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#homages but are still FASCINATING

ham1lton · 10 days

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i’m with the band.

pairing(s): lando norris x singer!reader

warnings: v slightly angsty? but happy ending.

summary: pop band CHANGE! has just released their anticipated third album; however, fans notice that the songs seem to tell an unsavory story….

author's note: i didn’t know whether u wanted me to do a happy song or sad but i like drama. i refer to y/n’s bandmates by their roles. so guitarist, bassist and drummer so you can add their names in! also this album is loosely based on SAWAYAMA and 5sos’s album youngblood. listen to them both if u haven’t!! incredible albums. if you can name all these songs that have been mentioned then MWAH!!! 😍

liked by harrystyles, landonorris and 3,388,728 others.

changeband: thank you so much to the best, coolest and awesomest fans in the fucking planet. shoutout to everyone who showed up to our listening party in philly last week! you were metal as hell and we loved meeting everyone of you. no more fomo for the rest of you all now that our newest album is now out! please stream and buy and recommend to your friends and family and colleagues and even that annoying neighbour that everyone hates. we love you and we love this album!! here are some behind the scenes pics of us making and brainstorming this baby!

user1: this album is sooo good!

user2: ooh y/n got her masters in cuntology with a concentration in motherlogical studies from the university of servington… that NOTE in dynasty??? oh goddddd.

-> user4: DYNAAAASSSSTTTTYYYY 🗣️🔊

user3: the casual photo dump like they haven’t released the album of the CENTURY?

user8: you guys have come such a far way from working minimum wage and having to pool money for a recording booth omg. i’m so proud of you guys 🥺

*liked by changeband.*

user5: the way guitarist is eating this album. whoever greenlit her guitar solos i want to kiss them on the mouth.

user28: bad friend is my fav! both the acoustic vers and the normal vers!! PUT UR HANDS UP IF UR NOT GOOD AT THIS STUFF!!!! 😍😍

liked by messyass1, messyass2 and 278,727 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: girl band CHANGE! have released their new album ‘babylon’ and it has sent twitter in flames after the first tweet (pictured above) went viral. especially after the songs ‘lie to me’ and ‘want u back’ both contain lyrics that have sent fans of the power couple lando norris and y/n l/n spiralling. what do you all think of the drama ham1ltons?

user1: i do think it’s slightly suspicious… not necessarily a break up confirmation but it’s interesting. especially as she didn’t even bother to confirm or deny whether or not they’re still together on jimmy fallon….

user2: why do we speculate into these celebs lives? if they broke up, who cares and if they’re together… who cares?

hater1: who gives a fuck. she can’t even sing.

-> user3: you clearly gaf if you’re commenting under y/n related posts???

loveislanduk: don’t worry y/n! if need be, you can always find a new man on the island!

-> user98: messy asf 😭

user6: is tkl supposed to be y/n talking about how lando was super adored and that although he could have any girl, she’d be the only one who really loved him?

-> user4: tokyo love hotel is a homage to drummer’s japanese heritage not a lando worship song?? also it’s a metaphor for their heritages as three of them are women of colour who grew up in the west and saw their cultures exoticised.

-> user6: ‘yeah your fascination is my world’. that could be interpreted as her saying ‘your obsession is my boyfriend’.

-> user4: girl yeah but that’d be a lazy one would it not? lando ain’t that special 😭 i think that it’s reductionist to make everything she writes about a man and not her.

user44: calling the album babylon after the bible story? maybe they started with the idea of creating this amazing relationship and then grew apart? they stopped speaking each other’s language?

-> user56: maybe you need to put this energy into analysing your resume and figuring out why you’re still unemployed….

user65: idc if she broke up with that troll because that’d mean drummery/n will thrive!!

-> user9: um… u mean guitaristy/n??

-> user34: both wrong. bassisty/n is the best version!!!

————————————————————————

CHANGE’S INTERVIEW W/ JIMMY FALLON (transcript)

JIMMY FALLON: welcome, everyone! we have a special treat for you tonight. please give it up for the current leaders of the world charts, the incredible band CHANGE!"

(audience applause as the girls take their seats)

FALLON: alright, alright! now, there have been some rumours swirling around about your latest album and its connection to some personal matters. especially in regards to y/n. care to shed some light on that?

Y/N: well, jimmy, first of all, thank you for having us. i’m aware that there have been some rumours, but you know how it is. people love to speculate. our music is definitely personal, and yeah, it does reflect some of what's been going on in my life but i want to set the record straight. the songs on our album are inspired by a variety of our experiences, including relationships, but they're not always directly about any specific individuals. sometimes i’m inspired by other forms of media or my loved ones’ experiences. that’s the joy of making art, it can be whatever you want.

DRUMMER: yeah, and y/n is such a talented songwriter. she has this incredible ability to channel her emotions into our music and make you feel whatever she wants.

BASSIST: exactly. we're just here to make music that connects with people, and if our songs happen to resonate with someone going through a breakup? then we've done our job.

FALLON: is it true that you’re performing two songs for us tonight? can you confirm which ones?

GUITARIST: yes! we’re performing ‘want u back’ and ‘frankenstein’. both of our newest singles from babylon.

FALLON: well, you heard them, folks! get ready for an amazing performance from CHANGE!

————————————————————————

liked by bassist, guitarist and 1,272,973 others.

yourusername: we’re fine y’all perfectly fine please don’t call paw patrol.

user1: OH THANK GOD.

landonorris: she’s lying. i’m in my lemonade era…🍋

-> user23: you wish you could be that iconic. you’re in your dogwater era.

-> landonorris: UNPROVOKED???

user3: we needed this confirmation.

user8: PARENTS AREN’T DIVORCED WE WON 🙌

landonorris: now can you release the bonus tracks please please please 🙏🏼 ‼️😩

-> bassist: no :)

-> guitarist: yes :)

-> drummer: one of them is lying… guess who and i’ll send the whole album plus excluded tracks.

-> landonorris: … um 😅 guitarist?

-> drummer: WRONG ‼️ but i’m scared you’re gonna complain to y/n so i’ll send them over to you 🙄

user27: at least we’re back to having lando being CHANGE!’s biggest fans. what did he think of ‘exile’?

-> yourusername: he cried so hard he threw up.

-> user27: real shit.

————————————————————————

taglist: @cuteskz @molten-m122 @dangeroustacoalienbiscuit @booksandflowrs @mxdi0 @k1arsworld @alexmarie29 @luckyladycreator2 @23victoria (let me know via ask if you’d like to be removed).

wanna get tagged in any future works? sign up for my taglist!

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alicelufenia · 9 months

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Lots of buzz about the expansion announcement but can I just say, I really enjoyed the "Annotated Endwalker" panel with Ishikawa and Yoshida where they went over their writing process and how they maintain consistent thematic callbacks and culturally significant statements across languages. It's a fascinating look at how much work goes into serial fiction like this, especially when it has to cross multiple language barriers and still evoke the same feelings, all while making homages to literally decades old content.

I was HOOTING for the Amon/G'raha parallels, that's something I hadn't noticed before. Likewise with the twins, their grandfather Louisoix, and their father Fourchenault.

And of course, I was so happy that they finally talked about Zenos in Endwalker and practically grabbed the fandom by the head and said "actually pay attention to what he says and does and apply critical thinking for once PLEASE! The words are HIGHLIGHTED on a stream broadcast to MILLIONS. You have NO EXCUSE NOW!" *SHAKES YOU SPITTING AND HISSING*

phew anyway, I also liked the analysis of Emet's lines, and how they were written with the impression that not only was he narrating from the Aetherial Sea, but Venat is just there too.

But maaan I gotta call them out for referencing the shortstory with Azem's unilateral volcano mission to save the grapes and failing to mention that

Was Never

About

The Grapes

Literally no one in the story believed that except Elidibus who is the young naïve one.

It's about Azem seeing value in the lives of those living in the shadow of the volcano while the rest of the Convocation did not. That's what makes them a hero in a world that doesn't even have a word for that yet.

Look I know the grapes are a meme and you're leaning in on it heavily but I guarantee you can tell us it's not about the grapes and we'll both appreciate that fact and still like the grapes! Your squapes merch sales won't slouch by just acknowledging that characters can say something without meaning it!

So yeah, I liked the panel.

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notcaycepollard · 1 year

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okay but something I think is so fascinating about goncharov that I haven't seen anyone else talk about is the way food (and consumption) is emblematic of one of the absolute core themes of the film: the way goncharov is so conflicted with his desire for freedom and non-conventional relationships and how that's fundamentally inconsistent with (both externally socially imposed and his own internal) expectations of what is acceptable. and you see that play out in a way that has to be deliberate because to me it's just too explicit to be accidental. when you go back and watch in detail it's obvious that goncharov is always eating, always consuming, when he's interacting with andrey compared to his denial of hunger in almost every interaction with katya. and then on top of that the casual and (what some might argue) inappropriate nature of the food goncharov chooses when it's andrey offering, compared to the rigid enforcement of domesticity as represented by the meals goncharov conspicuously fails to eat with katya, G O D. the way it's filmed? the precise and artificial symmetry of those tables and how she's framed by the candles, the silverware? and like, I know we're all obsessed with the anchovy scene and I get it, it makes me just as feral as everyone else and also we all get it, anchovy as stand in for going down on someone, it's not SUBTLE, but to me the fruit stall scene is just as important. it's the first time goncharov is offered something and takes it!! and I don't think it's coincidence either that what goncharov chooses - what andrey offers - is representative of naples, as opposed to the traditional russian food katya is always serving.

and like honestly, I know some people interpret the dinner scenes with katya as misogynistic, I'm not saying it's not a valid take, but again to me I think it speaks just as much about how trapped katya is by social expectations too. she tries so hard to perform the role of the good wife, polishing the fucking silverware and making blini when she deserves so much more than that, and then there's the parallel of sofia offering her a lick of her gelato and honestly can you really tell me the anchovy scene is still your favourite, katya/sofia is so fucking slept on, the tension!!!! L I K E come on how is everything in this film about fucking oral sex I mean

anyway the way that by the end of the film these conflicts are resolved with goncharov and katya at the table on the street, finally eating together but in a way that's not constrained by the trappings of domesticity or the expectation of remaining true to your roots, katya is finally seen by goncharov as a whole person with her own internal life and he's able to break bread with her, that final shot of them drinking wine with the church behind them, it's just, the catholicism in this film is a lot okay

and like I truly think that the way rusty in ocean's eleven is always eating is a deliberate homage to this film, we know soderbergh is influenced by avant-garde cinema and I don't think that's coincidence, and now I'm going to go write the katya-centric fic I want to see in the world with the title 'lay the table (with the fancy shit)' because I am inveterate taylor swift trash

#goncharov

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caffiend-queen · 1 month

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Do NOT Say 'Always After My Lucky Charms,' Or I Will Stab You

Welcome to another addition to the Holidays in Hel series! Where Loki and Mina attempt to save the Avengers from yet another catastrophic holiday fuckup.

I've been cleaning up and adding bits to my Holidays in Hel series because really, it's my favorite. I hope you enjoy, and thank you as always for reading!

Chapter One: An Unmitigated Disaster Awaits

In which Loki and Mina once again find themselves in the middle of a colossal Avengers holiday fuckup. And who knew the Fey Folk were such assholes?

If there was blame to be assigned for the night that destroyed any charm and mystery left in St. Patrick’s Day, it should really go to The Paddy O’Hoolihan’s, an Irish folk band with a painfully cheesy name. But their music- it was frenzied and delightful, which was why Mina, Wanda, Jane, Pepper, Darcy, and even Natasha were swirling madly in some sort of a jig between each other like a flutter of butterflies, colorful spring dresses flaring out in a pleasing way that exposed a toned thigh or two. They were so fascinating to watch that the rest of the Avengers agreed right then that a Night Out On The Town would be necessary in the hopes of seeing more of this.

“A flutter of butterflies?” Tony blustered. “That can’t be right.”

Loki was seated elegantly on a comfortable chair in the middle of Central Park while most of the other male Avengers were seated in the grass, soaking the seat of their jeans. “A flutter,” he confirmed, watching closely as Mina sent him a saucy little wink. “Known also as a kaleidoscope or a swarm.”

“Swarm isn’t the right word,” mused Steve, still brushing at the green streaks on his pressed chinos. “That sounds like bugs. The girls are definitely butterflies.”

“Butterflies are bugs,” grunted Bucky, eyes closed and soaking in the weak spring sunlight.

“You romantic bastard,” chortled Sam, who was watching Thor capering with the women and getting the dance steps wrong. “I’m gonna go save those ladies from his bigass feet.”

“That slick son of a bitch,” Tony observed morosely, watching Sam gracefully sweep Pepper under one arm and Natasha with the other.

It was a rare day, a blissful day where nothing was exploding, no one was invading anyone else’s borders, no one was getting kidnapped, and even HYDRA appeared to be taking a long afternoon nap. The Avengers were all lazing in Central Park on an almost unnaturally warm day for March 17th and enjoying a holiday where they were, for once, not urgently needed. Anywhere.

“To St. Patrick’s Day!” toasted Bucky, raising his bottle of Guinness to clink with Steve’s. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

Tony pulled another bottle from the specialty vibranium cooler that floated next to him, its propulsion jets hissing softly. “Watch the parade from Stark Tower, say a prayer at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and hit The Dead Rabbit Grocery & Grog. The Dropkick Murphy’s are headlining.”

Loki sniffed, still watching keenly as Mina took the hands of an elderly gentleman so wizened and stooped that he could legally be classified as a leprechaun. “My lady and I will be spending the evening safely at the Tower. I do not understand this keen desire for holiday-based mayhem and disaster, but I assure you we shall not participate.”

“Brother!” Thor’s voice was unfortunately right next to Loki’s ear, and God or no, the roar from the oaf seared through his ear canal and scrambled his ganglia. “You must bring the Lady Mina, she will be terribly disappointed! Darcy has been telling her of the majesty of the Celtic celebrations here. She must pay homage to her ancestors.”

Loki frowned. Mina had Irish blood? He would rather crush his own skull with Thor’s hammer than admit that his brother knew something about his Mina that he did not, so he settled for a haughty sniff. “Why must I be the sole sentinel during every holiday on this benighted excuse for a realm to remind you all that it will always, always invariably result in death and destruction? That there will be some unnatural force that will target the Avengers and endanger all those we love? Why must I be the-”

“Hey, did you hear that?” Tony interrupted happily, “Loki looooves Mina!”

And then the tiresome chorus rose from this pack of imbeciles. Loki rolled his eyes, wondering if he sent a hailstorm of toads down upon this crowd if it would immediately be traced back to him. But then his Mina returned and sat down in his lap. Kissing him on the tip of his aquiline nose, she sighed, “And Mina loves Loki, so all of you hush.”

“Darling, are you indeed of Irish descent?”

Mina looked up from the 3D chemical strain she was modeling for one of Jane’s experiments. “Yes, and Scottish. How did this come up?”

Loki sniffed haughtily. “My oaf of a brother attempted to claim that I must indulge you in a night of drunken excess with the rest of the team as some sort of homage to your heritage. Is this night one that must be dedicated to your ancestors? Is it a sacred rite?”

Giving a very unladylike snort, Mina said, “Nothing sacred about gulping down too much green beer and singing Irish folk songs. But…” Loki groaned internally. His sweet girl had a look of longing as she continued. “But it’s always such a fun night! I get to dance and sing, and the saying is that ‘On St. Patrick’s Day, everyone is Irish.’” She smiled up at him sweetly. “Even you, Loki.”

Lip curled, he snarled, “Do not assign me a heritage from this insignificant rock!” Traditionally, this sort of elegant sneer would quail Mina, but this time, she gave him a sneer of her own.

“Oh, you do not disrespect my people, Loki!” She quailed slightly before seeing his curled lip stretch into a smile.

“My, my. Look at my fierce little banshee! I would not think of it.” Mina gave him the sort of shameless, hopeful grin that crumbled the God of Lies and Mischief’s will more often than he’d care to admit.

Sliding her hands over his broad shoulders, admiring the hard muscle beneath, she asked, “Does that mean you might be willing to join the group tonight at the Dead Rabbit?”

His elegant head pulled back from hers, “What a truly bizarre name. Does the proprietor wish to drive people away from his tavern?”

Mina cackled a bit. “We Irish are tough. We like it rough and difficult.” She instantly realized her mistake as Loki’s pupils flared.

“Really…” he purred, his deep tone more like a rumble against her spine. “You like it, ‘rough,’ do you, darling?”

It was a desperate scramble to get away from her God’s ruthless grasp, but Mina found herself pulling on her old plaid kilt and cream Irish fisherman’s sweater after a promise to show Loki later the bit of “rough” that a good girl from the Emerald Isle could handle. “My lovely Mina,” he approved, stepping behind her in the dressing room mirror to straighten his cuffs. She’d just pulled on some warm black tights and her knee-high riding boots. “You have a very delectable ‘upper-crust schoolgirl’ sort of look here. I find myself quite interested in knowing what good Irish schoolgirls wear under their kilts.”

“Well, I imagine a big, strong man like you can find out for yourself,” Mina answered primly, then leaped over the bench with a yelp when Loki made a sudden move at her. Chuckling, he straightened his tie and strolled sedately after her.

It was, of course, vile. Loki sighed in a long-suffering way as he surveyed the crowded bar, one hand securely on Mina’s back. “The sun barely set and here are your countrymen, already intoxicated,” he said, leaning in close so she could hear him over the drunken chorus of “Whiskey You’re the Devil.”

“Oh, look!” Mina shouted back, “There they are! In the Snug.”

“I beg your pardon?” Loki raised a brow.

“The Snug,” Mina was the one carving a path through the partygoers, heading for their friends. “There’s one in every proper Irish bar. It’s the room right off of the bar where the ladies used to go to have a pint or a sherry and not have to worry about being considered loose. Now the bars just rent them out as a VIP space.”

In his usual fashion, Tony had not only bought out the Snug, which had an excellent view of the rest of the pub, but he also had the management re-create the magnificent, shining walnut bar that ran nearly the length of the main room into a private version for the Avengers. When they drew closer, they found Thor in a handstand with one end of a tube in his mouth and the other in a cask of aged whiskey.

Sam, Clint, Darcy, and the usually shy Bucky were circling the spectacle, shouting “Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!” Thor finished the cask and flipped upright with a flourish, raising his huge arms and roaring in triumph.

“What are you wearing?” Loki frowned, all the men were sporting hideous green plaid patterned neckties, and the more drunken amongst them - namely Clint and Tony - had little green bowler hats perched atop their messy hair.

“It was Tony’s idea, where’s your tie?” asked Bruce, who looked distinctly put out that he’d been forced to wear this itchy novelty neckwear while Loki looked as smooth and perfectly put together as always in an onyx Tom Ford suit.

Loki sniffed, “Ideally, at the bottom of the Hudson River.”

Tony stumbled up behind Loki and Mina, sunglasses askew as he looped an arm around each of them. “Your brother knows how to party, Severus Snape! Let’s tap another cask for you!”

“It is a crime to treat a good whiskey so,” admonished Loki, “and Thor must consume twenty or so of those casks for him to find something even approaching intoxication.” Nonetheless, he found himself relaxing and even amused as his Mina dragged Natasha up on to the bar for a round of Irish Ceili dancing, the Russian gracefully moving along as if she’d performed Irish jigs all her life.

“Man, is there anything Natasha can’t do perfectly?” groused Darcy, watching the footwork until it made her dizzy.

Bucky put his arm around her. “She can’t make that cute little noise you make when I…” She dissolved into a round of giggles and Loki rolled his eyes, looking around the pub. There was a thicket of drunk college students, singing along off-key with the Dropkick Murphys, who’d moved on to “Rose Tattoo.” The main bar was claimed by the regulars, who held court and toasted something new at least every sixty seconds, based on the cheers and clinking of glasses. Small islands of tourists floated through the crowd, gripping a beer mug in one hand and a souvenir Dead Rabbit t-shirt in the other. Irish flags were draped in every corner and the light glowed off the massive selection of alcohol behind the bar, bathing everything in a pleasingly golden glow. And… Loki raised one elegant brow. There was a small group of… small people?

“Little people,” Steve said, leaning in. “The correct phrase is little people.”

“Descendants of a visit long past from a group of lustful and irresponsible Nidavellir,” mused Loki, “the dwarves always eager to spread their seed.”

Steve looked alarmed, “I don’t think you want to be floating that theory, Loki. Especially not here, and not tonight.”

Before the God of Mischief could further discuss Nidavellir sex tourism, he heard a loud “Hellooo, Monty!” from his sweet girl, still tip-tapping away atop the bar.

One of the men broke away from the group and waved eagerly. “Éire go Brách, Mina!”

Leaping rather gracefully from the bar, she took his small hand, greeting him warmly. “Éire go Brách, Monty! I’m so glad you came.”

The gentlemen had a face like a withered crabapple, all wrinkles and slightly sunken, but when he glanced at Loki, there was a spark of… something in his eye. One trickster always knew another, and he recognized the elderly gentleman she’d favored with a dance that afternoon at the park. “Well, when you promised me another dance, my dear, how could I not?” Monty turned to Loki and bent his head in a courtly gesture, “If your date for the evening has no objection, of course.”

Oddly, Loki did have an objection. The gleam in the small man’s eye was growing brighter, and his own emerald ones narrowed. “And what brings you to New York, Monty? Your accent has all the slurs and ellipses of a Dubliner, born and bred.”

Mina’s new friend threw back his head and laughed grandly, “Ach, you’ve caught me. I am, indeed. But I find that here in America, the Irish celebrate this day with greater enthusiasm.”

Just then the Dropkick Murphys launched into “The Boys are Back” and Mina squealed. “Monty! This is my song, let’s go!” And with a final smirk at Loki, her diminutive beau allowed her to pull him into the crowd.

He stared after them disapprovingly. The Dead Rabbit was even louder - if possible - than it had been when they arrived and the discordant screech of electric guitar and the accompaniment of the Uilleann pipes rose over the crowd.

The boys are back

And they're looking for trouble

Standing on the highway, ???

I'm missing my home, and it's killing me

Down the ramp past the jail, I'm feeling alright

Bought roses for my ladies from a corner delight

It's time to get ready for that song and dance

Let's go my friends, it's time to take a chance

We're back in town, we're gonna get it done

We got nowhere to hide, we got nowhere to run

It's been a long time coming,

The boys are back

And they're looking for trouble

And in the blink of an eye, Mina and her questionable dance partner were swallowed up into the crowd. “Did he not seem unnatural to you?” Loki asked Tony, who was leaning heavily on his shoulder and wrinkling the perfect cut of his jacket.

Tony stumbled back, “Woah, Lokes, prejudiced much? What’s next, snide comments about the little people always being after your Lucky Charms?” He said the last in a deplorably bad Irish accent, and Loki’s brow furrowed. Tony (partially sober) was just barely endurable. Completely intoxicated Tony was a punishment that could make the strongest Asgardian choose Odin’s dungeons over Stark Tower.

Bucky gently elbowed Tony into a seat, where his head tipped back and a gentle snore rose from his slack mouth. “Ignore him, Loki. What’s the problem?”

“Most pressing,” he said, “is that my dear Mina seems to have disappeared into this drunken throng with a most untrustworthy creature.”

“Takes one to know one,” Bucky agreed, but he refused to take offense, still searching the crowd. Looking around, he frowned. “And where’s Darcy and Jane? And Pepper? And Natasha?” By now the others were closing in. Thor shouldered his way into the knot of drunken, flailing New Yorkers and Clint hopped up on the table.

Pale hands shooting out, Loki sent a silver stream of energy that coiled and ripped around the pub, curling and snaking along, but there was no sign of the women. “By the NORNIR!” he shouted. “Why? Why must it always be the holidays? You Avengers are a curse, I swear it!”

“Huh?” Tony woke up, standing and rubbing his face. “What?”

Loki turned on him. “You will never heed my warning, will you? All our women- they are gone. Gone!”

“Aw, damn,” sighed Steve, "AGAIN?"

Chapter Two is up tomorrow. You know, the one with all the smut.

I'm starting over with a vague memory of who might like my Loki and Avengers tales. If you would like on or off this list, please let me know! Thank you. Mwah!

@what-is-your-plan-today

@sweater-daddiesdumbdork

@the-soulofdevil

@americasass81

@mdemontespan1667

@sultry-rachael

@myoxisbroken

@gigglingtiggerv2

@notpedeka

@narnianarcher

@sylviefromneptune

@winterslove1917

@kimanne723

@hawkeyes-queen

@grymrayven

@stevihj

@lizette50

@jevans2

@wolfsmom1

@devikafernando

@wegingerangelica

@nildespirandum

@alexakeyloveloki

@thebatshitcrazyfangirl

@thehumming6ird

@archy3001

@iheartsebastianstan

@tomstinkerbell

@wolfpawn

@rayofdawnworld

@thecutestlittlebunbunfairy

@dangertoozmanykids101

@alexakeyloveloki

@nuggsmum

@boredbrooder

@fairlightswiftly

@inkededucatednnerdy

@nonsensicalobsessions

@viv-annelore

@eleniblue

#tumblr besties and beloveds #loki fandom #tom hiddleston #loki smut #Avengers Holidays in Hel #yet another Avengers holiday fuckup #St. Patrick's Day with Loki

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 5 months

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Skori Zaldrizes Ropagon (When Dragons Fall) [Jace Velaryon x Reader]

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: nothing explicit, just lots of character deaths, as in F&B canon

Word Count: 10k+

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader

A huge, huge, HUGE thank you to @asa-do-your-thing for the lovely artwork provided in this fic! I love both the collages you created for the teaser and the actual fic itself, and bless you for putting up with me and my slow responses 💕 this fic is dedicated to the both of us, and I hope you will enjoy it even though I was a complete hot mess struggling with writer's block when I came up with it haha. Special thanks also goes out to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for putting together this Big Bang! I'm honoured to have been a part of it.

A/N: This is the first part of my new fic, Skori Zaldrizes Ropagon, submitted for @hotd-bigbang! The rest of the parts will be released sometime soon, as I was only able to write the first part of my fic in time for the deadline haha. It's my first time writing a Jace x Reader fic, and it is rather lacking in romance, most unfortunately. Still, I hope you enjoy the fic. Thank you for supporting my mess of a writing!

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon was aged only ten and two when he heard the prophecy for the first time.

Ever since his mother had decided to relocate their family to the ancestral seat of the Targaryens, Jace had spent much of his days with nothing but the same foreboding walls he was slowly growing tired of. He swore he knew every single crook and cranny in Dragonstone by now, having spent much of his youth traipsing through the home of his forebears, poking and exploring every inch of it.

Dragonstone was a sleepy island, which did little to quell the young Jace’s thirst for adventure and exploration. But once every six moon turns, the inhabitants of the village located on the rocky shores of Dragonstone would come together for a festival of foods and goods. It was initially a small affair, but upon Princess Rhaenyra’s moving of her household to Dragonstone, many merchants and revellers from all parts of the Realm had flocked to the island like sheep, hoping to curry the favour of the numerous Targaryen royals currently residing at the island, or various nobles who visited the island to pay homage to their queen to be with their goods.

And the festival was exactly where Jace found himself on the cusp of his thirteenth nameday. Sick of the constant gloomy atmosphere of the castle, he had snuck out after bribing one of the stablehands, disguising himself in the simple raiments of a peasant, along with a satchel of various coins concealed in his cloak. He had thought of bringing his dagger for protection, but he winced as he recalled the incident on Driftmark, and decided to leave it in his chambers. He wasn’t expecting any trouble tonight, anyway. All he wanted was a bit of harmless fun, and freedom, under the cloak of anonymity. Just for one night.

The festival painted an animated and cheerful scene, so refreshing in contrast to the rather dismal air in the fortress. For a moment, Jace thought he had been transported back to the streets of King’s Landing, where the nightlife atmosphere was second to no other place in the realm. Fascination lit up his brown eyes as he bought samples of snacks from the street food vendors. Many of them were varieties of whatever fishes that could be caught in Blackwater Bay, but due to the expensive nature of imported spices from Essos, the food was seasoned rather simply. Jace enjoyed it however, the whole experience felt liberating. Here, he could just be among the commoners, someone unnoticed.

Even though their relocation to Dragonstone after the Driftmark incident had brought some reprieve, deep down, Jace still felt tormented by the rumours of his parentage. Harwin Strong was long dead now, and so was his father, Laenor Velaryon, yet Jace still felt affected by their passings, though his mother oddly didn’t. One was his…his sire, the other the father Jace had been brought up to believe as his for his whole life, and though both men had not been present for nearly half of Jace’s life now, Jace still missed them. He remembered Laenor’s smile, his guffawing laugh, his warm touch whenever he herded them back from the Dragonpit and back to the Red keep. And he remembered Harwin’s presence - detached, as a respectful nobleman would keep in deference to a royal, but also warm and more constant than Laenor. Daemon was oft far too occupied with his mother to pay attention to him, Lucerys, and Joffrey, though he seemed polite enough to Jace.

But what Jace craved deep down was for the presence of a fatherly figure: strong, brave, caring. And ever since his mother and Daemon have had little Aegon, Jace oft found that those fantasies of his were becoming more and more impossible to come true. Especially now, when he was coming of age soon, and was expected to bear the brunt of his duties as future Prince of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne. Little sentiment can be found in his world.

Jace sighed, milling around and mingling with the smallfolk, trying to purge those thoughts from his head. And that was when he caught sight of it.

A caravan sat in a corner of the street, its dark red and blue exterior a stark contrast against the earthy cobblestones of its surroundings. The caravan was beautiful, even in its age, and Jace let his eyes trace over the woodwork and craftsmanship of the carvings of various celestial bodies and strange creatures on the caravan. A simple wooden sign hung outside the bright blue painted door, ‘Come have your fortune divined on this joyous day. Should you choose not to, you might not live to see the next day.’.

Jace chuckled at the words, feeling some derision upon knowing what craft the inhabitants of the caravan possessed. He was not a faithful man, by any means. He worshipped the Seven, like any future crown prince of Westeros ought to, yet he felt no connection to those gods. His mother held a reverence for the gods of Old Valyria, and Jace had inherited that, but fortune telling? It all seemed a bit absurd to him. No one can see the future after all, He began to turn his back on the caravan.

However, Jace was seized with a sudden urge to go inside the caravan. It felt like an invisible force was pulling him towards it, despite his disdain for such practices. What is wrong with me? I am a Targaryen prince for god’s sake- But it was like he was under a spell, as his legs moved on their own accord, much to his dismay.

‘You know what, I came here for a night of relaxation after all. This might prove more entertaining than I expect it to be.’

With that thought, Jace found himself knocking tentatively on the door of the caravan, as the door swung open to reveal the dim interior of the caravan. He found it strange that there was no one behind the door, but shrugged it off, taking in the plush furnishings. Gas lamps and candles lit the small space up, giving the interior an inviting glow. Colourful tapestries depicting the sea were hung on the walls, and thick soft carpets covered the floors - such that Jace felt bad for wearing his dirtied boots into the caravan. But all those thoughts of guilt vanished from his mind as he laid his eyes on what was possibly the most beautiful woman in his life.

She didn’t even look old enough to be considered a woman, no, this was a girl so beautiful, he thought that maybe he was looking at the form of the Maiden himself, descended upon this land to grace him with his loveliness.

“Welcome, my prince.” Her voice was soft, nearly encasing him deeper into the spell that was her, until he realised how she had addressed him. Shock surged through his veins, along with a faint uneasiness. “You know who I am?” The fortune teller tilted her head, lowering the hood of her dark red cloak. The colour of spilled blood. “Of course. My god knows the true faces of all people who enter this caravan. And their fates as well.” She motioned for him to sit in front of her, and Jace obliged, sinking down on the cushion, unable to take his eyes off her. It felt like all coherent thoughts had left him. The fortune teller studied him back, her eyes glowing with the knowledge of endless possibilities.

“My god senses some doubt in you of my abilities, my prince.” Jace was startled by her words, but he quickly recovered, a sheepish smile on his face. “I must confess I don’t quite believe in these things.”

“And yet here you are.” “And yet here I am,” Jace echoed back. The fortune teller slid a cup of tea to him, and he wondered how he didn’t see her preparing it. He eyed the steaming tea, debating on whether he should drink it.

“Relax, my prince, I have no reason to poison you, if that’s what you fear.” Jace was growing more unsettled, it seemed like the fortune teller was reading his mind. Was his thoughts really that obvious? He caved nonetheless, lifting the cup to his lips. Its taste soothed his nerves, and he felt some of his former rationality returning. “If I may ask, who is the god you owe your powers to?”

The fortune teller shook her head with a smile, tapping the crystal ball between them lightly. “Does it matter, my prince?” “Well, it does, if you want me to have some faith in your readings.” The fortune teller looked amused. “You will believe what you want to believe, my prince. And my god prefers to withhold his true name from non-believers.”

Jace wanted to roll his eyes a little at that. It was clear this girl was a con-artist, but suddenly, her eyes grew sharp as her crystal ball filled with dark smoke. Jace drew back instinctively, nearly spilling the cup of tea. “W-what’s happening?”

“My god is revealing your future,” the lightness in her voice was gone, replaced by a sort of seriousness. As sceptical as Jace was, his eyes were fixed on the swirling dark smoke. He was entranced by it when he suddenly felt a warm grip on his wrist. His eyes widened when the fortune teller tugged his hands towards the crystal ball, a slight flush in his cheeks. “Put your hand on the crystal,” her voice was filled with urgency. “There is something you must see.”

Gripped by curiosity, Jace did as she said, placing his palms against the cool surface of the crystal. The curiosity vanished in an instant, replaced by a morbid horror as the scenes were seared in his mind.

The sickening smell of blood. Fire everywhere, the distant roars of a dragon roaring and the screams of soldiers on the battlefield. Two opposing armies, one bearing a quartered banner with the Targaryen, Velaryon, and Arryn sigils, the other bearing a golden three-headed dragon on a black field, clashed with each other. Corpses littering the shores of a river. Three dragons lashing at each other in the sky, as one fell to the Earth with an agonised screech. And now Jace was in the sea, watching as ships were set aflame and a dragon that looked like Vermax falling from the skies. The sky was glowing with the colour of freshly spilled blood, smoke filling the air. Jace felt like he was on fire, as the soft, solemn words of the fortune teller reverberated throughout the horrific scene of bloodshed before him. “As dragons battle with each other, and fall from the skies, kin shall betray kin, kin shall murder kin, and Westeros shall burn alongside House Targaryen’s power.”

Then, fire engulfed Jace as he jolted away in shock. The sound of a teacup clattering on the ground pulled Jace from the nightmare, and he was back in the caravan: far away from the smoke, the screams and the flames. He was still shaking as he recalled the searing sensation of fire on his skin, scorching his bones. The dark tendrils of smoke had seeped out of the crystal ball and were creeping up Jace’s fingers, and he hurriedly pulled away and shook his hands until the smoke had dissipated, feeling sick. “What in the Seven Hells was that?” His voice was tremulous with fear.

The girl’s eyes were grim as she fixed her gaze on him. “The future of your family, and House Targaryen.” Now Jace was shaking with something much more than fear: anger. “You must be mistaken,” his words were not as steady as he had willed it to be, and he tried to correct the quiver in his voice. “Your god is a sham. All that was just illusions of the mind. You’re lying.” She must be.

Now it was the girl’s turn to look incensed, and it was like the fury of a thousand sea storms crackled behind her eyes. “Do not dismiss the abilities of my god because of your fear, Prince Jacaerys. You know that war is inevitable between your mother and your uncle, and you would choose to play ignorant?” Her words struck him as he winced while recalling the scenes he had seen. Despite the cool night air flowing into the caravan through its small windows, Jace couldn’t shake off the dreadful feeling of being on fire.

“...it just can’t be possible,” Jace murmured to himself, running his hands through his hair in distress. The scenes plagued his mind like a disease, and the smell of burning flesh was still ever present, making him nauseous. He reached out and gripped the hand of the girl desperately, “You said that there would be a war. My mother wins, right? She’s the rightful heir after all.” The girl looked troubled, “I cannot divulge more than what my god has allowed you to see.”

“Not even if I paid you a golden dragon?” Jace pressed. The girl’s nostrils flared with indignation. “The visions granted to us by my god is something none of your paltry money can buy, my prince.”

Jace was gripped with despair, as he tightened his grip on the girl’s hand, pleading, “Fine, forget about money. Just please, tell me if my family survives. I need to know, please.” Jace could see the girl’s eyes softening, and he tried to implore her even further. “Please, miss. I just need to know that. Your god has already been so merciful to show me so much, surely one more tiny bit of knowledge will not hurt?”

The girl bit her lip, and looked downwards, as if contemplating. It was true that the prince’s future was bleak, and she knew of his eventual ending, but she must not go against her god’s limitations. And yet, she felt compelled to tell him the truth, to tell him of the bleak fate that awaited him. So she prayed to her god for leniency as she locked eyes with Jace again. Her voice was quiet as her reply echoed through Jace’s mind: which would prove to soon be his source of torment that plagued him for his next years.

“No.”

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For years, after being told the prophecy, Jace felt like he was no longer in control of himself. His sleep and dreams no longer belonged to him. Instead, they fell victim to the visions and the prophecy that had plagued every one of his senses since that night. His attempts at seeking Maester Gerardys out discreetly for doses of Essence of Nightshade had only succeeded in eliciting the alarm of his mother and brothers, so he had stopped taking them. He found no reprieve in the dreadful tea anyway.

Instead, Jace tried to find solace in other mediums. The library at Dragonstone had essentially turned into his bedroom now, along with the yard where he and Lucerys trained at arms. He toiled through the histories of wars and conflicts, pushing himself until blotches of crimson began to dot the ancient tomes.

He trained at arms diligently, in an almost ruthless, cutthroat manner. Lucerys had since long given up on duelling him in arms, and the knights that had trained the both of them since they were old enough to pick up a sword had pleaded with Jace on numerous occasions to exercise more leniency on his younger brother. Jace’s only response to that was, “Will leniency be afforded to you on the battlefield, Luke?”

To Rhaenyra, Lucerys and the rest of Jace’s family who cared deeply about him, it was admirable that Jace was pushing himself so hard. He clearly wanted to prove himself worthy of the title as future heir to the throne. But Rhaenyra could see far deeper than that. She recognised a reflection of her youth in her eldest son: the constant, debilitating need to prove himself. However, Rhaenyra did not know to whom he was trying to prove to. She had told him countless times of how proud she was of him and his prowess, but it was never enough.

Rhaenyra had not seen a genuine, happy smile grace her son’s face since his thirteenth nameday.

Jace could see his mother’s concern, could feel the worry of his brothers, the anxiety of Baela and Rhaena. He knew his refusal to open up had caused a slow, but increasingly noticeable rift between their relations, but how could he allow his family to witness his demons? To see the darkness that had been eating away at him like a parasite since he stepped foot into that godsforsaken fortune telling caravan?

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t let the darkness taint his family’s joy, no matter what. This was a burden he must endure alone.

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The day of Vaemond Velaryon’s petition brought out Jace’s paranoia which had been slowly building up over the years, like an ugly mountain of coal, to the forefront.

But as it always was, fate rendered Jace’s promise useless when they received word that the Greens had repudiated the succession and crowned Aegon as King of the Seven Kingdoms in sight of the smallfolk.

Jace nearly tore himself apart in rage, agony, and horror, at both himself and at the usurpers. How could this have happened? Jace’s mind was numb as he listened to the pained screams of his mother echo through the halls of Drgaonstone. How could he have failed so utterly in his promise to defend his family?

He felt like beating himself up even more when he failed to get Daemon to at least accompany his mother during her labours. It seemed like such a triviality to be angry at, given their circumstances, but watching his mother’s vacant-eyed stare at the corpse of his dead sister just made him want to bash his head with a rock. He felt like a complete failure: he had failed to control his temper around his uncles and to behave in the calibre which the future heir to the Iron Throne should have acted as, he had failed to foresee and prevent the Greens from usurping his mother, and he couldn’t even effectively convince his stepfather to be there for his mother.

And his snowballing of failures had led to the continuous, ominous echoing of the prophecy in his head. The constant feeling of being burnt alive.

But then, the Seven, or whatever capricious deity that held the strings to his miserable life, shone a beacon of light into his life again. When his mother gave him and Luke the task of going as envoys and renewing the allegiances of various lords and ladies in the Realm, Jace was determined to use this mission to make amends. He would not fail his mother no matter what, he told himself as he swooped through the clouds, Vermax rumbling under him, as though sensing his rider’s fierce determination.

He had landed first in the Eyrie, where he had initially received a frosty reception from the Lady Jeyne. With skillful persuasion and a reminder of the lady’s own familial ties to his mother through his grandmother, and the promise to send dragonriders to the Vale, Prince Jacaerys had just successfully completed his first envoy.

He didn’t stay for long however, flying off the next day upon a restless sleep in the Eyrie’s chambers. Time was not on his side when it came to the prophecy, and Jace dreaded to think that every single second he took to idle or dawdle would cost his family their lives. He didn’t want to see the vacant-eyed stare his mother had at his sister’s funeral mirrored in her death.

He then flew to Sisterton, then to White Harbour, and each time, he spoke with the lords firmly, yet charmingly, persuading them to his mother’s cause with promises and betrothals and reminders of their oaths. Jace found that he might yet be a fluent speaker in the language of diplomacy.

However, now, despite his continuous successes, Jace never felt more nervous as he and Vermax soared above the snowy expanse of the North. Enervated grunts sounded from Vermax, and Jace felt sympathetic to his dragon. He clearly does not take well to the cold. But they couldn’t stop now, not when Jace was so close to completing his mission to his mother. He couldn’t disappoint her now.

Cregan Stark was a man with a reputation, and not necessarily a helpful one to Jace. he was known to be stern, formidable, but the Northmen were known to be men of their word, and to have never broken an oath. But the Northern lords always had little interest in Southron politics, and Jace feared that the Wolf of Winterfell might take a stance of neutrality in the conflict instead.

However, he couldn’t turn back now, and it wasn’t like he would do it if given the choice. The prophecy lingered over his head like a dreary cloud as of late, and Jace’s nightmares had intensified in its vivid horror. Vermax let out a shuddering grunt, as if in sync to his rider’s perturb.

I can’t fail. I won’t fail. Jace thought to himself firmly, as Vermax’s leathery wingbeats began to slow as the structure of Winterfell loomed in the distance. ‘There has to be a way to stop the prophecy’s events from coming true somehow. There must.’

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Jace’s initial reception at Winterfell was as chilly as the climate in the North, even with the heat from the sauna emanating from the walls. Cregan Stark had lived up to everything Jace had been fearing, a stern, formidable man of few words, and seemingly disinterested in the brewing conflict. “The North has no place in Southron politics, my Prince,” Cregan had told Jace. Jace had a feeling he was trying to convey a sort of sympathy in his words, but the man’s face was unyielding as he spoke.

A sentiment that Cregan had expressed had given Jace a small sliver of hope, “However,” the imposing man said, clinking down his cutlery. “Tis’ true that my late father swore an oath of obeisance to your mother. And House Stark, and the North, will honour that oath no matter what.”

Jace had attempted to seize on that to leverage Lord Cregan’s support, but the man seemed adamant not to interfere. Jace spent the next moments picking listlessly at his meal, trying to decide the next best course of action. The Northern lord seemed as unyielding as stone, much to his growing frustrations.

“If I may say something personal, my Prince,” Cregan’s low, thoughtful voice broke the silence. Jace’s heart leaped at the voice, coming to life with the hope for negotiations again. “Please, speak freely, my Lord.” “You remind me of my late younger brother, my Prince.” Jace tried to shove down his spike of disappointment, instead feigning politeness as he asked, “I am flattered. Do you hold fond memories of him?” Cregan nodded slowly, his eyes studying Jace’s every move like a hawk. “Many of them, in fact.” “May I ask in what way do I remind your Lordship of your late brother?” Jace inquired, out of courtesy more out of genuine curiosity.

Cregan fixed his flinty gaze on Jace, the corners crinkling a little in memory. “The burden. The feeling of all the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Jace didn’t quite know what to answer to that, shrinking uncomfortably into his seat as Lord Stark’s gaze penetrated through him. He suddenly felt more aware of his age than ever.

No other words were exchanged throughout the rest of their dinner.

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Cregan had seen men driven by many things before: greed, anger, power, but he had never met someone quite like Jace Velaryon. A strange sense of urgency enveloped his every move, like he was racing against an invisible foe better known as time. Every one of his muscles always seemed taut in tension, his eyes broody, his mind clouded with a thousand storms of struggles.

Perhaps it was this sense of oddity that drew him to become more sympathetic to the young prince’s cause. He had noticed that the young prince had grown more dishevelled ever since their dinner in the hall where Cregan had refused to lead troops in Queen Rhaenyra’s name. He looked like a petrified animal, leg stuck in a trap.

Over time, Cregan began to warm up to the young Prince, taking his meals with him as Jace covertly tried to persuade Cregan into contributing his troops to his cause. Cregan was amused, but remained otherwise unswayed.

And then, the raven from Dragonstone arrived.

Cregan didn’t see Jace for a few days after that. The guards he had assigned to the young Prince had reported him looking nigh delirious, refusing to take more than a few bites of his meals, his eyes sunken in, and the occasional sounds of weeping coming from his chambers.

It seemed the young Prince had been truly broken. And who wouldn’t be, with the death of their younger sibling? Innocent blood spilled at war, Cregan shook his head as he reread the letter from the maester of Dragonstone. Kinslaying was a taboo among Westeros, and rightfully so. Even Cregan had been hesitant when dealing with his power-hungry uncle a few years ago, choosing to imprison him instead of carrying out the sentence meant for treason: execution.

When a week had nearly come and gone and Cregan had not caught sight of the Prince, he began to grow worried. The letter Cregan had received had requested for the immediate return of Jacaerys to Dragonstone, but the prince seemed to have no signs of moving in his mourning.

Cregan was startled to see the young Prince appear while he was breaking fast in his solar on the morrow. While he had sent the young Prince an invitation, as courtesy bode, the sudden appearance of Jace had him unnerved. Jace appeared detached, polite, every inch the prim and proper Prince he was. But what sent a chill through even the hardened Northman’s heart was the look in Jace’s eyes.

They looked steely determined, yet devoid of life, like he was a soulless shell of the person he was. The Prince before him was no man, but a wraith, worn thin by his inner turmoil.

As Cregan offered his condolences, Jace had only smiled faintly, thanking Lord Cregan emotionlessly. “I can only hope that the usurpers will be punished by the Gods for my brother’s death,” Jace’s eyes glowed with an unearthly sort of fury, Cregan noted with concern. “My brother committed no act worthy of such a gruesome death. And for the act of kinslaying, my uncle must pay with blood.”

“Justice will prevail, my prince,” Cregan reassured Jace, his black eyes filled with certainty. But what took Cregan aback was the hard look in Jace’s dark brown eyes: it was like wildfire, blazing and ready to consume everything in its path. And what unnerved the young Lord of Winterfell even more were the next words out of the Prince’s mouth: ‘What I desire is no longer just justice, but vengeance. I will rain fire and blood upon those usurpers who have harmed my kin, mark my words.”

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Ever since receiving the missive informing Jace of Luke’s murder over Shipbreaker’s Bay, Jace felt like all time had ceased to exist. When once he fought to race against the clock to prevent the prophecy from coming true, now it seemed like nothing mattered anymore.

Somehow, he managed to secure an alliance with Lord Cregan, having moved the man enough for him to pledge himself wholeheartedly to his mother’s cause. Jace should have felt relieved: that the task he had set out to do was accomplished, but now, he felt naught but a gaping hole where his heart had been.

Luke had always been his baby brother. Joffrey was his youngest brother, but he was filled with an impish sort of charm and self-assuredness. Luke had been none of those. He was always the more serious, more sensitive of the three brothers. Jace had watched his mother place his dragon egg in his cradle. The first baby Jace had ever held in his arms was Luke. His precious, lovable, younger brother.

And now he was gone, his remains lost forever to the sea. Along with poor Arrax, and the remnants of House Baratheon’s allegiance. With Luke’s death, it was like Jace’s heart had hardened into cold, unyielding stone once more, like it did when he had feared for Luke’s disinheritance and potential punishment during Vaemond Velaryon’s punishment.

Dragonstone was an even drearier place now. The lingering feeling of despair that had been left in the aftermath of his mother’s stillbirth seemed to have increased tenfold, seeping into the walls and hovering above everyone in the fortress like a cloud of anguish.

Rhaenyra had swept Jace into her arms when he had returned. Too tired to even receive her son at the doors, both mother and son held each other and cried in Rhaenyra’s chambers as they mourned Luke, their sweet boy.

But after that, there was no time for tears. At least not anymore for Jace. Though he was still prone to walking into his younger brother’s room every morning to wake Luke up for their daily sparring sessions, he always halted in his path when he remembered. Luke was dead, and there was no coming back for him now.

Perhaps it was this constant feeling of gloom that began to drive Jace back into his old patterns of neglecting sleep. With Daemon gone, and his mother barely a fraction of what she used to be, Jace had to take charge as the future heir to the throne. He initially felt miserable, finding it useless to fight with one part of his heart having been stolen away and smashed to pieces.

Yet the echoing of the prophecy never ceased, and neither did the ticking of time. No, now was not the time for grief. There was still someone left to pay the price for Luke’s death, and Jace vowed that he would kill Aemond One-Eye with his bare hands, along with the rest of his traitorous kin.

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The Hall of the Painted Table was in tumult, voices shouting over one another, loudest and most outraged among them was the voice of Lord Corlys, Jace’s grandsire.

It had been hours after the Battle of Rook’s Rest, and the Black council was in chaos, as Lord Corlys raged and screamed at Rhaenyra, who looked passive and sickly despite being seated at the head of the table.

“It should have been you,” Lord Corlys had screamed, his face a tangled mess of pure unadulterated rage and grief. Even Jace himself could not find the courage to stop his grandsire’s tirade, having experienced the death of Luke not too long ago. But an uncomfortable tingling plagued him as he watched his grandsire hurl curses at his already frail mother. He wasn’t sure whose side to take in this argument, so he kept silent, despite his reluctance.

The Battle at Rook’s Rest had not been the only blow they’ve suffered. Earlier, Ser Erryk had been slain, by the hands of none other than his turncloak brother, Ser Arryk. The bloody discovery had sent jolts of alarm through Jace, as he soon came to fear for the safety of his younger siblings, who were vulnerable should Dragonstone be infiltrated by any more knights such as Ser Arryk.

The seeds Jace had scattered on his laborious trip as an envoy had begun to bear fruit, and not a moment too soon. Quickly, Jace made arrangements for Luke’s betrothed, Rhaena, to make way to the Vale. going with her would be Joffrey, along with his mount Tyraxes. Too small to ride, yet Jace found a greater purpose in sending him as part of his promise to Lady Jeyne. The Vale was the most secure place in the realm, Jace had reassured his petulant brother, who did not wish to be apart from his family. When that did not work, Jace had instead convinced Joffrey that he was being sent to the Vale so that he may defend it against any of the usurper’s dragons, to which Joffrey eventually reluctantly acquiesced, though with a pout.

Barely had Joffrey and Rhaena been sent away then did Jace start making preparations to send both Aegon and Viserys away as well. Both of them were even younger than Joffrey, and should be kept the in the safest and furthest place possible, lest the usurper tried to use them as hostages. This time, Jace enlisted the help of Lord Corlys, mending the broken bonds between them by naming his grandsire Hand of the Queen, a position Jace knew he had long coveted. With his grandsire’s help, they had made arrangements to send Aegon and Viserys to Pentos. It was more secure than anywhere else in Westeros, his grandfather had reassured him as they sent them both off.

All this had been accomplished within the matter of a few days, yet Jace still felt restless. An unpleasant knot had formed in his stomach at Joffrey and Rhaena’s send off, and it only multiplied in its discomfort as Aegon and Viserys set sail. But I’ve done it , Jace thought, trying to console himself. That fortune teller can’t get all of my family now. I made sure that they were sent to the safest places in the whole of Westeros and Essos. I’m safe. We are all safe.

Convinced, Jace had settled into bed that night, shutting his eyes with a grim sort of victory pumping through his veins. See how your god is a falsehood, he wanted to taunt the fortune teller, triumphant in his victories.

He didn’t feel so victorious, however, when he fell into a deep slumber, and came face to face with the fortune teller’s face. This time his dream was tranquil, with no signs of fire anywhere. Jace had nearly hollered in sheer, utter relief, thinking he was free from the nightmarish landscape of that night’s visions at last.

A slender hand reached out to Jace, and Jace levelled a baleful glare at the fortune teller, who only serenely shrugged and continued holding out her hand. “It is rude to refuse a lady’s hand, my Prince.” That voice that had once enticed him, that had been the source of his dread for the past few years.

He couldn’t tell whether he wanted to throttle the woman or kiss her.

She had looked much unchanged since their encounter in the caravan, Jace thought as he took her hand, slightly relishing in the warmth of it. That certainly didn’t feel like a dream. He looked around, registering nothing but rolling grass fields of an unnatural blue-green hue and trees with leaves of the same colour. Frosty pink roses dotted the landscape ever so often, and their sickly sweet nectar wafted through the air.

“Is this real?” The woman tilted her head, and Jace’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the movement of her neck. Damn, he cursed himself internally. He needed to get a hold of himself. Keep himself focused on whether this was reality.

“It’s as real as my god deems it to be, Prince Jacaerys,” she informed him, and a harsh laugh rolled off Jace’s tongue. “Your god, is nothing but a falsehood, my lady,” Jace informed her, his voice dripping with venom at the thought of what he had lost. Luke. His mother’s joy and happiness. His mother’s and his rightful birthright. Though Jace knew it was the greed of the Greens that drove them to such straits, Jace couldn’t help but feel resentful to this unknown, eldritch god who had driven his paranoia for the past few years.

The woman’s face did not show any visible indicators of outrage, but a thunderous flicker in her stormy eyes made Jace feel a little cowed. He did not believe in the god that this woman did, yes, but he knows that there is something unearthly about the woman before him. Her eyes already narrated such an expressive story, Jace wondered about what would happen if all the power swirling in her was put on display in its full fury.

“I’m sure you thought you’ve evaded sailing into the eye of the storm,” the woman began to walk. Jace stared after her, perplexed, but began to walk with her nonetheless. The sweet smell in the air began to dissipate, and Jace felt a wave of nausea in his abdomen as he began to smell burning flesh again. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the more calming scent of something like honeysuckle.

“A man seized by fear may do something moronic in the spur of the moment.. A man who allows fear to take control of him is as good as dead.” Anger bubbled in Jace, though he tried to tamp it down, worried that if he broke the serenity of their talk, the nightmarish scenes of fire consuming everything in its path and the dead faces of his family would return. Not that. Anything but that.

“Had your god not shown me those visions, do you think I would have become a man ruled by fear?” Jace retorted in a calm voice, as they strode into a meadow, dotted with red roses. Jace was desperate to keep this conversation going, to know if he had been successful in tricking the heavens. He knew this woman held the answers to his success in the palm of her hand. He just wished he could stop his eyes from wandering and admiring her visage instead of the scenery.

“Every man is ruled by fear, my Prince,” the woman’s voice was amused. “And are you telling me you regret seeing those visions? Would you rather have remained blissfully ignorant?”

“Maybe,” Jace reached out to pluck a blood red rose, admiring its crisp petals. “Perhaps if I did, then I wouldn’t have to watch the ones I love die in my dreams, slaughtered by our enemies. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have to watch my worst nightmares come to reality, to see Lucerys die and be helpless to stop it.”

“But it’s over now,” Jace and the fortune teller turned to face each other. Her impassive look unnerved Jace slightly, but still, against his better judgement and by some raw, magnetic pull of the universe, he tucked the rose he had plucked free of thorns in the woman’s hair.

“Joffrey and Rhaena are in the Vale, the safest place there can be in the realm. And Aegon and Viserys are in Pentos. Or soon to be.” He tilted his head upwards cockily. “I have beaten your god. And he would never be able to get the rest of my family. Not now, not ever, and if he wants to, he’ll have to spit on my dead, cold corpse.”

Jace had intended to provoke the woman, to goad her into admitting that he had played his cards right and well, but her next words caught him off-guard.

“And what of King’s Landing? The Greens and their dragons?” She reminded him. “The murderer of your brother and unborn sister still remain at large, and the usurpers will live to breathe another day, the same as the rest of your family. Tell me, is your happiness truly just relegated to the safety of your family?”

“You know you desire more, Jacaerys Velaryon.”

The meadow filled with an eerie silence. The fortune teller’s eyes pierced through Jace’s, as if extracting all his deepest secrets with just a single, searing glance.

“...you’re right,” Jace gritted his teeth. “It’s not enough. And I will raze the usurpers to the ground, every single last one of them, for conspiring against my mother. For murdering my brother.”

“But if it’s a choice between vengeance and the safety of your family?” The woman’s voice was playful, a stark contrast to the subject matter they were discussing. “Is that your god’s way of telling me that I am doomed to follow one path or the other?” Jace asked sarcastically. He noticed that when he got more worked up, the familiar smell of burning flesh became stronger, before being quickly suppressed by a sickly sweet scent.

“Mortals cannot have it all, Jacaerys Velaryon. We must make compromises.” Jace thought of Luke, poor, sweet Luke, losing his life at the hands of their uncle, thinking of his mother and the pain she had suffered through his miscarriage, hot white anger blinding him. But he also thought of Joffrey, Baela, little Aegon and Viserys, his mother, his grandsire, and Daemon. For all the wrongs the Green had wreaked upon them, if Jace ever came to the position where he had to choose between taking off Aemond’s head with his sword and protecting Joffrey, say, would he hesitate? What would he choose?

“Not any more,” Jace forced out. “I will be controlled no longer by your god’s visions. By the fear he had instilled in me.”

“My family has the power. We have the dragons and strength in numbers,” Jace’s voice rose in conviction. “The rest of my family are safely stowed away. What’s to stop us from raining blood and fire upon the usurpers?” The overwhelming smell of burning flesh was overtaking his senses again, and not even the sickly sweet scent of the meadow could hide it anymore. “I will prove your god wrong, my lady,” he informed her, a crude sort of determination in his voice. “The Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, after all.”

The roaring in his ears grew louder and louder, and suddenly Jace was back in the battlefield of bodies again, the sky filled with shrieks as dragons plummeted to the ground. It was as if the fortune teller’s god was striking him down for his challenge to it. The hellscape blistered with smoke and fire, but Jace was insistent, continuing to yell. “You’ll see! You’ll all see.”

Jace fought back the urge to flinch as he felt the burning sensation of fire engulfing him, forcing his screams of pain down his throat. That nightmare again. So he hadn’t escaped after all. His breathing grew heavier, as the flames grew greater in intensity and temperature. He could barely see anything now, and it felt worse than all the previous nightmares he had had. Was he wrong to have challenged the fortune teller’s god so boldly? To want to turn the tides of fate?

“I will prove you and your god wrong!” Jace shouted, thrashing and trying to wrangle himself free from the prison of flames. “You will not touch my family no matter what! No more of them! I swear this on all my ancestors of Old Valyria, that you will have my family’s lives only if you spit and step on my dead body! Just try it!”

A fiery burst of flame blinded his eyes, and Jace let out an agonised scream as he felt himself being burnt alive.

And then he was falling into an empty pit, his limbs outstretched and his heart seized by terror.

A figure bolted upright from the lavish four-poster bed in one of the more secluded rooms in Dragonstone, gulping in the fresh air greedily. His sheets were stained with sweat as Jace wearily wiped a hand down his face, dismayed but not surprised to see a patch of scarlet stain his palm as a steady trickle of blood dripped from his nose.

His heart thudding, Jace tried to recollect himself as his heart thudded in his chest. Yet again, the fortune teller’s calm, flowing voice filled his head as he recalled the last words he heard while he was hurtling through the empty vortex.

“Dragonseeds.”

A warning, Jace started, or another prophecy. But what does it mean?

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Jace couldn’t quite find the steely strength that used to take hold of him every morning as he walked down to the Hall of the Painted Table. His vivid dream and talk with the fortune teller the night before had not yielded his intended result, to say the least.

His grandsire was holding court as usual, and they immediately settled on their newest problem now that the younger children were away and out of the castle: the problem of their dragons. While the Blacks did have strength in numbers, having Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, and even Baela’s Moondancer, as she insisted, against Aemond One-Eye’s Vhagar, the battle to retake King’s Landing or to withstand an assault by Vhagar would be a risky one. The loss of Meleys had been a devastating blow for the Black council’s earlier plans to take back King’s Landing as soon as possible, for it remained a key symbol of legitimacy that supported Aegon the Usurper’s rule.

Jace sat stoically in his chair as Baela and his grandsire fielded suggestions and assessments on the risk factor of taking King’s Landing with their current dragons, lost in thought. His mind was focused on the dream he had last night, of death and battle and destruction that somehow felt more real and close to any dreams he had in the previous years, but also because of that fortune teller.

That darn woman. With her mysterious words, her expressive eyes, her solemn wisdom falling from her very kissable lips-

“Jace.” Jace wanted to kick himself for even thinking about such thoughts, when his betrothed was right next to him. Baela arched an eyebrow, clearly noticing how distracted he was. “My apologies, did you address me?” Jace murmured lowly to her, averting his grandsire’s disapproving gaze.

“I asked what you thought about attacking King’s Landing with our current forces,” Corlys’ lips were pressed in a thin line, looking slightly displeased that his grandson had been caught lacking in his duties. Jace was about to repeat just about what everyone in the room had voiced out, when the fortune teller’s words from last night rang through his mind.

Dragonseeds. Wild, untamed dragons on the island.

Seven fucking Hells.

“I would like to make a proposal.”

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Lord Corlys had been dubious but intrigued about the plan of the Sowing of the Dragonseeds, but the Black council, including Baela, had seemed receptive to the idea. Particularly the Council. Jace wondered if he had made the right call when he saw the shifty looks on the various councillors’ faces, clearly hoping to claim a dragon of their own. After all, the Targaryens boasted their dragons as their might, should they be lucky enough to get the chance to bond with one…

The gold and knighthood Jace had planned to offer along for anyone successful enough to tame the dragons would pale terribly in comparison to a dragon.

Jace was alone on the balcony with a view of the eastern slopes of the Dragonmont, musing, when he suddenly heard the doors slide open. His eyebrows shot to his hairline and his heart pounded with delight when Rhaenyra Targaryen emerged on the balcony, garbed in black. She had only been wearing black ever since Luke’s funeral, or the makeshift one they were forced to arrange without his remains.

“Mother,” Jace greeted, moving to bow, but Rhaenyra halted his movements, moving to take his hands. “Oh my son,” she murmured softly, stroking Jace’s hair like she used to do when he was younger. “My strength and my consolation.”

Jace felt a fluttery feeling in his heart, but also a deep pit of longing and sadness in his stomach. This was the mother he had missed sorely, not the one tucked away behind the vacant-eyed stare, face subdued during council meetings and always looking preoccupied with her own thoughts.

“Mother. Have you heard of my plan about the Dragonseeds?” Jace asked softly, a warmth spreading across his cheeks as his mother gently stroked his hand with her thumb. His mother smiled, “I have. I think it is a sensible plan. More dragons on our side is never a bad thing.” Her eyes glittered with pride as she reached out and cupped Jace’s face in her hands gently.

Taken aback but not at all averse to the gesture, Jace let himself be soothed, letting all the nightmares, that nonsense about the prophecy be evaporated into thin air. All he needed was his mother’s comfort.

“Oh, my sweet boy, how I have let you down,” Rhaenyra spoke tenderly, sorrow in her voice. Jace felt something in the spell break, Rhaenyra was speaking to Luke. Not to Jace. A bit of Jace’s happiness gave way to sadness.

“You haven’t let me down, Mother,” Jace tried to reassure her, but his voice came out a little croaky. “I should be fighting for you. It is my duty as your son and heir to the throne.”

A little of the vacantness slid back into Rhaenyra’s lilac eyes. “I’m glad you know that, Jace,” she said quietly, but it broke Jace’s heart to see how far away she was. How her heart never fully repaired after Luke.

But for now, Jace was content in acting as a placeholder for Luke, if it meant that his mother would return to him bit by bit. How long it took did not matter, he just wanted his family to be able to heal, to survive. He would shoulder a thousand burdens if it meant he would see them all safe and sound.

The prophecy rumbled through his head again, but he tamped it down, not wanting it to poison his moment with his mother.

“You’ve grown skinnier, Jace,” the pads of Rhaenyra’s fingers gently traced under Jace’s undereyes, where his eyebags were more prominent than ever. “Are you well? You need not feel too troubled, you know. We will win the war, because I am the rightful heir to the throne. The rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” His mother’s voice was so full of conviction, so much like the mother he had known, that Jace didn’t have the heart to tell her that conviction did not win wars.

Whomever favoured fate did.

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The Dragonseeds plot had worked its magic, and soon enough, four of the six wild dragons had been tamed. While Jace had not come to trust them just yet, he felt a little abashed. Was he just treating them with mistrust just because they were of bastard birth? He knew he had no prerogative to think in that shameful manner, after all, wasn’t that being a little bit of a hypocrite himself?

There was no time to dwell on guilt however. With the sowing of the Dragonseeds, Jace, Rhaenyra and Corlys had been advancing the plan for the taking of King’s Landing at breakneck pace. Jace felt a warm relief spread through him as he began to see his mother participate more actively in council meetings, and he could see how much it invigorated the council too. The former self-assured, rosy glow his mother had would never quite be the same, but Jace was content to settle for this for now.

Alas, all good things did not last.

They had underestimated the strength of the Greens’ alliance with the Triarchy, as demonstrated when his younger brother, Aegon, returned on a faltering Stormcloud, in terror after having been attacked by Triarchy warships in the Gullet, and losing his younger brother, Viserys in the ensuing melee.

Rhaenyra turned pale as soon as she heard the news of Viserys’ disappearance, collapsing into her chair and no longer speaking another word. Still, she listened and watched as Jace and Corlys began discussing plans to counter the threat of the Triarchy, knowing that if House Velaryon’s hold on the Gullet broke, it would be a resounding strategic win and gain in resources for the Greens.

Thus on the fifth day of the new year of 130 AC, a flurry of dragons and ships departed from Dragonstone, all headed for the Triarchy. Jace commanded Vermax, along with the other Dragonseeds, his lips pressed in a thin line and eyes haggard with lack of sleep. His nose had been bleeding oft as of late, even now, as they drew closer to the Gullet, but Jace only wiped it away with a fierce look on his face.

It was his first battle as the heir to the Iron Throne, and he was going to show those Triarchy bastards they had chosen the wrong side to back.

Swooping down on a line of Lysene warships, Jace narrowed his eyes as he heard the alarmed calls of “dragon!” among the crew. Good.

“Dracarys!” Hungry dancing flames licked the wooden remains of the Lysene warships, as chaos broke out throughout the fleet of Triarchy warships. “Hold your formations!” Jace could hear the soldiers scrambling, but more frenzied shouts began filling the air, as the shapes of Vermithor, Sheepstealer, Silverwing and Seasmoke appeared in the skies.

“Fire!” Jace barely had time to react before a Myrish crossbolt had nearly struck Vermax’s underbelly. His dragon let out an enraged shriek as it swooped for the offending vessel, burning it to ashes. Jace gritted his teeth, they had clearly learnt this tactic from their time in dealing with Daemon in the Stepstones.

Egging Vermax on with a roar, he bade Vermax to destroy as many vessels loaded with crossbolts as possible. Already, some ships were beginning to turn, a good sign for them. Jace was confident that the battle would end in a resounding victory for them.

Just then, he flew past Seasmoke, whose rider, Addam Velaryon, looked ashen. Jace’s gaze shot to where he was staring at, where the ships were headed straight for Driftmark and Dragonstone. Fuck.

“Stay here!” He yelled a command to Addam, already directing Vermax to head back to defend Dragonstone and Driftmark. “I’ll handle this. Burn every ship that has one of those fucking crossbolts, and don’t fly too close to the water.”

With that, Vermax’s leathery wingbeats headed for Dragonstone once more. Please, Jace begged, hoping to make it in time. No more of my family. Not my mother, or little Aegon. Please no.

Perhaps if Jace was more careful, more alert, he would’ve noticed the squadron of ships, veiled by the smoke of the fires Jace had set earlier. Perhaps if he hadn’t chosen to fly so close to the edge of the water, hoping to conceal Vermax’s presence and sneak an attack from behind instead of from above, he would’ve noticed the crossbolt aimed at Vermax’s eye.

A loud roar filled the air, one which could be heard all the way across from Dragonstone. Vermax shrieked and flailed, as both squadrons of ships attacked at the same time, loosing crossbolts at him. Jace panicked, trying to redirect him to fly up, to escape, to flee, but a horrific screech erupted from Vermax as a crossbolt pierced his eye. Jace was gripped with fear as he began to unbuckle his saddle as Vermax careened for the waters.

In his frenzied fury of pain, Vermax loosed several fireballs, which hit the ships in front of him, destroying the back of some of the squadron headed for Dragonstone. The ships splintered into pieces as they exploded, and the remaining ships shouted orders to row away from the firing range of the dragon.

As Vermax hit the waters with a loud crash, Jace finally got loose of his saddle. Spotting an adrift, large shipwreck near him, he leaped free…

And landed on the shipwreck, barely clinging on in the freezing waters. He struggled to keep afloat as Vermax continued thrashing about in the waves, and his heart ached as he watched his beloved dragon suffer.

Then, a sharp, excruciating pain filled his left chest, and Jace looked away from Vermax to see an arrow lodged in his chest, piercing his dragonriding leathers.

Fuck.

Jace tried to make himself look smaller, anything to seem less conspicuous, but a volley of arrows were shot in his direction. Most of them missed in the dark, but the pain was blinding to the point where Jace’s feeble grip on the wood slowly loosened, and he thrashed about wildly in the cold sea waters, gasping for breath. The weight of his dragonriding leathers and scarce amount of armour did not work well in his favour however, and the treacherous waves soon dragged him down, into the deep dark depths of the ocean.

I cannot die now, Jace thought, sputtering for air desperately. My family, my mother needs me. She cannot lose another son-

The currents were getting harsher and harsher, as Jace bled out helplessly on the water. Armour, he needed to dislodge his armour- he frantically attempted to remove it, but as he lost more and more blood, his limbs grew number and number, and soon, he could barely retain consciousness.

‘I’ve failed. I’ve failed them all.’ was Jacaerys Velaryon’s last thought as he was pulled beneath the currents by invisible tendrils of water, into the murky depths below.

‘I’m sorry I failed to protect everyone.’

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In his dreams, Jace was at the meadow again. The woman was nowhere to be seen, but he could feel her presence all around him. A light, serene sort of happiness filled him, and he felt the phantom feeling of warm arms wrapped around him from behind.

It was something he hadn’t felt in years. An eerily calm sense of bliss. But Jace didn’t care, he was too busy relishing in the moment where his mind was free of his demons. Free from worrying about his family’s survival, about the prophecy, and about the war.

In his blurred senses, he could see someone smiling at him, a tender, playful one. A warm breath grazed his ear and the voice from his sweetest dreams and most horrid nightmares spoke in that calm, flowing manner of hers.

“The living are not quite done with you yet, Jacaerys Velaryon.”

And that was the last thing he heard before darkness consumed him once more. At least this time there was no pain.

The first thing Jacaerys registered when he woke up was the faint scent of snapdragons. He groaned as he awakened, feeling an agonising pain in his shoulder as he tried moving.

Aren’t I supposed to be dead? Jace remembered the events of the battle of The Gullet, where he had watched Vermax flail about in the sea, screeching as he fought not to drown in the cold depths of the ocean. His heart ached at the loss. Another one of my family gone, in the blink of an eye. And in the sea too. He wondered how the battle ended, did they win?

But that soon became a minor concern as he began pondering…where exactly was he? He looked around, trying to sit up, but the pain in his shoulder forced him to fall back onto his pillow with a groan. So he was still alive then. Sudden panic gripped him. Had he been taken hostage by the Green forces? But if he had, then he would be in a far worse state than he was now.

He glanced around the small space, noting that he was in a cottage of sorts. The smell of salt was heavy in the air, and the sky outside was grey and gloomy. Had some fisherman rescued him when he washed upon the shore? And if so, where in the Seven Hells was he now? The Crownlands? He definitely didn’t wash ashore on Dragonstone, or he would have been handed over to his mother. His heart ached as he wondered how his mother must have reacted to the news of his death. Once he ascertained his whereabouts and who had saved him, he would fly home for Dragonstone immediately….Jace sighed when he remembered that Vermax was dead now. He would send a raven or any messenger bird he could find then.

The sound of the front door to the cottage opening caught Jace’s attention and he tried bolting upright, but yelped when his shoulder pain acted up again. He waited with bated breath as the door to his room opened, and revealed his saviour and possible enemy. However, the sight before him left him thunderstruck.

In that instant, Jace’s heart felt like it had stopped and then had been jolted forcefully back to life again by a tight grip.

No. No, no, no, it was impossible. He had died, had felt the arrows pierce through his chest near his heart, before he fell prey to the treacherous waves of the Gullet, drowning in his failure. This has to be some false afterlife, set up to torment me.

And yet, the pain in his lungs was overbearing, and definitely real, as he sat on the bed like he had been bolted to it, tightly clutching the coarse bedsheets in his fists.

The whole world seemed to stand still as his eyes took in the familiar figure, holding a basket of herbs in her arms. Garbed in simple peasant clothing, yet that did not diminish her otherworldly beauty.

“ You. ”

“Me.” An insouciant, wry grin graced her lips, and it was like Jace’s most horrible nightmares and his dreams were blossoming before his very eyes.

“Welcome back to the world of the living, Prince Jacaerys.”

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published as part of the HOTD Big Bang 2023

Part 2 will be published soon! If you made it this far, thank you for reading! 💗

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sitp-recs · 9 months

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Happy Friday, friends! I’ve never done monthly wrap ups before but since Wireless pulled me back from a brief hiatus, I thought it would be cool to share some things I’ve been reading, that could use more love. 10 fics both old and new, Drarry and rare pairs, Wireless treats; pick your poison and have fun! 🙌

Drarry

Muscle Memory by @corvuscrowned (E, 7k) - brilliant concept perfectly executed, I’m so here for curse-breaking colleagues who fuck at the job to pass time and then forget about it every time 🤌🏼 genius and intriguing and captivating as per crow’s usual

There's something just beneath the surface, just at the periphery of Harry's mind. They've been here before — they've done this before. If only he could remember it.

And Embers at Your Lips by @nametheshadows (T, 15k) - sequel to one of my all-time favorite 8th year fics with insomniac roommates just as soft and healing as LLAYF. Gorgeous prose and all the kissing. Highly rec this series for A+ comfort food!

The sequel to Like Lightning at Your Fingertips: the kissing montage. And there’s that thing with Potter’s magic.

Rich Friend, Anon (E, 18k) - one of my faves from Wireless, pop star!Draco never gets old and both the pacing and the romance are perfectly developed! I live for Harry’s horny yearning and for their road trip together, kudos to casual Harry/Neville as a side ship!

As far as Harry can tell, Draco Malfoy is still rich as hell. He’s just not a wizard anymore. Featuring: Draco Malfoy trying to make it as a Muggle pop star, Harry Potter as our confused and horny hero, bad driving, good music, and the mysterious magic of falling for someone.

Waking Up Slow, Anon (E, 22k) - this ode to advent Drarry fics took my breath away with a charming Draco, fun dynamics, an enchanting Christmas shop and one of the sexiest smut scenes I’ve read this year, 10/10 recommend for hot & sweet magical vibes and lots of references as an homage to the classics!

'Twas the night before Christmas, although it’s July / Draco’s a shopkeeper, no-one knows why / There’s hiking and witch caves, freak snowfalls and more / Bad Christmas jumpers, nosy neighbours galore / Narcissa’s here too, but… something’s amiss / And what’s in those chocolates that’s making them kiss?

We Are Legend by Vaysh (E, 38k) - happy to report to @romaine2424 that I have finally read this epic apocalypse AU and am shooketh with its originality and serious tone. One of the most creative takes I’ve seen on animagus Draco, a poignant and devastating war story.

Eighty years into the future, Voldemort won. Harry Potter is a renegade wizard, Portkeying Muggles out of London to Hogwarts, last sanctuary in a Britain ruled by the Dark Lord. On a mission he encounters a powerful phoenix Animagus fighting on the Death Eaters' side. He recognises Draco Malfoy whom he thought long dead. But the differences between them are perhaps even greater than before. Cw: MCD

LA, Who Am I To Love You?, Anon (E, 42k) - I cannot believe this beauty was written for my lil Wireless prompt ♥️ perfect LA vibes, gorgeous aesthetics, horny ust and a fascinating take on both down and out bi Harry and out and proud bi Draco, we love to see it! Couldn’t have asked for a better story to fill my prompt, ty anon!

Harry’s summer in LA is not going as expected. Pansy Parkinson keeps inviting him to parties in the Hollywood Hills and harassing him to finally go to the physical therapist, Blaise Zabini keeps slipping new strains of his company’s magical weed into Harry’s pockets in hopes of an endorsement, and Draco Malfoy keeps having sex with everyone but Harry.

Rare Pairs

A Different Tune by November Snowflake (M, 8k) - very nice Dron get together, short & sweet with an undercurrent melancholy that I love, just what I needed before bed

Working in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office has led Ron to many strange encounters--but none more unexpected than this one. Cw: Harry’s dead

The Years Between by brummell (M, 14k) - another rare pair fave, this Rarry fic told from Ron’s smitten and jealous pov as he helps Harry recover from a coma is so deliciously raw and angsty. Gorgeous slow burn, the feels!

For both Harry and Ron, a wake-up call is just the beginning.

Things Remembered by avioleta (E, 17k) - best Snarry fic I’ve read this year, I’m low key obsessed with this hitmen + amnesia concept and how the romance develops so organically while they’re on the run. Intriguing plot, sexy ust and super scorching smut that made me salivate jfc 🔥

Harry wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar hotel room, and with absolutely no idea who he is. The man he’s in bed with has no memories either. But they think, maybe, they’re assassins, because they seem to be very good at killing people.

A Dress with Pockets by PacificRimbaud (E, 25k) - a Panville classic recced by anon (ty!!), what a sexy and vibrant read! I LOVED Neville and their dynamics are brilliant and so funny, I just couldn’t get enough of these characters. 100% sold on this ship pls and thank

Pansy Parkinson needed a drink. And a shag. She didn't care in which order. Enter: Neville fucking Longbottom and his rolled up sleeves.

#July wrap up #hp recs

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oftenwantedafton · 2 months

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What Remains - Springtrap/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Explicit

Word count - 2k

Content/Warnings - minor violence, body horror, no explicit content in this chapter, additional tags to be added

Summary - They say the new Fazbear Fright horror attraction is haunted; the souls of the victims reawakened in this new venue that is meant to pay homage to the original Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria. Seeking justice. Looking for revenge.

You know it is haunted by something much, much worse.

Also available on AO3

They say the new Fazbear Fright horror attraction is haunted; the souls of the victims reawakened in this new venue that is meant to pay homage to the original Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria. Seeking justice. Looking for revenge.

You know it is haunted by something much, much worse.

***

You never thought this was how you’d be using your art degree.

But when you’d heard they’d been looking for someone to help stage and recreate the new horror attraction, you could hardly turn it down.

You are fascinated by the themed restaurant’s dark history.

They won’t let you inside the actual building to see what you’re replicating; something about a nearly lethal accident when an animatronic had been removed, so you’re forced to rely on the pictures and news articles you find online, on the old microfiche slides at the library. For a place with such an extensively rumored past, you don’t find very much. It’s almost as if the place wants to be kept hidden. Secret.

Then there are the protests. Families of the victims. Still considered alleged victims, because no bodies of any of the missing children had ever been found. Nonetheless, certain members of the community vehemently fight the new location’s opening. Claiming it’s disrespectful to those that have been lost. Dangerous to desecrate that evil establishment and recreate another in its image. But money talks, and there’s no denying this place has potential to make serious cash. So the protests go unheard. Ignored. And the project moves forward.

You meet the yellow rabbit late one night when you’re trying to arrange the decor on the wall, continuously glancing at the grainy image you’d printed out. The perspective is limited and it’s confusing your placement of certain objects.

You hear something from the other room.

It takes a few moments to register, so occupied as you are with the task at hand. Wait. There it is again. Something heavy, being dragged.

You turn, holding your breath. Another rough sound of metal scraping against concrete. A chill runs down your spine. You’ve always been a rational person. You didn’t really believe in ghosts. But you’re starting to in a hurry.

Maybe it’s someone playing a practical joke. Maybe some kids have broken in trying to get an early sneak peek. Those are the logical explanations that come readily to mind, comforting you slightly. You straighten your shoulders, determined to confront whatever is making the noise. Pausing just long enough to grab a crowbar resting on top of one of the wooden crates that hasn’t been unpacked yet.

The sound is emanating from the room with the animatronic display. The one that had been found oddly folded and stuffed inside of a vent in the old Freddy’s, the extraction process itself nearly ending someone’s life. Some of your newfound confidence wavers. Your palm is damp against the metal tool in your hand.

You feel for a light switch on the wall and flip it. Nothing. The electricians clearly hadn’t had a chance to complete work in this part of the building. Or had they? Something is glowing in the darkness ahead of you. Two pinpricks of light. Growing larger. The sound evolving. Less of a drag. The animatronic has found its footing once again. Like a toddler learning to walk. Only this creature was nothing young. Not nearly so innocent. There’s a massive seven foot tall rabbit standing before you now, visible as you back up into the lit corridor behind you. The color of its synthetic fur a sickly sort of shade between yellow and green. It hasn’t been restored yet. There aren’t a lot of experts in that field to begin with, and less so as time has gone on. Part of one ear is missing. There are exposed cables and jagged edged holes. You think you can almost see inside some of them, to the robot’s internal components. Except they do not look mechanical. They look…human. Dusky dried skin and petrified organs that have a faint purple shimmer to them.

You cease backing away and the creature stops just shy of the open doorway. Its head tips to the side thoughtfully, considering you. There is intelligence in that gaze. You cannot explain how you know this, but your suspicion is confirmed when a voice like rusted gears grating together emanates from within the depths of the suit.

“I wonder,” says the rabbit. “I wonder what you think you’re doing with that.”

You recall the crowbar in your hand. “N…nothing. I was just…”

Faster than you’d imagined possible there is a steel encased paw—hand? yes, they were clearly fingers modeled after a human’s—clutching your wrist. Squeezing. The metal clatters to the ground.

“You were just…what?” There is a mocking tone audible now. The voice is becoming smoother. Getting used to speech again. You can see that there is something inside the headpiece of the suit. Another flash of white teeth behind the dirty yellowing ones that comprise the rictus grin of the mascot. A man inside of there? But how? Why?

“I’m just here staging…decorating…”

“You work here?”

You nod frantically. The grip on your wrist abruptly loosens and you clutch it to your chest, probing for injuries. There’s a dirty ring where the thing has touched you, but you don’t think the bones are broken. Only because the figure inside the animatronic had not deemed it necessary; you had no doubt it could crush you if it wanted.

“Doing what, precisely?”

“Like I said before. I got hired to help recreate Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria.”

“With stolen assets.”

“I didn’t steal anything.”

“Using them without permission is stealing though, is it not? What do they call it these days…intellectual property. Theft, however you regard it.” The suited figure flexes its upper extremities and all you can think of is someone working feeling back into a limb that’s gone numb. Pins and needles. You wonder what it feels like to this individual. “What should I do with you…” There is definitely a dark lace of amusement draped over that query. You’re entertaining it. Somehow. Maybe you can use that to your advantage. Keep yourself alive a little longer.

You lick your lips. “I can help you,” you say quickly.

“Help me how, exactly?”

Ah. Good point. What services could you provide? What could you possibly do for a decaying haunted animatronic? “I can get you things you need.”

There’s that shimmer again. As if whatever was inside was struggling to escape. “And what, do you imagine, I might need?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll do my best to get it.”

“Supposing I allow you to keep existing. How do I know that you won’t tell others about me?”

Oh. That phrasing. You swallow hurriedly. “I won’t. I promise.”

Another tip of the head, the severed ear’s cables twitching with the motion. “Hmm. Maybe I’ll let you live for now. You might be…amusing. And if I change my mind later, well…”

The dark threat hangs heavy in the air.

***

Silence greets you when you enter the building the next afternoon.

Perhaps you’d dreamt it all. It had to be a nightmare, right? Just something your brain had incorporated from the grim occupation you currently have. Gruesome little details being assembled into your mind, collectively forming a monstrous rabbit mascot that had threatened to murder you.

You’ve nearly convinced yourself of the truth of this until the afternoon becomes evening and you hear footsteps. Heavy. A tred that could never belong to a human.

It’s there, just behind you. Watching. Waiting.

“Don’t stop on my account. It’s…entertaining to see how you’re reinterpreting things. What sources are you using? You’re too young to have a first hand account.”

“Internet. Library research. Old newspaper articles. There isn’t a lot available. Most of the focus is on the disappearances.”

The yellow rabbit folds its arms across its chest. Much more limber tonight. The lit eyes are brighter, too. “And the proprietor of this establishment cares for authenticity?”

You nod.

The towering figure takes a step forward and you recoil against the checkerboard patterned wall. “No, I think not. Profit, most likely. The best way to maximize earnings. But you’re different, aren’t you? There’s a kind of…care in your work. You value what you’re doing. Take pride in it.”

“I do.”

“Hmm.” The mascot retreats, leaning against the wall across from you.

“What’s your name?”

“You can call me…Springtrap.” A touch of bitterness saturating that name. It wouldn’t be obvious why until later in your relationship, but for now, you can only offer your own in exchange. Not that the figure had asked. “I can assist you with some of your work. I was there at the pizzeria, after all.”

“Why would you want to help me?” You can’t help but distrust the rabbit. Sparing you already put you in its debt. What would the cost of this other favor be?

“Consider it…taking a trip down memory lane, as it were. Nostalgia. Sentimentality.” Purple light glows from within the decaying suit.

“What are you?” The words escape before you can rethink their utterance.

“Someone old. Something very, very new. Paradox. An improbability.”

You know the man—you’re assuming it’s male, the voice certainly is masculine—inside the animatronic is smiling even though you can’t see it from this angle.

You don’t think you like that feral grin; you’re afraid of what will happen when you no longer amuse him. When he stops smiling. There are bruises on your wrist from where he’d grabbed you the previous night. Dark purple splotches. Broken blood vessels.

The sound of something shifting inside the suit makes your skin crawl. A slithering hiss of old flesh against steel. You look away, refocusing on your work.

Feeling the creature’s eyes on your every move.

***

Something changes the first time you touch what is inside the suit.

Springtrap keeps his distance, for the most part, observing, recounting stories from the past. You find yourself relaxing slightly in his presence, as absurd as that sounds. Maybe you really could get used to anything if you were exposed to it long enough.

That’s not to say you don’t still find the tall rabbit figure terrifying and creepy; but there’s something in that calm voice of his. A kind of charm. Charisma. He was intriguing. It smothers the logic and reason that has always steered you so well through life. Why don’t you tell anyone?

Who would believe you, even if you did?

You need to move the portable lamp from the other side of the room—you really wish they’d prioritize the lighting installation, especially in a place with no windows, you really don’t want to be stuck in here in the dark—and it’s not surprising when you trip amidst the clutter on the floor. You try to keep things organized, but there’s just so much of it. So your body automatically reaches out to brace yourself on the nearest available surface, and that just happens to be Springtrap.

One hand meets the rotting fur, but the other…the other sinks inside of the suit. Touching that dried husk within. Only it’s not parched like it once was. It’s wet. Moist. Humid inside. You don’t know what you’re grabbing. A rough hiss from the figure. Purple tendril of illumination curling around your wrist. Caressing. You stare, transfixed. What is that light? So warm. Why aren’t you frightened?

Metal hands shove at your shoulders and the connection is broken. You stumble back, gasping. It’s like breaking through the surface of a body of water. You desperately suck in a lungful of air. Glance down at your hand, the one that had been inside the mascot. Nothing. No visible trace that you had ever made the transgression.

“What was that?” You whisper.

“I don’t know.” For the first time, Springtrap seems uncertain. Shaken. You can hear how ragged his breathing is.

He was changing. Evolving, somehow. Almost as if he was becoming more…alive.

The man within growing stronger.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #springtrap x you #springtrap x reader

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no1ryomafan · 4 months

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I know that every genre to ever exist is really just a ever growing evolution process, every single thing within a genre is influenced by each other somehow just each thing retools things to make it its own identity, so seeing overlap between things isn’t shocking but I gotta say: Mecha’s influencing each other will always fascinate me because the tiniest detail will be used in something that was ripped from another show. What do I mean by that? Well it’s only DAWNED ON ME that Roger’s watch in Big O is CLEARLY inspired off of Daisakus in Giant Robo!

This is such a obvious detail given Giant Robo is the mecha influence Big O takes-it wasn’t just “Batman but mecha”, it pulled a lot from this-and the robot itself feels inspired by Robo, but I hadn’t noticed the watch detail because of how it’s retooled in Big O.

In Giant Robo, the watch is used to command the robot, but in Big O, since Roger pilots the robot, he uses it just to call his robot, so it’s way more minor in that show but it’s still so clearly inspired off of Daisaku commanding Robo in battle.

It’s not only a homage but it’s making something new, for potentially maybe another mecha to pull from, and more to come after. This genre is so fucking COOL.

#meg text #giant robo #the big o #it’s almost 1 am so sorry my wording is ASS but I needed to be autistic #also I would’ve posted this to take and be shorter length but I don’t wanna risk someone making a asshole comment #like yes this is obvious and little. No I’m not gonna not point it out because I LOVE LITTLE DETAILS #LITTLE DETAILS GIVE THINGS MORE DEPTH #And when it comes to inspiration things should be a amalgamation which big o does nicely #also I realized I should’ve tagged this mecha too but whatever I’m going to bed after this lol

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justanisabelakinnie · 2 years

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Encanto Characters’ Birthdays and Their Significance

Isabela Madrigal was born on August 7, the day of the battle of Boyaca and the month during which the Festival of Flowers is celebrated.

Dolores’ birthday is August 31, coinciding with the International Day for People of African descent as well as Saint Raymond Nonnatus’ Feast Day, said Saint also being the patron saint of confidentiality.

Mirabel’s birthday is March 6, the same as Gabriel Garcia Marquez, as an homage to him due to his works being the Encanto staff’s inspiration for magical realism.

Luisa’s birthday is November 14, also known as the Civic Day of the Colombian Woman, which itself is set on the date of the execution of Colombian war heroine and spy Policarpa Salavarrieta.

Camilo was born on December 28, which is also Holy Innocents Day, the Colombian equivalent of April Fool’s Day.

Julieta, Pepa, and Bruno are born on October 17, tragically, coinciding with the date of the start of the Thousand Days’ War.

Agustin was born on June 19, which is Fathers’ Day in Colombia.

Felix’s birthday is November 11, which is also Cartagena’s Independence Day.

And finally, little Antonio was born on May 21, which falls on the same date as Afro-Colombian Day.

Alma’s birthday is currently unknown.

I hope you found this information as interesting and as fascinating as I did! The source is the Disney fandom on the wiki as well as Jared Bush on Twitter. It’s amazing how their birthdays all fall on significant dates while still being in the right order!

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slayerkitty · 7 months

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Narrative Frameworks in Only Friends

Something I have been tracking as part of the ongoing discussions about Only Friends is the use of the narrative framework for each episode.

So, I’m making this list specifically for tracking purposes, to note which framework was used for which episodes, if they repeat, and what they may be paying homage to. The goal is to update it every week. Due to suggestions, I am also tracking the end credit scenes, as well as any specific visual or audio formats used in the episodes.

Frameworks so far:

1. Voiceovers: gives the audience specific insight into a characters thoughts and feelings; also a great way to provide exposition. It’s more of an audio than visual framework, as we don’t always see the character doing the voice-over because it plays over other scenes.

2. “Talking Heads” (is there a better descriptor for this?): The characters talk directly to the camera, interview/documentary style. We get to see exactly how they feel about a given moment because they are reacting to it at that time. Audio and visual. Homage to Love8009 (per P'Jojo).

3. Social Media (ft The Artist Formerly Known as Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook): Not as insightful as the other two frameworks but does give context and a way for interaction, commentary, and exposition on a given plot. Visual. Probable homage to Together With Me, one of the first spicy BLs starring our kings, MaxTul.

(Side Note: I was re-watching some scenes from Never Let me Go and realized P'Jojo uses yellow text on the screen in it too. So maybe he just likes the yellow text or maybe it means something, idk, idk.)

Discussion: Ding, dong! Are the narrative frameworks dead? P'Jojo posted on The Artist Formerly Known as Twitter some pictures that implied the talking heads framework was coming back; they included Sand, Ray and Boston (I cannot find the link to Boston's, if someone has it please let me know and I'll update the post). Their clothing matches up with this episode. Very clearly the framework was not used. This is the second time that P'Jojo has actively chosen to remove a framework from an episode (that we know of) and I'm super curious if he will say anything about why he cut it.

Having said that, do we think this means the frameworks are dead?

I had been positing that the show started out as a BL with the various frameworks and that we left the BL genre for a bit, with the idea that frameworks would be coming back as we headed back into the BL genre. I still think that is what the show is kind of doing, however, I'm waffling on if the frameworks are permanently gone. One one hand - they were used brilliantly and it was fascinating to watch. On the other hand - we haven't had them for five episodes and bringing them back now might feel jarring? The show also stands just as well on it's own without them.

Do we need them back? Is it better with them gone? Will we get them back?

Discuss!!!

Episode 1

Framework: Voiceover

Title: What’s Your Role in a Bar?

Narrator: Mew

Visual Moment: Yellow title cards listing everyone’s “roles” as well as the month and days of the week

End Credit Shot: Mew sitting on the floor in front of his fish tank

Episode 2

Framework: Talking Heads

Title: M.F.M. My Favorite Man

Narrator: Everyone

Visual Moment: The talking heads scenes

End Credit Shot: Ray driving

Episode 3

Framework: Social Media (Twitter and Instagram)

Title: What Am I to You?

Narrator: Nick and Boston

Audible Moment: Nick listening to the TopBoston sex audio

End Credit Shot: Nick listening to TopBoston sex audio

Episode 4

Framework: Voiceover

Title: Emergency Contact

Narrator: Ray

Visual Moment: The flashback of RayMew is in 4:3 ratio; meaning it looks like recorded footage versus a memory, yellow text onscreen indicates flashback

End Credit Shot: Ray driving (repeat from episode 2)

Episode 5:

Framework: Voiceover

Title: The Extra Hour

Narrator: Sand

Visual Moment: Intro and Outro are animated; black and white (made me think of the Take on Me MV by A-ha but I’m open to suggestions on what this might be referring to)

End Credit Shot: Sand driving his motorcycle

Episode 6:

Framework: None

Title: Happy Fucking Birthday

Narrator: None

Audible Moment: Ray listens to the TopBoston sex audio; Mew plays the TopBoston sex audio for Top

Visual Moment: Top draws Mew sleeping/gives Mew a book of drawings he did of Mew

End Credit Shot: Top in his bathtub alone looking angsty

Episode 7:

Framework: None

Title: After Effect

Narrator: None

Visual Moment: Mew setting the drawing on fire; Boston’s sex tape; the “super zooms”

End Credit Shot: Mew sitting on the floor in front of his fish tank (repeat from episode 1)

Episode 8:

Framework: None

Title: Save Me

Narrator: None

Visual Moment: Facebook party invite/everyone’s reactions to the invite; Everyone’s costumes at the party

End Credit Shot: Boston looking angsty at the hostel

Episode 9:

Framework: None

Title: The Return

Narrator: None

Visual Moment: Boston’s photo of Atom; Top recording SandRay kissing, BOEING (I had to, lmao)

End Credit Shot: Top in his bathtub alone looking angsty (repeat from episode 6)

Episode 10:

Framework: None

Title: Redemption

Narrator: None

Visual Moment: The "I will never leave you"/"I will never love you" neon sign; Boston's photos of Atom; Nick's photo as Boston's lock screen (I'm fine!); Boeing's Instagram

End Credit Shot: Ray driving (repeat from episode 2 and episode 4)

If anyone can think of anything else to add, please let me know! If you would like to be tagged in this post or any other meta, let me know and I’ll add you.

Tagging the Ephemerality Squad: @lurkingshan, @waitmyturtles, @wen-kexing-apologist, @chickenstrangers, @ranchthoughts, @twig-tea, @clara-maybe-ontheroad, @distant-screaming, @thatgirl4815, @elizabethsebestianhedgehog

Tagging @sandrayy by request

Apologies to anyone I forgot!

#only friends the series #only friends meta #thai bl #ephemerality squad

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cbk1000 · 5 months

Text

Anyway, here's a preview of the next chapter of Book of Merthur. It's full of *checks notes* gay fetishes like grief and lute playing and politics. It also has some very large spoilers for something that happened several chapters back, as well as something that happened in the previous chapter, so if you're not caught up and don't want to be spoiled, I would avoid this.

But at that moment they were not sitting up late in one another’s chambers where they did not have to be alone till bedtime. Arthur, in the company of his usual court, minus, of course, two particular men, had set out with that riotous medley of courtiers, squires, provisions, and furniture which for weeks makes a nuisance of itself for any good citizen simply trying to take his produce to market. Now they had to scramble out of the way for a bevy of chaps on ridiculous horses, which were up to their tits in good silver, and did not even look as if they would be of any use for cart hauling. The king, at least, was in fine trim, and seemed a lesser cunt than his father; but still there were hustling merchants who had to move aside to pay homage to him, and though he did not lop off anyone’s head for bowing without the scraping, his train was still a goddamned nuisance. He was taking it all round the kingdom to reiterate his standing in the eyes of his lords; and that was what he was doing now, in the home of Lord Robert of Essex, with his musicians piping in accompaniment to the chatter.

Nobody wanted to be caught with their pants down in their larder when it was time to impress the king, so all that tour Arthur had had thrust upon him dishes he would not even have eaten at home, so enthusiastically, with such hope for cook, who was quivering in the kitchen for news of whether they were to be villain or saint of the feast, that he felt obligated to eat even those terrible concoctions which raised in him a fear no man had ever inspired. Men can be very large, or cannibalistic, or sadists; but they cannot be minced swan’s entrails, boiled down to the texture of bootlaces, and drowned in ginger and vinegar. And you are never obligated to say to an extra-large cannibalistic sadist (though it can’t hurt to butter him up a bit) that he is simply exquisite, whilst you are taking him into your mouth (and probably this couldn’t hurt either) because to do anything else would be disastrous for his feelings. This was what Arthur was doing now, with the swan, after some overly-garlicked cat, whilst the jongleur primed his vocals. He did this in various fascinating ways, first by making a little ‘hmm Hmm HMm HMM’ to himself, and then by calling for some ale, and taking out a little gold tube from his rucksack, and placing it in the ale, and blowing bubbles in it. Then he did something with his lips which Merlin had done once to Arthur’s chest as a joke, though there had been no spit, but only the absurd buzzing noise through the mouth as it flapped about like a horse’s.

And finally he took his place before the table with his lute, and began, in a lovely tenor, to ply his trade, freeing Arthur to put aside the swan, which he had to chew so violently he would have drowned out the singing. It was like putting down the cross at the end of the pilgrimage, or the sword at the end of the battle. He was left exhausted but alive by the ordeal, and now leaned back on the bench, with his arms crossed, and his weary soul ready to be cosseted by some little fluff about a knight and his steed.

It was some rot about a queen wasting away for her love, which he did not want to hear, because he was in the midst of his own romantical tragedy; and because he was the queen, though his own love, unlike the noble conqueror of the verse, was a rude, boorish, inimitable fucking twat, who ought long ago to have been confined for insanity.

Of course, Arthur was not really angry that Merlin had left him high and dry without so much as a letter on his fate; he was afraid. The name calling, the aspersions on his character (which really were not even aspersions, but merely observations) were because Lancelot had died. If you had asked him, he would have said Lancelot was mortal, and bound like the rest of them to return to whatever Maker he believed in; but actually really in the privacy of himself, he had not believed in it. Lancelot was one of those sorts who seemed to him too large to die; too representative of that fighting class of men who are always at risk of death but have chanced it again and again and always got up from the killing. It was like Morgana dying; it would have been like Gwaine dying. There are some people you do not believe can die: but of course they do, and then you have got to decide what is good and worth saving about a world that will take anything from you. So Lancelot had died, and he had never heard in all that time so much as a peep from Merlin, or France, who ought to have had something to say on the former. Gaius had written the professor on whom Merlin had been inflicted, and heard only that he was not so unfortunate in his affairs this time. Merlin was not at the university; or at least not under his despairing tutelage. And that meant to him that perhaps Merlin too might have been one of those impossible losses which he had suffered when Morgana went over the cliff to the sea, or Lancelot on the ship to France. He had wondered for nights upon nights whether he wouldn’t have known it; whether he wouldn’t have felt there was something different about the world, something less, something missing amongst the million fleeting souls which go into and out of the world like the meteors that are so cursory in the heavens. But he had not felt Lancelot till the messenger came with news of the ship; and he had held out all hope for Morgana till they found her body in the surf.

And too there was the other death, not of the body but of those feelings which he felt were always in danger. Merlin could have simply not wanted to write. He had gone away, Arthur felt, in a welter of genuine feeling: but in the interim he might have realised he was upset over Arthur, which was silly; might have realised that Uther, though rather a cock, was right to have made him perform for the love; might have realised that outside of that constant of Arthur’s presence he felt himself a freer, better being. He might feel as if he had got rid of a millstone round his neck. Arthur had always been there, loving him with that tragical dog-like persistence, so that Merlin might have felt it was like kicking a loyal hound in the face, not to take pity on that hopeless creature. Now away from Arthur, he could have realised what he thought was reciprocal feeling was merely some empathy for a fool.

So because the jongleur was singing about the queen, he was thinking all these terrible things. Neither voice nor lute were phenomenally good; but even mediocre music sometimes speaks to something in us, to when we were fiddling round with primitive drums in stone huts. The feelings were already there: but the jongleur brought them up into his throat. He gave Arthur the queen, who was sympathetic, who was relatable, and so made him feel in the hall surrounded by his courtiers and supplicants that he would have to be brave again, because it is a sign of humanity to tear up at human tragedy; but not of a king who wants to garner respect in men who are waiting for weakness. Because he was still young, because some of his lords still favoured his father, because he had been left, mere days before his wedding, by a bride who preferred one of his knights, he had to sit upright on the bench with his arms crossed and his face as impervious as stone. He had to be fixed in his body that was screaming for love as if he had never been moved by or wanted for it. Merlin was far away and dead, or dead to him; and Morgana and Lancelot were some odds and ends for scavengers. And the music was blowing up all these things which were already huge in him till they were nearly uncontainable. Because some string made of catgut had vibrated at just the optimal frequency, he felt that it was nearly unbearable to be one of those poor feeling creatures who have to watch their species war, and love, and leave, when he could have been a fish.

So that was what he was doing when the dog began to fart.

#also merlin is not being a dick #him not writing is a plot point #and it's not because he's dead #i'm not that huge of a dick #lol #fic #preview #writing #merthur

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beneathashadytree · 2 years

Note

Hey! I absolute love your writing it literally gives me life!!! Okay so basically my request is like the straw hats doing one of those WIRED autocomplete interviews but the last question asking is you or zoro are dating and the whole crew cannot keep straight faces so it’s obvious you are and seeing the poor man flustered while you laugh 😭🙌 I hope you like my idea i’ve just been watching too many do them interviews and they are so freakin funny!!

WIRED - RORONOA ZORO X READER

Warnings : this is a sort of AU in which the internet and cameras exist in the One Piece world, a few curses I think, one sexual innuendo, a hint of Frobin (but you can interpret this as platonic if you like), this is not proofread, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : fluff and crack (I love them)

Word count : 1.5K words

Additional notes : Aaaaa you’re really too sweet to me holy shit😭 I absolutely ADORE these interviews btw, so this was so fun to write. It was more lighthearted than I’m used to, which made it the perfect way to unwind after hectic days at uni! Let me know what you think of this💗

Requests : Are open! Check the rules over here.

Want to support me financially? Here’s my CashApp.

Masterlist

“Okay, final batch!” Nami called out, taking the cardboard and setting it on her lap. Luffy let out a huff of relief at that.

“Finally—!”

“Luffy, you can’t just say that to the camera,” Chopper cried out from beside him, “People will think you’re not happy to be here.”

“It’s just that I’m hungry…” he moaned out, rubbing his stomach exaggeratedly.

Rolling her eyes, Nami grumbled, “Fine, fine, I’ll hurry up. Quit whining, you big baby.” To her left, Usopp ripped the paper off the first question, leaving it for her to read. “Are… both Sanji’s eyebrows swirly?”

The blond stiffly smiled from the couch, “Suppose there’s no use hiding it any longer.” He pushed his bangs upwards, exposing both curled ends. His crewmates “ooh”ed and “aah”ed in fascination, and Zoro rolled his eyes at that.

“Bastard probably did it knowing it would be all over the internet,” he mumbled under his breath, earning a glare from Sanji.

��Next question,” Usopp hurried, removing the paper on the question before a fight would break out. “Are… Franky’s modifications on every body part?” Grimacing, he glanced at Chopper. “Should we… should we really be answering this now and here?”

Chopper had a tired look on his face. “There isn’t much I haven’t seen at this point.”

With a shrug, Franky said, “Your call. I’m answering it anyways,” and leaning in conspirationally towards the camera, he grinned wide. “Yep, every body part. The adjustments guarantee a super time, if you catch my drift.”

“Franky, I think you should shut up. Permanently,” Robin sharply said, with an admonishing glare. The cyborg only winked at her, but did remain quiet afterwards.

“This feels like a déjà vu, doesn’t it?” Nami sighed as she ripped off another question. “Are… Brook’s signature moves inspired by other musicians?”

“Of course,” he answered with a benevolent smile, “I always pay homage to legendary dead artists whom I respect—though I myself am dead as well! Yo ho ho ho ho!”

“You’ll wear out that sense of humor one of these days.” Jinbei shook his head, though he looked at the musician fondly as he said it.

Luffy laughed, stretching his arms and wrapping them around Brook, slinging himself over to hug him. “I don’t care, he’s still a funny skeleton to me.”

Everyone looked at their captain with apparent affection in their eyes. “Onto the next question, let’s go,” Usopp enthused, his turn to rip next. “Are… Usopp’s curls natural?” A smug look made its way on his face. “Absolutely, one hundred percent. I have thirty handmaids to wash my hair, and ten servants to help style it perfectly every morning. After all, the great Usopp—“

“When did I turn into thirty handmaids?” came a snort from his left, and he turned his glare on them. Smirking at the camera, they jutted a thumb in the sniper’s direction. “This man right here comes crying to me every time on wash day because he’s too tired to do it himself.”

“Well, at least—“

“Settle down, ladies,” Nami interrupted coolly, before reading the next question out loud, “Are… Nami and Robin that beautiful in real life?” She blinked, glancing at her friend who was chuckling to herself. “I don’t know if I should be flattered that they think we’re beautiful, or offended that they think it’s all makeup and editing.”

“Oh dear,” Robin said, “Considering just how pretty you are right now, Nami, I’d take it as an honor.”

“You’re the best, I swear,” the navigator sighed happily, and everyone could almost see hearts in her eyes. She absolutely worshipped the older woman. “All compliments are ten times better when they come from someone as beautiful as you.”

“Ah, the most stunning flowers in the world—!“

“Are… Jinbei’s hugs as nice as they seem?” Usopp quickly butted in the middle of Sanji waxing poetic. After reading the question, every single one of the Strawhats grinned, answering in unison, “Yes!”

Their newest crewmate glanced at the fishman with a soft smile. “I was the last to join, but his gentle heart was enough encouragement for me to.”

With a sheepish smile on his face, Jinbei relented to the weight of Luffy tumbling from Brook onto him. He patted his back, and his captain only grinned wider.

“How sweet,” Nami cooed at the sight, before turning to rip the next question, “Are… Luffy’s attacks pre-planned?”

“No,” he bluntly replied from Jinbei’s hug, shrugging, “I do what feels right to me. I know my own strength well enough to know what to do.”

“Luffy’s much smarter than he looks,” Franky nodded, “His attacks are super deadly for a reason.”

Usopp hummed, “Alright, final two questions. This one says,” he paused, “Are… Chopper’s medical texts updated?”

“Of course. I have to have the latest discoveries and researches published in my books,” smiling as he spoke of his passion, he added, “Medicine evolves every day, so I can’t slack off as the ship’s doctor.”

“And the best doctor of all,” Brook gently patted his head, causing the reindeer’s face to quite literally glow.

“Asshole! That doesn’t make me happy at all.”

“And the final question,” Nami paused dramatically, before removing the paper, “Are… the two of them dating… Zoro and…” she leaned over trying to read the name furthest from her side, “Oh, it’s you!” she turned to her friend on Usopp’s left.

Silence fell in the room, everyone awkwardly glancing away from each other. Nami picked at her perfectly manicured nails, Robin found it awfully fascinating to card her fingers through Franky’s freshly-cut hair right now, and Usopp was too busy fussing with Chopper’s hat that was suddenly somehow completely askew.

Luffy’s (very obviously lying) face gave everything away when he said, “No… they’re not. Aren’t they, Jinbei?”

“Why would you ask me that?” he replied, dismay on his face as he was thrust into the spotlight he didn’t want one bit.

Brook deflected before they could even turn to him as the usual gossipmonger, “Don’t you like talking about love and romance, Sanji?”

The thunderous expression on the cook’s face was more than enough for him to choke on his words and turn away from him quickly. Much to their exasperation, that murderous look only served to affirm the public’s suspicions; his pure jealousy wasn’t so easy to conceal.

All the while, the rumored couple in question did their absolute best to avoid even glancing at each other.

Zoro’s stony expression would’ve been enough to deter even the bravest soul from asking any questions, but what completely contradicted it was the terribly endearing flush that climbed up down his cheeks to the nape of his neck. Though his eyes were guarded, his gritted teeth weren’t out of anger but embarrassment. It was laughable, really; how flustered the mere notion of being brought up as a couple made him.

And laugh they did, after having finally given in and spared the swordsman a glance from their place beside Usopp. Their knees knocked into his, and they could feel all along their body where they were touching just how tense he was. Simply unable to keep up the unreadable front, they wheezed with laughter at just how red their boyfriend currently was.

“You’re unbelievable,” they chortled, placing a hand on his shoulder for support as they bent over laughing.

Zoro glared at them, his blush only intensifying. “Shut up,” he hissed out, which only made them laugh harder, knowing that there was absolutely no venom behind these words. He truly was horrible at dealing with affection in a forthright manner.

Shaking their head at his antics, they only turned to the camera with a cheeky grin. “We’ll leave it up to the people to interpret it.”

“And cut!”

As soon as the words were yelled out by the director and the blinking of the camera turned off, Zoro swiveled in his seat to openly glare at them, his face still warm. “The hell was that about?”

“Your blushing gave it away, you musclehead idiot,” they rolled their eyes at him, “We’ll leave it up to PR. They’ll let us know what course of action we’ll take.”

“Why’s everyone so interested in us anyways,” he mumbled under his breath, and Sanji gave him his most disgusted look.

“Maybe it’s because your eyes are constantly defiling them, you shitty mossheaded bull—“

“You know there’s something about a pot and a kettle,” Nami scoffed, “Come on, Sanji. Let’s leave the two lovebirds.” Indeed, all the others had already packed their things and walked out (the first of them being a famished Luffy, of course).

“My sweet Nami-san! Of course I shall do whatever my goddess asks of me…”

Once they were alone, they carefully asked him. “Did… the question bother you?”

“Why would it?” Zoro looked confused.

“Just checking in with you,” they shook their head, a gentle smile on their face as they leaned in and kissed his cheek, “We’ll deal with whatever comes next together.”

He hummed, large hand reaching up to pat their head affectionately. Really, he couldn’t help but feel something melting inside his chest whenever they did things like that—even though he still remained a little flushed up till the tips of his ears.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go. By the time we make it back to the ship, Luffy will have had both our shares of lunch.”

Taglist: @stories-that-shaped-me @wifeofkyojuro

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comicweek · 8 months

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Ángel Manuel Soto on Cultural Specificity in Blue Beetle

Rafael Motamayor : There is a cultural specificity to the film that we haven't really seen before in superhero movies, and the Reyes family members aren't just Pan-Latino, but specifically Mexican. Why was this important for the film?

Ángel Manuel Soto: I think we've been psychologically and pathologically inculcated a fallacy by the hegemony that our specificity is not universal, that the white and gringo are universal. The truth of the matter is that we're all universal if we embrace our true selves. We Latinos watch Korean movies, Japanese movies, European movies, and we connect with their specificity because Latinos were never given that change because we were told you couldn't, and I never agreed with that feeling, that thought. It is an institutionalized philosophy, and Hollywood has perpetrated it.

So for me, I wanted to start from the premise that the universality of our cultures exists in our specificity. And if we are honest and free to be authentically us, and we don't have to be like someone else, it can still reach a general audience even if they don't look like us. To me, it was important for writer Gareth Dunnet-Alcocer as a Mexican, for me as a Puerto Rican, and to the actors as Mexicans, to be themselves, to allow this to be a movie where we take ourselves seriously, but also enjoy ourselves and express ourselves freely. To me, it was important to not have to reinvent the wheel at the first try, but to instead use nostalgia to make a throwback to the movies we liked as kids and insert ourselves in those scenes as the heroes of the movie, embracing authenticity. After, we can reinvent the wheel.

The only thing that could have prevented this was the studio, and from the beginning, I told them if they were going to tell me how big the explosions were going to be, they could not tell me how Latino my movie was going to be.

RM: One thing I love was the references to cultural touchstones like "El Chapulín Colorado" and "María la del Barrio." Could you talk about those references and introducing these things to a wider audience?

AS: Just as we consume other countries' popular cultures, we can't leave other people ignorant to the things that connect us as Latinos, because though our countries have their own idiosyncrasies, truths, and specific cultural identities, there are also more things that unite us within a Latin American collective. For me, it was very important not only to pay homage and honor that first Latin American hero we all collectively grew up with, but highlight that a Mexican in Querétaro like Gareth, and a Puerto Rican like me, being so far away, still can say that our first exposure to a superhero was El Chapulín, because he was in every Latin American's home.

So we thought, why not embrace the characters or elements that are specific, which also have a Pan-Latino appeal? And through that, we can celebrate the intersectionality of our cultures. It doesn't have to be Mexican for me to say it is also mine, it is also yours. Same with Puerto Rico: Reggaetón is no longer ours. It belongs to the world, even if it came from there. Same with "Maria la del Barrio," and novelas. The references in the movie are both a celebration to the things that unite us collectively as Latino, and also references we are canonizing in this fictional world.

RM: Speaking of Carapax, his story is fascinating in that it brings in the real history of the School of the Americas. Can you talk about the decision to bring in that part of the story?

AS:

To me, it was important to explore that in Hollywood, Latinos are always introduced in the middle of the paragraph. We enter a scene and we're gangsters and narcos, we are violent and dishonest people, and no one questions why that is. And when a movie or a show explains why, it just says that we are like that because that's our nature. So, we've never been given the chance to explore the history of blood behind the violent behaviors in Latin America. And, come on, you don't have to be a rocket scientist or an erudite to do a simple Google search and learn about Yankee interventionism, and why that interventionism started in 1954 to protect the American [United] Fruit Company in Guatemala.

It was important for me to be able to show this villain who is not just Latino, but indigenous, and show why he is the way he is to a certain point. Because even though he is responsible for much of his actions, the reason why he is a villain is because his trauma was weaponized. And when you see it, you understand he is a victim of the endless perpetuating of violence in Latin America by the CIA through the School of the Americas, but no one talks about that. No one talks about the start of neoliberalism in the School of the Americas in 1973 with the murder of Allende and the placement of Pinochet.

It was important that the film reflected that reality that is not taught at school. It is why Susan [Sarandon's character] represents the Military Industrial Complex, and the rampant imperialism that exists in Latin America. She is a person that has been perpetrating trauma, and then using that trauma like the School of the Americas, which trained the locals so they'd invade their own people. There is nothing more nefarious than that, so it was important to me to have that exist in this movie, if only for a minute. Using fantasy to raise curiosity could help us be better informed and more emphatic.

When I joined the project, I wanted the movie to be somewhat anchored in realism, in real traumas that Latin America has experienced historically. But I wanted it to be recent, not to just go all the way back to Columbus, though we do tumble a statue of Columbus in the movie. We talk about the more recent and relevant history, the one that is not talked about, but should be remembered so it is not repeated.

And the name is a bit ridiculous, and some people may not realize this is actual history, so we intercut Carapax's flashbacks with archival footage of the School of the Americas to make it clear this is real. RM: The character is also indigenous, and you bring Carapax's native language into the movie, too. AS: Yes, we had him unlock his memory, and his language. It is an allegory for how colonized or imperialist education works overtime to erase our history and make us forget where we come from, because it makes it easier to control. We wanted to make this situation where, at the end of the day, his memory is freed and he can look back to the source of the trauma, and understand everything that happened to him. His being able to talk in his native tongue is the most explicit way to show that he could return to his origin and empower himself by that origin, to close that chapter and sacrifice his own master for the greater good.

#blue beetle #angel manuel soto #jaime reyes #ignacio carapax #carapax #dcu #dceu #latino

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romanceyourdemons · 12 days

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malignant (2021) does a lot of things, and none of them particularly well, with the exception of its visuals and fight choreography; and yet, despite its core of mediocrity, the well-done elements of the film shine so well that the whole affair is a success within its genre. director james wan does what he loves to do and combines bits and pieces of the most bog-standard examples of different forms of horror—in this case, medical horror, home invasion horror, possession horror, and body horror—and amalgamates them into an interesting but critically underdeveloped concept sprinkled with nods to other classic films and genuinely horrifying moments. the film’s seed of chucky (2004) conceit does not lean as hard into the psychological, questioning-of-sanity elements intrinsic to the conceit as it could have—or, indeed, as it seems to believe it does—and the fact that the dialogue is stilted even at the best of times does not help this cause. but the reality-shifting visuals do do a lot of heavy lifting in this case, and a visual homage to vertigo (1958) provides a valuable insight into exactly the kind of shifting psychological landscape, past and present intertwining until they become utterly and horribly indistinguishable, the film wishes to invoke. all these elements of the film are not bad, but also not particularly memorable, just an acceptable way to get to the next jumpscare. but the part of the film that really shone for me was its final scenes of heavy violence. many films with telepathic antagonists fall into fairly predictable routines for final conflicts. but this one has the antagonist kill with his own hands in a beautifully shot sequence that not only showcases james wan’s penchant and talent for gore but also includes some of the most interesting and visually compelling fight choreography i’ve ever seen in a horror film. in a film that is by and large very ordinary, skating by on cliches and implications and providing fascinating sights without much psychological weight behind them, this unexpected and well-executed violence made the film stand out in a very good way. although it is low-stakes and fairly low-quality, churned out of a reliable horror formula james wan has perfected, malignant (2021) still has some beautiful elements that make it worth a watch

#ryddles

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