t prompt these kinds of thoughts. And yet…

He shifts on the couch and the hem of the sweater creeps up. His hand drops to his belt buckle. It’s entirely appropriate, but the way his long, long fingers are splayed against his stomach makes your mind drop straight to the gutter and wonder what they’d look like wrapped around his rock hard co—

“You know, it’s rude to stare.”

His voice comes from behind you and adrenaline surges through you like an electric shock. The Loki on the couch looks up at you and smirks before disappearing in a shimmer of green.

You wonder if it’s possible to die of embarrassment and a heart attack all at the same time. It certainly feels like you’re about to.

You take a deep breath and try to collect yourself, which feels largely futile. Come on, get it together. You’ve negotiated with terrorists and insurance companies. Shake it off.

You slowly turn around, cheeks burning. Loki is standing right behind you, arms folded across his chest. You swallow.

“I um. I was—I was just…” Words escape you as your brain fires in every direction except a helpful one.

“You were just what?” His expression is intense, but you’re not sure that he’s angry.

“Spacing out,” you say, trying to infuse your voice with confidence that you absolutely do not feel.

He places his hands on the counter behind you, intentionally caging you in with his body. You are overwhelmed by the scent of him—a masculine, wintery musk that makes you want to bury your face against his chest.

“Try again,” he says. His voice is deep enough to rattle your bones.

You swallow. Everything you could possibly say seems wildly inadequate.

Loki has never been one to be at a loss for words, though, and after a moment of terrified silence from you, he continues speaking.

“I’ve noticed something curious over these past few weeks,” he says. “When I wear this sweater, you can’t seem to take your eyes off of me.”

Your heart is pounding. Fucking hell. Have you really been that obvious?

“Now why is that?” he asks, his voice a low purr.

You briefly consider trying to lie again, but the piercing green of his eyes instantly makes you rethink it. “I um…” You swallow hard. “It’s just…it suits you. You…you look good.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I look good?”

You nod.

“Interesting.” His lips twitch in a slight smirk as he looks you up and down. “And how does that make you feel?”

Your heart thuds in your chest, your stomach contorting with a strange combination of fear and desire. You’re still humiliated, but the sound of his voice and the dark intensity of his gaze is intoxicating and incredibly arousing.

“I don’t—I don’t know how to answer that question.”

“Oh, I think you do.” There’s a rawness in his voice that makes your cunt clench.

You shake your head, eyes wide. You’re pretty sure he’s not really mad, but you also don't know where this is going. Surely he’s not making a pass at you…right?

“How does it make you feel to see me in this sweater?” he continues, his voice a low whisper. He pauses for a moment and when you don’t answer, he continues. “Does it…arouse you, perhaps?”

Holy fuck.

This can’t be happening.

You try to think of something clever or sexy, but the bluntness of the question and the fire in his eyes kills whatever remaining brain cells you have left. Mutely, you nod.

There’s that smirk again as he licks his lips. “Are you wet right now?”

Your cheeks burn. You give the tiniest nod possible.

“Hmm.” His hand alights on the button of your jeans. “I believe you Midgardians have a saying that is appropriate here: trust, but verify.” He slips the button free and your heart pounds like a war drum in your chest. 

You cannot believe this is happening.

“You haven’t been entirely truthful in this conversation.” His palm presses flat against your stomach, the tips of his fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear. “So I’m afraid I’m going to have to see for myself.”

His hand is achingly slow, creeping lower and lower. He watches you intently as his hand cups your sex, seemingly cataloging the way your breath hitches and all the little shivers that run through you.

His middle finger finally slides between your folds and you can’t help but moan.

“Oh, you did lie to me,” he growls, his index finger joining his middle, both sliding up to circle your clit. “You’re not wet, you’re soaked.”

Your legs are already starting to tremble and you grab on to his shoulders to try and steady yourself. The fabric of the sweater is softer than a cloud against your hands.

“Sopping wet,” he continues, trapping your right leg between his thighs and the counter, the heavy weight of his erection pressing eagerly against your hip. “And this is all for me?”

Wordlessly, you nod. There’s no point in denying it—and you don’t think he wants you to, either.

“What am I going to do about this?” he muses. His index and middle fingers lightly circle your clit again and you whimper.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Please don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop?” he says. His tone is one of light curiosity, like you’re just chatting casually about the weather. “But if I continue, you’re almost certainly going to come.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please.”

“Oh, you want me to make you come?” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “Right here in the middle of the kitchen?”

You nod.

“Anyone could walk in, though,” he purrs. “Anyone could come in and see me with my fingers buried in your dripping cunt. What would they think if they saw you so utterly debauched and at my mercy, begging for me to make you come?”

“Don’t care…” you gasp. How are you already so close?

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t care what they’d think if they saw us like this?”

You shake your head.

“Oh, you must be desperate.” He adjusts his hand, his thumb taking up the rhythm on your clit while his index finger sinks into your slick channel, making you gasp.

“Loki, please—”

“Begging already,” he says, not letting up in his rhythm. “Has it been a long time, sweetheart? When did you last feel this good?”

It’s not a question you can answer. You don’t know that anyone ever has made you feel like this. You moan, your hips bucking hard against his hand.

“Poor thing,” he tuts. “You’re clearly desperate for it. What kinds of filthy thoughts have you had about me?” he purrs. “I’ve seen you staring, I’ve heard your breath hitch. Have you touched yourself while thinking of me?”

You manage a nod and his smile turns feral. “When was the last time?”

“Last…last night,” you gasp.

“How many times did you come?”

“F-Four.”

“Filthy girl.” His free hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tips your head back. “Next time, all you have to do is ask.”

His mouth covers yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as he slides a second finger into you. You moan into his mouth as the pressure in your hips increases.

“Oh yes, let me hear all of those pretty noises,” he murmurs. “Are you going to let me fuck you against the counter after I make you come?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Good girl,” he purrs. “I think you need to be fucked properly and hard. Is that what you need?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

“Mmm, that’s what I thought. This cunt is just too wet and needy for any other treatment.” He draws back to look at you more fully, giving you a lazy, hungry smile. “You’re about to lose it all over my fingers, aren’t you?”

Your orgasm is cresting, the tingling pressure in your hips becoming unbearable. You nod, lost for words.

With one more smirk, he curls his fingers inside of you. “Come for me, pretty girl, let me see you.”

Your cunt spasms around his thrusting fingers and your whole body shudders as your orgasm overtakes you, your head tipping back as you cry out.

“Oh, that’s it,” he murmurs, “there’s my good girl.”

A shiver runs through you at his words, your hips still moving against his hand, trying to draw out every last ripple of pleasure.

He kisses you as you come down from your high, and you take the opportunity to run your hands over his chest and tentatively feel the hard planes of muscle that you’ve been staring at these last few weeks. But after a few moments, he takes your hand and guides it to his cock.

His preference for leather pants or those sinfully tight dark wash jeans made you suspect that the size of his ego might actually be proportionate to the size of his cock and your initial assessment seems to confirm that theory. You rub your fingers over the denim that covers his thick shaft, feeling yourself grow even wetter at the low groan he makes in the back of his throat.

“Take my cock out.” His voice is so deep and his eyes are so smoldering, it feels like the command goes straight to your cunt. You are practically trembling with anticipation as your shaking hands  make quick work of the button, buckle, and zipper.

You can’t help but suck in a breath when his cock comes into view. He’s long and deliciously thick—big enough to be a little intimidating, but not overwhelmingly so.

He guides your hand to wrap around his shaft. He barely fits in your hand. “Look at what you’ve done to me,” he says, his voice raspy as he guides your hand to stroke his cock. “Feel how hard I am for you, feel how much I want you.”

His cock practically pulses with need, the tip slick with pre-come and you grasp him more firmly, your cunt pulsing as he gives a deeply satisfying groan.

You stroke him from base to tip, squeezing lightly. He groans again. “They told me to stay away from you, you know,” he says.

You aren’t so far gone that you can let this information slip by. “What? Who?”

“Stark. Rogers. Romanoff. My brother.” He reaches behind you and shoves the fruit and cutting board into the side, the knife clattering into the sink. “They saw how I looked at you,” he says. “They saw that I wanted you. They told me you were too good for me. Too sweet.”

You feel your jeans and underwear melt away in a shimmer of green and he lifts you easily onto the counter.

His eyes flash with desire. “I wonder what they’d say if they knew you’d let me fuck you raw in the middle of the kitchen?”

For a brief moment, frustration almost wins out over your lust. “We could have done this sooner?”

His gaze turns serious. “Darling, we could have done this the moment we met, but I’m told a handshake is more appropriate.”

You take a breath, about to embark on a rant about the individuals he’d named and how they hadn’t even asked, they’d just assumed, but Loki puts a hand up against your mouth.

“Don’t make me wait any longer,” he says. There’s a sincerity and a need in his gaze that you’ve never seen before and it’s enough to calm your anger for just a moment.

“Okay,” you say, wrapping your legs around his waist and angling your hips toward his, “but clear your schedule because I’m gonna need you to fuck me a lot to make up for all that time.”

His grin is feral as he pushes into you.

You shiver at the blunt stretch of his cock, your hands gripping his broad shoulders. He indulges in a low groan as his hips press flush against yours.

“If I’d known they were keeping me from this tight cunt, I would’ve done something sooner,” he rasps. “You feel absolutely perfect.”

“Please,” you breathe, “I need—please.”

His hips snap hard against yours and you moan, your head tipping back.

His eyes glitter as he pulls you close, pressing his mouth against your ear. “The next time I have you, I will be sweet and soft.”

“And this time?” you ask, though you think you already know the answer.

“This time—” His mouth presses against the curve of your neck, teeth scraping just this side of too hard against the tender skin. “—I’m going to utterly ruin you.”

His pace is fast and rough—the word possessive comes to mind. You twist the luxurious fabric of his sweater in your hands as his cock hits that sweet, aching spot inside of you, pressing against your sensitive cunt in a way that makes your muscles spasm and clench around him. You moan, a shiver rolling through you as you inch closer to release.

“I’m…fuck, I’m getting close,” you gasp.

His pace abruptly slows and his grin is wide and his eyes are dancing with mirth when he raises his head from your shoulder.

“That was unnecessary,” you say with a scowl.

“Oh, I just want to savor you for a little longer, my love,” he purrs as he settles into an easy and slow pace that still makes your toes curl. “You’re going to take me right over the edge with you and I’ve waited so terribly long to have you.”

“I feel like you’re probably omitting the fact that you like being a tease,” you say.

He grins again, increasing his pace ever so slightly. “Both things can be true.”

He does this a few times—taking up a wicked pace that almost sends you hurtling over the edge, only to slow at the last possible moment, silencing your whimpering protests with a deep and slow kiss that is good enough to make you forgive him until a few minutes later when he does it all over again.

You hold out for as long as you can, but eventually, the ache in your hips overwhelms you.

“Loki,” you breathe when his pace again begins to increase. “Please don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop?” he rasps, somehow finding the concentration to raise an eyebrow. “You’re quite sure?”

You nod.

“You want to come all over my cock?”

Speech is slightly beyond you at this point, but you manage to gasp a desperate plea as you hurtle into the final plateau, right before the fall.

Loki regards you with that same playful look as he fucks you. You wait, unsure of what he’s going to do, your body desperately crying out for your release.

His lips curl into a smile. “Come for me, sweet thing.”

At the sound of his voice, every one of your muscles is tensing and releasing, the slick walls of your cunt clamping down hard on the thick girth of his cock as you shudder and moan.

The remnants of Loki’s composure are fraying, his eyes closed and his jaw slack as he chases his own end. His brow furrows and he throws his head back, letting out a low groan as he comes and you think it might be the best sound you’ve ever heard.

You sag against him as you both come down from your respective highs, his heart beating hard under the soft fabric of his sweater. He reaches for your face, tilting your head back so he can kiss you, impossibly slow and soft.

You’re in the middle of the kitchen. You understand this. In a wholly rational world, you would be quick to hop off the counter, quick to try and negotiate the return of your jeans from whatever pocket dimension he’s sent them to.

Instead, you find yourself wanting to stay in this moment, with his arms wrapped around you, his cock still pulsing inside you as he kisses you breathless.

You count to ten, then twenty. At forty, you draw back slightly, only to have him pull you back into the kiss.

It’s somewhere after one hundred when he trails his lips to your neck and you manage to say what you intended: “We should probably…” you trail off as he sucks at your pulse point, sending a shiver down your spine.

“We should probably what?” he murmurs against your neck, before tracing a lazy figure eight with the tip of his tongue.

It takes you a moment to find that sentence. “Get dressed and such.”

You feel the sharp press of his smile against your skin. “I think not.”

Before you can open your mouth to say anything, the kitchen is fading in a shimmer of green to an unfamiliar bedroom and the two of you tumble into a bed draped in green silk.

“I’d like to stay like this for a while,” he says, a smile playing at his lips as he slowly rolls his hips against you, somehow still impossibly hard. “In fact, I think I need to have you again.”

“I can live with that,” you say. You tug at the fabric of his sweater. “But this is going to have to go.”

His gaze is smoldering and his bare skin is suddenly pressed against yours as the sweater and the rest of your clothes disappear in that familiar shimmer of green.

“Will you like me as much without it?” he asks, rolling his hips against you.

You drag your fingernails up along the firm muscles of his back. “I think I’ll manage.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in to kiss you, “because as I understand it, we have quite a lot of time to make up for.”

[vintagelasvegas]

Las Vegas Strip facing north – c. 2002.

Frontier, Stardust, Stratosphere, Sahara, and Riviera. The second photo continues with One and Two Turnberry Place, and the Desert Inn's remaining Palm and St. Andrews towers.

Below the Stratosphere is the construction of Hilton Grand Vacations Club.

Photos by (1) Elan Penn, and (2) Richard Cummins.

[lola-writes]

One-Eye & the Dreamer

(Aemond's POV)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x O.C Aylana Velaryon

Word Count: 2,2k

Themes & Warnings: slow burn, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, violence, blood, targcest, sexual themes, tension, drama, angst, fix-it of sorts, eventual smut, sexual inexperience, forbidden love, high valyrian, dance of dragons, POV first person

Summary: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Written from Aemond's POV.

More chapters

Gravity had nothing on us, my dear. 

You can’t untie red strings of fate. 

This is how it feels to fall in love with the atmosphere. 

The world surrendered to a symphony of wind.  Turbulence thundered in my ears and whipped my hair untamed as I ascended the skies. Rising higher and higher, the clouds enveloped me in a blinding haze, and the elements of the earth below decreased into a mosaic. I conquered the celestial at such speed that I felt like Aegon reborn. 

Vhagar was an extension of myself, her undulating muscles beneath my straddling body felt as if connected to my own, forcing our masses through the heavens with an effortlessness. I commanded her higher still, and she heeded my command. We defied gravity in a dance of grace and power.

As we approached the stratosphere where air ran thin, I straightened in my saddle, and my mighty Vhagar leveled out, conforming to every delicate change in my movements. The world below became an inverted dreamscape as we sailed the vague interstice that marked the transition between sky and oblivion - the clouds beneath were the unconquered sky, and the indigo above was the ocean, and I was flying upside down. 

Together, Vhagar and I, were limitless.

The memory of when I first claimed her was so potent it eclipsed everything else, real or imagined. It was like walking penniless and finding a mountain of gold at your feet. What was one to do with such power? A power so raw and exhilarating, it consumed. Suddenly, I had no fear. Suddenly, I was not alone…

I leaned into Vhagar’s warmth and she folded her wings against me. We plummeted back down towards the earth, a thrilling drop that sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through my veins. My stomach lurched, and beneath me, Vhagar’s thorax vibrated – a deep, primal roar that resonated through my very bones. In that moment, I mirrored her, a guttural exclaim of pure, unadultered joy escaping my lips.

Never had freedom tasted so sweet.

The force of our descent sliced through the nebulous clouds like a knife through cotton, and as we emerged, the Narrow Sea gaped wide, glittering beneath the noontide sun like a crystal embellished blue silk. I leveled out again and watched Vhagar’s twin loom out of the water. 

In the distance, the seven huge drum-towers, proud sentinels of pale red stone, rose out of the sea on their stony summits, and the tolling bells welcomed me back home. An unfamiliar fleet of ships coasted down Black Water Rush like wooden beads along a blue mesh - an unremarkable observation, as nobles from every corner of the realm had been descending upon King’s Landing for the wedding. They had all come through the gates by horse and carriage, none by sea. 

Traders perhaps? Coming just in time to fortify our stores for the upcoming plunder. 

So many fucking mouths to feed. I had seen them endlessly pour through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, and polished steel – their banners displaying the sigil of house Lannister, Baratheon, Tully, and I could’ve sworn I saw a direwolf banner among them. Would the Starks truly find a Targaryen wedding of such importance that they would bother dragging themselves out of their frozen pits? It was to be a grand affair, to be sure. A celebration with tourneys, hunts, feasts, and dancing, to last for at least a fortnight.

If I had it my way, I would escape and race the wind on Vhagar. But mother’s orders were a bittersweet curse. We were to be on our best behavior, a euphemism for me babysitting my nuisance of a brother, to ensure he does not imbibe every wine cask in the keep, and to hearten my sweet sister who always grew gauche in social gatherings. 

One could hardly fathom I was the youngest.

But the chief of my worries was Aegon. He already had an inclination of getting unreasonable drunk on a plain day. I shuddered to think of the lengths he might go to in tribute to his own nuptials.

Unease filled my gut.

But it wasn’t the vigil of my siblings that rendered me apprehensive.

As I drew close enough that I could make out the banners, I realized that these were no ordinary trading ships. In fact, these weren’t traders at all. I tugged at the reins and Vhagar gathered air beneath her leather and sprung up high, casting her mighty shadow atop the vessels. 

Memories consumed me like a bad aftertaste. The sigil-emblazoned sails draped across the masts below needed no introduction. The seahorse and the three-headed black dragon caught the wind. 

It could only mean one thing…

The thought got knocked right out of me as a bone-jarring impact to Vhagar’s thorax threw me off my saddle. Her earsplitting roar resounded across the blackwater, as I tumbled down her back. Instinctively, I snagged my wrist through a loop in her saddle ropes, dangling precariously until she steadied herself. I hauled myself back up, heart hammering in my chest, adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream. I scouted the skies for an attacker in a glassy bewilderment, growing acrimoniously aware of my disability. But the firmament was still and empty. 

What in the Seven Hells?

Another blow. It knocked me aslant, and I felt fury consuming me like poison. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the saddle horn and twisted the reins twice ‘round my forearm, and perceived every muscle of Vhagar’s back contracting beneath me, waiting to charge. 

Who would dare challenge me?

A flicker of movement caught my eye. A shape, shrouded beneath Vhagar’s wing membranes, was soaring alongside us. And when I turned to look, my eye met a stranger, masked and cloaked, stalking us on a dragon as black and swift as a raven. But the beast was miniscule in relation, just the age to breathe fire, and yet had nearly forced me to meet the gods. 

Humiliation morphed into a blinding rage that seethed through my veins and marred my vision with a red mist. “Ossēnagon, Vhagar!” Kill. I growled, and steered her toward the trespasser. But the figure crouched down in their saddle, and their dragon dove towards the city. 

Fucking craven.

We went after them. Their descent was swift and inaudible, while mine was slow and thunderous like a moving mountain. The pale orange rooftops of King’s Landing, bleached from the summer’s scorching sun, spread out like a vast rust beneath our darkening shadows. I pursued them to the Hill of Rhaenys, where we landed opposite each other outside the crypts of the dragonpit. 

Dismounting, I started towards them, each step a measured threat. The steel of my dagger sang its lethal warning as I drew it from my scabbard. But the stranger stood their ground, defiance flickering in their shadowed form. My anger, already a simmering cauldron, boiled over. I closed the distance between up, a growl ripping from my throat, raw and primal.

“You!” The word barely a breath before my blade bit their throat. A desperate struggle ensued, but my palm collared the nape of their neck, locking them to the steel. A Kingsguard’s alarming exclaims sounded in the distance, but the words faded underwater. 

“The Stranger requests an audience.” The contiguity drowned my voice into a whisper. I took pleasure in that I towered over them, and felt their hot, humid breath against me, hitching beneath the sharp edge.

“My prince!” Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, came running towards us. His voice, booming like thunder, always sufficed in snapping the whole court to attention. But it wasn’t his timber which stirred me this time. “Let her go!” 

His words carried me out of my raging inferno.

Her?

I blinked through my apprehension and scavenged the stranger’s frame with my eye, as if I’d awoken from a dream and seen them for the first time. A tug, a rustle, and their hood fell back and settled around their shoulders. 

A wave of ice ran down my spine. 

It was like seeing a ghost. The protagonist of all my nightmares coming alive, ready to haunt me. 

Aylana Velaryon.

Her eyes, the color of sunlit amber flicked with gold, held mine with an unsettling intensity. She seemed to see right through me, demanding answers I could not provide. Then, a knowing smile played on her lips.

“Skoros iksos pirta, kepus?” What’s wrong, uncle? A sardonic edge laced her voice. “Gaomagon ao daor gīmigon issa?” Do you not remember me?

The words hit me like a physical blow. I swallowed, stunned by her High Valyrian.

For a moment, I believe I stood petrified, unable to tear my gaze from her, unable to utter a word.

A torrent of questions, accusations, apologies – years of unspoken turmoil – churned within me. But now, with her life literally in my hands, the words deserted me. My tongue, usually an agile weapon, felt like lead. This was the person who had haunted my every waking and sleeping thought for years, and all I could manage was a stunned silence. Perhaps my countenance spoke volumes where my voice failed.

She echoed the girl I remembered, but time had woven its changes. I had to take it all in. Her voice, saccharine and laced with a hint of mockery, was a stark contrast to the playful child I held in memory. Her once youthful features had sharpened, cheekbones higher, lips fuller. Then, my gaze, fell upon the one jarring element – a crimson scar that snaked across her left eyebrow, expressing a raw pink sheen beneath a shell of transparent skin. Years had passed, yet the wound looked fresh.

The accident.

My jaw tightened as venom seethed through my veins.

I could still see her crumpled, lifeless form in the dirt, her skull cracked open, every time I closed my eye.

And I was holding the bloody rock.

Shame coiled in my gut like a suffocating weight. I could not bear to look at her.

“Some things never change,” she said facetiously. “Don’t you agree, uncle?”

Shit.

I was still holding my knife to her throat. I recoiled with such force that the effort pushed her back as well. A bright seam of red welled up at the lip where my blade had kissed her and painted the length of her neck like dark fruit. 

I reviled myself. I had tried to kill her. Again. 

But she just smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. As if we were still kids and she had made a humorous jest.

I realized I had been holding my breath when a gasp escaped my lips and air rushed back into my lungs. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy.

“Aylana.” I spoke her name derisively without intending to, as I sheathed the knife at my waist where my gaze lingered a moment, dreading to meet hers. 

My stomach turned. I never used to call her that. It sounded so formal and distant on my tongue, just like ‘uncle’ on hers. But that’s what we were to each other now - our friendship no more than a distant memory. I no longer assumed myself worthy of her alias. I had lost that privilege. Just as I had lost my friend. 

The weight of the past pressed down on me, suffocating.

Agitation infiltrated my mind and my whole disposition must have come off as reticent and hostile. I watched her pull her gloves off finger by finger and release the clasp of her cloak. There was an attitude in her movements and a poise in her posture. Beneath she was dressed in sable flying leathers that clung tightly to her body. 

I averted my gaze. 

Frustration clawed at my chest, and whatever other feeling it was that made my mouth dry and my palms clammy. 

“You look well, nuncle,” she said. 

My eye met hers and I noted them briefly flicker across my eyepatch. Her scrutiny made the leather singe my skin with awareness. Growing diffident, I looked away. 

“Hmmph,” I said, my favorite expression of disdain. 

I knew what she was implying. That if I had only listened to her that night, instead of acting like an arrogant scoundrel, I wouldn’t be looking like a eunuch with one eye at present.

And she was right in mocking me. If her insults were the currency for my betrayal, I would gladly become a spendthrift.

My breathing shallowed as I gazed at the damage I’d caused. I had to get out of there. 

“I hope we did not frighten you earlier,” she said, interrupting my escape. “I only thought I might test the mettle of the largest dragon in the world. She truly is remarkable. A fair exchange, to be sure.” 

I turned to look at her, and I didn’t know what I must’ve looked like, because the playful smile that had been dancing between her lips our entire encounter, vanished. There it is, I thought. The realization. The Aemond you knew is gone. This is the monster you forged.

“Ser Harrold,” I said. “Escort the princess to the Red Keep. And make sure she does not test the mettle of anyone else in the city.”

“Certainly, my prince,” said Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander who was the very first person to see my face after the loss of my eye. This fact made him remarkably significant somehow.

I mounted Vhagar and took to the sky, watching Aylana and Nymax blur into mere specks on a canvas. 

This would be a celebration I was sure to remember…

More chapters

[ganondoodle]

okay i typed this in a reply but i need to say this more detailed here too, the way totk dealt with horses (and stables) is bad and worse than botw imo (yes i can rant about that too, these weird choices are in every little spot in totk, its almost impressive)

in a game that lets you build cars and stupid flying maschines, towers that shoot you into the stratosphere AND teleporting points all over the place, the chance is already low that you use a horse- though i would be one of them bc i love horses and hate building and didnt find it fun at all-

(also i almost never used any parts i had with me bc you cant put them back and your dumb vehicles despawn as soon as you dont look at them- also a negative thing about that system that reinforces the feeling of actually using it being more punishing than rewarding with the added bonus of the good ol saving your health potions forever problem)

-and something i DID like was that you can have more horses and the ... one.. new color (the lil spots but only AFTER you do that one quest in the spy post)

the stable points seemed like a neat idea, but like so many things, are utterly cheatable, imo the system should have only given you a point when you visit a new stable, so you actually have to go around and visit them all

(also .. add new stables, like mini ones or sth that dont offer beds- you dont need that anyway- so you have more places in which you can get them ... why did they remove some of them anyway, shouldn there be MORE now that the land is supposedly healing/being repaired? especially the one next to the big canyon, its so empty there it would have the perfect place for sth like a new settlement or a big boss arena but no its more empty than it was before, why?? and then putting yet another repeating annoying quest there in that weirld empty place?? i just dont get it)

letting you farm points by sleeping at a stable or bringing in a horse gives you LESS incentive to actually go around the world bc you can just farm it there

(and if that was done so youd 'discover' the malanya talks to you in your sleep 'secret' ... that is literally told to you, and if its bc you dont want to force players to go around and find every stable to get all those rewards ... why do you have 140 or whatver caves then with the majority of them being the literal same thing over and over ... to make people actually use the sleeping thing there? .. why, who uses that anyway, and farming points by sleeping there .. what the hell does that add? AND THEN the stupid sleep over tickets, probably the most nothign reward ever, dont count?? i dont think i ever used one- it just all doesnt make any sense, everything plays against each other)

the upgrading system for your horse is .. once again, a neat idea horribly executed, you have to go find malanya to upgrade them, and similarly stupidly like the fairies, they only tell you what food you need for what upgrade when you are there .. or when you are sleeping in the special tm bed at a stable, randomly, one food, bc the quantity changes too

which is just so ??????????? let me go and do a quest that rewards you with a lil booklet in which you can look up what an upgrade costs, or let the stables have that, either as a list or in the menu when selecting a horse or something?? (also why the hell is malanya in a different spot anyway, like, it feels like a modder just plopped them over there, their og spot is just empty now - except for yet again a stupid filler quest for .. another big horse and a yaaaaaaaaays crystal shrine quest- ... the spot is even still called spring of the horse god .... its so stupid, just like the fairy shuffling around, like you really couldnt think of a better way to reuse that concept other than to ... move it to a different spot in the same map and map level???? and not change anything in their og spot except idk, put a hole in the map ... for one of them like .. its like they moved them around last minute just to have the semblance of things being 'changed' with no regard what makes a change actually feel like one and what just feels like, pick up thing, click on random spot on map, drop thing- its like that for the fairies and shrines too, its so dumb and .. feels disrepectful to botw and how much thought seemed to have went into these spots that were clearly built about those things)

and like it couldnt get WORSE, they cut off the paths that horses follow automatically with one of those miasma buttholes (sorry its just a hole cut into the map, it doesnt even look like miasma burst through, it just .. cut out) a monster camp (that RESPAWNS, i thought those camps you clear with a quest would stay clear, but that would make sense, so of course it respawns and you can do the frame rate killer quest over and over yippieee) or otherwise like, with a big rock or a broken bridge-

and there is NO WAY to create a new path or fix or move anything in a game ABOUT BUILDING supposedly, like you needed more reasons to never use a horse????? i liked jsut hopping on and letting them follow a path and chill looking at the landscape, you cant do this here, and you cant even excuse it with 'its bc of the theme' as in, stuff is destroyed bc calamity 1.5 or whatever bc nothing in the game makes it feel like theres anything actually at stake, but the real crime is to make it not be fixable. WHY??? link moves entire buildings with ease but cant move one freaking rock that fell into a river?????? you swing around logs like a club but cant fix a bridge so your horse can get over it??????????????????????????????

[consoledacup]

When that romance novel teaser aired, and I was subsequently sent into the stratosphere of seeing Colin and Penelope simply looking at each other in front of a mirror, I remember so many online being like, I don't go here, but this height difference!

Their height difference is obviously adorable. But I think all of the ways their physical stature is played around with, since the start of the series, is also really interesting.

In the very first episode, Colin sweeps Penelope off her feet by asking her to dance. And while he's hamming it up, she's staring up at him adoringly, firmly solidifying his pedestal.

In season 2, right after Colin visits Marina, Penelope stops him on the steps. I wonder if Marina's words about Penelope are playing in his mind. To him, Penelope was the only one in that situation who acted above reproach. He told her as much before he left to go abroad. And as he expresses his regret for his part in Marina's current circumstances, he also disparages Whistledown. I think this might be the beginning of Colin placing Penelope up on her pedestal. Yet, Whistledown literally towers over him.

And then the most significant use of height difference interplay thus far is implemented when Colin kneels before her in the carriage, supplicating himself.

We of course have the magnificent modiste street scene where they visually illustrate their power struggle.

But I have to say that the wedding scene has one of my very favorite shots of them. It's right after that stunning handhold. They then face the entire ton together, and to me, they've never looked so small. Even though Colin is taller, they look so innocent, and I'm reminded by how young they really are.

They've really helped each other grow this season, but they also have so much more growing to do. And I have no doubt that they will grow together.

Penelope might be small in stature, but she is mighty in character. And Colin does not have to be larger than life to deserve Penelope's love and devotion.

[gl1tchy-4rt]

MORE ELDRITCH LORE

Hello everyone!

Sorry For not posting for a while...

I was busy with school but now I'm back! And I'm going to continue with The Eldritch Tower AU, specifically with the forms they can take

Using our beloved Gustavo as example!

Look at him :) what horrors is he going to expose us to? I don't know but we are going to find out! HEY @technically-a-kiwi COME SEE THE HORRORS

Enjoy!

WARNING: Body Horror, Guts, Spoiler of The end of Evangelion (the mote of light part) And Very, very long post!!

• Human (Eldritch Human)

Their human part and the form they take to interact with The Mortals, suspected to be their original form before 'The Elder of the beginning' turned them into Elder horrors.

Usually they are as normal and expressive as most humans, all of them with their own distinct personality... That's until they start to tap into their powers, when that happens they tend to go quiet and calm in order to not lose control.

• Glimpse to The Eldritch

Even when they had stated and proved their Eldritch status, or when they don't even remember being Eldritch (Yes, that can happen in some realities), Humans still try to push their buttons, or sometimes some Humans can try to attack them for no good reason: That's when they access this form

A little glimpse of their true form to tell humans to back away or bad things will happen, when they have to use large amount of powers they take this form.

Their followers and Half-Eldritches can take this form, often triggered by the Elder's power.

• Mini Eldritch

The Mini Eldritch form is tricky since it can be multiple forms, from angel-like or otherworldly to humanoid or animal-like, let's take a look at these two examples:

Tendril-like: A mass of eyes, fleshy tendrils and veins with a shape that vaguely resembles a human torso, it usually grows to cling and grab unto the walls and ceiling, they take this form when recovering from mayor injuries, sometimes during their sleep and when they... "Trully" stretch their limbs.

Humanoid EVA-Like: A 4-5 story tall humanoid monster with a "human exoskeleton" it's a smaller version of their full Eldritch form, it's more powerfull than "The Glimpse" but also way more unstable, Full of tumors and bones sticking out, This form is usually triggered when the Eldritch is Threaten.

• Full Eldritch

When Humans fool too much with the Eldritch, then they stick their noses there they shouldn't, even when some clearely overworldly men tell them not to do so, they can cause an "Early awakening" Eldritch are only meant to wake when the Sun dies and it consumes The Earth but here we are...

An Awake, City-sized, Underdeveloped Elder God, Yet it's more than capeble to put an end to this World...

To avoid feeling unnecessary trauma and pain, it completely shuts down it's human side, leaving a monster that only runs on instincts.

It's flesh and bones melted and full of tumors, Pulsating vains and rotting flesh, a body falling apart trying to protect it's insides... why trying so desperatly to survive?

So it can Truly awake...

• True Eldritch

Finally it separates from it's cumbersome body, it shows it's True Full form, It spreads it's wings as it's body acomodates to the laws of this universe, as it's glow drowns the skies, it's form extends beyond the stratosphere, becoming this massive, winged Elder God.

It finally reconects with it's Human side once again, it's human part, it's mind and emotions, after so much pain and "bottling up" itself...

It's free.

It feels Liberating, Euphoric… The others can feel it's joy, The other Elders, The Half-eldritch, It's closest followers, they can feel it, they free themselfs from their own bodies to Join the Liberated.

If The Earth is safe, they just leave, Flying endlessly through space, in eachothers company until The Heat death of the universe, then it's time to move on to a new life and another reality.

If The Earth is Too far gone, they stay a bit longer and can upon... a bit of help...

• "Mote of Light"

Born from the Blood of the Eldritch and The compassion of the Human, Made of the same Flesh of it's True Form and taking the form of his Human Form...

It can't speak or really think, but they are really friendly and inocent, they can break the laws of physicics in order to complete their only task, their only purpose... "Liberate" people, Introducing themselfs in a friendly manner to the humans and Releasing them from their bodies, letting their souls go to the afterlife were they will enjoy eternity.

Normally only one appears, which is quickly dispossed of, but when the "Early awakening" happens and The Earth is too far gone, Billions of them flood the world, They take all the living beings in the world, leaving The Earth as a baren wasteland...

They are kinda like the Rei clones in the ending of "The End of Evangelion"

---------------------------------------------

HOLY SHIT DID I WENT ALL OUT WITH THIS 0_0

Anyways, As i mentioned, i was pretty busy with school but now and next week im free of work!!

So i'll keep of posting more Pizza content :)

Okay everyone that's all for this Post!

Buh-bye y'all!! And let me know if you want more Pizza Lore ;)

[orqheuss]

In any version of reality

(Ominis Gaunt/F!Reader FLUFF)

Reincarnation!Soulmate AU

Summary:

In the world of soulmates, ties told through memories of past lives and reincarnation, Ominis was sure that he had to be a very new soul. *** Ominis Gaunt was more sure than anything in his life that he did not have a soulmate. He had heard tales from others about their experiences, how lovely it was to finally find the one you had been searching for through any timeline, and he had resigned himself to the fact that his soul was too new to have a past life. But, after hearing you sing in the deserted music room sends him on a journey back in time, could he have truly found the person he had been longing for since before the dawn of creation?

Story is based off of "Epic iii" from the Hadestown 2017 Original Cast Recording.

Word Count: 4.7k

In the world of soulmates, ties told through memories of past lives and reincarnation, Ominis was sure that he had to be a very new soul. He had heard stories told through grapevines, whispers in the night of people finding their loves at a young age; how their timeless histories came flooding back to them like a torrential downpour of emotion they couldn’t identify until they tasted their loves name on their lips— heard their voice flitter through their ears like a soft ocean breeze for the first time. Some said it happened suddenly, as soon as they brushed against each other or looked into each other's eyes for the first time. Those people said it was like being struck by a falling star, burning to the touch and gloriously wonderful all at the same time. Some said it happened gradually, after years and years of knowing each other, only to be triggered by an oddly familiar moment in time or a feeling, like a song murmured from an ancient gramophone in the corner of a room they’d long forgotten about. Those people said it was warm, like a blanket you’d just cast a drying charm on— like they were coming home after a long trip and the hearth was already lit for their arrival. No matter how much he longed to tell stories like this himself, how much he yearned to find that grand, timeless love that he could only read about in books, the universe did not have a past life to spare him. 

For a while he blamed his parents, like they were the ones that ripped him into the world before one of the many ghosts floating around in the stratosphere could latch onto him and call him theirs, but he knew that they had no control over ethereal beings like that. Then, he blamed his disability for his woebegone-ness. Every story he had ever heard told tales of looking into their soulmate's eyes and seeing the world as it was for the first time— could it be that because he could not see he would never know the feeling of holding someone's gaze and seeing yourself as you truly were the day your ageless soul was born into the world like a bursting supernova? Not knowing anyone else that suffered the same blindness as him, he didn’t have anything else to go off of. And so, that was the only answer his feebly human mind could give him— the only thing that actually made sense in his brain.

Being born without sight had never really bothered Ominis much until he got to Hogwarts. His childhood home was dreadfully quiet, and very few members of his family were home at a time, so he didn’t have any sounds invading his sensitive ears very often. All of that changed as soon as he crossed the threshold of the grandiloquent school. The tall ceilings echoed all voices like a cathedral tower echoed the hymns of a choir— he knew everyone's business better than his own, sometimes before his peers even learned of it themselves. With that came the knowledge of everyone's soulmate encounters, each story different from the last but just as magical each time. Down the castle stairs, tucked away in the corner near the one-eyed witch, Ominis heard Adelaide Oakes recount her story of brushing against a muggle boy in her village and seeing a post-colonial British soldier standing at her doorstep, stretches of farmland spanning farther than her eyes can see over his shoulder. In potions, he heard Garreth Weasley whisper to his cauldron partner about how he had known his soulmate for years, only realizing that they were meant to be after seeing them lounging on the shore of the pond behind his house— one moment they were strewn across the damp, summer-green grass, and the next they were curled around his past in a bed made of purple silk, the Paris skyline just beyond his reach through their bay windowed apartment. He could distinctly recall all of the details of Sebastian’s revelation, having heard how he saw himself galloping through a field of flowers with a lovely princesses arms wrapped around his waist, pressing her delicate fingerprints into his shiny chain-mail armor as they laughed into the sun many a time before drifting off into a dreamless sleep in their common room. Even Leander Prewett found his one true match, spinning the tale to anyone who would hear in their herbology class about how he was a British king once, married to a beautiful woman dressed in green with a matching choker necklace of pearls and emeralds— how the large “B” charm caught the light just right during their private garden strolls to make her blue eyes sparkle (Ominis also remembered the next day when he stumbled upon the frazzled Gryffindor in the library annex, filled with dread as he poured quite anxiously through the books and reading about that particular necklace, as well as the pretty neck that went along with it. Poor sod). 

No, Ominis Gaunt had not found his soulmate yet, nor did he think he ever would, and he was perfectly fine with that, thank you very much. 

At least, that’s what he told everyone when they asked. 

What didn’t help his case, unfortunately, was that he was irrevocably and incandescently infatuated with the new fifth year. It had taken him some time to get used to their presence in his inner circle. All of his friends had a very distinct magical signature that he memorized after knowing them for some time— every magical being had one, really. Magic to Ominis felt like the fizz of cider against his skin, some slightly more carbonated than others and carrying a different taste in his mouth. Anne felt like the sparkling citrus water that the kitchens would bring out on particularly hot days before finals. Sebastian felt like the burn of firewhiskey on an autumn night, the bonfire in the center of the circle warming the tips of his nose and ears. Both were refreshing and lovely in their own right, but his newest friend was something he had never felt before. He was never able to feel someone else's soul under their skin and determine how old it was, but there was no way you were a young, or even new soul like he was. Even your magic felt old. Your signature was the most distinct one he had ever felt in his short life; it wasn’t a soft fizz like the others, or a pleasant warmth, it was a firework in his chest. You smelled like the smoke after a particularly rowdy Guy Fawkes Night and felt like tiny smoldering ashes falling against his skin, not too hot, but more of a pleasant kiss of heat. He got used to your voice quickly, no matter how your laugh made his knees want to buckle and cause his heart to race faster than a stampeding graphorn, but your magic took some time, even after he found out about your proclivity to ancient magic. There was something so distinctly familiar about it to him, like he had met you before coming to the castle. He didn’t recall ever doing so, but his family threw so many parties in his youth he wouldn’t really question it if he did. Once he started to get used to the feeling, maybe even crave it a little, he realized it was too late to stop the tumble his feelings were taking off your sweet, summer-side cliff. 

Ominis knew that you hadn’t found your soulmate yet, but it was only a matter of time before your soft brushes and lingering stares disappeared into the air like everything else in his life. He was doomed to never have anyone by his side, but he knew deep in his heart that you were not destined for loneliness like he was. You were a flowering weeping willow at the edge of a monumental body of water, and he the lowly lake lapping at your petals as they fell, forever in the others orbit but never within arms reach. 

That’s how Ominis found himself wandering that day, high up the many stairs of the magical castle and steadily walking towards the deserted music room, his favorite place as of late. Very few people knew where the room was, let alone that the school even had a music room to begin with. Here, he could wallow in his self pity with only the soft sound of his piano to keep him company. About a week ago a line of melody came to him in his dreams, soft and sweet but full of so much empty melancholy that he was on his feet at that very instant, quickly jotting down the notation on one of the many pieces of sheet music that he had lying around his desk. Ever since then, he had gone to the musical tower in the sky to sit by his lonesome and chart out chords like constellations. The song was ethereal to his ears, something that came from the universe itself as a gift that he was destined to write. Ominis was nearly done with it after hours of slaving over the parchment and quill, his fingertips surely staining the ivory keys of the baby grand piano to the point where the house elves despised his presence. He was like a man possessed whenever the melody came to mind, like something in the world was trying to tell him something very important but it couldn’t find the words to do so. The notes rose and fell like a bird flying south for the winter, wings stretched across the sky, swooping and diving only to rise again and kiss the sun. Some parts felt like a walk through a beautiful meadow, the sun on his shoulders and the wind blowing through his hair. Others were dark, like descending a staircase into the very center of the world with no light to guide you, just its ghostly melody to call you home. And some were both at the same time— a shady spot under a corkscrewed sycamore, tiny graves for the woodland creatures of the forest taken over by the wilds of nature, hidden off the beaten path in lamentable isolation. It told a story of everlasting, encompassing love that was ripped away too soon, found again after searching every possible and impossible place for their hand to hold, only to have to part ways once again until their effervescent hereafter. It reminded him of some of the muggle mythology he picked up last year for some light reading during one of his bouts of nightmares— how each tale began weaving together a love that would break the very fabric of the universe until it was taken from the pair by Fates' terrible string. The blond could tell that the song needed lyrics to be complete; Ominis was many things, but he was not a poet. So, much like his future to come, the song would forever remain unfinished. Even still, his forlorn melody kept him company, and he was perfectly fine with that. 

Today was different; Ominis knew that as soon as he rounded the bend to the music room and felt a presence inside. The blond cursed to himself, resigned to find another corner of the castle to mope in his hopeless romanticism for the time being until the other person left. He turned on his heel and was about to leave when a sound stopped him in his tracks, his ears pricking up like a startled deer. From the crack in the door came a haunting voice, soothing through a melody that was vaguely familiar to the boy. He curiously took a few steps closer, pressing his ear to the tiny opening to hear better. The voice was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. Its tone was clear like the church bells outside his family home, soaring around the room up to the top of its spiraled ceilings and diving downwards towards the bordeaux patterned cherry floor. It caught the acoustics of the room like a wind chime in the beginnings of spring, and his entire body visibly softened at each lift and fall of its gentle ballad. Ominis listened intently to the lyrics as they made their way through his ears, swirling around his brain and kissing him just behind the eyes with winsome adoration. 

Heavy and hard is the heart of the king King of iron, king of steel The heart of the king loves everything Like the hammer loves the nail.

The woman’s voice was like honey in his favorite tea, soothing and with just the right amount of sweetness. Her dulcet tones took Ominis into their arms and waltzed with his heartstrings like two ghosts lost to time. He couldn’t help but keep listening, diving deeper and deeper into her saccharine song. 

But the heart of a man is a simple one Small and soft, flesh and blood And all that it loves is a woman A woman is all that it loves. And Hades is king of the scythe and the sword He covers the world in the color of rust He scrapes the sky and scars the earth And he comes down heavy and hard on us.

Hades. Something about the name shook the blond to his core, the word feeling strange at the tip of his tongue like a word he knew but couldn’t remember. Little flashes of light burst behind his closed eyes, bright but not painful, carrying the feeling of…grass under his feet? He wasn’t truly sure what he was feeling, but he knew it wasn’t the wooden floors of the hallway anymore. For a moment he could feel the luscious heat of the spring on his skin and hear the soft call of whippoorwills from the tree tops just beyond where he stood, even though it was a cold and stormy winter outside the stone fortress walls. He continued to listen to the song, careful to not let himself be known to the angel of music just out of his reach. 

But even that hardest of hearts unhardened Suddenly, when he saw her there Persephone in her mother's garden Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair. 

Persephone. Why was that name familiar too? Why could he suddenly feel the phantom of long, thick hair stream through his fingers like a waterfall, the tresses gently caressing his skin in a way that he only dreamed of? Ominis flexed his fingers, swaying his hand in the air to feel around for a sudden body in front of him; he found nothing there except dust and stale air. The scent of wildflowers invaded his nose harshly, leaving him twitching and fighting off a very unbecoming sneeze until the strong scent pittered away to a delicate gale of sugared anemone and aster flower. The taste of nectar and pollen were heavy on his tongue. He listened closer, eager to hear and experience more. There must be a charm on their voice, the boy reasoned. That had to be the reason he was experiencing all of these things so suddenly. 

The smell of the flowers she held in her hand And the pollen that fell from her fingertips And suddenly Hades was only a man With a taste of nectar upon his lips, singing: La la la la la la la…

It was like suddenly being dropped into the icy waters of the black lake. That melody, no wonder it was so familiar to him; it was the piece of music he had been working on nonstop for the past week! Just as the realization dawned on him, the magical aura of the person behind the door struck him harder than anything he had ever felt before— harder than when he had first felt it outside the Undercroft what felt like years ago. 

It was you. You were the one singing.

You were the missing piece to his lonely symphony. 

Seeing flashes of your past self did not feel like how Ominis originally thought. It wasn’t quick like a speeding bullet into the brain, or loud like a confringo smacking into the pillars of the Undercroft. The flashback started soft and hazy— his vision blackening around his normal shadows and all sense but sight returning first. First came his smell, his hearing, his touch, and his taste while he listened to your silvery cadence fade away into the heavens. All of the feelings that had come one at a time earlier suddenly slammed into him in an influx of sensations, shocking his system into a more startling consciousness than before. Lastly came his sight, coloring his once grey and silhouetted world with a plethora of hues that he had never heard of before. If the boy was being honest, in all the moments where he had imagined finding his soulmate, he hadn’t pictured anything at all. He had never known the gift of sight, so how could he truly prepare himself for what it meant to see? Was that what green was, in the grass below his shined oxfords? Was that blue, in the sky above that stretched on forever? Was that yellow, in the little bumblebee that buzzed around his head searching for a flower to land on? There was so much that he wanted to see, so much that he wanted to know now that he could. His subconscious reminded him that this was not the time for that though, when he spotted a figure bent at the waist in the garden just over the hill from him. 

Ominis gulped against the knot forming in his throat, the lump pounding with the beat of his heart just under his ribs as he stepped out of the trees and into the clearing. He had never seen a creature as beautiful as you before; it was like everything in his life had led up to this very moment of meeting. Watching the way your hair glimmered under the summer sun like the jewels adorning his home as you tended your mothers garden, he was nothing more than a man in the presence of a nymph of the forest— something otherworldly, something too beautiful to touch. The sun danced across your skin like the finest silk, creating star-kissed freckles at the apex of your shoulders and down your toned arms, and oh, how could he do anything but remove his hat from his head and gaze at you with awed, enraptured revelry? The air around you smelled like his future— like pomegranates and the promise of forever. He felt in his very being that you were his one love, far before he truly understood the meaning of the word. The emotion could not be named with words, only the feeling of coming home. All he knew is that he needed to know you more than he needed to breathe, more than he needed to eat and drink and sleep and live. Your souls sang in tandem with each other, calling your names into the void and waiting for the shout to come back to them— to sing with them forevermore. Ominis was useless under your charm, like a siren luring an unsuspecting but oh so willing sailor to his doom under the frothing sea waves. He had never spoken to you, but he knew in that moment he would happily die by your hand if you would just meet his gaze one time. He would build whole worlds for you if that was what you wished— tear down entire galaxies if it would make you smile his way. 

All of his dreams came true seconds later when you stood from your hunched position, tossing your hair over your shoulder in the intricate braid you wore, each strand decorated with the honeysuckle that bloomed at your feet, before turning and staring at the man before you. You startled at first, unaware that you were being admired for so long by someone so breathtaking. The blond haired beauty under your maple tree  was like winter incarnate. His hair was quiffed and slicked away from his face, allowing you to see his strong jaw and perfectly sculpted facial structure. Your eyes drank him in like a garden in a drought with his tasteful three-piece suit, black from the collar at his neck to the wing-tips of his shoes— an unusual color for somewhere so sunny. He was as pale as fresh fallen snow with tiny moles breaking up the color— birdseed trapped in a thin layer of ice. He would be called monochrome if not for his eyes. They reminded you of the Grecian sea, those eyes. Like two pools of seafoam, or two small bouquets of baby's breath and cornflower. Your heart called to him like a lighthouse across a stormy ocean. Fate rarely ruled your life, you’d decided that from a young age after listening to the warnings of your mother, but if the Fates brought you him, you would listen to their words from now on. With one glance it felt like you had known him for years, and yet you didn’t even know his name. He was your past, your present, maybe even your future if you allowed it. He was not one of the flowers like you, more like one of the dead, but you’d happily plant your gardens in his domain. You’d plant flowers that thrived in the dark and the cold, flowers that only bloomed under moonlight, if it meant the universe would be kind enough to let you keep him. 

It was you that spoke first, breaking the spellbound trance you both were in from the first moment of contact. “Hi…” 

Your voice was like the sweetest music ever played— sweeter than those of the muses, those of the deific. They were nothing, for it was you who was truly divine. He was the moon, and how he longed to know the sun. 

His voice was little more than a breath as he murmured in return, still caught up in the sheer transcendence of your beauty. “Hello…”

Your soft laugh shook him from his stupor, softening the frozen heart in his chest as you warmed him in both body and soul. He cleared his throat, shifting his feet for a moment before taking a bold but respectful step forwards, his hand reaching out for yours like a sunflower reaching towards the brightest star in the sky. Around you, the mockingbirds began to sing a tune for your love. You couldn’t help but think it was familiar, like something from a dream you’d had long ago. Their soft song echoed through the trees, each new whistle bringing a new melodious harmony. 

La la la la la la la~

“My name is Hades,” he said, the softest smile you had ever seen turning the corners of his mouth. 

You return his gaze shyly. There was a smear of dirt across your face, painted across the turn of your nose and the rosy apple of your right cheek like a thick splattering of freckles. The man thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. 

“Persephone,” you whispered, smiling ruefully at the flustered pink that colored his face. “What took you so long?”

In a moment it was all over— Ominis’ world dyed grey once again and only the shadows of the things around him visible. Never had he mourned his sight before, but before he had not known the beauty of seeing the night sky in your eyes; he did not know the delightful turn of your lip when you grinned or the crinkle of your nose when you laughed. He knew now that you were not the thing that he could not have, you were the thing that the universe created just for him to hold. You and him were not just a weeping willow and a babbling brook; you were the water that breathed life into your roots and the tree that fed the fish under his waves. You were not simply the sun and the moon, passing constantly but never crossing paths for long; you were an eclipse, two celestial beings dancing together and showering the world with your lovely glow. 

You both had done this dance before many a time— taken many a shape before. How could he have ever thought of you as anything other than his other half, his soulmate, his world? He revolved around you, and your benign gravity kept him steady. 

That pull was why he had just enough courage to push open the door to the music room, stepping into the sunlit space and basking in the feeling of your seraph-like presence. Ominis knew exactly where you were when he spoke, his soul knowing the feeling of yours for longer than this earth had been breathing. 

“Persephone.” It was a breath. A whisper. A prayer. 

You looked at him like he hung the very stars you love so much in the sky. There was no one else in that moment, just the two of you and the soft echo of your past lingering in the lines of sheet music strewn across the piano bench. 

“Hades,” you simpered, a smile glowing in your voice. 

It was moments later that he was upon you, hugging you like your body needed to be a part of his, kissing you like you were the oxygen he needed to live. You met him with the same enthusiasm, finally whole after years of being apart. You pressed your face into his neck, soothing tiny kisses along any skin you can reach, stretching from his collarbones to the tip of his nose. He smiled down at you, his hands reaching up to cradle your face like he was holding starlight in his palms. 

“I never thought I would find you again.” 

You laugh, your own hands reaching up to cover his. His heart skips a beat when you nuzzle into his skin. “I knew we would find each other again, just as I knew the sun would rise again every morning.” 

He was frowning now, a look that did not suit his face in the slightest. He couldn’t help but feel insecure after his years of festering in his terrible self worth. “But how?” 

You flipped his world on its axis, removing his hands from your face and in turn placing your palms upon his, caressing your thumb along his jawbone. “Ominis, my darling Hades, did you think I ate those pomegranate seeds unwillingly? Did you think I did not wish to fall into your darkness with flowers in my hair?” You stood on your toes, bringing his face down further and raising yours to rest your temple against his. You found your happiness in his tiny smile. “My love, I chose you that day in the garden. I would find you in any lifetime, any version of reality that calls our name. I would never let you stay too far from me, that I promise to the gods themselves.” 

He sealed your words with a kiss, accepting and agreeing with your terms proudly and eagerly. Never would you ever separate again. 

And so there you stayed that day, curled in the far corner of the music room with your soft, no longer so lonely melody singing from the baby grand piano. You took turns feeding each other grapes from the vine, laughing like you were the world's sunlight and lounging under the tresses of your own created sky. Behind that, now closed, door was the real world, a terrible thing that brought torment and woe to even the happiest of souls, but in that little space at the top of the tower, you had found your own personal cosmos. 

The king of the dead had finally found his queen of the flowers once again. 

like what you read? here's more!

[marenwithanm]

I'm watching my brother start playing Wind Waker, and I forgot how often Link gets slammed into walls?? I remembered the forsaken fortress, but then when the tower of gods rises he just gets flung into the stratosphere?? Not to mention him getting punched in the face by ganondorf like 5 times. The poor boy is lucky he doesn't have a concussion, or at the very least a broken nose!

[emaadsidiki]

Classic Vegas 🏙️

[h50europe]

9-1-1 - Black Hawk Down

(Helicopter crash, Angst)

It was supposed to be a routine flight. Tommy climbed into the cockpit of the UH-60M Black Hawk and immediately felt like he had never left. He put on his helmet, grabbed the checklist and started to run it. Tommy remembered his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq and how this beast had become one of his closest comrades. Beast, he chuckled. That was Evan's nickname for him. He owned it to their first night together, where Tommy surprised Evan with his stamina and some other tricks that had left the younger man craving for more and sending him into the stratosphere as he came hard while a multiple orgasm ripped through him.

Tommy bit his lower lip as his blood rushed south, reminding himself that he had a job to do and needed to focus. He flipped switches, checked the tanks, and meticulously followed the entire list. When he was done, he placed it in the co-pilot's seat and hit the start button. The twin General Electric T700-GE-701 turboshaft engines, each rated at 1,560 shaft horsepower, roared to life. The sound of the mighty blades was like music to Tommy's ears. He wished Evan could be with him, but he got a call about an hour ago and was ordered to the station. A fire at an industrial plant was threatening to get out of control. Dispatch had ordered all available engines to the scene. Tommy's only mission today was to fly the Black Hawk to Renegade airfield near Vegas. It should be a smooth flight. The weather forecast promised clear blue skies. A little turbulence was expected, but nothing troubling.

Tommy felt the familiar vibrations caused by the whirling rotor blades. Flying a Black Hawk was so different from the helicopters they used at LAFD Air Operations. Tommy radioed the tower and asked for a VFR departure: "Echo Lima Foxtrot, VFR departure east at or below 1,500 feet."

The tower replied: "Echo Lima Foxtrot, stay east of runway 10/28 at all times, east departure approved. You are cleared for takeoff from taxiway Bravo."

There was a static crackle, then a familiar voice came on and said, "Ground Control to Major Tom, have a save flight."

Tommy cackled, "I have no idea how you did that, Hen, but you rock."

"Copy that," she replied with a big smile on her face.

Hen was sitting in the tower next to one of the controllers. She had been training some of the employees in first aid today and had heard about Tommy and his Vegas trip. Grinning, she leaned back and watched him take off and then transition.

The estimated flight time was about 1.5 hours. Tommy felt relaxed and looked forward to the upcoming flight. He knew that flying over the desert could be challenging due to the absence of reference points and the constantly shifting sand caused by the wind. However, he was prepared to rely on his instruments to navigate through these conditions.

As the routine flight progressed, the atmosphere changed when the Black Hawk's responder signal was abruptly lost, and the helicopter vanished from the radar. Strangely, there was no distress call from Tommy. Meanwhile, Hen was packing her bags when she suddenly became aware of the chaos unfolding in the tower.

[arviyya]

Twisted - @rosekillermicrofic - 999 words

⬩Twisted hearts, twisted fates⬩

There is nothing Evan wants more than to touch Barty at any given moment. 

It's like a drug that seeps through his veins, igniting that fire that makes him vibrate right out of his skin. 

The feeling is exhilarating. But it’s also frustrating. 

Feeling any feelings at all, is always a bit much for Evan, but being completely consumed by them is another pain entirely. 

And yes, it is pain. 

It would be a lot easier to feel nothing at all. 

Evan thinks that if Barty felt the same, it might be simpler. But this suspicion is baseless. Everything Barty has done has only ever solidified his belief that Barty doesn't have feelings. 

Well, except anger.

Whenever Barty is angry, it fills the very air. And despite that tangible truth, it's obvious that Barty would prefer to pretend like it doesn't exist, channeling it into whatever unhinged humor, or idea that comes to him in the midst of that dysphoria. 

Evan can tell, though. He can always tell. 

Today is no exception. That morning at breakfast in the great hall, Barty received another letter from his father. 

It's not that his dad is that awful, not as awful as Evan's, and Barty often grapples with this, saying things like, "I know he hasn't hurt me like–like yours has," this always makes Evan shift, his shoulders tensing at the memories, "but I still hate him. I can't explain it. He just..." 

“He hurts you. Don't ever downplay that." 

Barty usually responds by waving Evan off, or acting like he isn't bothered, but Evan knows it's the truth. 

Just because Barty hasn't been hurt physically doesn't mean he hasn't been hurt. 

His father diminishes everything that Barty is, always attempting to make him feel useless, and unworthy. Constantly criticizing and scrutinizing every piece that makes him, him. 

Every piece that Evan loves.

Evan knows that his father is manipulating him. Attempting to shove him into a box he doesn't fit in, and Barty only ever ends up feeling like he isn't good enough. 

He never says this but Evan sees the way it manifests in his schoolwork, always outshining everyone around him, working twice as hard to prove himself. 

Evan only wishes that Barty could see himself the way Evan sees him.

The letter he received was an announcement that his family would be dining with the Greengrass’s over Christmas.

“Of All the things your father says to you, this is definitely not the worst. Spit it out, B. What's your deal?” Evan asks as they sit against the wall in the astronomy tower, a bottle of firewhiskey held loose in his hand. 

“I've been suspicious for months that father is trying to set me up with the Greengrass girl. It's sickening.” 

“She's not so bad.” Evan attempts to ignore the way his heart sinks into his stomach. 

“She's not the problem.” Barty sighs as he takes the bottle. “Not exactly. It's just… I want to do what I want to do. You know?” 

Evan glances over at his green eyes that send him into the stratosphere–every. single. time. “So what is it you want, B?”

“I just want to be free.” 

Silence falls over them, the words hanging heavy in the air. 

Evan knows how he feels. There are expectations that pull and twist Evan’s fate too. Sometimes, he simply can't breathe, suffocating from the path laid before him. The path that was chosen for him long ago. 

Maybe it's the alcohol. 

Maybe it’s the rarity of honesty. 

Maybe it's the way his heart twists in his chest, it's shards pressing against his lungs, ripping his skin, begging to be free, begging for Barty. 

Or maybe it’s just the loneliness that prompts Evan to put his arm around Barty’s shoulder, his fingers wrapping around the curve of his neck, pulling him closer with a small squeeze. 

It’s meant to be comforting, a small gesture to show Barty that he’a not alone. That freedom is something Evan longs for too, more than Barty can ever know. 

Barty leans into him, to Evan’s surprise, and he pulls from the bottle, emptying it and tossing it aside. 

“I know, B. Me too.” Evan closes his eyes, relishing in the closeness. He knows its temporary. “What would you do with it?”

“With what?” Barty’s voice is so quiet, and Evan doesn't catch how breathless he is, his mind static and focusing hard on the moment, lost in a buzz of alcohol and endorphins. 

“With your freedom…” Evan’s heart pounds so hard it hurts.

“I think you know what I would do.” 

Evan opens his eyes just enough to see Barty gazing up at him, one hand on his chest. He can feel Barty’s warm breath on his face, the scent of oak and firewhiskey filling his senses. He hadn't realized how close they were, how close Barty had gotten. His mind unable to catch up in a moment that seemed like a dream.

Suddenly, Barty’s hand tangles in Evan’s hair, a touch so gentle yet deprived. Time slows to a standstill, and Evan’s eyes flick between Barty’s as Barty leans in, lips hovering over his own.

“What… what–I…” 

“Shh, just…” 

Barty’s lips brush over his, soft and careful at first, and Evan swears his heart stops. 

It's only quiet for a moment before they are suddenly kissing with such ferocity it's like they are attempting to devour each other. 

It's an explosion. Like stars colliding. But instead of debris flying through space, it's their love shattering the promise of time. 

Whatever paths were set for them, have crumbled to dust. 

And with every kiss, every touch, every glance, every drop of blood beneath their skin, their fates twist and wind, reaching every corner of the universe. 

Every corner of time. 

Nothing will ever be the same after this. 

That much, Evan knows.

Whatever challenges they face, it's them. Always them. And nothing can shatter what they've found in each other. 

At least, Evan hopes.

[bekolxeram]

7x03 analysis part 3 — Stormy Weather

We have established in the last part that Tommy is actually trailing behind the hurricane, not flying directly into its eye. While the wind is weaker among the outer rainbands comparing to near the eyewall, these rainbands behave more like regular thunderstorms. This time, we are going to discuss the unique set of risks a thunderstorm brings to aviation. (If you want to learn more about or you want source on the nature of a hurricane's outer rainbands, you can read section 8 of this paper.)

Anatomy of a thunderstorm

A thunderstorm typically happens in a cumulonimbus cloud (CB). It is a tower of cloud built up from the large amount of evaporated water vapor from the ground. The genesis of a thunderstorm requires 3 ingredients:

High humidity

Unstable air

A lifting mechanism

A cloud is made out of water droplets and/or ice crystals, so naturally a thunderstorm needs moist air.

Unstable air means an air mass that will keep rising or falling once you give it a nudge, typically due to large difference of temperature between warm surface air heated by the sun and cool air high up in the sky. As warm air is less dense than cool air, it floats into the sky, while cooler air sinks down.

While air heated by the sun eventually rises on its own due to density change, it can also be lifted up physically by terrain like mountains, or weather fronts wedging a warmer air mass on top of a cooler one.

The life cycle of a thunderstorm can be divided into 3 distinct phases: cumulus stage, mature stage and dissipating stage.

In the cumulus stage, the cloud is dominated by upward movement of air from the ground. Water vapor condenses when it gets high enough in the sky, and since condensation releases more heat, the process heats up surrounding air further, hence contributing to more air rising, forming a cumulus cloud. (Cumulus meaning "heap" or "pile" in Latin.)

The humid updrafts stop being able to rise further when they encounter a warmer air mass and start going horizontally outward instead, giving the cloud a flat-top anvil shape. The highest a cloud can grow is typically at the tropopause, but in rare cases powerful enough updrafts can blow right past the boundary layer into the stratosphere.

At the same time, water droplets continuously lifted up by updrafts bump into each other and coalesce into bigger drops. If the environment around them (mostly the case once they get high enough) is below freezing point, they also start freezing into ice crystals. Eventually, the ice crystals and/or water droplets grow so heavy that the air currents can no longer support their weight, so they start falling down to the ground, dragging along surrounding air, creating downdrafts.

When updrafts and downdrafts exist at the same time, the thunderstorm has officially entered its mature stage. The cloud can now be classified as a cumulonimbus once precipitation starts. Falling ice crystals typically melt back into liquid water once it reach the warmer environment at lower altitude, resulting in rainfall. If the updrafts are strong enough, ice particles spend more time tumbling around at higher altitude and congregate into larger hailstones, which may not be able to completely melt before hitting the ground, resulting in hail fall.

Ice particles carried upward by updrafts and precipitation falling downward rub against each other, creating static electricity. It is like walking around a carpeted room barefooted for a while, when you want to leave and touch the doorknob, it zaps you. A lightning strike works similarly, only in a colossally larger scale. Once the charge imbalance within the cloud gets big enough, it discharges and zaps the nearest area of opposite charge, on the path with the least resistance. Most of the time it happens within the cloud or in between clouds, but about 20% of the time it strikes ground objects. The higher up an object is, the higher the probability of it being struck, it can be a tree, a skyscraper, a tower or a firefighter on a ladder.

Once the updrafts are cut off and can no longer feed the storm, it has entered the dissipating stage. It can be due to the air running out of moisture, the sun going down hence removing the heat source, or the sheer power of the downdrafts cancelling out upward air movements. In this stage the thunderstorm is dominated by downdrafts and precipitation, until it eventually rains itself out.

Hazards associated with thunderstorms in aviation

Thunderstorms are the big daddies (heh) of hazardous weather conditions in the aviation world. No pilot would willingly fly into a CB cloud unless they are insane, suicidal, or with the Coast Guards. In fact, most of them would rather fly into the inner part of a hurricane than a thunderstorm, as winds in a hurricane mainly go in one direction (into the eye), unlike the unpredictable turbulent conditions inside a thunderstorm.

Commercial and general aviation pilots usually fly at least 20 miles away from any thunderstorm activity just as the FAA advises, but search and rescue missions operate more on an "at-your-own-risk" basis. When there are people in need of rescue, the US Coast Guards regularly fly into post-hurricane adverse weather just to save them, so if they refuse to fly out, you can start kayaking. Every stormy mission they go on, they have to weigh urgency of people in distress against the following risks associated with thunderstorms:

Lightning

Ah, it's everyone's least favorite recurring character. As you can see from the mechanism of thunderstorm above, higher up objects have a higher probability to be stuck by lightning, flying into a storm cloud makes the risk even more serious because of the prevalence of intra-cloud static discharges, aircrafts are simply prime targets for lightning strikes. Commercial airliners, for example, get struck by lightning 1-2 times per year on average.

The metallic body of an aircraft acts as a Faraday cage, shielding its occupants from the lightning strike. Electricity travels from one end of the aircraft, around its body, and out of the other end. A jet airliner would fair better in a lightning strike, because all of its crucial components are covered by metal, including the cowlings around the engines. A helicopter on the other hand, has its rotors out in the environment, heat damage on rotor blades is common during a lightning event. Lightning might not be enough to bring down a helicopter on its own, but an emergency landing might be necessary. It can also fry the antenna or electrical systems on board the helicopter, rendering instruments and communication non-functional.

Flashes of lightning can also affect the pilots' vision, making it more difficult for them to monitor their instruments.

Precipitation

While water ingestion has caused engine flameouts way back in the days, modern aircraft engines are typically designed to handle even the worst rainstorm.

The biggest threat heavy rain brings to a rotorcraft is the decreased visibility. One of the most common causes of helicopter crashes is unknowingly flying into bad weather while operating on visual flight rules. It is human nature to fly using geographical references outside the window instead of solely referring to instruments, it takes a while transitioning between the two. Pilots may accidentally fly into terrain if they are not aware of their surroundings. In our case, Tommy knows he is flying into low visibility conditions in the middle of the night, so it is actually easier for him to keep his eye on the avionics. Since they are out in the middle of the ocean, there is nothing they can fly into other than the water surface, which can be easily avoided by closely monitoring the attitude indicator.

Hail is a whole different beast. Since it is solid, it can break windshields, knock rotor blades out of balance, damage engine components after being ingested, or in severe case, cause structural damage to the aircraft itself. Luckily, the environment in the outer rainbands of a hurricane is not favorable for large hail formation.

Damage caused by an intense hailstorm on an Austrian Airlines A320 in June this year.

Turbulence and downdrafts

This biggest risks associated with flying in or near a thunderstorm though, is the violent and turbulent air.

Flying into a thunderstorm cloud in its mature stage means being tossed around up and down repeatedly by the chaotic mixture of updrafts and downdrafts, like a rollercoaster from hell, seriously stressing the structural integrity of the aircraft.

The downdrafts are especially dangerous for helicopters, because they operate at a much lower altitude than pressurized aircrafts. Search and rescue helicopters fly even lower, as they have to search for stuff on ground level, they usually fly at a few thousands feet or less above ground. If a particularly strong downdraft hit the helicopter, it would be pushed downward in an instant, leaving very little space to maneuver its way out of the descent.

Look at how this Coast Guard helicopter struggle to take off in severe downdraft during hurricane Florence. Listen to its engine, see how hard it is fighting against the downward air movement. If a military helicopter struggles this much, a small single engine AStar would not fair any better.

After the updrafts of a thunderstorm have hit their maximum intensity and start dying out, the downdrafts push back down violently in a phenomenon called downburst, or microburst if it happens in a small localized area.

In a microburst, wind typically over the speed of 100 km/h gushes down in a column together with precipitation. Once it hits the ground, it radiates outward then wraps back up into itself, creating turbulent vortexes in all directions.

The strongest microburst ever recorded reached a windspeed of 240.5 km/h, basically the power of a cat 4 hurricane, but straight down.

If an aircraft gets caught under the column of downdraft in the middle of a microburst, it would undoubtedly be slammed towards the ground. A giant jet airliner or a military helicopter might be able to outclimb it and get to safety, but not a single engine light duty helicopter like the one we see in 7x03 and 7x04.

An aircraft operating near the ground, be it for take off, landing or rescue missions, is particularly susceptible to powerful downdrafts. If Tommy's helicopter gets caught in the middle of a microburst, it would be pushed into the ocean immediately. Even if it is just near a microburst not in it, horizontal gusts produced by strong downbursts hitting the ground may blow the aircraft off target, making it dangerous when it is trying to land on a precise location, like the belly of a capsized cruise ship. It can very much be swept into the ocean instead.

Ditching

If Tommy's helicopter encounters any serious malfunction in the thunderstorm, it will have to be put down on the ground as soon as possible, like every professional pilot is trained to do. Being way out at sea means possibly emergency landing would be a water landing, or ditching as they say in the aviation world.

If you are old enough to have witnessed the emergency landing of US Airways Flight 1549, or the Miracle of the Hudson, you would have seen the A320 floating on the Hudson River after a bird strike forcing the aircraft to make an emergency landing.

But helicopters are not like airplanes, helicopters are top-heavy, with most of their crucial components on top near the main rotor. When a helicopter hit the water without any floatation device, it quickly flips over and sink.

Although helicopters, especially the ones used for search and rescue, are usually equipped with emergency floatation device with life rafts attached, a sudden change of meteorological condition like a microburst can catch pilots off guard, thus not activating emergency floating device in time.

Even if the floatation device is successfully deployed, rough sea conditions due to the hurricane can still flip the aircraft and the lift rafts over, so the 118 squad definitely should not have been joking around on board. If the helicopter is forced to land in water, its occupants would have seconds to plot their way out of the aircraft before sinking and drowning in it.

Conclusion

It is generally not advisable for any aircraft to fly into a thunderstorm, or any severely adverse weather. Tommy agreeing to fly near a cat 5 hurricane, because the 118 tell him there are people in danger at sea, is in itself an act of brave heroism. It also takes skills and experience to navigate across the turbulent conditions near the Uno.

If anyone gives Tommy shit for getting a medal of valor just because he "drives the helicopter", or for him making an "enjoy it while it last" joke at the ceremony, I would like to remind you that he did risk his career and life just to save people on the cruise ship, and without him Bathena would be sushi already.

(I planned to write about the operational side of the helicopter rescue mission too in this part, but it's getting waaaay too long. I cut down quite a big chunk of it just to make it readable. I may have to write a part 4 in order to address the call sign and radio communication part of the flight. I know this mess is sloppy and oversimplified but I've been sitting on it for weeks. I just have to get it out, so forgive me for the drop in quality later on. Actually feel free to ask me about weather or aviation stuff if you want, I can put a Q&A in my next part.)