#also he can make himself into mist. for the dramatic effect because he's such a show off. i love his ass

[drksanctuary]

DUMB TSATS predictions before the book comes out and ruins my fun PART 2!!!

1. Nico dies and either Jason or Will has to do trials of Orpheus to get him back

2. Nico becomes a god, and thats the thing he has to lose or whatever re: the prophecy

3. Alabaster will be in it, whether as a protagonist, antagonist or anti-hero, he will be a PROBLEM (and effectively the third party in the quest for a bit)

4. Lou Ellen Will introduce Alabaster to Will and Nico bc they need to learn to mist travel into the underworld and that unfortunately only Al knows how to do. Even though Lou is head of Hecate kids.

5. When Alabaster sees Will and Nico he says he doesn’t like “the creepy one” and it becomes apparent as he describes him that he is referring to Will. “He smiles too much, looks fake, don’t trust him” . Lou is confused by this.

6. This observation sparks an old fight between Will and Nico and how Will doesn’t understand how people perceive Nico as creepy.

7. Al will watch this interaction with interest because he “doesn’t have a television”. Lou will tell him he needs to gain back some social skills

8. Alabaster will mist travel them in a pinch just as Nico gets the hang of it and it throws them all off.

9. Alabaster, Nico and Will travel through the underworld. Al and Will bicker about things (most notably about whether Lotr or Star Wars is the better trilogy)

10. Al and nico have a conversation about saving dead friends. Al says his “heroes never die” line and Nico retorts with a smirk that “we’re Greek that’s all our heroes do”

11. They meet Ethans ghost. The ghost of Ethan also calls Will Creepy, and Al has a heartfelt moment where Ethan tells him that he needs to forgive himself. Al still stubborn doesn’t listen and insists that Ethan should leave with him as a mistform. Ethan asks Al whether he’d do it all again, knowing now that Ethan had turned at the last moment.

12. Will says something to affect about not being able to stop death bc he has unaddressed survivor guilt he’s projecting.

13. Nico does not like this, because he kinda agrees with Al (doesn’t want to address the fact that he’s been thinking about Jason and whether he could save him)

14. They get attacked before Al can finish his convo with Ethan’s ghost. Alabaster has to fend off the threat to give Will and Nico time to get into Tartarus. He says his silly “heroes never die” line ans charges off. Nico calls after him “We’re Greek! That’s like all heroes do!” (This time crying instead of smirking).

15. Will and Nico get to Tartarus and are captured by whatever that thing is bc they think they’re saving Bob. Nico gets to say a bad word as a treat.

16. Bob actually saves them, and Nico asks why he was calling for help. He reveals it wasn’t him. Nico listens and hears another call. He follows it without checking if Will is with him.

17. Isolated Nico gets barraged by the “Listen” warning and Nico finds that it was Akhlys using a “Jason puppet” to lure Nico to her.

18. It’s not a puppet and when this is somehow revealed and Nico says they have to go save Jason.

19. Some sort of battle or showdown with the actual villain whether it’s Akhlys or if Akhlys is working with/for someone else likely the Other Titans . Bob is injured but gets his old memories back. And has to deal with reconciling his new and old friendships

20. When it seems like everything is lost. And Bob has decided to be on their side even tho they are probably all gonna die down in Tartarus. Alabaster returns with a ghost army of purgatory Titan supporters and save Nico and company (alabaster uses this save as definitive proof that Lotr is the superior trilogy as he has in essence “pulled an Aragorn”)

21. Will let’s him have the win, but adds Al could be a son of Apollo with how dramatic he is.

22. Al comments that that would make them brothers.

23. Will cringes and says “I’d rather die”

24. Jason’s ghost is freed. Nico has to actually deal with the fact that he died as well as the fact that he was ignoring that he had feelings for him. Will hears this part.

24. Alabaster has to see all his Titan army friends going off to Elysium bc it’s revealed he somehow got that deal for them for helping Nico. He doesn’t want them to leave bc he doesn’t want to be the sole survivor again but he has to deal with that.

25. Will can’t heal Bob, who is extremely wounded . Will has to deal with that.

26. Essentially all three of them get to deal with their own special flavor of survivor’s guilt. Nico with the they died bc I wasn’t there/couldn’t help them. Will with the i did everything I could to help them and they died anyway and Alabaster with the “it’s my fault they’re dead”kind the thing that is lost is whatever defense mechanism each was using to deal with those traumas

27. This post will not get as much attention as the other one bc it not as funny or amusing (or brief)

28. I might just write the above as a fanfic

I have been thinking about this all way too much you guys. Sorry not sorry.

#nico di angelo #will solace #alabaster torrington #jason grace #tsats potential spoilers #TSATS #I think these predictions are even more far fetched than the last ones #iapetus (pjo) #bob the titan #percy jackson #pjo #heroes of olympus #jasico #ethan nakamura

[multi-lefaiye]

omg bestie you should talk about your biomutant ocs' powers

omg so true i should (i know this is me, i sent myself this ask)

so this is mostly based on my partner and i's rewrite of biomutant lore that expands on a lot of the concepts presented in the original game. so there's some details i'm taking from there rather than from the game. dw about it <3

also hi pardon the tag but since u showed interest hello @wherearetheplants here's some Info

general info: in this universe, magic does exist, but only in very specific forms, and it's referred to as psi-magic (or psi-powers). there are two major forms: innate psi-powers, which are easier to master but generally weaker; and environmental psi-powers, which are generally stronger but harder to control. essentially, innate psi-powers are ones you're born with, while environmental ones are ones that are triggered by exposure to certain environmental stimuli.

there's also a whole mythology around psi-powers but we don't have time for that <3 so i'll run over some of my biomutant ocs' psi-powers!!

sol whitetail - sol whitetail has a case of incredibly powerful environmental psi-powers that they have effectively mastered in a very short time. they don't have a name for this ability, but for those who know biomutant, it's based on the 'rad wisps' mutation in the game.

effectively, sol's body is highly radioactive after they were brutalized and left to die in a radioactive zone years ago. though they recovered physically, the radiation never truly left their body, and over time they've taught themself to harness it in combat in the form of bright violet bursts. they're immune to it, but no one else really is.

sol essentially can just bombard those around them with radiation until they succumb to radiation poisoning. it's as brutal as it sounds. they rarely let it get that far, though, and mostly they use it for intimidation. especially because, if they expend themself TOO much, their body begins to break down slightly and their violet, radioactive blood leaks from their eyes and nose.

blink nocturne - blink nocturne has innate psi-powers, and at first glance his main ability doesn't seem particularly intimidating or useful in combat. he can teleport short distances at high speeds, creating a loud booming sound like a thunderclap. for those who know biomutant a li'l better, yes this is based on the 'blink' psi-power in game.

blink did name his ability after himself, as is generally the custom in this universe. he also found a good way to apply it in combat: if he gets enough of a running start, he can 'blink' himself towards an enemy with enough force to knock them back and do some serious damage.

his psi-powers don't have nearly the same level of dramatic side effects as sol's, but they still take a toll on him physically, especially in his bad leg (which was permanently injured when he was young). he can only 'blink' so many times before he needs to lie down and rest, so he uses this ability sparingly.

burgh mothmouth - burgh's psi-powers are innate in that they weren't triggered by any environmental factors, but he wasn't born with them. rather, he taught himself to use this ability after observing other, more experienced psi-power users doing this. his ability is, as you may be able to guess if you're familiar with the base game, based on the 'moth mouth' ability.

essentially, burgh can release a green mist, which takes the shape of fluttering moths, at those around him, which clouds their senses and disorients them. in extreme cases, overexposure to burgh's 'moth mouth' can cause permanent blindness. while it's not very useful in direct combat, as burgh must be concentrating to keep the mist in place, it is fantastic for ambushes.

burgh primarily uses 'moth mouth' to disorient those he's sneaking up on, making them have a harder time defending themselves against him when he finally strikes. occasionally, he also uses it to turn his enemies against each other, making them fight each other instead of him (and giving him a chance to flee, if needed).

tegu longshot - tegu actually has no psi-powers. i considered giving them some, but they don't. and they're fine with that.

#talk to the bunnykitty #asks i send myself as a bit #biomutant #tegu longshot #sol whitetail #burgh mothmouth #blink nocturne #not that those characters have dedicated tags but still

[the-moon-pal]

IM GONNA RAMBLE about ocs in this post because i enjoy doing that

#Damien talks #ok welcome to the tags. assume im talking to you like in a pillow fort and im telling u about ocs because for some reason ur interested #ok so. you know Jason? my ghost oc? i made it tragic. like. Jason's death is a tragic thing. i was like working on the fact that Scott #was being a bitch™ and just killed one of his closer human friends. but instead i decided to make him have feelings for once and that was #regret for killing a friend of his. i promise its more dramatic but im just downplaying this because uhh im just sort of rambling about it #DHDHJDNFFMFM #uhm. OH YEAH ALSO OC IDEA i had this idea while i was out like. weeeks ago #had the idea of this computer virus who falls in love with every computer or machine it gets itself into #but the poor virus doesn't know they're the ones destroying the machine. so they're sad but they keep looking for more computers #they're very in love 🥰 but y'know.. not like /permanent/ they're just a program.. a very obsessed program.. HSHDBDBDN #im replacing the lovecore oc for this one because!! i like the idea. also because the lovecore oc is hard to work on JDJDNDNDND #what else uhhhh pfffff #Rickey is... vibing uwu. i gave him funny little details in his backstory #also he can make himself into mist. for the dramatic effect because he's such a show off. i love his ass #also he's aro gay. i never stated that but yeah #i think that's all for me i think #i could ramble more but naaah im pretty sure u want to stop reading #alrighty ❤️ good day to u

[jaskicr]

babe babe babe listen. for buffskier i got a stupid idea of jaskier jokingly promising geralt to carry him over the threshold of kaer morhen and then when geralt manages to forget it, he actually DOES it when they finally go there. the witchers are both amused and impressed because damn, that's so funny geralt but also if i could maybe borrow the strong bard please?? ily

OMG THAT’S SO FUCKING CUTE thank you for this ily💓 i hope you like it<3

“One day,” Jaskier grumbles, wriggling about in Geralt’s arms. “One day, I’ll be the one carrying you.”

Geralt tightens his arms around Jaskier and grunts, “Stop moving around, Jaskier. We don’t need your wounds getting worse before we get to a healer.”

“I’m serious,” Jaskier insists, pouting. “Not that it isn’t nice to be all wrapped up in your strong arms, darling, but we should try it the other way round sometime.”

Geralt is pretty sure they’ve tried it the other way round once, when a royal wyvern had injured him so much that Jaskier had to carry him back to camp, but he’d been rather out of it at the time. It’s a shame that he hadn’t been fully able to enjoy being in Jaskier’s arms for a change, and he wonders what it would feel like to have Jaskier carry him for once.

“Well, if you’re that adamant,” Geralt drawls, rolling his eyes. “This winter, you can carry me over the threshold of Kaer Morhen. How does that sound?”

He’s joking, of course, but there’s a glint in Jaskier’s eyes, a glint that means mischief. “You said it, Geralt. I’d be happy to.”

“Sure,” Geralt mutters, knocking on the healer’s door.

Just before the healer ushers them in, Jaskier gives Geralt a slow grin. “I’ll hold you to your words, Geralt.”

Then the healer is fussing over Jaskier, treating his injuries, and Geralt promptly forgets the conversation in favour of worrying over Jaskier.

He forgets all about this exchange, thinking it just another jest in their usual dynamic, and once Jaskier is healed, they set out on the road as they always do. The months pass as they have for the past decades they’ve been travelling together, a comfortable routine of Geralt taking contracts and Jaskier performing in various establishments, and this joke fades from Geralt’s mind.

That winter, they make their way to Kaedwen and make the trek up to Kaer Morhen. Geralt had never dared to take Jaskier up to his home before, fearing that Jaskier’s mortal body wouldn’t be able to withstand the harsh climate and unforgiving terrain, but with the recent discovery that Jaskier isn’t, in fact, human, Geralt’s worries have dissipated, and he’s eager to introduce his bard to his family.

Finally, Kaer Morhen looms over them, an imposing stone fortress as grey as the winter landscape around it.

“Wow,” Jaskier murmurs as they approach, eyeing the majestic mountains wreathed by mist and coated in snow. There’s an awed look in his eyes, and Geralt preens slightly, pleased that Jaskier finds him home pleasing.

Anticipation grows in his chest when the gates of Kaer Morhen come into view, and Geralt has no doubt that his brothers must be rushing down to greet them. At the thought of finally seeing his family after a year, and of Jaskier finally meeting his family, a small smile curls at Geralt’s lips, and then he’s being swept off his feet.

He yelps in surprise (Geralt will deny that this sound came out of his mouth to the end of his days) when he finds himself cradled in Jaskier’s arms, one arm hooked under his knees and the other supporting his back.

Jaskier laughs, a clear and bright sound, and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier’s blue eyes sparkling at him in amusement.

“What the fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, finally finding his voice, and Jaskier beams wider.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Jaskier asks with another laugh, and Geralt tries to wriggle out of Jaskier’s arms, only for Jaskier to clutch Geralt closer to him, grip tightening.

“Let me go,” Geralt demands, but it’s half-hearted. He’s never been held like this before, but he finds that he quite enjoys being carried like this, wrapped up safe and secure against Jaskier’s chest.

“No can do, love.” Jaskier starts walking towards the gates, and though Jaskier’s grip on him is secure, Geralt hooks his hands around Jaskier’s neck to secure his position and to pull himself closer to Jaskier. “You said it, remember?”

“What.”

“That I could carry you over the threshold of Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier reminds him, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Geralt’s lips, his steps never faltering. “I said I would hold you to your word, and here we are.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles, but doesn’t protest further. It turns out that it’s very nice to be carried, and he’s amazed at the strength in Jaskier’s arms, not a quiver of exertion as he carries a muscle-heavy witcher.

He wouldn’t mind if this were to happen more often.

Then he hears the sounds of his brothers, and he snaps his neck in the direction of their voices, just in time to spot them opening the gates. Their eyes widen in comical unison when they spot Geralt’s position, and when a slow, shit-eating grin starts to spread across Lambert’s face, Geralt resigns himself to a winter of relentless teasing.

“Well, hello, Geralt.” Lambert is smirking widely as he approaches them. “And who do we have here?”

Eskel has his arms crossed, but an amused smile plays at his lips as he watches Geralt willingly be carried by a bard. Vesemir’s face is stoic, but Geralt makes out the telltale twitch of his brow that indicates he’s trying to hold in laughter.

Unable to sweep into a dramatic bow with Geralt in his arms, Jaskier settles for dipping his head. “I am Jaskier the bard.” Even though he’s unable to gesture for dramatic effect, Jaskier somehow enunciates every word to be overly theatric. “You might know me as your brother’s bard.”

Jaskier has been holding him for a few minutes now, and he seems fine, utterly unconcerned with Geralt’s weight, and for a fleeting moment, Geralt wonders how long Jaskier is capable of holding him for, and the thought of exploring Jaskier’s strength sends a small thrill through him.

They might be spending a lot of time in Geralt’s room this winter.

“Oh, we know who you are,” Lambert replies, and Geralt has a really bad feeling about what might come next. “We’ve been wondering when Geralt would finally bring you to see us. Gods know that he’s pined after you long enough.”

“Lambert,” Geralt hisses, mortified. A blush creeps up the back of his neck, and Jaskier chuckles in amusement.

“Pining after me, huh?” Jaskier drops a soft kiss to Geralt’s forehead, and Geralt feels his face grow hotter as Lambert lets out a raucous laugh.

“He has it bad for you,” Eskel confirms, and Geralt shoots him a betrayed glare. “For quite a long time as well.”

Jaskier laughs, and at the beautiful sound, Geralt can’t quite find it in himself to be mad at his brothers, not when they’ve managed to make Jaskier laugh like that.

“I might steal your bard,” Lambert comments, looking at Jaskier appreciatively. “Any bard that can pick up a witcher is rather impressive.”

Geralt growls low in his throat, and Eskel joins in with a grin.

“You’re too prickly for him, Lambert,” Eskel teases, turning his grin on Jaskier. “I’m sure he’d rather go with me.”

“I’ll consider it,” Jaskier says teasingly, and Geralt feels an irrational spike of jealousy. “Picking witchers up has proven to be rather fun. I might let you have your turn to be picked up.”

“Neither of you are taking him,” Geralt rumbles, trying to get out of Jaskier’s arms to launch himself at his brothers, but Jaskier’s grip tightens on him, rendering his struggles futile.

“You’d better appreciate your bard, Geralt,” Vesemir adds. “Your brothers seem rather taken with him.”

Another growl, low and possessive, rips from Geralt’s throat, but his brothers only laugh in amusement as Vesemir looks on with fond exasperation.

“He’s mine,” Geralt asserts, tightening his grip around Jaskier’s neck, pressing their bodies closer.

“You know, Jaskier, if you ever get tired of Geralt, I would very much be appreciative of a strong bard who can pick me up easily,” Lambert says as he starts walking backwards into the keep, and it’s only Jaskier’s grip on Geralt that prevents him from lunging at his brother, something primal within him growling mineminemine.

The rest of them follow Lambert into the keep, and the moment Jaskier steps over the threshold, he lifts Geralt higher and captures his lips in a sweet kiss. Geralt hums in contentment and tightens his arms around Jaskier’s neck, happy to stake his claim in front of his brothers, ignoring their whistling and catcalling.

When Geralt finally pulls away at the sound of Lambert’s exaggerated groans, Jaskier is smiling at him softly.

“See, I told you that I’d carry you over the threshold of Kaer Morhen.”

“You did.” And that gets Geralt thinking about the strength in Jaskier’s arms again, and suddenly, he has an urge to show Jaskier his room. Right now.

“My room is that way,” he murmurs in Jaskier’s ear, and is rewarded with a slow grin filled with dirty promise.

Then Jaskier carries Geralt all the way to his room, and that night, Geralt explores Jaskier’s strength in new and exciting ways, falling apart underneath his strong, beautiful bard.

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt #kaer morons #eskel #lambert #vesemir #buffskier #geralt decided to be possessive on his own its not my fault #jaskier def picks up eskel and lambert at some point and geralt is frothing with jealousy #witchers deserve to be picked up and carried ok?? #mine* #asks

[salmon-sushi]

woops | aobajohsai & fem!reader

summary: Iwaizumi’s day isn’t as bad as he thinks, especially with his friends.

genre: crack(?), just teenagers being teenagers, also platonic relationships!

words: 2.1k

a/n: this piece is largely inspired by @akasuns​‘s amazing manager!fic and i just couldn’t resist writing something for seijoh boys! thank you very much to @dokifluffs​ for giving me helpful advices and proofreading this! i hope you enjoy my first piece aha mwah 🥺🥺💕💕

index

The crispy cold, the mist-ridden foggy morning and the melodious whistle of the winter birds makes the winter morning most charming, in Iwaizumi’s honest opinion. Icicles glittering from barren tree branches in the sunrays, light reflecting off the icy ground and bringing crystalline joys to pedestrians such as himself as he walks to school. Nuzzling his face into his red woolen scarf, Iwaizumi huffs when the frozen air delicately nips on his nose. The warmth of his scarf makes him even drowsier than before and Iwaizumi allows himself to close his eyes for a little bit.

But this is clearly a mistake as he fails to notice the slippery surface of an unsuspecting puddle. He opens his eyes in shock, and he is falling. It suddenly feels like 10 years of his life are gone as he lays, groaning in pain on the wet stone pavement, his heart racing in his chest as his nose and forehead burn. It didn’t help that he is suddenly hyper aware of the people walking nearby him with their footsteps becoming audibly louder than before.

Is he embarrassed that he fell on his face? Yeah. But he’s glad that none of the other pedestrians are bothered to help him up. Sure, he heard some snickers and giggles here and there, but he doesn’t mind it, knowing that he isn’t going to meet any of those people after this.

At least, that’s what he thinks until he sees you, his club manager and classmate, looking at him with a worried face and ready to fret over him.

“Don’t come here! I can handle this alone!” he screams in his mind while giving you the sharpest glare he could muster, hoping that you would get the message.

However, you are already used to all of his glares. You ignore his scowl and run towards him with your hands already rummaging the inside of your bag for a tissue to help him wipe his wet face. Before Iwaizumi could warn you not to run, you suddenly feel your body shifting forward, your legs no longer supporting your body. To your horror, your bag’s contents are sent flying towards Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi cringes as your body drops with a thud, your heart pounding loudly against your chest and you can feel the adrenaline rush in your legs. He merely stares at you when you slowly lift your beet red face to meet his subtly panicked eyes as if to say, “See what happens when you don’t mind your own business?”

You can feel your cheeks grow warmer as you press your lips into a thin line. Covering them with your ice cold hands in an attempt to cool down, you stare back at him with teary eyes, “I’m sorry, Iwa-chan!”

Time feels much longer as you stare at each other, until the both of you pale when you hear two familiar voices approaching, discussing intensely about the latest episode of their favourite variety show that airs every weekend on the local television channel as the sound of their footsteps grow closer. “Out of all the people here, why is it always them?” Iwaizumi slams his face onto the ground, making you hiss, “Iwa-chan, stop it!”

“Oh? What do we have here?”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa stop their tracks when they find both you and the team’s ace sprawled on the wet pavement with your belongings scattered around Iwaizumi. What makes it worse is that the both of you didn’t make a move to get up and leave the place like normal people would.

This is embarrassing, Matsukawa thinks.

Hanamaki snickers as he takes out his phone to snap a picture of their manager and the ace’s shameful display in public. Hell, he will even make sure to take a picture of Iwaizumi’s red face. “Iwaizumi, nice fall!” he laughs as Iwaizumi groans into the pavement.

Matsukawa sees the threat lies underneath your glare as Hanamaki proceeds to make comments for you to look at the camera and decides that risking your wrath is not worth the fun, even if there would be no blackmail content as good as this. Wrapping his arm around Hanamaki’s shoulder, Matsukawa tries to drag his friend away from the scene, “We should leave them alone, Hanamaki.”

“There’s no way I’m leaving without blackmail material!” Hanamaki cackles, obviously enjoying himself.

While he is busy crouching to find a good angle to capture Iwaizumi’s faceplant on the wet pavement, his left leg suddenly spreads itself to the side and out of panic, he grabs Matsukawa with him.

Their impending fall, however, is cushioned as they land on top of Iwaizumi, who only whimpers in pain.

Widening their eyes in horror, they scurry away from the poor boy in the speed of light before flipping him over. “Shit!” Matsukawa curses, “Iwaizumi is as pale as a ghost!”

“Iwa-chan, no! Don’t give up just yet!” you shout before crawling to grab your heating pad next to Iwaizumi’s legs in order to give him some warmth. You can feel the jagged edges of the pavement scratching your knees, but nothing is worse compared to your friend’s likely death. In the corner of your eye, you could see Hanamaki grabbing Iwaizumi’s hands, rubbing them between his own as he sobs dramatically “You still have a lot more to live, man! Stay with us!”

Iwaizumi didn’t expect the situation to escalate so quickly.

Only a few moments ago, he was hoping for a quiet incident. Like, “Oh, you fell?” then the subject would be dropped and never be spoken again. A one time thing. Only now that he realises that he hoped too much, something he should fix soon. He should have known that he could never have a quiet incident, not when he has the three of you wailing and begging for him to survive.

I kinda want to crawl in a hole and die right now, he muses. His eyes catch several students from the basketball team laughing at the four of you and a group of girls whispering and giggling to each other. He sighs deeply, his whole chest heaving and he closes his eyes.

“Iwaizumi!” “Iwa-chan!” you scream with Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

Matsukawa’s body stiffens as he points a shaky finger at Hanamaki accusingly, “You killed him, bro.”

Hanamaki gasps, turning his face away from Matsukawa in disbelief while raising his hand defensively, “Stop it. Don’t say it, bro!”

You sit up, hands covering your mouth as you gape at Iwaizumi’s still body, “Iwa-chan..”

Matsukawa quickly brings a hand to your back, rubbing it silently in a comforting gesture while Hanamaki slams his fist on the pavement, before turning to Matsukawa with a crazed glint in his eyes. “Fine! But I’m not the only one at fault here,” he begins.

Matsukawa raises his eyebrows, feigning confusion, “What are you talking about, Hanamaki?” He tilts his head, “You’re the one who ended his life.”

Hanamaki growls, “Don’t play dumb with me! You’re just as guilty as I am! If anything-” his voice drops lower, “-you’re the one who ended his life.”

Gasping, you slap Matsukawa’s hand away, feeling betrayed by the boy you called friend. “[Name]-chan, listen–”

“Save it, Mattsun. I never thought you of all people would do this kind of thing,” you cut him off, not wanting to hear anything from Matsukawa. He grits his teeth before turning to Hanamaki, raising both of his hands. A sign of surrender. He looks at Hanamaki with regret in his eyes, sighing, “As expected from my best friend. You got me good, bro.”

Hanamaki kneels in front of Matsukawa, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. His eyes are suspiciously glassy, Matsukawa notes. Perhaps, Hanamaki is a good friend after all.

“Bro..”

Meanwhile, Iwaizumi is fed up with your impromptu drama session. He quickly sits up and readies himself to berate the three of you but the world has better plans to make Iwaizumi’s day worse when a couple of rings startling all of you back into reality. With you helping Iwaizumi up by supporting his slightly throbbing back, thanks to those two, he is not surprised to find Oikawa pedaling on a bike towards your group.

“My, my, what are you guys doing here on the floor?” 

Iwaizumi knows that Oikawa is purposely making his voice loud so everyone would watch their circus show- not that everyone hasn’t already seen the soap opera between you, Matsukawa and Hanamaki, but still!

In one tiny corner of Iwaizumi’s heart, he wishes something bad would befall to Oikawa, just because he is grating Iwaizumi’s already thin patience. He also conveniently forgets the old saying that goes, “Be careful what you wish for.”.

Oblivious, Oikawa continues in his airy voice, “I don’t know what you guys will do without me, your very reliable captain. Here, let me help!”

Oikawa clutches the brake of his bicycle and he raises a delicate eyebrow when the brake is not in effect. He clutches the brake harder and only then the realisation sets in- the brake is faulty. I should have walked to school instead, Oikawa smiles in acceptance before his bicycle crashes a bench at the pavement. His body feels very light as he is flung across his friends, seeing their shocked faces and mouths agape makes his heart pound wildly against his chest. Time seems to slow down when you’re falling, he muses. In the seconds it takes him to reach the ground, he knows that it is going to hurt.

His body drops with a loud thump, worrying the four of you. Hanamaki whistles slowly, “Oof, that’s gonna hurt.”

You quickly collect your belongings and shove them into your bag while Iwaizumi and Matsukawa help the poor captain up who might have damaged his pretty face, Hanamaki silently grabs Oikawa’s busted bicycle.

“Oikawa!” he looks at you with a dumb expression when you grab his face in panic, “What? What’s wrong, [Name]-chan?”

A trickle of warmth suddenly drips from his nose and the captain unknowingly sniffs it back. With a disgusted noise, Iwaizumi knocks the captain’s head, “Don’t do that, you idiot!”

Before Oikawa could complain about Iwaizumi’s brute force, you gently plug his nose with a tissue and give him more tissues for him to wipe his bloody hands once Matsukawa and Iwaizumi let him stand on his own. Although Oikawa’s injuries only consist of his bloody nose and hands, you’re pretty sure that he has more injuries on his legs- especially his knees. “I think you need to visit the nurse’s office, just to be sure.”

“Will you be taking care of me, [Name]-chan?” he asks, mustering his saddest face. You only give him an unimpressed look, “Nope, we have class. But, the nurse will take care of you, though.”

Unsatisfied with your answer, he whines and Iwaizumi is quick to knock his head again, which you proceed to scold the both of them, “Leave it, both of you!”

Matsukawa smirks, “It’s what you get for being a dumbass. Who told you to speed down the pavement?”

“I tried to slow down but the brake wouldn’t work!” Oikawa retorts.

“And who told you to not check your bike before using it during winter?” Hanamaki adds in with a grin. He and Matsukawa give each other a high five when Oikawa deflates, failing to come up with a comeback.

“Well– who told you guys to create a soap opera in the middle of the road, huh? I’m only acting as a caring captain would, like, stopping all of you from making a fool of yourselves!” Oikawa glares at his friends and looks at you for backup, which you look away guiltily, making him gasp in betrayal. “[Name]-chan!”

“Sure you are.” Iwaizumi replies, ending the conversation as the five of you continue the walk to school completely poker faced, as if you didn’t cause a scene earlier. Despite the embarrassing incident, Iwaizumi manages to look at the bright side of it. The soft wind gently caressing their cheeks, the red tinges on their noses and ears, which he is sure from the incident, and most of all, he grins into his scarf, the warmth and memory he made with his friends.

Extra:

Just before the gradual slope that leads to the crime scene, Kindaichi and Kunimi stand still as they witness their captain being knocked out from his bicycle. Wordlessly, Kunimi walks the other way to school, perking Kindaichi up.

“Oi, that route is farther to school.” Kindaichi informs his friend.

“Do I look like I want to join them down there?” Kunimi frowns as he jerks his head towards their senpais.

“I bet they’ll rope us in to save themselves from the embarrassment.” He waves his hand dismissively before turning to the other direction to school. Kindaichi looks back at his scrambling senpais before following his friend with no hesitation.

#haikyuu #hq #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu x manager #hq x manager #aoba josai #aoba josai x reader #aoba johsai #aoba johsai x reader #seijoh #seijoh x reader #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi hajime #hanamaki takahiro #matsukawa issei #oikawa fluff #iwaizumi fluff #hanamaki fluff #matsukawa fluff #oikawa x reader #iwaizumi x reader #hanamaki x reader #matsukawa x reader #oikawa toru x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #hanamaki takahiro x reader #matsukawa issei x reader #nad writes

[absynthe--minded]

Magic headcanons and How It Works in Tolkien, elaborate pls!

so the big thing I’m gonna start with is that Tolkien’s magic system is kind of purposefully left nebulous and undefined? it’s not typical of later fantasy stories where how the supernatural thing works, and the limitations thereof, is important to the plot or the mechanics of the world. there aren’t spell slots or power levels here, you don’t have to level up constantly to get more powerful or whatever. what we have are a few explicitly magical items (the Rings, the elven-cloaks, Lúthien’s hair, the star-glass, the Silmarils, the elvish rope) and a few explanations of innate magical abilities (ósanwë specifically comes to mind) and the general statement that for elves, making things magically is just… how they craft, what they do. we get mentions of spells of all kinds, and of a few race-specific perks or bonuses that seem magical and very well might be but never get explained beyond “this is normal for them” - I’m thinking of how hobbits are basically confirmed to be able to hide from prying eyes in the LotR prologue, but it’s not really confirmed or denied whether or not it’s magic.

we also have beings who are inherently, specifically supernatural - the Ainur, and the Valar and Maiar who leave the greater host to take up residence in/around earth. they are stated to teach magic occasionally, and also to have great power of their own that permits them to manipulate the natural world around them and arrange it to their liking. this is I think really telling, because the majority of Tolkien’s magics fall under that umbrella idea of “ordering and shaping the world according to the will of the magic-user”. a lot of the feats of magic that we see are explicitly intended to be used in some form of alteration of the physical realm, from Rivendell and Lothlórien being havens out of time to the Valar crafting the Trees.

the other “half” of Tolkien’s magic has to do with perception and will. free will is more or less sacrosanct in Arda - Túrin is cursed, but he has free will, and is able to do good things with that free will, and that’s consistent with the rest of the story - and so there’s little that can be done to directly countermand or overcome someone else’s willpower without physically exhausting them or confounding them somehow. Gondolin is protected by enchanted waters that echo back the sounds and footsteps of those who enter into the caves that lead there, Valinor is protected by enchanted mists and islands that confuse and confound those who try and seek it out, etc.

here’s where I get into headcanon. everything past this point is What Absynthe Thinks Is Canon rather than explicitly What The Text Says. I think it’s canonically grounded and I’m happy to be the source for someone else’s interpretation? but I’m not the source of the objective truth here.

so.

how I see it is this: Tolkien’s magic has four distinct parts, and all of them work in tandem to accomplish one of those two goals (altering the world or confusing and confounding the mind)

Willpower, and how much force of will you can put behind an action or a desire

Song, and particularly the ability to harness the primordial forces of Song that shaped the world to make your desires reality

Craft, and putting will and intent into an object, either through the aid of song or solely through will.

Innate power, either coming from the sort of creature you are (Maiar etc) or your bloodline.

Willpower is pretty self-explanatory, and has the most work done in-text to examine how it works. Glaurung overcomes Nienor’s will and erases her memory. Smaug almost tricks Bilbo into letting his guard down and falling into the same trap. Frodo is able to resist the Ring due to his will to remain himself, motivated by love and nobility. Finrod fails in his duel with Sauron because his will is overcome. We’re told canonically that telepathy cannot overcome or supersede free will, and so if you really wanted to keep someone from reading your mind, you could with practice and the cultivated skill of directing your willpower to resist another, and Galadriel informs Frodo that his ability to use the Ring is limited because his will and his innate capacity for power are both too limited. I tend to think this extends to magic as well - what you can accomplish is ultimately curtailed by your will. There are other factors, but the most important one seems to be “do you want this to happen? how?” Willpower is also your greatest protection against being overcome by other supernatural forces, and it can feel like a sentient thing that’s worth fearing when wielded by skilled and powerful users - I’m thinking of how Morgoth imbued his thralls with a bone-deep fear of him that drove them into irrational terror if they ever escaped.

Song is a medium for magic, and this is also what we see in canon. Song made the world, and shaped it, and foretold all that happened within it, and it’s through song that we have our most dramatic displays of magical power, both contained in the story of Beren and Lúthien - Finrod’s song battle with Sauron, and Lúthien declaring herself and her name and destroying Tol-in-Gaurhoth. We also see song referenced in Shelob’s lair, with Frodo invoking the name of Elbereth to spark the star-glass to life. I write so that if you’re gifted in the theory and the making of music, you can apply that specifically to magic. Blessed Hands - Lifeline has Endanáro feeling as though the songs he’s working with are alive, rising to meet his needs; this is because he’s spent centuries learning how to harness them and work with them, and he can craft what he requires as he goes. There are also set magical songs that anyone can learn that have more or less consistent effects, though they can be customized based on will and intent. Those two things matter more in Song than the actual tune - a familiar melody or leitmotif or entire song can be coopted to serve a particular purpose. The music is the medium, not the end, though invoking specific imageries or ideas can be effective if you (or the hypothetical Maia you’re dueling) has an emotional connection to what you’re singing about. Finrod falls before Sauron because the latter invokes Alqualondë, and reminds him of the Kinslaying, and basically cuts away his carefully-constructed facade to say “you’re not as cool as you think you are, you’re not as good as you think you are”, but there is also power in the tune itself. It’s an avenue for willpower, not a substitute for it.

Crafting is another medium for one’s will. We see this best in the Rings of Power, as well as the enchanted rope that Sam is given that comes when he calls. The elves of Lothlórien say that they put themselves into what they make, and while this could be interpreted as the average artist-speak talking about giving voice to emotion and passion, it’s also literally true in many cases - the Silmarils and the One Ring both are mentioned to have some semblance of sentience thanks to the influence of their crafter’s spirit. Most things that are made, though, only seem to be vessels for will and intent. They’re easier to work with than Song, and more stable, though I’d argue people like Elrond who are masters of both a magical object and the Music are easily the most powerful people on the battlefield at any time. The difference between a Song and a Ring is that the Ring acts as a focus and a prism, sort of - you don’t have to keep as close of a watch on what you want; it will do that for you. It also adds power and finesse to what you aim to do.

Innate power, meaning “if you’re at least part-Ainu you’re going to have a lot more of yourself to give over to your work”. I touched on this briefly too when I brought up how hobbits can vanish from sight, and there’s a short story Tolkien wrote that details how a Drúedain man enchanted a stone statue to defend the house of a Rohirric family with the implication that this is an entirely Drúedainic ability. Some races in Tolkien have race-specific gifts. That doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re powerless without them, but it is worth taking into account.

hopefully that answers things? wow this was long, sorry.

#replies #tolkien #absynthe’s meta #absynthe’s headcanons #stormxpadme #long post

[swaps55]

Life or death. You can combine it with the snow if you want!

Kiss prompt

I *may* have taken a few liberties. NO REGRETS.

~

Kaidan’s breath comes out of his mouth in a puff of mist. Fuck, he’s forgotten how cold winter can be in the Interior. Gloves are nowhere near as effective as armor, and without a helmet the thick, fat flakes of snow wafting out of the sky catch in his hair.

It’s sticking to the pond enough that you can trace the tracks he and Shepard leave on the ice. Kaidan’s long, sweeping marks broken by Shepard’s blunt starts and stops. About the only trick he took to heart in the tutorial Kaidan gave him was how to skid to a dramatic stop, which ends in a fall as much as it doesn’t. At least the stop happens either way.

The knee pads Kaidan dug out for them are a little too small, elbow pads a little too big, which pair nicely with the coats that are too puffy. They look ridiculous, both of them, if he’s being honest, but fuck if it doesn’t feel good to be back on this pond, skates on his feet and a stick in his hand. Like being a kid again.

The muscle memory had kicked in when he put the skates on, but those muscles haven’t actually done any skating for well over a decade, closer to two. He can only imagine how this is going to haunt him in the morning.

Shepard can’t skate for shit, but he’s sure not afraid to try. At least he’s got biotics to help cushion his falls, when he’s quick enough to use them. The best one yet was when he lost his balance staring up at the falling snow. But that had been earlier, when the game was still friendly.

Shepard taps his stick against the frozen pond, eyeing Kaidan with a shit-eating grin that’s awfully confident for someone who’s never worn skates before this afternoon. Snow alights on his shoulders, a few flakes clinging to his eyelashes before he shakes his head.

The sight is almost enough to make Kaidan forget about the hockey puck that lies between them.

Almost.

He’s gotten the urge to kiss Shepard over a lot less, but this is a tie game they’re talking about. There’s no fucking way the spacer kid who didn’t know what high sticking meant until an hour ago is going to beat Kaidan in his first out.

He’s got a little pride.

Ok, maybe a lot.

Kaidan cups the puck with his stick, deftly pushing it around the ice, one eye on Shepard, other on the goal set up in the corner of the pond.

Shoot out. Do or die.

See, the problem is, Shepard may be shit at hockey – for now – but he’s got no sense of self preservation and every sense of where Kaidan is going to be and when. For once, all their time spent in combat is working against him. And Shepard’s lack of knowledge for any rules is also a problem. Shepard doesn’t think like a hockey player. He just approaches the game like he does any live fire situation. Flag the enemy and win. To hell with the rest.

It’s been…remarkably effective.

“Moment of truth,” Shepard says, in that voice, that voice that gets under his skin in all the best and worst ways. “Got what it takes?”

Kaidan pushes off his left foot, striding free and fluid over the ice. Amazing how easily it comes back. He flies past Shepard in a wide circle, skates crisscrossing with ease, like he’d never stopped. Shepard watches him, eyes locked on target, ready to throw himself in front of the goal when Kaidan makes his move.

Except Kaidan has a new move.

Shepard’s eyes widen as Kaidan hooks him by the arm on his next pass and spins him around until they’re face to face. Kaidan changes course, skating backwards now, pulling Shepard along with him, eyes on Shepard but never losing the puck. Oh, the ligaments in his knee are going to raise hell later, but it’s worth it because Shepard, for once, has no counterattack.

With no proper balance to speak of, Shepard drops his stick, one hand grabbing Kaidan’s arm, the other clinging to his shoulder in a desperate effort to stay on his feet.

Kaidan grins, leans in and kisses him so hard their teeth clack. Shepard’s fingers dig deeper into the sleeve of Kaidan’s coat as a small noise that’s half surprise, half pleasure rumbles deep in his throat.

As they coast past the goal, Kaidan flicks the puck in.

“I win,” he whispers in Shepard’s ear. “Guess I do ha—”

Shepard drags him back in for another kiss. Kaidan’s balance teeters. Limbs flail as they both hit the ice. Shepard lands on his back, Kaidan falls to his knees with a grunt. Shepard wheezes in an effort to catch the breath that just got clonked out of him. For half a second Kaidan is actually worried. He scoots closer to lean over him, concern in his eyes. Shepard grins and grabs Kaidan by the front of his jacket.

“That was cheating.”

The sharp stab of relief is quick, acute. No matter how far they get past London he’ll never take anything for granted again. “What? You don’t even know the rules.”

“Making out with the opposition strikes me as a dirty play.”

“Come on,” Kaidan says with a chuckle. “That was the fucking smoothest thing I have ever done. I’m impressive. Be impressed.” The fact that it would take a hundred lifetimes to ever pull that off again is something he’ll keep to himself.

Shepard’s expression twists, his competitive streak warring with his stubbornly romantic side that has just literally been swept off his feet. Watching the internal fight play out over his features only makes Kaidan love him more.

“It was effective,” Shepard acquiesces with a grumble. There’s a spark in his blue eyes that outshines the snow and a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips that could melt it.

Kaidan waggles an eyebrow. “Makes you wonder what would have happened if we’d tried it with Saren.”

“Hey, I told Garrus if I was ever going to kiss a turian he was first in line.”

“Trust me,” Kaidan says. “I’m a better kisser than Garrus.”

“Yeah, but—wait. How do you know?”

Another eyebrow wiggle, and now that’s twice in one day he’s left Shepard speechless.

“Wait. You’ve kissed Garrus? No, no, no, no. Hang on. Are you fucking with me? I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me.”

“Good.”

Shepard leans his head back against the ice and blinks away a snowflake. “Fuck me, am I a better kisser than Garrus?”

Kaidan rises onto one skate and offers a hand, grin a mile wide. “Come on. You really want another go I’ll give you one.”

“You’re not answering. Kaidan. This is life or death.” He lifts his head up. “I have to know.”

“Ok,” Kaidan concedes. “Pick your battle. Do you wanna win the game, or do you wanna prove you’re a better kisser than Garrus?”

“Both?”

“Pick.”

“Fine.”

Shepard grabs Kaidan’s hand, but instead of getting to his feet he pulls Kaidan close enough to get an arm around his neck and reel him in. Kaidan’s foot slips out behind him – it’s not elegant at all – but it doesn’t matter because Shepard’s waiting with his mouth. His lips are cold, his nose even colder where it presses against Kaidan’s skin, but the ferocity of the kiss sends warmth right down to his toes.  

“I like this game better,” Shepard mumbles against him, and kisses him again.  

#mass effect #mshenko #kaidan alenko #my fic #kiss prompt #mememe #meme replies #this may be the first time i have taken a potentially angsty thing #and made it fluffy #DID KAIDAN KISS GARRUS? #DID HE? #that is for you to decide #urrone

[ohayohimawari]

NartYasha Not!Fic

I’ve had NartYasha on the brain thanks to Sloaners’ server, and I present a post of purely self-indulgent snippets and scenarios of a day in the crossover world of my imagination.

I’d put the rating at G-T; no TW content.

I hope it makes you laugh! Nonsense begins below the cut.

“Ugh—hurry up, Dad, Mom!” Kakashi stood in front of the opened door to the Hatake home, one foot outside of it, and both arms folded across his chest. “I don’t want to be late!”

“I know that you’re excited, Kakashi, but you’re not supposed to meet your team for another hour,” Kaguya called out to her son. “Besides,” she turned her attention to her husband, “your father still needs…to get ready.”

Sakumo sat with his back to her, but his sporadic sniffing and shaking shoulders betrayed the emotions he tried to hide.

“Sakumo, your face will be all red and puffy when we go to meet them,” Kaguya soothed as she neared her husband.

“I know,” Sakumo sighed in resignation, “I know.”

“You don’t want to be confused for Maito, do you?” Kaguya made a gentle joke about their dear family friend, Dai.

It worked, and Sakumo chuckled through his drying tears. “No, I don’t. It’s just, he’s growing up so fast, Kaguya! It seems like only yesterday that he was falling out of trees instead of walking up them—”

“That was yesterday,” Kaguya interrupted Sakumo to remind him of the previous day’s installment of adventures in parenthood.

“—and today he’s meeting his Genin team and Jōnin leader,” he spoke over his wife, fresh tears welling up in his eyes.

Kaguya watched two new tears fall when her husband blinked as he returned his gaze to their son’s Pre-K art project that he held in his hands. Sakumo ran his fingers across the handprint that a five-year-old Kakashi had pressed into clay and then ran his thumb over the inverted “s” of their son’s signature.

“Sakumo,” she cooed his name, “if you keep this up, your tears will blind you to the memories that are forming now,” she reached for the clay keepsake. He handed it over and nodded, discerning the sense in her words.

Kaguya smiled at Sakumo and brushed his bristling mane from his eyes. “I worry about how you’ll react when Kakashi goes on his first mission,” she chuckled lightly.

Sakumo gaped at her, wide-eyed, and his bottom lip began to quiver once again.

 ***

 Though it was later than Kakashi would’ve liked, the Hatake family was still the first to arrive at the training grounds (with a rehearsed and believable excuse involving allergies for Sakumo’s red eyes).

“See, Kakashi? There was no need to rush. We’re here before your sensei has arrived,” Sakumo gently scolded his son in a thick voice.

“‘A shinobi must prepare before it is too late to,’” Kakashi recited in a pious tone.

Before Sakumo could caution against following the shinobi rules too strictly, one of Konoha’s most accomplished Jōnin materialized out of thin air, literally.

“Hello Mr. Hatake, Mrs. Hatake,” he bowed to them, “it’s an honor to teach your son.”

“Namikaze,” Sakumo addressed the Jōnin through a relieved smile. “I’m happy to know he’ll be trusted to you.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Kakashi grumbled.

“You’re right. Hello,” the Jōnin issued a warm, gentle smile that was in direct contrast to the dangerous shinobi he was known to be within the Leaf, and beyond. “You can call me Minato-sensei.”

“And you can call him Bakashi,” a raven-haired boy cackled as he ran toward the group.

“Don’t be rude, Obito,” an elderly woman scolded from where she trailed behind him.

“Ah, you must be Obito Uchiha,” Minato turned his smile to the new arrivals.

“Yep, that’s me!” Obito beamed, and then jerked his thumb at Kakashi. “I’m the one you should focus on training, Minato-sensei because I’m going to be Hokage!”

“Is that so?” Minato tilted his head in amusement.

“You bet! I can already see my face carved into the mountainside,” Obito bragged.

“I think you need to clean your goggles then—”

“Kakashi!” Kaguya said his name sharply, causing her son to visibly wince above his mask.

“My grandson deserved that,” the elderly woman had reached the group, “please excuse him. Now then, Obito, will you introduce me to your friends?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Obito scratched at the back of his head. “This is my Granny, Kaede. She’s a priestess from uh,” he hesitated and stole a glance at her, “somewhere else. But she moved here because she didn’t want me to live alone,” he smirked at her when he finished.

Kaede smirked back at him briefly and then raised her one-eyed gaze to the others. “I wasn’t about to let my grandson become a victim of this village’s ‘orphan care program,’” she said, sarcastic.

Minato and Sakumo shifted uncomfortably, but Kaguya was the first to speak. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I’m also a transplant to Konoha, and I can’t believe they’ve let it get this bad—”

“How did you lose your eye?” Kakashi interrupted his mother, unable to contain his curiosity and unaware that such an awkward question was impolite.

Kaede chuckled, easing Sakumo and Kaguya’s embarrassment. “In battle,” she said, low and dramatic, “against a fearsome yōkai.” She leaned over to meet Kakashi’s eyes. “He got much worse than he gave, I promise you,” she added in a dangerous voice for effect.

Kakashi stood unblinking for a few moments, clearly deep in thought, but kept them to himself. Then, he closed one eye and looked around him to test how it altered his vision.

Sakumo cleared his throat to distract from his son’s latest social faux pas. “So, do you know who your third student is, Namikaze?”

“I haven’t met her yet, but I hear she made quite an impression on Lord Third. Lady Kaede brought her along when she first came to Konoha, correct?” Minato asked.

“Yes,” Kaede nodded. “I offered to look after her while her guardian was away because we take care of orphans where I come from. She and Obito became fast friends, and it seemed cruel to part them, so I signed her up to be a Genin.”

“Wait—what do you mean you ‘signed her up’? Genin have to graduate from the Academy first,” Minato lost a little of his serene countenance.

“Money talks,” Kaede shrugged. “Apparently, Konoha is broke. That might explain all the orphans running around,” she muttered. “Anyway, her guardian is bringing her from my world so he can sign off on the paperwork.”

“Your…your world?”

“Whoa!” Kakashi exclaimed, with both eyes opened wide again.

The others followed his gaze upwards to find a massive white dog soaring overhead. It circled a few times as it descended and touched down gracefully on the training grounds. A man with long white hair and dog ears jumped down immediately, then reached up to lift a young girl off the back of the dog.

“Rin!” Obito shouted and ran off to greet the newcomers.

The little girl waved enthusiastically back at them, as the large white dog transformed into a man right before their eyes.

“Wh-where did you say you were from?” Minato stuttered.

“Another dimension,” Kaede gestured one hand as if to brush her cryptic confession off as trivial, “the Bone-Eater’s well acts as a portal to just about anywhere.”

“Excuse me, the what?”

“I wasn’t expecting Sesshōmaru to bring Inuyasha with him,” Kaede squinted at the approaching figures and ignored Minato’s question.

“Are they the girl’s guardians?” Kaguya asked.

“Sesshōmaru is, yes, and Inuyasha is her uncle. This could be troublesome,” Kaede sighed and then offered a bit more by way of explanation. “Sesshōmaru is a dog demon, as you can probably guess, and his brother is a half-demon.”

Kakashi continued to stare at Sesshōmaru in reverent awe until they were near enough to speak, though no one knew what to say.

Eventually, Sakumo broke the shocked silence. “My wife is from the moon,” he announced, unsolicited.

Kaguya stood beside her husband and placed one hand on her son’s shoulder. She then opened her third eye in the middle of her forehead.

Minato fainted.

***

 Minato recovered in time to issue the bell test, and pass his first team of Genin, to his delight. After receiving the applause and praise from the small crowd in the parents’ section, the newly formed Team Minato set to kunai practice.

“I don’t know how they can consider those tiny things ‘weapons,’ even Sesshōmaru’s Tenseiga is more dangerous than—”

“Silence, Inuyasha!” Sesshōmaru punctuated his reprimand with a sharp blow to his half-brother’s head, knocking him to the ground.

“Some ninja are trained with swords,” Sakumo offered, “I carry the White Light Chakra Sabre on my missions. And, of course, there are the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist, each of whom carries a powerful, renowned blade.”

“Is that so?” Sesshōmaru arched an eyebrow, the only hint at how impressed he was. “Perhaps it would be worth extending our visit in your world,” he said through a slight, but very dangerous, grin.

 ***

 “Minato! I found another one.”

A red-haired woman stormed onto the training grounds with a furious expression on her face, and a terrified, tiny ninja in tow.

“Ah, Kushina, can this wait? We’re in the middle of kunai practice—Nevermind,” he quickly changed his mind when her temper visibly mounted.

“This one hasn’t been able to speak at all,” Kushina’s voice came more gently as she presented the small shinobi to Minato. The young boy turned his large, almond eyes at her, and then to Minato in apparent confusion. “It’s okay,” Kushina soothed as she ran a hand through the boy’s long, mousey brown hair, “stick out your tongue.”

The tiny ninja’s eyes, made impossibly larger through his hesitant expression, darted between Kushina and Minato. After some time and coaxing, however, he tentatively stuck his tongue out at Minato.

Kaguya gasped at the black symbol on the boy’s tongue. Sesshōmaru turned to Kaede and spoke in a chilling voice. “You said that Konoha was overrun with orphans; you didn’t say the village branded them.”

“I had no idea they’d do something so cruel,” Kaede replied, astonished.

“This is highly unusual, I assure you,” Sakumo sputtered. “At least, I hope it is,” he added, under his breath.

Minato began to weave signs silently and with a solemn expression, drawing everyone’s attention. He then pressed his thumb to the boy’s tongue, who shrieked, jumped back, and covered his mouth with both hands.

“I’m sorry that hurt, but it’s the only way to remove the seal,” Minato said, heartbroken.

“Ithss s’okay,” the boy lisped his response which was further muffled by his small, pudgy hands.

“Now then, what’s your name?”

“I-I don’t know. They call me Kinoe, but I’m not sure if that’s what my parents named me before...”

The whole crowd in the parents’ section melted.

Kushina dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around the boy. She turned her head to face Minato and stared at him with wide, imploring eyes.

Minato buckled under the weight of so many pairs of pleading eyes and then sighed. “Alright, let’s go talk to Lord Third.” He pointed at Inuyasha. “You, dog demon—”

“Half-demon,” Sesshōmaru corrected.

“Whatever. Can you oversee their target practice until I get back?”

 ***

 “Gah-gah-gah, zu-bah-bah, KUNAI!”

“It’s definitely helping Obito to focus on the target, but I thought that ninja were supposed to be stealthy, aren’t they? This isn’t exactly conducive to sneaking up on an opponent,” Kaede assessed Inuyasha’s teaching techniques aloud.

Inuyasha was helping Rin improve her grip on her own kunai under Sesshōmaru’s careful watch.

Kakashi stood off to the side, attempting to channel his chakra to replicate the Wind Scar. “You can do it, Sweetie!” Kaguya called out to him, causing him to blush above his mask.

“Everyone, this is Tenzō.”

Kushina returned to the training grounds with the tiny ninja on her hip. “Hello, I have a new name,” he waved with a bright, broad grin that melted the crowd in the parents’ section all over again.

Minato followed close behind, looking a bit paler than he had when he left. “Congratulations!” Sakumo met him with a hearty handshake. “Let me guess, she named him before you reached the Hokage’s office, huh,” he added in a hushed tone.

“Yeah, Lord Third pulled out the adoption papers as soon as Kushina walked in carrying him.” Minato’s gaze drifted to his new team of Genin and their chaotic training session. “What the actual fuck is happening here?”

“You left a dog-demon in charge of their training—”

“Half-demon,” Sesshōmaru corrected.

“Inuyasha, their sensei has returned now so you can stop not helping,” Kaede instructed.

“Whaddya mean ‘not helping’?  These brats are so weak Shippo could take them—”

“Inuyasha, sit down.” Kaede revealed the depth of her authority and untold power so effectively in those three words that not only Inuyasha but all three Genin and even Sakumo sat down on the training field in absolute obedience.

“Right, next time, I’ll put you in charge,” Minato said, awed. Then he addressed his team while Sakumo did his best to seem casual as he stood up. “We’ll cut the training short today; it is your first day, after all. We’ll just consider this an orientation, and start over fresh tomorrow,” he finished.

Kakashi, Obito, and Rin cheered as they ran to receive the adoration of their respective number one fans after completing their first day as real ninjas.

“Did you see me, Granny?” Obito asked, eager for recognition.

Kaede realized it immediately and chuckled as she smoothed one hand over his spiky hair. “Yes, I did, and I think you’ll be a Ho-ka-ge in no time,” she smiled.

“Do we have to leave right away, Lord Sesshōmaru?” Rin asked as she slipped her hand into her Guardian’s.

“No,” Sesshōmaru spoke in a gentler voice when he addressed his ward, “we will stay as long as it takes for me to complete my quest for the seven swords of the Mist.”

“You can live with us while you do…that,” Kakashi stared wide-eyed at Sesshōmaru as he offered the invitation without consulting his parents. Kaguya and Sakumo exchanged a confused look behind him.

Then Kakashi reached a hand out to pet Sesshōmaru’s fluffy, white fur trim as if he couldn’t resist it any longer, but Kaguya snatched it away, and furthered distracted him by saying, “how should we celebrate your graduation to Genin?”

“Count me out,” Inuyasha turned his back to the group. “As long as we’ll be here, I’m gonna look for jewel shards. Catch you later, losers,” he yelled over his shoulder as he leaped from view.

“I’m afraid I can’t join you either,” Minato lamented. “I have to go buy everything a child would need this afternoon.” Sakumo patted him on the shoulder reassuringly as Minato waved and walked away.

Kushina, however, remained behind with the rest and shifted Tenzō to her other hip. “We could go bowling,” she considered aloud.

“Yeah!” All three Genin shouted.

“What do you think; do you want to go bowling?” Kushina asked Tenzō directly.

He gasped. “Can I really go too?” He asked, melting even Sesshōmaru’s heart this time.

“Let’s go bowling,” Kaede said in her authoritative voice as she turned and strode back to the village, with the rest of the group trailing behind her.

The End

#hima writes #naruto inuyasha crossover #kagumo #minakush #Kakashi #Obito #rin #kaede #sesshomaru #inuyasha #sakumo #kaguya otsutsuki #minato #kushina #tenzo #konoha's orphan care program #undiluted crack #pure nonsense #ridiculous self-indulgent writing #I hope you enjoy it #<3

[eerythingisshaka]

Always

[Yahya Abdul-Mateen II & Reader]

Word Count: 3k

A/N:  I was reminded of a music video that captivated me when I was younger.  This dude named Paolo Nutini made a song called Candy and the video followed a wedding from party to the couples night.  So I got inspired to do this fluffy angsty thing.

“And welcome to the floor, Mr. and Mrs. Abdul-Mateen!!”

Your loved ones explode in cheers and applause as you and Yahya enter hand in hand into the hall.  Spotlights find you both, making you shield your eyes but your giddiness could not be quelled by anything at that moment.  You feel Yahya’s hand squeeze yours tighter, and you see him smiling wide down at you.

The crowd is still raucous but all other sounds mute as you see his lips move to say,  “You ready, baby?”

Your cheeks ache with happiness as he takes you by your waist and lands a smooch on you that nearly knocks you off your feet.  He even had the nerve to get sloppy with tongue which you knew was all for show because sloppy is not a part of his vocabulary.

“Alright bride and groom, come over to the table of honor so we can get toasts started!”  Your cousin you hired as emcee instructs over the intercom to break up the PDA.

Yahya pulls away, wiping his mouth and faking embarrassment as he leads you by the hand to your throne at the head of the main table.

Seeing the smiling faces of your whole family fills your heart as you take your seats.  Feeling your eyes well up, you pull the folded napkin off your plate to carefully blot the tears away.

Yahya lays an arm across your shoulders whispering in your ear, “You alright?”

You nod wordlessly, patting his leg for confirmation.  

“Aww, aren’t they the cutest couple everyone!  We haven’t even gotten to the speeches yet and you’re bawling.  Girl don’t mess up my beat on you!”  Your cousin had also helped with your makeup last minute when the artist arrived an hour and 17 minutes late (you kept count).

You wave your napkin at her to continue as Yahya popped the champagne bottle chilled in front of you, causing yet another whoop from your families.  Yahya fist pumps as he pours it expertly into yours and his glasses.  Your cousin continues the evening with a musical selection and eventually toasts.

Both sides of your families seemed to have their fair share of comedians.  

“It’s about time someone made an honest man out of him!  And the fact he doesn’t mind that you’re cuter than him, sends me!”  his sister guffaws with the crowd at this crack.

Yahya just shrugs, holding you close next to him.

“It’s true!”  You say under your breath.

“You may be cuter, but I still beat you in fashion, hands down,” he retorts.

You sit up and point to yourself.  “My titties are SITTING.  This hair?  LAID.  My dress?  EXPENSIVE and DESIGNER.”

Yahya rolls his eyes.  “See what you did?  Talk.  While my fit speaks for itself.”

You pick up your champagne glass and level it right under his nose.  “Negro, I have half a mind to toss this drink in your face.”

Yahya grabs his glass, wrapping his arm through yours to take a drink while tipping the bottom of yours toward your mouth.

“And that concludes our toasts!  To the happy couple!”  

You peer at him as he winks at you, taking a slow sip.  Eventually you both take a bow and are ushered over to take pictures in the garden area as the DJ spins and the buffet is opened.

The mid afternoon sun was gorgeous against the lush greenery of the environment.

“You still want to take pictures with me?  Since I can’t dress worth a damn,”  you say in a pitiful tone.

Yahya waves at the photographer.  “What’re you talking about?”

You kiss your teeth.  “How quickly you forget.  Can’t wait to celebrate our anniversary with that memory of yours.”

The photographer greets you both.  “Congrats guys.  You both look splendid and beautiful and so in love, I could just add you to my Netflix list.”

“Thank you.  Where do you want us?”  Yahya asks.

The photographer points toward an archway that looks like heaven’s light is misting through it.  As you both walk hand in hand up to it, you put on the funk extra hard.

“Now don’t forget to smile real big for me guys.  Really revel in the love!”

Yahya and you both smile for some traditional shots, your impatience ticking up with each click of the shutter.  The photographer directs you to look at each other and Yahya wraps his arms around your waist as you wrap your around his neck.

“Perfect guys, even got the ring glowing,” the photographer says.

Yahya looks at you with mischievous eyes and an expression like he is holding back a laugh.

You roll your eyes.  “Nothing’s funny.”

“You are.”

“It’s not supposed to be.  How you gonna tell me I’m ugly on the biggest day of my life?”

“Did I ever say you ugly?  In fact I remember confirming that you are cute.”

“And then swiftly saying I dress badly.  What bride wants to hear that?”

His fingers run up and down your spine as he sways from side to side, leading you into his rhythm.

“You know what?  I gotta say it cuz it’s only right.  I am sorry.”  Yahya says genuinely.

You sigh deeply.  “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I called you cute…”

“YAHYA!”  You yelp, pulling his ear and making him wince.

“Aww, that’s cute guys.  Playful, I like it!”  The photographer naively encourages you.

“Ow ow!  Ok ok, listen, stop!”  Yahya begs until you let go of his lobe.  Yahya massages his abused ear and continues.

“I mean I shouldn’t say you’re cute because you’re not.  You are...so fine.”

“Oh...shut up.”  You say in annoyance.

Yahya holds you closer, gaze lingering on your face.  “You are the sexiest woman I have ever laid eyes on.”

“Whatever,” you say in a less aggressive tone.

“And although I would compliment a woman’s mind before their body, yours keeps me distracted from being able to form cohesive thought, and I do apologize for my ways.”

You naturally rub the back of his head, growing softer in his arms.  “...Don’t apologize for that.”

Yahya shakes his head, moaning an old spiritual groan.  “Noooo ma’am, I must.  I am a gentleman at most times, but you bring out a side I can’t shake that is otherwise.  And I only say what I said about your clothes because you look best with them off of you.”

You snicker and push away as Yahya laughs out loud at your shyness. 

“Come on back here.  You done started something, if you’re not in front of me, our photographer is gonna capture a big moment we can’t show our family in the album.”

You feel exactly what  he means, holding his face in your hands as you shake your head.  “You dirty bastard.”

“That’s your fault, don’t blame me!” 

You pull him in for a kiss, becoming intoxicated with his spirit.  The things that annoy you can be the same things that pull you out of a funk and you love that about him.  His smile, his humor, his sex appeal without even trying and it was all for you until death do you part.

“Gorgeous!  Incredible!  Steamy!”  The photographer cheers, snapping you out of the intimate trance you were under, but Yahya could barely stop himself.

“Save it for later baby,”  you tell him in a husky tone, biting your lip over your over naughtiness.

You wipe your lipstick off his lips as he says, “I love you, sweetheart.  Always.”

“I love you.  Always,” you parrot back.

By the time you both are back in the hall, the part is jumping as your family and friends had their fill of food and drink, stepping to the choreography of the Wobble.  The DJ cut the song prematurely to announce the cutting of the cake as Yahya grabbed the knife to cut a sliver and guide it to your mouth.  You took a humble bite as the crowd applauds while you cut him a piece.  Yahya’s smile lights up as you hold out his piece before shoving it into his lips and nose.  The attendees gasp and laugh as the photographer captures the moment of cake being smashed on Yahya’s perfect grin.  He is stunned but recovers gracefully, licking some cake off his lips.  You clap for him, reaching for a napkin to help clean him but suddenly your body is pulled into his as he plants a kiss on you, making sure to transfer some cake onto you, generating even more laughter from your guests.  

You couldn’t help but laugh into him as he dramatically moves his face around yours, bumping your nose with his and parting to see his masterpiece.  You both laugh out loud, until finally cleaning your fun away and making it to the dance floor for your first dance.  

You can’t keep your eyes off of each other as your song As by Stevie Wonder came on over the speakers.  The floating nature of the opening verse makes you feel even more like you’re in a dream.  Yahya can’t keep his mouth still, singing along with the lyrics and holding you closer than his own skin.  When the chorus picks up, Yahya leads your two step, spinning you around to show you off, hands reaching a little lower than you would usually want in front of family but you didn’t care at all.  You made sure to get your solo dance in front of him, shaking your titties and throwing ass on your husband without shame.

Eventually your families joined the dance floor, surrounding you both with congratulations.  As the night wore on, it was time to head off for the evening.  You both were sent off with well wishes as the DJ continues to spin.  Your ride waited outside as you waved and ran to the backseat to be driven to your hotel.

The quiet of the car was odd coming straight out of the party.  Your ears rang a little bit and you finally felt the effects of walking around in heels for hours, kicking them off.

Yahya looks over at your feet, pulling your leg up on his lap to rub your feet.  “You tired?”

You lean back taking a deep breath.  “A little.  You?”

Yahya shrugs.  “I could stay up a little longer.”  He smirks at you in a sneaky way that tells you everything you need to know.

You chuckle, patting his arm.  “I know baby, we will.  Ooh, just keep rubbing like that.”

“That feels good?”  Yahya asks, get right at the soft pad under your toes. 

“Ohhh, yes!”  You moan, sinking into your seat with pleasure.

“Excuse me!  Sex in the cab is prohibited.  Please refrain.  And congratulations,”  the driver says.

You and Yahya share a glance before chuckling at the driver’s mistake.  “We got you sir, don’t worry about it.  Just can’t keep my hands off my wife.”  Yahya responds, taking your other foot onto his lap.

Arriving at the room of your hotel was an obstacle course.  The dress and veil is a dead giveaway for strangers to take the time to yell congrats at you both.  A wave of relief wash over you as Yahya begins to insert the key and opens the door for you.  You start to walk in but he blocks you.

“What?  I have to pee, come on,”  you hop on your bare feet, whining.

Yahya tosses your shoes inside before looking at you like a disappointed parent.  

“You just wanna ruin tradition, huh?  As a man I have to carry my lady over the threshold.”

“This isn’t our house or something!  It’s just the hotel, carry me later.  I have to go, please!”

“Aight, come on.”  Yahya bends to scoop you up making you yelp in surprise.

“Dammit, you’re gonna make me pee more!”  You squeeze your legs tight and his head tighter as he walks you in.

“I love my baby, pee and all!”  he sets you down but you practically jump out of his arms to the bathroom.  Hiking up your dress, you plant down and release gratefully.  A box sits on the counter across from you  with a ribbon on it that intrigues you.  Finishing, you get up to open the top to see a frisky negligee and thong set.

You shake your head, picking up the barely there clothing and smiling to yourself over what Yahya must’ve looked like having this picked out ahead of time.  Feeling for the zipper on your dress, you get ready to change.  

“Baby!  The alcohol is getting cold, hurry up!  HA!”  Yahya laughs in glee, twisting the corkscrew in to work it open.  With a pop, he got the glasses filled with some wine.

You open the bathroom door and see him shirtless, pouring the drinks.  The room is dead quiet except for the glug of the liquid and you get caught up in his physique.  It’s not the first time, but you feel renewed any time you see him from behind.  The sculpt of each isolated muscle that embedded his back down to the dips above the waist of his pants barely hanging onto his hips.  Although the glasses weigh practically nothing, his arms flexed as if he was keeping the world rotating on its axis.  

When he turns to see you, his body tenses, mouth half hanging open.  He stumbles to set down the wine as his eyes refuse to leave your direction.  You feel so many hormones rushing through your body, it's hard to concentrate on what’s to happen next.  It feels like pins are dancing across your skin as excitement works its effects on you, a primal need for him to touch you whilst keeping your distance.

“You look…”  Yahya’s voice trails off.

“I can dress now, huh?  But you picked it out, so points to you,”  you say cooly as you walk over to the waiting glass of wine, bringing it up to your lips as you watch him watch you.  

“It’s the best of both worlds: that color on you is spectacular but leaves nothing to the imagination.”  Yahya paws at the lace that cups your breast, not quite touching you.  You feel your body pull toward him under his light touch, wanting more but you refuse yourself.  Looking over at the bed you see the rose petals scattered across the duvet.

“Aww, you decorated?”  You walk over to pick up a petal, feeling it’s softness under your fingertips.  His hands snake across your stomach, pulling you backwards a bit so that you feel his desire.

Your breath hitches in your throat, resting your hands over his  while your hips back into him.

“That’s not the only thing I want on this bed.”  Yahya growls into your ear, palming your breast roughly as you feel your body bend over for him.

You’re breathing hard as your body pulsates under his touch, naturally seeking the release he so wants to provide.

“Wait, move a second.”  You override your senses to push away from under him, crawling across the bed to sit on the other end.  The curtains on the windows still show the city lights in the distance for you to stare into.

“Something wrong?”  He asks.

You feel yourself cooling as you get your thoughts together.  “The city is gorgeous, ain’t it...Yahya?”  

“Yeah it’s nice but what’s on your mind?”  Yahya asks, crawling over the bed behind you.

You shrug.  “It’s just crazy after all this planning, it’s done.  This is it: married life.”  You look over your shoulder at him and smirk.

“Well this isn’t all of it yet,”  he says, kissing your shoulder, up to your neck.  You hold his head, leaning into his lips as his hands reach your waist to pull you back onto the bed.

He pulls your negligee over your head as you lay back, enjoying his mouth grazing every inch of skin, feeling the pull of your underwear as he works his lips down your belly.

“You love me?”  You ask breathlessly as your legs lift for him to finish undressing you completely.  He looks over your fully exposed form with hunger, running his hands over your thighs.

“I love you, more than you know.”  

You reach for the button of pants, helping him take off the unnecessary clothes.  As he crawls up to meet between you, you feel your body tense up again.

“I got you.”  Yahya says softly, kissing your breasts again.

You claw the width of his back as you feel him tease against you.  Your legs wrap around him.

“God, I love you so much, baby.”  You moan under him, bringing his face to yours, taking him into you for the first time as man and wife.  

“You still taste sweet,”  you observe from the remnants of cake he ate earlier.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have reminded me about that.  I’m gonna get you back for real now.”

You gleefully accept your fate as Yahya pushes your body's pleasure to its edge.  You become one in a new way that shakes you up as he washes away every doubt and worry with each stroke.  You tasted his ecstasy on your tongue and you welcomed it warmly.  You both had never said I love you so much in one night as you had then, taking in each other's devotion completely, climaxing quicker than you ever had.  If this was married life, you could get used to it.

The next morning, the sun bathes you both in a soft glow, waking you.  You see the half drank wine on the table across from you and the discarded clothing littering the floor.  Yahya’s arms pins you to the bed as you feel the urge to pee.  Grabbing his wrist, you hear him groan.

“Don’t you dare leave me in this bed alone.”  Yahya says sleepily, pulling you in tighter.

You look back at him amused.  “But I have to pee.”

“Again?  Damn.  I’m starting to think you're just trying to run away from me.”

You turn over to look at him, eyes closed with a dramatic frown.  You smack his face playfully.

“Hey.  Runaway bride is before the vows.  It’s too late for me to do that now.” 

He peeks one eye open at you.  “You damn right.  You my woman now, hitched!  Got it?”  

“And you my man, you hear me Yahya Abdul-Mateen II?”   You say, getting up to scurry to the toilet.

“That’s right Mrs. Abdul-Mateen!  Madly in love!  Head over heels...like how I had your heels over your head last night...”

Masterlist

#yahya abdul matten fic #shakafic

[project-ohagi]

Muichiro Tokito x Reader {Kimetsu No Yaiba}

The affliction which had cursed you since birth made it nigh-impossible to find a pure, simple love. If you locked gazes with someone for upwards of three seconds, an instant infatuation would bubble away in the pit of their stomach. This, initially, may have appeared a blessing, but the premise of the attraction was effectively laced in deceit. That thought alone bestowed a terrible discomfort upon you. Your heart yearned for someone who would love you truly, without the shadow of falsehood.

Due to massive insecurities regarding your eyes, a black, leather blindfold adorned your face (under no circumstances did you remove it in public), shielding you from being fawned over by people you couldn't possibly care any less for. So, the inclusion of the young Mist Pillar, Muichiro Tokito, into your narrative, was both extremely thrilling and nerve-wracking! Of course, he had yet to bear witness and potentially fall victim to your tempting, (e/c) eyes, but his ever-oblivious and stoic demeanour ignited a hope within your very core. Maybe, after all this time, after such loneliness and heartache...maybe he was the one!

Your soulmate!

Well, the imagery was certainly glorious to behold, but unfortunately, it consisted solely of day-dreams.

You hadn't engaged in a single, satisfactory conversation, to date. Did he think you were weird, or perhaps insane? After all, your eyes never peeked out from behind that blindfold, and you often endeavoured to talk to the Mist Pillar, with varying degrees of luck. Or...was a suspicion brewing within him? Despite the obvious lack of a demonic aura, everybody understood the Twelve Demon Moons (Muzan's personal henchmen) to carry numbers within their eyes. Your presumed refusal to display your own, striking irises, could, conceivably, be viewed with considerable mistrust. However, Muichiro had proven himself to be incredibly blunt, so...maybe not.

By now, the issues of both love and Muichiro Tokito were deeply intertwined - it soon became absurd to picture one, in the absence of the other. You could distinguish his features by sound, and you concluded him to be the most adorable creature in the entire universe!

"Oh, gods...Mitsuriiii! What should I do? He's just so...so cute!" Said woman stroked your hair affectionately, as you had previously requested help brushing and tying it.

Planting her face into your (h/c) locks and squealing, she replied, "So cute! The cutest! Oh, you should tell him!"

A dark, crimson hue danced on to your cheeks. "Are you crazy?! He'll start avoiding me! Avoiding! I'd rather he kill me!"

"(Y/n), I didn't know you had such a flair for the dramatic!" The Love Pillar cooed, enjoying the situation a little too much.

"I'm not being dramatic! I'm being deadly serious! He won't think I'm anywhere near good enough!" Your menacing glare just about forced her silence.

...For all of a few seconds.

Confessing to the aloof amnesiac had been but a fleeting thought, because of (mainly) his personality (you figured that the inevitable rejection would sting, because you had overheard his monologues to the Swordsmiths, and his displeasure for even the slightest inconvenience had become painfully evident. What if, in his eyes, you were an inconvenience too?), but also...his general lack of emotion served to confuse you. Did he actually comprehend the concept of love? If you presented your feelings, how would he cope? What harsh words would he use, to berate you for yielding to such trivial things? You tried to tell Mitsuri, but the very idea of love, or a possible relationship between yourself and Muichiro, seemed to pierce both her eyes and ears. She pretty much refused to greet your negative atmosphere, instead choosing to ramble on about how adorable of a couple you would make.

...That was a fair assumption.

"Well...I won't push you anymore, but I really think you should tell him about your feelings! Knowing Tokito, he won't understand straight away, but he can think about it!" Mitsuri clapped her hands together, showing you her masterful hair-styling skills.

You grumbled. "...I'll consider it."

Without professing dishonesty, you allowed the thought to fester in the dark recesses of your mind. You were torn - some relentless force was tugging you towards the confession, but rationality advised you against it. Your heart simply couldn't experience more anguish...it couldn't! Mitsuri, despite being the Love Pillar, didn't always offer the best guidance. You couldn't follow her words, and just tell him how you felt! Oh gods, if he had an insight into the mechanisms of your heart, he would notice that the cogs only appeared to turn in his presence, or at the mere mention of his name. If he knew how it thundered violently against your rib-cage, or fluttered with feather-light wings as he spoke...

Ah...but you might never arrest his affections, without first showing him your eyes. You wished for anything but this! Anything! You desired not a relationship built on his attraction to your eyes, but one brimming with an unadulterated love - something based on more than simply your appearance!

Slowly whittling away at your emotions wasn't a toil you would choose voluntarily, but rejection was immanent - of this, you were certain. Perhaps, if you started now, a few weeks down the line, the pain wouldn't encumber you quite as much?...Both your mind and your heart were so conflicted! By letting your feelings, through words, caress the air, you had basically opened Pandora's Box, and it wouldn't be easy to close. Did you even want to close it?...Of course you didn't! But...what if it was the only way to relieve all this stress, all this pain? You were so locked in this pitch-black cavern - a figment of your depressive musings - and you failed to recognise the boy, standing a few feet away, glancing at you with concern-glazed eyes. You weren't...talking to yourself, but something was definitely wrong. He didn't understand, because usually your upbeat character influenced even the trees and the flowers. Sometimes, well...most times, Muichiro found himself crippled by your infectious laughter, and that bright, playful smile...

A...some foreign...thing, rose inside him, and he became curious - not only of this odd feeling, but of what you were veiling from the world. Your eyes had forever been a contentious subject, and the people he questioned either didn't possess that knowledge, or wished to respect your privacy. Now, though...watching you amble around aimlessly, head lowered, an anxious aura surrounding you, all those thoughts washed away.

In seconds, he occupied a place at your side. "What are you doing?"

"H-Huh?!" Despite your heightened senses, you hadn't detected him.

...What hideous daydreams.

"I asked what you were doing. You'll fall, and get hurt if you don't pay attention."

Worry? Muichiro Tokito was worried...about such a simpleton as yourself?

With an audible gulp, you replied, "I-I'm fine, just...there's just something on my mind."

"What is it?"

No, no...were your ears working properly today?

A nervous chuckle escaped your lips. "Eh...n-nothing much...nothing to worry about, at least..."

"You're lying, aren't you? Is it something you can't tell me?"

Oh lord, forget demons - this one, small, but handsome young man...he would be your undoing.

#kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer imagines #demon slayer muichiro #tokito muichiro #muichiro tokito x reader #kny muichiro

[tlbodine]

Twisty Turns and Horror

“Every story ever told can be broken down into three parts. The beginning. The middle. And the twist.”  — Jack Black as RL Stine in Goosebumps

I want to talk about twists. 

Specifically, I want to talk about two primary types of twists in the horror genre, and how and when each can be employed -- and the pitfalls of both. 

But first, a caveat: What do I mean when I say “twist”? 

A plot twist occurs when the audience’s expectations are subverted. 

Based on the existing information in a storyline, a reader or viewer expects a certain outcome. A twist occurs when something unexpected happens instead. But a twist is not a mystery. A mystery presents a question -- who did it? how? what happened? -- and then challenges the audience to figure it out before the characters involved. A good mystery requires you to lay down foreshadowing and set up all of the clues, providing red herrings as necessary to distract the audience, before tying it all up at the end with a neat bow. 

A twist, on the other hand, does not necessarily require such setup and foreshadowing. And, indeed, some of the very best twists in the genre do away with such things entirely. 

So with that out of the way, let’s talk about the two types of horror twists -- what I’ll refer to as The Hitchcock Twist and The Shyamalan Twist. 

By nature of the subject matter, this will be spoiler-heavy, so follow under the cut!

Alfred Hitchcock and M. Night Shyamlan are two directors who made their careers from creating movies with a twist. Although plenty of other horror directors employ the same techniques, the careers of Hitchcock and Shyamalan are defined by twists in a way others are not. 

But -- however much he may try to emulate him with his signature on-screen cameos -- Shyamalan trades in a very different type of twist than Hitchcock. Taken at a plot level, the two approaches to storytelling are actually completely opposite. 

A Shyamalan Twist Occurs at the End, Reinterpreting Everything That Came Before 

Let’s briefly review Shyamalan’s twists to see what they have in common, shall we? 

The most famous -- in The Sixth Sense, we discover at the end that the character played by Bruce Willis has actually been dead the entire time, and that he is just another of the ghosts the little boy can see. 

In The Village, we learn that what appears to be a rural pioneer settlement is in fact a modern commune that’s been lost to history for a couple generations, and the monsters are manufactured as a way to keep the inhabitants in line (and from escaping). 

In Unbreakable, we discover that the story isn’t just the hero origin story for Bruce Willis’s character, but the origin story for the villain Mr. Glass -- who was responsible for the accident that set the hero on his journey in the first place. 

In The Visit, we find out that the kids haven’t been staying with their grandparents at all, but rather with a pair of escaped and murderous mental patients. 

What do all of these have in common? The twist is revealed at the climax of the film, and it acts to completely reinterpret the events that came before it. You’re left leaving the theater to think about everything that came before the twist, and try to find a way to piece it all together. All of your expectations up to the climax have been subverted, and you’re left to do the work of figuring out how to make sense of what you’ve seen (or not, of course - perhaps you leave the theater without ever thinking about it again). 

Done well, this twist can be incredibly powerful because it invites interaction from the audience even after the story is finished. The twist introduces new questions that it doesn’t answer, and conversation can spring up around finding solutions for it -- either within the text itself, or contemplating it in a larger context. Done well, a Shyamalan twist can lead the audience toward introspection and create a haunting effect. 

Done poorly, of course, it can feel cheap, cheesy, unearned, or just downright stupid. That’s the greatest risk of the Shyamalan twist -- it can leave the audience thinking, “Who cares?” 

Of course, Shyamalan didn’t invent this sort of twist -- it’s just what he’s best known for -- and there are tons of other examples out in the wild. Here are a few to consider: 

The Twilight Zone -- When I’ve delivered this talk before (if you can call “rambling about movies to my coworker” a talk), it’s been pointed out that this twist was really codified first by The Twilight Zone, and I should really call it a Serling twist. Well, I’m not doing that for two reasons. One, because Serling never tried to draw a direct parallel between himself and Hitchcock, so Shyamalan is really inviting himself to this discussion. Two, because The Twilight Zone uses the formula a little bit differently. 

First, not every Twilight Zone episode had a twist ending (although the most famous ones did, probably for the reason I mention above -- people like to talk about surprise endings, and they stick in the memory). But more importantly, the twists were the story. The sci-fi/horror shorts were structured like jokes where the twist was the punchline, often crafted to deliver a particular message or parable. Most of the episode existed to set up the twist, with little time spent on extraneous plot and character development. Thus, Twilight Zone stories are more clever than shocking. Still, they are a treasure trove of storytelling to study, and they make for a wonderful compare/contrast with Shyamalan’s films. 

Other notable Shyamalan-style twists: 

Fight Club, where we learn that Tyler Durden is not real, but rather the alter-ego of the seemingly meek and unnamed narrator. 

Memento, where we learn that the film’s core mystery has been solved numerous times, only to be forgotten -- and that the main character is being manipulated every step of the way. 

Orphan, where we learn that the titular orphan with homicidal tendencies is in fact a grown woman with a peculiar form of dwarfism who is manipulating the families who adopt her. (the movie is better than that plot synopsis makes it sound, I promise)

In Hide and Seek, we learn that the little girl’s evil imaginary friend (at times implied to be a ghost) is in fact her father’s alternate personality. 

There are, of course, lots more. There are also some near-misses. For example, despite its bleak “gotcha”, the ending of The Mist -- where the main character mercifully kills his fellow survivors before running out of bullets to use on himself, only to find that help was just around the corner -- doesn’t quite count. It’s a shocking and heart-wrenching twist, but it doesn’t fully redefine the film that came before it. 

Pros to the Shyamalan Twist: 

Gives your audience something to think about long after they walk away, generating discussion and hopefully that haunted “I need a minute” feeling to process the story.

Invites a second watch/read in order to pick up the clues and pieces and see how the story unfolds differently after you know the ending.

Cons to the Shyamalan Twist: 

Can feel cheap or un-earned if the twist makes the events of the film no longer seem to matter (eg, “it was all a dream!”) 

Often ends up relying on ableist mental health tropes (split personality, escaped lunatic, etc etc.), so please do something new with it 

Can completely fall apart if the ending is spoiled ahead of time, making it difficult to succeed in a post-internet environment. 

All in all, the Shyamalan Twist can be a powerful storytelling tool, but it can also fall flat on its face. The thing that will make it succeed is if the other elements of the story, especially the characters, are compelling enough on their own to make the reader want to know more. 

A Hitchcock Twist occurs early in the film and changes the rules of what you’re watching

A primary characteristic of the Hitchcock twist is that it happens early in the story -- about 1/3rd to 1/2 of the of the way through. It sets up a premise, invites you to get invested in the characters and their situation, and then pulls the rug out from under you by dramatically changing the movie into a different type of story altogether. 

For example: 

In Psycho, the first 47 minutes of the 109-minute movie are all about Marion Crane, a woman who steals money from her job and skips town before ending up at a seedy roadside motel. These 47 minutes spend a lot of time building Marion’s character and setting up what could be a crime thriller...until she is abruptly and violently murdered, and the narrative shifts over to the killer. 

In The Birds, a socialite and a lawyer spend almost half the movie developing a relationship, from their meet-cute to the ensuing quasi-romantic stalking, the weekend getaway, meeting the locals, befriending the family, attending a party. It honestly feels like a romance (with a few creepy details) right up until a flock of birds starts attacking party-goers. 

In Vertigo, the main character is a retired police officer turned private investigator who is hired to spy on a man’s wife, only to fall in love with her, a situation made complicated by her apparent madness and/or possession by a dead ancestor. This madness drives her to commit suicide. Except then the movie keeps going, and we discover that everything up to that point (2/3rds of the film) was actually a complex setup to disguise a murder...a revelation that honestly takes a backseat to Scottie’s newfangled, creepy obsession with the not-actually-dead girl of his dreams, which then ends in a new murder. It’s a convoluted story that’s much easier to watch than to explain, but it’s a wild ride from beginning to end. 

What do all of these Hitchcock films have in common? They set up one storyline, spending lots of time developing the characters and progressing the plot, only to take an extremely sharp turn. Some might argue that Hitchcock thrillers are just very slow burn, taking their time to luxuriously build up to a crescendo, but I think it goes deeper than that -- some of these movies abruptly change genre. 

In no instance is this as self-evident as in The Birds. The effect of watching it is akin to what might happen if you made a Lifetime movie and then halfway through the zombie apocalypse just happened to take place. It’s brilliant, and it replicates the feeling of real life horror -- where bad things happen suddenly and unexpectedly to ruin your everyday life -- better than any other storytelling device. 

Hitchcock is the master of this type of plot, but there are other stories that employ a similar technique: 

Gone Girl introduces us to a man whose wife has gone missing, and spends a lot of time building up their relationship history and casting doubt on him, so that we begin to suspect that he’s a murderer...only to learn, quite abruptly, that not only is his wife still alive, but she’s the one who set this whole thing up. It’s masterfully done, and the twist occurs about halfway through, giving us plenty of opportunity to see the marriage turn into a real cat-and-mouse game between two equally awful people. 

You’re Next sets up a pretty standard home invasion premise, but it goes sideways when one of the guests begins to fight back. Brilliantly, this is a twist not just for us but for the people in the film -- it’s a turn of events that ruins the evil scheme, where the whole invasion was a setup and many fewer people were meant to die. 

Hereditary lays down all the foundation for the little girl to be supernaturally creepy, the driver of whatever badness the film has in store...right up to the moment of her death. (The film then double-helixes with a Shyamalan twist ending, just for good measure) 

Million Dollar Baby seems at the outset to be an underdog sports film, right up to the point where it actually becomes a treatise on assisted suicide (among other things). 

Interestingly, the Hitchcock Twist finds a home in dramas as much or perhaps more often than in mainstream horror. The reason for this is probably because the twist demands strong characterization, and that sort of lengthy, nuanced character study isn’t as common in genre fiction. This, by extension, means that genre stories that do successfully deliver this kind of twist are often better received by mainstream critics. 

For example, look at Game of Thrones. Ned Stark’s death is absolutely a Hitchcock Twist. At the outset, an audience has certain expectations for how an epic fantasy is supposed to play out -- and brutally killing the main character and ripping apart his family as a “reward” for acting noble is definitely not it. This subversion of expectations is one of many reasons the story resonates so far beyond the usual bounds of fantasy fandom. 

Pros to the Hitchcock Twist: 

Done well, it can make your story feel more literary and/or transgressive, providing cross-genre appeal for audiences who might not normally see or respect your type of work. 

It keeps the audience on their toes by subverting their most crucial expectations; once you pull the rug out from under them, anything can happen! 

Cons to the Hitchcock Twist: 

It can lose the trust of your audience, who may not want to follow you around the bend and might feel betrayed or confused by the sudden shift in expectations. 

It’s tough to market because there is almost nothing you can say about the story that will appeal to the target audience without also giving away the twist. 

It requires a lot of skill with characterization to make up for the slower pace of the plot. 

If there’s one thing that both Hitchcock and Shyamalan twists have in common -- and one take-away I want you to keep -- it’s that successful twists rely on strong characterization. You absolutely must write good, believable, compelling characters first and foremost, or the audience isn’t going to care what happens to them, no matter how twisty those events may be. 

And one final caveat: You can really only afford a couple of major twists per story. You can double up, offering both a Hitchcock and a Shyamalan twist in a single story (see above re: Hereditary), but it’s extremely tough to pull off and can make your audience confused and even downright angry if you fail. 

What are your favorite movie twists? Reblog and tell me all about them! 

And if you enjoy this content, please consider leaving a tip in my tip jar:  Ko-fi.com/A57355UN

#writing advice #horror #horror movies #how to write horror #m night shyamalan #alfred hitchcock #long post #please reblog this #I spent like 3 hours writing it

[thetokenmuggle]

The Sleep Over PT 1

M Included : Jane, Minah, Sungjae, Tyler , Daniel, Milo, Charlie, Astrid , Minjae. Oli  Mentioned : Tara, Mark, Ella , Suho 

“Daddy, is it one o’clock yet?” Charlotte asked from her seat at the kitchen counter, her coloured pencil tapping against the counter impatiently. “I can’t understand that old clock,” she said pouted glaring at the old grandfather clock in the corner of the kitchen.  M chuckled moving to lean down beside his daughter. 

“Not quite love,” he said. “You see you need both hands of the clock to be on the one,” he explained. “And what is the rush? Are Mummy and I not enough for you anymore?” he asked. 

“Daddy there are no hands-on that clock, what are you talking about?” Charlie said shaking her head. “And yes you are,” she said sound far too tired for a three-year-old. “but mummy and Milo have gone to the shopping and you said i can’t go on the jumping castle until one,” she said pouted waving her pencil at him. “Plus I haven’t seen my friends since Thursday,” she sniffed. M bit back a chuckle, it was only two days but he was sure to Charlie it felt like a lifetime. She couldn’t go to daycare yesterday because she had a bad case of the sniffles. “I don’t even know what happens with Miss Barrett and Mr Jackson!” she exclaimed dramatically. 

“What is happening with Miss Barrett and Mr Jackson?” M asked brows furrowing in confusion. 

“I don’t know,” Charlie huffed. “Astrid said she will tell me, once she did i will tell you,”  Charlie said. M tilted his head actually laughing this time ruffling Charlie’s blonde hair as he stood up causing the three-year-old to huff as she tried to fix her hair. 

“Okay well you tell me as soon Astrid tells you,” M said seriously. Charlie nodded a soft i will coming from her lips. “Now i am about to start making the cupcakes, how many of your friends are coming over again?” he asked her, pretending not to know who was staying over tonight. 

“Well let’s see, there is Oli, Ella and Astrid but no Minjae because he is a baby and according to Astrid, he is no fun all he does is cry -” Charlie listed innocently. M frowned as he grabbed the baking trays, he didn’t know Astrid was having trouble adjusting to being a big sister, from what he could recall Astrid was always so excited about Minjae, in fact, he remembered her running excitedly to tell him all about her new baby brother. “And then there is Milo and me,” Charlie continued pointing to herself. “So i think you should make elf-even,” she said holding up ten fingers..

“Eleven,” M corrected her, “And i think i might just make twelve in case,” he said looking over at his daughter who nodded in agreement, happy with what he said. Her attention fully turned back to her colouring. M smiled softly giving her once last glance before beginning his search for ingredients.

“It looks like someone has been busy,” Jane said appearing out of nowhere with Milo and several shopping bags in tow. M was lucky he wasn’t covered in cake batter because he’d be lying if he said he didn’t jump at her presence. Taking a deep breath, he slid the cupcakes into the oven. Standing up and stretching his back out, glaring playfully at his wife who was grinning cheekily at him. She knew he wasn’t the biggest fan of that apparition thing that all the wizards in his life tended to do. Honestly how hard was it to just walk through the front door? 

“Don’t give me that look,” Jane pouted. “It’s almost one,” she as she walked over to the counter placing the shopping bags down. “And how are my babies?” she asked leaning down and kissing the top of Charlotte’s head. Milo who was following behind her scoffed muttering they had no babies in the house. 

“I’ve been colouring,” Charlie exclaimed holding up her picture. “Lookie,” she said. “Here is Milo,” she pointed to a blue scribble, “Maman,” she said pointing to a yellow scribble, “Daddy,” she said pointing to a green scribble “And then me,” she said pointing to a pink scribble. 

“It’s beautiful,” Jane said with a soft smile. “We have an artist in our mist love,” she said to M. “It’s so good i am just going to stick it on the fridge,” she said taking the paper off Charlie and sticking on the fridge right next to Milo’s picture of a puppy. 

“Our fridge is going to become the next Lourve soon everyone will want to come and see the great art off Milo and Charlie,” M proclaimed dramatically. “How much do you think we should charge them?” he asked looking at Jane who hummed. 

“Art like this is priceless M, how could you even think of charging people to see such culture?” she joked. 

“Mum, Dad, you are being weird again,” Milo said seriously. M and Jane both looked at him scandalized. He was saved from being questioned about how they were weird by the doorbell ringing.

“They are here,” Charlie yelled happily jumping off her chair and racing towards the front door, Milo followed after her excited yells could be heard. 

“So this is going to be our life for the next few hours,” Jane said patting M on the back. “Think we can survive?” 

“Course we can,” M said. “You and me together, it’s an unbeatable combination,” he said wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her in.

“Uncle Sungjae!!! Aunty Minah!!” They heard both of their children call out excitedly. 

Pressing a soft kiss to Jane’s forehead. “Think we should go save them?” he whispered. Jane hummed pretending to think about it before muttering a suppose so. M laughed grabbing her hand as they began to walk out to the hallway finding Sungjae, Minah and baby Minjae effectively rounded up by three toddlers. Milo and Charlie were busy telling them about their weeks and anything else that pops up in their little minds. Astrid stood to the side looking less than impressed. 

From beside Jane let out of high pitch squeal before racing forward. “Is that my little cutie?” she cooed as soon she got in front of Minah. M noticed Astrid scoffing rolling her eyes, M’s nose scrunched noting that he should have a conversation with his goddaughter later today. “You come say hi to Aunty Jane,” she said taking Minjae off a slightly pouting Minah. “Come in, come in,” Jane said as Minah, Sungjae and Astrid moved inside. 

“Come on Astrid, we have a jumping castle,” Charlie said excitedly, linking arms with her friend and dragging her towards the backyard. Milo following them after them singing out about how he can jump higher than both of them.

“A jumping castle?” Sungjae asked, eyebrow cocking up in amusement as he looked over at M. “It’s going a little far don’t you think?” he said teasingly. “And it looks like i won’t be going anywhere for a little since your wife has hijacked my son,” he said nodding to their living area where Minah and Jane were both cooing over Minjae.

“Yes and what of it?” M said with a shrug. “And should you be talking considering you created an entire toyline for your daughter’s first sleepover,” M pointed out as Sungjae’s nose scrunched up. “And yeah might as well get comfortable because it’s going to be a while,” M said watching as Jane and Minah made themselves comfortable in the living room. “Is that Astrid’s things?”  M said gesturing towards the Chanel backpack in Sungjae’s hand. 

“Oh yeah,” Sungjae said seemingly forgetting that he was even holding it. “She packed it herself she is very proud,” Sungjae said. It sounded like someone else was pretty proud of her to. “Also i am not meant to tell you but she might have snuck a few snacks in there but that is only in case Uncle M and Aunty Jane try to make her eat apples or any apple-based dish,” Sungjae chuckled. 

“You dibber dobber,” M joked. “And thanks for the warning, Jane doesn’t want them to have to much sugar before bedtime- “ M said. He could only imagine what it would be like to try and put 5 kids hyped up on sugar to bed. Nope he would not be subjecting himself to that. “Here,” he said reaching for the bag.”I’ll take that up to Charlie’s room, You can go stop my wife from inviting Minah and Minjae to stay the night,” M said watching the way his friends contorted in a look of disgust. 

“Astrid would probably wipe Aunty Jane completely if she did that,” Sungjae said as he handed M her backpack. M frowned about to ask Sungjae about how Astrid was really doing with becoming a big sister when there was a loud knocking on the door. 

“I better go -” M started to say, he knew Jane wouldn't really want to leave Minjae, anytime after she had seen the little boy she had come home pouting whining about M’s best friend was so mean and didn’t let her have any one on one time with Minjae (the few times M had been there it was more Minah who wouldn't let go of her son) but was interrupted by the over timer ringing out loudly. “Crap,” M said. 

“New plan you answer the door and i get the cakes out of the oven?” Sungjae suggested as M nodded muttering a quick thank you as he raced to the door only to almost crash into his wife. 

“What’s the rush?” Jane chuckled, eyebrow cocked up in amusement. “And nice bag,”  she teased pointing to Astrid’s backpack that was hanging off his shoulder.

“I just figured you’d want to spend some time with Minah and Minjae before the rest of the kids show up,” M muttered looking down sheepishly. 

“You are so cute,” Jane said wrapping her arms around M neck and pulling him down for a kiss. 

“Yes M is very cute, open the door,” A deep voice called out behind the door, ruining the moment entirely. Jane rolled her eyes muttering of course it’s them. M sighed giving her a sympathetic smile as he moved to open the door. 

“Hello Mr M and Mrs M,” Oliver greeted Jane and himself. “Oli made you these to say thank you for letting Oli stay tonight,” he said handing M a container of what looked like choc chip cookies. Jane moved coming to stand beside M, smiling down at the young boy before looking up and narrowing her eyes at his father’s. 

“Why thank you Oli,” M said with a small smile handing the cookies to Jane. “You didn’t have to back us cookies though we are happy to have you here,” M said the younger boy who beamed. “Milo, Charlie and Astrid are in the backyard playing on the jumping castle,” M said, smirking as the younger boy's face lit up and he began to vibrate on the spot. 

“Daddy? Appa?” Oli said, turning to his fathers looking for permission. “Can Oli go on the jumping castle too?” he asked before pouting. “Oli means can Oli go on the jumping castle too pleabes?” he asked sweetly. Jane leaned her head on M’s shoulder a soft aww escaping her lips. Daniel nodded as Oli grinned, “Where is the backyard?” Oli asked.

“How about i show you,” Jane offered, crouching down so she was on eye level with Oli who eyes darted back to his father’s unsure. Tyler nudged Oli forward a little giving him an encouraging smile. “You can tell me about how you made these yummy looking cookies,” she said holding her hand out. Oli nodded reluctantly, slipping his hand into Jane’s. 

Silence fell over the three men as the watched Jane and Oli walk down the hallway.  “If you both have time you are more than welcome to come in for a bit,” M offered Daniel and Tyler, “Minah, Sungjae and Minjae are here though -” he said trying not to laugh at the way Daniel’s face soured. 

“Oh we are bu-” Daniel started to say but was cut off by his husband 

“I suppose we can stay until Ella and Tara show up,” he said as Daniel glared at him. “Plus we need to explain some base rules when it comes to Oliver,”he said stepping into the house. M nodded, so far Oli had only gone to sleepovers at Mark and Tara’s so this was a big step. He was proud, he knew he shouldn't be but it was nice that Tyler and Daniel trusted Jane and himself to look after their son. 

“We got your list,” M said, a few days that had got an email with a very detailed list of rules when it comes to Oli. “But that is fine,” he said. He knew how nervous he was the first time Milo stayed over at a friends house. “Is that Oli’s bag?” he asked gesturing to a rather large Gucci backpack with an adorable dragon key chain. “I was just going to take the kids bags up to their rooms so if you want i can take it off you,” he said to Tyler who raised an eyebrow before grinning and handing it to M.

M’s eyes widened as he felt the weight of the backpack, seriously did those two pack their entire house in this bag. He looked over to see Tyler smirking at him as he stepped into the house. 

“We weren’t sure what you had here so we covered all bases,” Daniel explained as he followed his husband into M’s home. M took a deep breathe as lugged the bag in, at least he was getting his arm workout in for the day. “Minah is in the living room and the last time i saw Sungjae he was in the kitchen,” M told the pair. “I’ll be right back,” he said to them as he moved towards the stairs. “Make yourself at home,” he said.

He didn’t stay too listen but the two started bickering among themselves, about what M didn’t know and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to know. 

---

When M came downstairs he didn’t expect to find Astrid sitting at the counter, head in hands, eyes glued to the freshly baked cupcakes. “You aren’t planning on eating them all?” he asked as Astrid jumped up swirling around to glare at M. 

“No,” Astrid huffed. “And you shouldn’t sneak up on people Uncle M,” she said, shaking her head disappointedly. . 

“You’re right,” M agreed, coming to sit on the stool next to her. “So,” he said, nudging her lightly. “What are we doing?” he asked, stretching his arms out in front of him.  Astrid let out a huff in annoyance. 

“Okay you don’t want to talk about it,” M said softly. “Have you seen Oli yet?” he asked, changing the subject. “His dad’s dropped him off just before,” he said. 

“I did,” Astrid nods,”We played for a little bit but -” she sighed. “Uncle M, i think i am having a midwife christmas,” Astrid said shaking her head. M bit the inside of his cheek to stop him laughing, it was clear that his goddaughter was going through something but there was something inherently hilarious about a three-year-old claiming they were having a mid-life crisis. 

“Midlife crisis sweetie,” M corrected. “And why do you feel like that? Has something happened?” he asked, Astrid frowned sucking in a deep breath. M eyed her carefully reaching over to rub soothing circles on her back. “It’s okay,” he said softly.

“Minjae happened,” Astrid huffed. “I thought having a little brother would be fun,” she pouted. “But he never plays with me, all he does is cry and eat and he is all smelly,” she ranted. “Maybe if he was a little sister it would be better -” she says. “Charlie is Milo’s little sister and she is awesome,”  she pouted.

“Wanna know a secret?” M said, grinning as Astrid nodded enthusiastically. Astrid was a great lover of secrets but a terrible keeper of secrets. “Don’t tell anyone but everyone used to a smelly baby who eats and cries all the time,” M whispered. Astrid’s face morphed into an all too familiar frown. “Even you,” M said.

“No,” Astrid huffed. “I was not,” she said strictly.

“Yes you were i even have proof,” M said as Astrid brows furrowed and eyes narrowed as she glared at me. “Once upon a time, a long long time ago, about three - almost four years, a wise king named M and his beautiful queen Jane were at home in their castle playing with a baby prince Milo waiting for princess Charlotte to arrive when there was a loud knock at the door,”  he said dramatically. “It was lord Sungjae and his wife with their new baby daughter lady Astrid,” he said.

“No i should be the princess, why are you the king my daddy should be the king,” Astrid ranted.

“My house, My story - I’m king, “ M said childishly sticking his tongue out at Astrid. “Anyway lady Astrid was adorable, not as adorable as Prince Milo of course,” he said making Astrid poke him. “But very very cute,” he added. “But no matter how cute she was, she was still a baby so she hadn’t learned to do all the cool stuff,” he said sounding disappointed.  “But as time went on Lady Astrid grew into the amazing little lady sitting next to me,” he said.

“Uncle M , don’t take this wrong but that was a terrible story,” Astrid said rolling her eyes. 

“How else could i take that?” M asked with a laugh. “The point is look at how great you turned out with no helping now think about it if you help Minjae out when he grows up how cool he will be,” he said. 

Astrid turned, fingers tapping against the counter as she hummed. “So you are saying i should train Minjae?” Astrid said. M opened his mouth to tell her that wasn’t what he meant. “I suppose i can do that, he is cute sometimes -” she said more to herself. “And if i have Minjae on my side i will be unbeatable. He can handle Mummy while I deal with Daddy,” she said. 

M tilted his head this conversation didn’t go exactly the way he had planned but you know what he was going to count this as a win. “Sure as long as you don’t use your power against your favourite uncle,” he said pointing to himself. 

“Well my favourite Uncle would let me have a cupcake now,” Astrid said spinning back around. “Uncle Woo would and Uncle Suho would bring me a whole bakery,” she said in a sing-song voice.

“That’s because your Uncle doesn’t know how to cook,” M said with an eye roll. “Plus i am the king of this house so i declare that i am your favourite uncle,” he said huffing proudly ignoring Astrid’s that isn’t how it works Uncle M. “Now where does Lady Astrid want to go? Back to Prince Milo and Princess Charlie’s jumping castle?” M asked standing up and holding his hand out. 

“Hmm i will but first i am going to say bye to Minjae and get Mummy and Daddy out of here before the embarrass me in front of Oli and his dad’s.” Astrid said with all the nuisance a three year old could muster. M chuckled, Sungjae and Minah were going to have fun with her when she grows up. 

#story

[otonymous]

loving your yukimura headcanons! what about a ikesen yukimura with a mc who has depression or anxiety?

Hi lovely Anon!  Thank you so very much for your patience!  This is a great ask, and it took me a while to write it because I really wanted to do it justice.  That being said, I hope you enjoy it. 😊

Given the subject matter, it’s a bit of a heavier read, so to everyone who comes across this post, please heed the warnings mentioned below.

Warnings:  Slight spoilers for Yukimura’s route.  MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING for depression, anxiety and PTSD.

Ikesen HC: Yukimura Dealing With MC Who Has Depression/Anxiety

Yukimura may not initially strike you as a sensitive guy, given his tsun-like tendencies, but when it comes to depression/anxiety, the guy can relate

As is likely with anyone who has had to fight in those turbulent times, Yukimura probably has some combination of PTSD, depression and anxiety

Furthermore, he was violently uprooted from his home to which he desperately wishes to return

So he doesn’t have much of a social support system aside from Shingen, who serves as a father figure and family member in lieu of the ones he’s lost

He bonded exceedingly well with Sasuke not only because the two are relatively close in age, but also because Yukimura could sense a kindred spirit in the bespectacled ninja, who too was dramatically uprooted from his own world when he travelled back in time (plus, it can’t be easy dealing with a boss like Kenshin)

Yukimura can be said to have high-functioning depression at times: he’s learned to compartmentalize his life, suppressing his feelings on the battlefield or for whenever duty he’s called to perform in order to effectively achieve his goals

However, once the conflict was over or his goal reached, he would retreat to the privacy of his own chambers before breaking down completely.  He didn’t want anyone to see him in his depressed state and increasingly isolated himself as a result.

Before Sasuke came along, Shingen was the sole person responsible for drawing Yukimura out by providing support as gently and sensitively as possible

Yukimura still struggles occasionally, although his depressive episodes are typically shorter and much less severe since MC came into his life

Hence, Yukimura can recognize the signs when MC starts to slip into a depressive episode herself, having an inherent understanding of what it’s like to be in her shoes

He already suspected something was up when she didn’t seem to be as excited about the new arrivals in Kasugayama castle town’s finest fabric shop; she feigned polite interest and quickly moved on whereas typically, she’d spend hours fawning over the patterns and colours of endless bolts and samples  

With each passing day, she worked less and less on the kimono she had been so excited to start weeks ago.  Yukimura noticed she often seemed to be staring off into space, brows slightly furrowed, with her work clutched tightly in fisted hands that shook from time to time

When asked what was wrong, MC would shake her head as she put her work aside, saying she was just tired and needed to be excused so she could take a nap.  And as she left the room, she flashed Yukimura an apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, trying to ease his concern

Yukimura also noticed that she didn’t seem to have much of an appetite either.  When the others pointed this out, she just smiled wanly, either saying that she ruined her own appetite with manju/dango/some other snack prior to the meal, or that her stomach was unsettled  

One evening, he wakes up in the middle of the night to find himself alone in their shared futon for the third night in a row.  MC had been tossing and turning all of last week, seemingly hit with a bout of insomnia that even the magic warmth of his body couldn’t cure

Then, Yukimura’s suspicions are confirmed when he finds her sitting by herself on the veranda, tears streaming down her face as she stared up at the waning moon with empty eyes

Yukimura gets up and gently lays his haori over her shoulders before he sits next to her, looking up at the same moon and waiting for her to speak first, if she is so inclined  

He will be patient.  Doesn’t press her with questions.  He figures MC will talk when she’s ready.  And when she is, you can bet he’ll be there to listen (he’s actually a great listener)

Yukimura knows he isn’t good with words and has difficulty finding the right things to say sometimes, so he writes MC a letter instead

In his carefully crafted letter, he tells MC that he knows something is off, but he is willing to wait for the time to come when she is ready and willing to talk, if that ever happens.  He, too, knows what it’s like to have that grey mist seep insidiously into one’s life, how debilitating the worries that race a million miles a minute through the mind can be, and how difficult it is to extricate oneself from that situation.  He was lucky to have the help of Shingen, who never gave up on him even though he had long given up on himself, and slowly but surely, Yukimura saw the sun rise again in his life.  If possible, Yuki would be honoured to be that person for MC.  He will tell her in no uncertain terms that she is the most important person in his life, and that she is so, so loved, regardless of whether she is happy or sad.  She doesn’t need to change a thing about herself, doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, to deserve the love that everyone feels towards her.  And of his love and protection, MC can be certain that it is as steadfast as his spear on the battlefield, immutable as stone

This man will make sure he’s there for MC for anything she needs in a way that’s not pushy or overbearing — just a constant source of support.  He holds her when she needs it, softly strokes her hair to calm her down when she’s feeling overwhelmed, gives her time and space without her needing to ask, tries to ensure her physical needs are being met as best as possible (e.g. that MC is getting sufficient rest, eating properly, helping her with basic hygiene, etc.)

And on the day that he finally sees her genuine smile again, the light blooming in his chest is the absolute best feeling in the world

Thanks for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 🥰📚

#ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikesen headcanon #ikesen yukimura #sanada yukimura #my writing #q&a #all request line #trigger warning

[gottaread13]

13

ELEVEN

WAITING ON DOC’S DOORSILL AT WORK WAS A POSTCARD FROM some island he had never heard of out in the Pacific Ocean, with a lot of vowels in it’s name. The cancellation was in French and initialed by a local postmaster, along with the notation courier par lance-coco which as close as he could figure from the Petit Larousse must mean some kind of catapult mail delivery involving coconut shells, maybe as a way of dealing with an unapproachable reef. The message on the card was unsigned, but he knew it was from Shasta. “I wish you could see these waves. Its one more of these places a voice from somewhere else tells you you have to be. Remember that day with the Ouija board? I miss those days and I miss you. I wish so many things could be different… Nothing was supposed to happen this way, Doc, I’m so sorry.” Maybe she was, then again, maybe not. But what about this Ouija board? Doc went stumbling through his city dump of a memory. Oh …oh, sure, dimly… it had been during one  of those prolonged times of no dope, nobody had any, everybody was desperate and suffering lapses of judgment. People were opening up cold capsules and laboriously sorting the thousands of tiny beads inside by color, in the belief that each color stood for a different belladonna alkaloid, which taken in big enough doses would get them loaded. They were snorting nutmeg, drinking cocktails of Visine and inexpensive wine, eating packets of morning-glory seeds despite rumors that the seed companies were coating them with some chemical that would make you throw up. Anything. One day when Doc and Shasta were over at Sortilege’s house, she mentioned this Ouija board she had. Doc had a brainflash. “Hey! You think it knows where we can score?” Sortilege raised her eyebrows and shrugged, but waved a go- ahead hand at the board. The usual suspicions then arose, like how could you be sure the other person wasn’t deliberately moving the planchette to make it look like some message from beyond, and so on. “Easy as pie,” Sortilege said, “just do it all by yourself.” Following her instructions, Doc breathed himself deeply and carefully into a receptive state, letting the tips of his fingers rest as lightly as possible on the planchette. “Now, make your request, and see what happens.” “Groovy,” said Doc. “Hey—where can I find some dope, man? a-and, you know, good shit?” The planchette took off like a jackrabbit, spelling out almost faster than Shasta could copy an address down Sunset somewhat east of Vermont, and even throwing in a phone number, which Doc promptly dialed. “Howdy, dopers,” cooed a female voice, “we’ve got whatever you need, and remember—the sooner you get over here, the more there’ll be left for you.” “Yeah like whom I talking to? Hello? Hey!” Doc looked at the receiver, puzzled. “She just hung up.” “Could’ve been a recording,” said Sortilege. “Did you hear what she was screaming at you? ‘Stay away! I am a police trap!’” “You want to come along, keep us out of trouble?” She looked doubtful. “I have to advise you at this point that it might not be anything. See, the problem about Ouija boards—” But Doc and Shasta were already out the door and soon rattling up the chuckholed obstacle course known as Rosecrans Boulevard under a cloudless sky, in the sort of perfect daylight you always saw on TV cop shows, unshaded even by the eucalyptus trees that had recently all been chopped down. KHJ was playing a Tommy James & the Shondells marathon. Commercial-free in fact. What could be more auspicious? Even before they reached the airport, something about the light had begun to go weird. The sun vanished behind clouds which grew thicker by the minute. Up in the hills among the oil pumps, the first raindrops began to fall, and by the time Doc and Shasta got to La Brea they were in the middle of a sustained cloudburst. This was way too unnatural. Ahead, someplace over Pasadena, black clouds had gathered, not just dark gray but midnight black, tar-pit black, hitherto- unreported-circle-of-Hell black. Lightning bolts had begun to descend across the L.A. Basin singly and in groups, followed by deep, apocalyptic peals of thunder. Everybody had turned their headlights on, though it was midday. Water came rushing down the hillsides of Hollywood, sweeping mud, trees, bushes, and many of the lighter types of vehicle on down into the flatlands. After hours of detouring for landslides and traffic jams and accidents, Doc and Shasta finally located the mystically revealed dope dealers address, which turned out to be an empty lot with a gigantic excavation in it, between a laundromat and an Orange Julius-plus-car wash, all of them closed. In the thick mist and lashing rain, you couldn’t even see to the other side of the hole. “Hey. I thought there was supposed to be a lot of dope around here.” What Sortilege had tried to point out about Ouija boards, as Doc learned later back at the beach, while wringing out his socks and looking for a hair dryer, was that concentrated around us are always mischievous spirit forces, just past the threshold of human perception, occupying both worlds, and that these critters enjoy nothing better than to mess with those of us still attached to the thick and sorrowful catalogs of human desire. “Sure!” was their attitude, “you want dope? Here’s your dope, you fucking idiot.” Doc and Shasta sat parked by the edge of the empty swamped rectangle and watched it’s edges now and then slide in, and then after a while things rotated ninety degrees, and it began to look, to Doc at least, like a doorway, a great wet temple entrance, into someplace else. The rain beat down on the car roof, lightning and thunder from time to time interrupting thoughts of the old namesake river that had once run through this town, long canalized and tapped dry, and crippled into a public and anonymous confession of the deadly sin of greed…. He imagined it filling again, up to it’s concrete rim, and then over, all the water that had not been allowed to flow here for all these years now in unrelenting return, soon beginning to occupy the arroyos and cover the flats, all the swimming pools in the backyards filling up and overflowing and flooding the lots and streets, all this karmic waterscape connecting together, as the rain went on falling and the land vanished, into a sizable inland sea that would presently become an extension of the Pacific. It was funny that of all things to mention in the limited space of a coconut-launched postcard Shasta should have picked that day in the rain. It had stuck with Doc somehow too, even though it came at a point late in their time together, when she was already halfway out the door and Doc saw it happening but was letting it happen, and despite it there they were, presently making out frantically, like kids at the drive-in, steaming up the windows and getting the seat covers wet. Forgetting for a few minutes how it was all going to develop anyway. Back at the beach, the rain continued, and every day up in the hills, another fragment of real estate came sliding down. Insurance salesmen had Brylcreem running down into their collars, and stewardii found it impossible even with half- gallon cans of hair spray purchased in duty-free zones far away to maintain their hairdos in anything close to a stylish flip. The termitic houses of Gordita Beach had all turned to the consistency of wet sponge, emergency plumbers reached in to squeeze the beams and joists, thinking of their own winter homes in Palm Springs. People began to go crazy even while on the natch. Some enthusiast, claiming to be George Harrison of the Beatles, tried to hijack the Goodyear Blimp, moored at it’s winter quarters at the intersection of the Harbor and San Diego Freeways, and make it fly him to Aspen, Colorado, in the rain. The rain had a peculiar effect on Sortilege, who was just around then beginning to get obsessed by Lemuria and it’s tragic final days. “You were there in a former life,” Doc theorized. “I dream about it, Doc. I wake up so sure sometimes. Spike feels that way, too. Maybe it’s all this rain, but we’re starting to have the same dreams. We can’t find a way  to return to Lemuria, so it’s returning to us. Rising up out of the ocean—‘hi Leej, hi Spike, long time ain’t it…’” “It talked to you guys?” “I don’t know. It isn’t just a place.”

DOC TURNED OVER Shasta’s postcard now and stared at the picture on the front. It was a photo taken underwater of the ruins of some ancient city—broken columns and arches and collapsed retaining walls. The water was supernaturally clear and seemed to emit a vivid blue-green light. Fish, what Doc guessed you’d call tropical, were swimming back and forth. It all seemed familiar. He looked for a photo credit, a copyright date, a place of origin. Blank. He rolled a joint and lit up and considered. This had to be a message from someplace besides a Pacific island whose name he couldn’t pronounce. He decided to go back and visit the Ouija-board address, which, being the site of a classic dope misadventure, had remained permanently entered in his memory. Denis came along for muscle. The hole in the ground was gone, and in it’s place rose a strangely futuristic building. From the front it might have been taken at first for some kind of religious structure, smoothly narrow and conical, like a church spire only different. Whoever put it up must have had a pretty comfortable budget to work with, too, because the whole outside had been covered in gold leaf. Then Doc noticed how this tall pointed shape was also curved away from the street. He went down the block a little way and looked back to get a side view, and when he saw how dramatic the curve was and how sharp the point at the top, he finally tumbled. Aha! In the old L.A. tradition of architectural whimsy, this structure was supposed to be a six- story-high golden fang. “Denis, I’m gonna look around for a while, you want to wait in the car or come in and cover my back or something?” “I was gonna go try and find a pizza,” Denis said. Doc handed him the car keys. “And… they did have driver ed at Leuzinger High.” bure. “And you remember this is a stick, not automatic and so forth.” “I’m cool, Doc.” And Denis sped off.

THE FRONT DOOR was nearly invisible, more of a big  access panel that fit snugly into the curving façade. In the lobby beneath a tasteful sign in sans-serif face reading GOLDEN FANG ENTERPRISES, INC. \ CORPORATE HQ and behind a nameplate of her own that said “Xandra, hi!” sat an Asian receptionist wearing a black vinyl jumpsuit and a distant expression, who asked him in a semi-Brit accent whether he was sure he had the right place. “This is the address they told me at the Club Asiatique in San Pedro? Just here to pick up a package for the management?” Xandra reached for a telephone, punched a button, murmured into it, listened, gave Doc another doubtful once- over, stood, and led him across the reception area to a brushed- metallic door. It took only a step or two for him to dig that she’d logged more dojo hours in the year previous than he’d spent in front of the tube in his whole life—not the sort of young lady whose displeasure you’d go looking to provoke. “Second office on the left. Dr. Blatnoyd will see you in a moment.” Doc found the office and looked around for something to check out his hair in but saw only a small yellow-framed feng shui mirror by the door. The face looking back did not seem to be his own. “This is not promising,” he muttered. Behind a titanium desk, the window revealed a stretch of lower Sunset—taquerías, low-rent hotels, pawn shops. There were beanbag chairs and a range of magazines—Foreign  Affairs,  Sinsemilla Tips, Modern Psychopath, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists— that gave Doc no handle on the clientele here. He started paging through 2000 Hairdos and was just getting into “That Five-Point Scissor Cut—What Your Stylist Isn’t Telling You,” when Dr. Blatnoyd came in wearing a suit in a deep, nearly ultraviolet shade of velvet, with very wide jacket lapels and bell-bottom trousers and accented with a raspberry-colored bow tie and display handkerchief. He seated himself behind the desk, reached for a weighty loose-leaf manual of some kind and began consulting it, squinting over at Doc from time to time. Finally, “So…you have some ID, I imagine.” Doc went looking through his wallet till he found a business card from a Chinese head shop on North Spring Street he thought would do the trick. “I can’t read this, it’s in some … Oriental… what is this, Chinese?” “Well, I figured that you, being Chinese—” “What? what are you talking about?”  “‘The … the Golden Fang …’?” “It’s a syndicate, most of us happen to be dentists, we set it up years ago for tax purposes, all legit— Wait,” peering at Doc you’d have to say diagnostically, “where’d you tell Xandra you were from again?” “Uh…” “Why, you’re another one of those hippie dopefiends, aren’t you. My goodness. Here for a little perking up, I’ll bet—” In a jiffy he was out with a tall cylinder of brown glass sealed elaborately with globs of some bright red plastic—“Dig it! just in from Darmstadt, lab quality, maybe I’ll even have some with you...” And before Doc knew it the hectic D.D.S. had a quantity of fluffy white cocaine crystals all chopped up into snortable format and arranged in lines on a nearby copy of Guns &Ammo. Doc shrugged in apology. “I try not to do dope I can’t pay for, ‘s what it is.” “Whoo!” Dr. Blatnoyd had a soda straw and was busy snorting away. “No worries, it’s on the house, as the TV antenna man always sez…Hmm, missed a little...” He took it on his finger and rubbed it enthusiastically into his gums. Doc did half a line in either nostril, just to be sociable, but somehow could not shake the impression that all was not as innocent here as it looked. He had been in a dentist’s office or two, and there was a distinctive smell and a set of vibes that were as absent here as room echoes, which he’d also been wondering about. Like something else was going on— something… not groovy. There was a quiet but no-nonsense knock at the door, and Xandra the receptionist looked in. She had unzipped the top of the jumpsuit, and Doc could now make out this exquisite pair of no-bra tits, their nipples noticeably erect. “Oh, Doctor,” she breathed, half singing it. “Yes, Xandra,” replied Dr. Blatnoyd, moist-nosed and beaming. Xandra nodded and slid away back on out the door again, smiling over her shoulder. “And don’t forget to bring that bottle” “Be right back,” Blatnoyd assured Doc, speeding out after her, eyes frenziedly focused on where her ass had just been, his echoless footsteps soon vanishing into unknown regions of the Golden Fang Building. Doc went over and had a look at the manual on the desk. Titled Golden Fang Procedures Handbook, it was open to a chapter titled “Interpersonal Situations.” “Section Eight— Hippies. Dealing with the Hippie is generally straightforward. His childlike nature will usually respond positively to drugs, sex, and/or rock and roll, although in which order these are to be deployed must depend on conditions specific to the moment.” From the doorway came a loud, violent chirp. Doc looked up and saw a smiling young woman, blond, Californian, presentable, wearing a striped minidress of many different “psychedelic” colors and waving at him vigorously, causing enormous earrings, shaped like pagodas of some kind, to swing back and forth and actually jingle. “Here for my Smile Maintenance appointment with Dr. Rudy!” A blast from the past. “Hey! that’s at Japonica, ain’t it. Japonica Fenway! Imagine meeting you here!” This was not a moment he’d been either dreading or hoping for, though now and then somebody would remind him of the ancient American Indian belief that if you save somebody’s life, you are responsible for them from then on, forever, and he would wonder if any of that applied to his history with Japonica. It had been his first paying gig as a licensed private eye, and pay it did, for sure. The Fenways were heavy-duty South Bay money, living on the Palos Verdes Peninsula in a gated enclave located inside the already gated high-rent community of Rolling Hills. “How am I supposed to come see you,” Doc wondered when Crocker Fenway, Japonica’s dad, called him at the office. “Guess it’ll have to be outside the gates and down in the flats,” said Crocker, “like Lomita?” It was a pretty open-and-shut runaway-daughter case, hardly worth daily scale, let alone the extravagant bonus Crocker insisted on paying when Doc finally brought Japonica back, one lens missing from her wire-rim shades and vomit in her hair, making the handoff in the same parking lot where he and Crocker had met originally. It wasn’t clear if she’d ever clearly registered Doc then, or remembered him now. “So! Japonica! what’ve you been up to?” “Oh, escaping, mostly? There’s this, like, place? that my parents keep sending me to?” Which turned out to be Chryskylodon, the same nut plantation in Ojai that Doc remembered his Aunt Reet mentioning and which Sloane and Mickey had donated a wing to. Though Doc once may have rescued Japonica from a life of dark and unspecified hippie horror, apparently restoration to the bosom of her family had been enough to really drive her around the bend. Against the neutral surface of the wall opposite, Doc had a moment’s visual of an American Indian in full Indian gear, perhaps one of those warriors who wipe out Henry Fonda’s regiment in Fort Apache (1948), approaching with a menacing frown. “Doc responsible for crazy white chick now. What Doc planning to do about that? If anything.” “Excuse me, short man with strange hair? Are you all right?” And on she went without waiting for an answer, twinkling like a roomful of speed freaks hanging Christmas tinsel, about her different escapes. It was beginning to give Doc a headache. Owing to Governor Reagan’s shutdown of most of the state mental facilities, the private sector had been trying in it’s way to pick up some of the slack, soon in fact becoming a standard California child-rearing resource. The Fenways had had Japonica in and out of Chryskylodon on a sort of maintenance-contract basis, depending as always on how they themselves were feeling day to day, for both led emotional lives of unusually high density, and often incoherence. “Some days all I had to do was play the wrong kind of music, and there’s my bags already packed, down in the front hall waiting for the driver.” Soon Chryskylodon had found itself attracting a type of silent benefactor—middle-aged, male, though occasionally female, more focused than usual on the young and mentally disturbed. Freaky chicks and fun-loving dopers! Why do they call it the Love Generation? Come on up to Chryskylodon for a rockin weekend and find out! Absolute discretion guaranteed! Circa 1970, “adult” was no longer quite being defined as in times previous. Among those who could afford to, a strenuous mass denial of the passage of time itself was under way. All across a city long devoted to illusory product, clairvoyant Japonica had seen them, these travelers invisible to others, poised, gazing from smogswept mesa-tops above the boulevards, acknowledging one another across miles and years, summit to summit, in the dusk, under an obscurely enforced silence. Wingfeathers trembled along their naked backs. They knew they could fly. A moment more, an eyeblink in eternity, and they would ascend… So, Dr. Rudy Blatnoyd, out on a first blind date with Japonica at the Sound Mind Caff, a secluded eatery with a patio in back and a menu designed by a resident three-star organic chef, was not only enchanted, he was wondering if somebody hadn’t slipped some new psychedelic into his pomegranate martini. This girl was delightful! Being a little ESP-deficient, of course Rudy failed to appreciate that behind her wide sparkling gaze Japonica was not only thinking about but at this point actually visiting other worlds. The Japonica sitting with the older man in the funny velour suit was actually a Cybernetic Organism, or cyborg, programmed to eat and drink, converse and socialize, while Real Japonica tended to important business elsewhere, because she was the Kozmic Traveler, deep issues Out There awaited, galaxies wheeled, empires collapsed, karma would not be denied, and Real Japonica must always be present at some exact point in five- dimensional space, or chaos would resume it’s dominion. She returned to the Sound Mind to find that Cyborg Japonica had somehow malfunctioned and gone skipping into the kitchen and done something gross to the Soup of the Day, and now they would have to pour it all down the sink. Actually, it was the Soup of the Night, a sinister indigo liquid which probably didn’t deserve much respect, but still, Cyborg Japonica could have showed some self-control. Naughty, impulsive Cyborg Japonica. Perhaps Real Japonica should not let her have those special high-voltage batteries she had been asking for. That would show her. Dr. Blatnoyd, escorting her out through a roomful of disapproving faces, only grew more bedazzled. So this was a free-spirited hippie chick! He saw these girls on the streets of Hollywood, on the TV screen, but this was his first up-close encounter. No wonder Japonica’s parents didn’t know what to do with her—his assumption here, which he didn’t examine too closely, being that he did. “And actually, I wasn’t too sure about who he was till I came in for my first Smile Evaluation…” At which point in Japonica’s reminiscing, in popped the lecherous toothyanker himself, zipping up his fly. “Japonica? I thought we’d agreed never to—” Catching sight of Doc—”oh, you’re still here?” “I escaped again, Rudy,” she twinkled. Denis also now came lurching in. “Hey man, your ride’s in a body shop.” “It signed itself in, Denis?” “I sort of mashed the front end. I was looking at these chicks out on Little Santa Monica—” “You went to Beverly Hills for a pizza, and rear-ended somebody there.” “Needs a new … what do they call that, with the hoses, where the steam comes out—” “Radiator—Denis, you said you took driver ed in high school.” “No, no, Doc, you said did they have Driver Ed, and I said yes cause they did, this dude Eddie Ochoa, that there wasn’t a cop south of Salinas could get near him, and that’s what everybody called him—” “So, like, you … never actually… learned …” “All that stuff they wanted you to remember, man?” Xandra, visibly disheveled, now came running in after Denis, yelling, “I told you you couldn’t come up here,” then spotted Japonica and screeched to a halt. “Oh. Smile Maintenance Chick. How lovely,” while scaling tiny glares Dr. Blatnoyd’s way like the star-shaped blades in kung fu movies. “Miss Fenway,” the doctor began to explain, “may seem a little psychotic today….” “Groovy!” cried Denis. “What?” Blatnoyd blinking. “Being insane, man? it’s groovy, where are you at, man?” “Denis …” Doc murmured. “It is not ‘groovy’ to be insane. Japonica here has been institutionalized for it.” “Yep,” beamed Japonica. “Like, in the place? Psychedelic! They put those volts in your head, man?” “Volts ‘n’ volts,” twinkled Japonica. “Whoa. Bad for la cabeza, man.” “C’mon, Denis,” said Doc, “we’re gonna have to figure out how to catch a bus back to the beach.” “If you need a ride, I’m heading that way,” offered Japonica. Running a fast eyeball diagnostic, Doc could see nothing too alarming—right at the moment she was being as sane as anybody here, not too many useful remarks Doc could pass, so he settled for, “Everything cool with your brakes and lights, Japonica? license-plate lights and so forth?” “A-OK? Just had Wolfgang in for periodic maintenance?” “That’s…” “My car?” Yes, another warning buzzer, but Doc was now on to obsessing over the vast numbers of law enforcement likely to be deployed between here and the beach. “Excuse me,” wondered Xandra, who’d been staring at Denis, “is that a slice of pizza on your hat?” “Oh wow, thanks, man, I’ve been lookin all over for that…” “Mind if I tag along with you people?” asked Dr. Blatnoyd. “Contingencies of the road and so forth.” Wolfgang turned out to be a ten-year-old Mercedes sedan with a roof panel passengers could slide back, allowing them, like dogs in pickups, to stick their heads out in the wind if they wanted. Doc rode shotgun, widebrim fedora down over his eyes, trying to ignore a deep foreboding. Dr. Blatnoyd climbed in the back with Denis and then spent some time trying to push a #66 market bag full of something under the front seat on Doc’s side. “Hey,” exclaimed Denis, “what’s in that bag you’re stuffing under Doc’s seat?” “Pay no attention to that bag,” advised Dr. Blatnoyd. “It will only make everybody paranoid.” Which it did, except for Japonica, who was maneuvering them smoothly up Sunset through the late rush-hour traffic. Denis had his head out the roof. “Drive slower,” he called down after a while, “I want to dig this.” They were crossing Vine and about to go past Wallach’s Music City, where each of a long row of audition booths inside had it’s own lighted window facing the street. In every window, one by one as Japonica crept by, appeared a hippie freak or small party of hippie freaks, each listening on headphones to a different rock ‘n’ roll album and moving around at a different rhythm. Like Denis, Doc was used to outdoor concerts where thousands of people congregated to listen to music for free, and where it all got sort of blended together into a single public self, because everybody was having the same experience. But here, each person was listening in solitude, confinement and mutual silence, and some of them later at the register would actually be spending money to hear rock ‘n’ roll. It seemed to Doc like some strange kind of dues or payback. More and more lately he’d been brooding about this great collective dream that everybody was being encouraged to stay tripping around in. Only now and then would you get an unplanned glimpse at the other side. Denis waved, yelled and flashed peace signs, but nobody in any of the booths noticed. At last he slid back down into the Mercedes. “Far out. Maybe they’re all stoned. Hey! That must be why they call those things headphones!” He put his face closer to Dr. Blatnoyds than the dentist was really comfortable with. “Think about that, man! Like, headphones, right?” Japonica was driving so skillfully that it wasn’t till they were out of the white dazzle of Hollywood and across Doheny that Doc noticed (a) it was now dark and (b) the headlights weren’t on. “Ah, Japonica, like, your lights?” She was humming to herself, a tune Doc recognized, with dawning concern, as the theme from Dark Shadows. After four more bars, he tried again. “Like, it would be so groovy, Japonica, really, to have some lights working is all, seeing ‘s how Beverly Hills cops are known to lurk uphill on these different cross streets? just waiting for minor violations, like lights, to pop folks on?” Her humming was way too intense. Doc made the mistake of looking over, only to find her staring at him and not the road, eyes glittering ferally through a blond curtain of California-chick hair. No, this was not reassuring. Though hardly a connoisseur of the freakout, he did recognize a wraparound hallucination when he saw one and understood immediately that while she likely didn’t see Doc at all, whatever she was seeing was indeed physically out there, in the gathering fog, and just about to— “Everything all right, baby?” Rudy Blatnoyd rang in. “Oo-oooo” warbled Japonica, putting some vibrato onto  it and stepping on the gas, “Ooo-ooo woo-oo, woo-ooo…” Cross traffic, neighborhood machinery such as Excaliburs and Ferraris, came blurring by at high speed, missing them by small clearances. Dr. Blatnoyd, as if wishing to start a therapeutic discussion, was glaring at Denis. “There. That’s just what I’ve been talking about.” “You didn’t say nothing about it happening while she’s driving, man.” Japonica had meantime decided that she must run every red light she could find, even speeding up to catch  some before they could turn green. “Urn, Japonica, my dear? That was a red light?” Blatnoyd pointed out helpfully. “Ooh, I don’t think so!” she explained blithely. “I think that was one of Its eyes!” “Oh. Well, yes,n Doc soothed. “We can sure dig that, Japonica, but then again—” “No, no, there’s no It’ watching you!” Blatnoyd now in some agitation. “Those are not eyes,’ those are warnings to come to a full stop and wait till the light turns green, don’t you remember learning that in school?” “That’s what those colors are for, man?” Denis said. Suddenly, like a UFO rising over the ridgeline, the flashing lights of a police car appeared uphill and came swooping down on them, the siren screaming. “Like, shit,” Denis heading for the hatch in the roof again, “I’m outta here, man,” overlooking for the moment the streetscape rushing past. Feeling no sign of deceleration, Doc, trying not to think about the paper bag under the seat, kept reaching with his foot for the brake pedal, meantime trying gently to steer the car over to the shoulder. If he’d been in his own ride and by himself, he might have chosen to make a run for it, at least open a door an inch or two and get rid of the bag, but by the time he could bring himself to try even that, the Man was on top of them. “License and registration, miss?” The cop seemed to be focused on Japonica’s tits. She smiled back at him in high- intensity silence, occasionally glancing at the Smith & Wesson on his hip. His partner, a rookie even blonder than he was, came and leaned on the passenger side, content for the moment to watch Denis, who had paused in his effort to climb through the roof to gaze at the strobing array of colored lights on top of the cruiser, and now and then go, “Oh wow, man.” “Are you the Great Beast?” inquired rattling-mad Japonica in her sub-jailbait lilt. “No no no,” Blatnoyd droning desperately, “that’s a policeman, Japonica, who only wants to make sure you’re all right…” “Just the license and registration if you wouldn’t mind,” said the cop. “You know you were driving without your headlights, miss.” “But I can see in the dark,” Japonica nodding emphatically, “I can see real good\n “Her sister went into labor about an hour ago,” Blatnoyd imagining he was charming their way out of a ticket, “and Miss Fenway promised she’d be there in time to see the baby born, so she might’ve been a little inattentive back there?” “That case,” said the cop, “maybe somebody else ought to be driving.” Japonica promptly jumped in the back seat with Blatnoyd, while Doc slid over behind the wheel and Denis moved up front to ride shotgun. The cops looked on beaming, like instructors at an etiquette class. “Oh and we’ll need everybody’s ID, too,” the rookie announced. “Sure thing,” Doc bringing out his PI license. “What’s it about, Officer?” “New program,” shrugged the other cop, “you know how it is, another excuse for paperwork, they’re calling it Cultwatch, every gathering of three or more civilians is now defined as a potential cult.” The rookie was making checkmarks on a list attached to a clipboard. “Criteria,” the other cop continued, “include references to the book of Revelation, males with shoulder-length or longer hair, endangerment through automotive absentmindedness, all of which you folks have been exhibiting.” “Yeah man,” Denis put in, “but we’re in a Mercedes, and it’s only painted one color, beige—don’t we get points for that?” Doc noticed for the first time that both cops were... well, not trembling, the police wouldn’t tremble, but vibrating for sure, with the post-Mansonical nerves that currently ruled the area. “We’ll hand this all in, Mr. Sportello, it’ll go in some master data bank here and in Sacramento, and unless there’s wants or warrants we don’t know about, you won’t hear any more on this.” FOLLOWING DR. BLATNOYD’S directions, Doc turned off Sunset, braking almost immediately for a guard gate staffed by private heat of some kind. “Evening, Heinrich,” boomed Rudy Blatnoyd. “Nice to see you, Dr. B.,” replied the sentry, waving him through. They went winding through Bel Air, up hillsides and canyons, arriving at a mansion with another gate, low and nearly invisible inside it’s landscape gardening, seeming so much constructed of night itself that at sunrise it might all disappear. Behind the gate glimmered a pale slash through the dark, which Doc finally figured out was a moat, with a drawbridge over it. “Won’t be a minute,” Dr. Blatnoyd climbing out, grabbing the bag from under the front seat and getting into a cryptic discussion over the gate intercom with a voice Doc guessed to be female, before the gate opened and the drawbridge came down, rumbling and creaking. Then the night was very quiet again—not even the distant freeway traffic could be heard, or the footpads of coyotes, or the slither of snakes… “Way too quiet,” said Denis, “it’s freaking me out, man.” “I think we’ll wait here on this side of the moat,” Doc said. “Okay?” Denis rolled an enormous joint and lit up, and soon the interior of the Mercedes was full of smoke. After a while there was shrieking on the gate intercom. “Hey man,” said Denis, “you don’t have to yell, man.” “Dr. Blatnoyd wishes us to inform you,” announced the woman at the other end, “that he will be remaining as our guest, and there is thus no further need for you to wait.” “Yeah, and you talk like a robot, man.” It took them a while to find their way back to Sunset. “I guess I’ll crash with some friends in Pacific Palisades,” Japonica announced. “Mind letting us off at the Greyhound in Santa Monica? We can grab the midnight local.” “By the way, aren’t you the man who found me and brought me back to my dad that time?” “Just doing my job,” Doc immediately defensive. “Did he really want me back?” “I’ve worked gigs like that a couple of times since,” Doc said carefully, in case she had to drive much more tonight, “and he seemed like your standard worried parent.” “He’s an asshole,” Japonica assured him. “Here, this is my office number. I don’t have regular hours, so you may not always find me in.” She shrugged and managed a smile. “If it’s meant to be.”

THINGS WERE WEIRD for a few days with the Dart over in  Beverly Hills, though Doc imagined it was having itself a nice time in the company of all those Jaguars and Porsches and so forth. When he finally went over to pick up his ride, at Resurrection of the Body, a collision emporium somewhat south of Olympic, he ran into his friend Tito Stavrou having a lively argument with Manuel the owner. Tito ran a limo service, though there was only one unit in his fleet, unfortunately not one of those limos able to Glide from the Curb, much less Insert Itself Effortlessly into Traffic—no, this one lurched from the curb percussively into traffic, being in fact garaged for at least half of any given premium period (as Tito’s latest insurance carrier had just discovered, much to it’s own, and you can imagine how much to Tito’s, dismay) or being attended to by various sand-and-fill crews around the Greater L.A. Area. One calendar year it got repainted six times. “You sure you mean limo and not limón?” suggested Manuel, as part of the recreational abuse he liked to lay on Tito whenever the vehicle showed up with a new set of dings. They stood out in the main shed, assembled from a Quonset hut first cut in half lengthwise and the two pieces then rearranged so that they met in a point high overhead to make a sort of churchlike vault. “It would be cheaper if you just pay me in front, small fee, anytime you want it painted, just bring it by, day or night, any color in stock includin the metallics, in and out in a couple hours.” “What worries me,” said Tito, “is that ‘in and out,’ you know, all these high-risk elements of the auto-parts community you deal with?” “This is Resurrection, ése! Were in the miracle business! If Jesus turned water into wine in front of your face? would you be goin, ‘What’s this I’m drinkin, I wannit Dom Perignon,’ or some shit? If I was that picky about what comes in here for a paint job? ask for what? their license and registration? Then they’re really pissed off, they go someplace else, plus I get put on a shit list I might not want to be on?” Manuel noticed Doc for the first time. “You the Bentley?” “The’64 Dodge Dart?” Manuel looked back and forth between Doc and Tito for a while. “You guys know each other?” “That would really depend,” Doc was about to say, but Manuel went on. “I was gonna charge you more, but guys like Tito here, they’re sub-sidizin guys like you.” The amount on the invoice was nevertheless a Beverly Hills type of number, and half Doc’s day got blown setting up a payment schedule. “Come on,” said Tito, “I’ll buy you lunch. I need your advice on something.” They went down to Pico and headed toward Rancho Park. This street was a chowhound’s delight. Back when Doc was still new in town, one day around sunset—the daily event, not the boulevard—he was in Santa Monica near the western end of Pico, the light over all deep L.A. softening to purple with some darker gold to it, and from this angle and hour of the day it seemed to him he could see all the way down Pico for miles into the heart of the great Megalopolis itself, having yet to discover that if he wanted to, he could also eat his way down Pico night after night for a long while before repeating an ethnic category. This did not always turn out to be good news for the indecisive doper who might know he was hungry but not necessarily how to deal with it in terms of specific food. Many was the night Doc ran out of gas, and his munchies- afflicted companions out of patience, long before settling on where to go eat. Today they ended up at a Greek restaurant called Teké, which according to Tito meant an old-time hashish parlor in Greek. “I hope this won’t be a problem,” said Tito, “but word is around you’ve been working on this Mickey Wolfmann case?” “Not how I’d put it. Nobody’s paying me. Sometimes I think all it is is guilt. Wolfmann’s girlfriend is my ex-old lady, she said she needed help, so I’ve been trying to help.” Tito, who had made a point of facing the front entrance, lowered his voice till Doc could hardly hear him. ‘“I’m taking a chance that you ain’t bent, Doc. You ain’t bent, are you?” “Not so far, but I could always use a nice envelope full of cash.” “These guys,” an unhappy look crossing Tito’s face, “don’t hand you envelopes, it’s more like, do what they want, maybe they don’t fuck you up too bad.” “You’re sayin this is mob-related—” “I only wish. I mean, I know some Family badasses who scare most people, they sure scare me, but I wouldn’t ever go to them with this, they’d just take a look at who it is and go, like, ‘Pasadena, man.’” “Not to mention you owe them money.” “No more, I kicked all that.” “What. No horses, no pan parlors? No Li’l T-Rex? No Salvatore ‘Paper Cut’ Gazzoni? No Adrian Prussia?” “Nope, even Adrian’s off my ass anymore, all paid off, the vig, everything.” “Good news cause sooner or later that fucker’d be reachin for his baseball bat, going to town on your head or somethin. Man gives loan-sharkin a bad name.” “They’re all in my sorry past now, I been twelve-steppin it, Doc. Meetings, everythin.” “Well, Inez must be happy. How long’s it been?” “Comin up on six months next weekend. We’re gonna go celebrate it in style, too, we’re takin the limo to Vegas, stayin at Caesar’s—” “Excuse me, Tito, am I confusing Las Vegas with someplace else where all they do is fucking gamble nonstop? How do you expect to—” “Avoid temptation? Hey that’s just it, how’m I ever gonna know? Thing is to jump in, see what happens.” “Oboy. This is all cool with Inez?” “Her idea.” Mike the owner and cook appeared with a huge plate of dolmadhes, Kalamata olives, and midget spanakopitas it looked like it would take a week to polish off. “You’re sure you want to eat here,” he greeted Tito. “This is Doc, he saved my life once.” “And this is how you thank him?” Mike shaking his head in reproof. “Think long and hard, my friends,” muttering back to the kitchen. “I saved your life?” Tito shrugged. “That time up on Mulholland.” “You saved mine, man, you’re the one knew where it was,” this particular “it” being a car-napped 1934 Hispano- Suiza J12 whose return Doc had been negotiating with a Lithuanian thyroid case who showed up carrying a modified AK-47 with a banana clip so oversize that he kept tripping over it, which looking back was what had saved everybody’s lives, probably. “I was doin that all for myself, man, you happened to be there when we brought it back and all that money started flyin around.” “Whatever, Doc—there’s somethin now that you’re the only one I can tell it to.” A quick look around. “Doc, I was one of the last people to talk to Mickey Wolfmann before he dropped off the screen.” “Shit,” replied Doc, encouragingly. “And no, I haven’t been near the heat with this. It would get back to these guys before I was out the door, and I’d end up a shark hors oeuvre. “D and D, Tito.” “What happened, Mickey got to where he didn’t always trust his drivers. They were most of ’em ex-cons, which meant they had their own IOUs to pay off that sometimes he didn’t know about. So once in a while he calls me on the unlisted line, and I pick him up someplace we decide on at the last minute.” “You used that limo? Not exactly a low profile.” “Nah, we’d use Falcons or Novas, I can always score one on short notice, even a VDub if it ain’t painted too funny.” “So the day Mickey disappeared… he called you? you took him someplace?” “He wanted me to pick him up. He called in the middle of the night, it sounded like a pay phone, he was talking real quiet, he was scared, like somebody was after him. He gave me an address out of town, I drove up there and waited, but he never showed. After a couple hours I was getting too much attention so I split.” “Where was this?” “Ojai, near someplace called Chryskylodon.” “I’ve been hearing about it,” Doc said, “some nuthouse for the upper brackets. Old Indian word that means ‘serenity.’” “Ha!” Tito shook his head. “Who told you that?” “It’s in their brochure?” “It ain’t Indian, it’s Greek, trust me, they talked Greek around the house all the time I was coming up.” “What’s it mean in Greek?” “Well, it’s squashed together a little, but it means like a gold tooth, this one here—” He tapped at a canine. “Oh, shit. Tang’? Could it be that?” “Yeah, close enough. Gold fang.”

§ § §

TYRION

A horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks of gold cloaks drawn up across the road. Tyrion could hear Lord Gyles coughing as well. He had not asked for Gyles, no more than he'd asked for Ser Addam. or Jalabhar Xho or any of the rest, but his lord father felt Doran Martell might take it ill if only a dwarf came out to escort him across the Blackwater. Joffrey should have met the Dornishmen himself, he reflected as he sat waiting, but he would have mucked it up, no doubt. Of late the king had been repeating little jests about the Dornish that he'd picked up from Mace Tyrell's men-atarms. How many Dornishmen does it take to shoe a horse? Nine. One to do the shoeing, and eight to lift the horse up. Somehow Tyrion did not think Doran Martell would find that amusing. He could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the green of the living wood in a long dusty column. From here to the river, only bare black trees remained, a legacy of his battle. Too many banners, he thought sourly, as he watched the ashes kick up under the hooves of the approaching horses, as they had beneath the hooves of the Tyrell van as it smashed Stannis in the flank. Martell's brought half the lords of Dorne, by the look of it. He tried to think of some good that might come of that, and failed. "How many banners do you count?" he asked Brorm. The sellsword knight shaded his eyes. "Eight ... no, nine." Tyrion turned in his saddle. "Pod, come up here. Describe the arms you see, and tell me which houses they represent." Podrick Payne edged his gelding closer. He was carrying the royal standard, Joffrey's great stag-and-lion, and struggling with its weight. Bronn bore Tyrion's own banner, the lion of Lannister gold on crimson. He's getting taller, Tyrion realized as Pod stood in his stirrups for a better look. He'll soon tower over me like all the rest. The lad had been making a diligent study of Domish heraldry, at Tyrion's command, but as ever he was nervous. "I can't see. The wind is flapping them." "Bronn, tell the boy what you see." Bronn looked very much the knight today, in his new doublet and cloak, the flaming chain across his chest. "A red sun on orange," he called, "with a spear through its back." "Martell," Podrick Payne said at once, visibly relieved. "House Martell of Sunspear, my lord. The Prince of Dome." "My horse would have known that one," said Tyrion dryly. "Give him another, Bronn." "There's a purple flag with yellow balls. "Lemons?" Pod said hopefully. "A purple fleld strewn with lemons? For House Dalt? Of, of Lemonwood." "Might be. Next's a big black bird on yellow. Something pink or white in its claws, hard to say with the banner flapping." "The vulture of Blackmont grasps a baby in its talons," said Pod. "House Blackmont of Blackmont, ser." Bronn laughed. "Reading books again? Books will ruin your sword eye, boy. I see a skull too. A black banner." "The crowned skull of House Manwoody, bone and gold on black." Pod sounded more confident with every correct answer. "The Manwoodys of Kingsgrave." "Three black spiders?" "They're scorpions, ser. House Qorgyle of Sandstone, three scorpions black on red." "Red and yellow, a jagged line between." "The flames of Hellholt. House Uller." Tyrion was impressed. The boy's not half stupid, once he gets his tongue untied. "Go on, Pod," he urged. "If you get them all, I'll make you a gift." "A pie with red and black slices," said Bronn. "There's a gold hand in the middle." "House Allyrion of Godsgrace." "A red chicken eating a snake, looks like." "The Gargalens of Salt Shore. A cockatrice. Ser. Pardon. Not a chicken. Red, with a black snake in its beak." "Very good!" exclaimed Tyrion. "One more, lad." Bronn scanned the ranks of the approaching Domishmen. "The last's a golden feather on green checks." "A golden quill, ser. Jordayne of the Tor." Tyrion laughed. "Nine, and well done. I could not have named them all myself." That was a lie, but it would give the boy some pride, and that he badly needed. Martell brings some formidable companions, it would seem. Not one of the houses Pod had named was small or insignificant. Nine of the greatest lords of Dorne were coming up the kingsroad, them or their heirs, and somehow Tyrion did not think they had come all this way just to see the dancing bear. There was a message here. And not one I like. He wondered if it had been a mistake to ship Myrcella down to Sunspear. "My lord," Pod said, a little timidly, "there's no litter." Tyrion turned his head sharply. The boy was right. "Doran Martell always travels in a litter," the boy said. "A carved litter with silk hangings, and suns on the drapes." Tyrion had heard the same talk. Prince Doran was past fifty, and gouty. He may have wanted to make faster time, he told himself. He may have feared his litter would make too tempting a target for brigands, or that it would prove too cumbersome in the high passes of the Boneway. Perhaps his gout is better. So why did he have such a bad feeling about this? This waiting was intolerable. "Banners forward," he snapped. "We'll meet them." He kicked his horse. Bronn and Pod followed, one to either side. When the Dornishmen saw them coming, they spurred their own mounts, banners rippling as they rode. From their ornate saddles were slung the round metal shields they favored, and many carried bundles of short throwing spears, or the double-curved Dornish bows they used so well from horseback. There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the coasts, the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys, and the stony Dornishmen who made their fastnesses in the passes and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Domishmen had the most Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least. All three sorts seemed well represented in Doran's retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest, sons of the Andals and the First Men, brownhaired or blond, with faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning. The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and flowing sleeves. Their armor was heavily enameled and inlaid with burnished copper, shining silver, and soft red gold. They came astride red horses and golden ones and a few as pale as snow, all slim and swift, with long necks and narrow beautiful heads. The fabled sand steeds of Dome were smaller than proper warhorses and could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire. The Domish leader forked a stallion black as sin with a mane and tail the color of fire. He sat his saddle as if he'd been born there, tall, slim, graceful. A cloak of pale red silk fluttered from his shoulders, and his shirt was armored with overlapping rows of copper disks that glittered like a thousand bright new pennies as he rode. His high gilded helm displayed a copper sun on its brow, and the round shield slung behind him bore the sun- and-spear of House Martell on its polished metal surface. A Martell sun, but ten years too young, Tyrion thought as he reined up, too fit as well, and far too fierce. He knew what he must deal with by then. How many Dornishmen does it take to start a war? he asked himself. Only one. Yet he had no choice but to smile. "Well met, my lords. We had word of your approach, and His Grace King Joffrey bid me ride out to welcome you in his name. My lord father the King's Hand sends his greetings as well." He feigned an amiable confusion. "Which of you is Prince Doran?" "My brother's health requires he remain at Sunspear." The princeling removed his helm. Beneath, his face was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows above large eyes as black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a widow's peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty Dornishmen for certain. "Prince Doran has sent me to join King Joffrey's council in his stead, as it please His Grace." "His Grace will be most honored to have the counsel of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dome," said Tyrion, thinking, This will mean blood in the gutters. "And your noble companions are most welcome as well." "Permit me to acquaint you with them, my lord of Lannister. Ser Deziel Dalt, of Lemonwood. Lord Tremond Gargalen. Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck. Ser Ryon Allyrion and his natural son Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Lord Dagos Manwoody, his brother Ser Myles, his sons Mors and Dickon. Ser Arron Qorgyle. And never let it be thought that I would neglect the ladies. Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor. Lady Larra Blackmont, her daughter Jynessa, her son Perros." He raised a slender hand toward a black- haired woman to the rear, beckoning her forward. "And this is Ellaria Sand, mine own paramour." Tyrion swallowed a groan. His paramour, and bastard-born, Cersei will pitch a holy fit if he wants her at the wedding. If she consigned the woman to some dark comer below the salt, his sister would risk the Red Viper's wrath. Seat her beside him at the high table, and every other lady on the dais was like to take offense. Did Prince Doran mean to provoke a quarrel? Prince Oberyn wheeled his horse about to face his fellow Domishmen. "Ellaria, lords and ladies, sers, see how well King Joffrey loves us. His Grace has been so kind as to send his own Uncle Imp to bring us to his court. " Bronn snorted back laughter, and Tyrion perforce must feign amusement as well. "Not alone, my lords. That would be too enormous a task for a little man like me." His own party had come up on them, so it was his turn to name the names. "Let me present Ser Flement Brax, heir to Homvale. Lord Gyles of Rosby. Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Commander of the City Watch. jalabhar Xho, Prince of the Red Flower Vale. Ser Harys Swyft, my uncle Kevan's good father by marriage. Ser Merlon Crakehall. Ser Philip Foote and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, two heroes of our recent battle against the rebel Stannis Baratheon. And mine own squire, young Podrick of House Payne." The names had a nice ringing sound as Tyrion reeled them off, but the bearers were nowise near as distinguished nor formidable a company as those who accompanied Prince Oberyn, as both of them knew full well. "My lord of Lannister," said Lady Blackmont, "we have come a long dusty way, and rest and refreshment would be most welcome. Might we continue on to the city?" "At once, my lady." Tyrion turned his horse's head, and called to Ser Addam Marbrand. The mounted gold cloaks who formed the greatest part of his honor guard turned their horses crisply at Ser Addam's command, and the column set off for the river and King's Landing beyond. Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Tyrion muttered under his breath as he fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne. And what in the seven hells am I supposed to do with him? He knew the man only by reputation, to be sure ... but the reputation was fearsome. When he was no more than sixteen, Prince Oberyn had been found abed with the paramour of old Lord Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute and short temper. A duel ensued, though in view of the prince's youth and high birth, it was only to first blood. Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet Prince Oberyn soon recovered, while Lord Yronwood's wounds festered and killed him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes alike called him the Red Viper. That was many years ago, to be sure. The boy of sixteen was a man past forty now, and his legend had grown a deal darker. He had traveled in the Free Cities, leaming the poisoner's trade and perhaps arts darker still, if rumors could be believed. He had studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a maester's chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his battles, his duels, his horses, his carnality ... it was said that he bedded men and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all over Dome. The sand snakes, men called his daughters. So far as Tyrion had heard, Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son. And of course, he had crippled the heir to Highgarden. There is no man in the Seven Kingdoms who will be less welcome at a 7)7rell wedding, thought Tyrion. To send Prince Oberyn to King's Landing while the city still hosted Lord Mace Tyrell, two of his sons, and thousands of their men-at-arms was a provocation as dangerous as Prince Oberyn himself. A wrong word, an ill-timed jest, a look, that's all it will take, and our noble allies will be at one another's throats. "We have met before," the Domish prince said lightly to Tyrion as they rode side by side along the kingsroad, past ashen fields and the skeletons of trees. "I would not expect you to remember, though. You were even smaller than you are now." There was a mocking edge to his voice that Tyrion misliked, but he was not about to let the Dornishman provoke him. "When was this, my lord?" he asked in tones of polite interest. "Oh, many and many a year ago, when my mother ruled in Dome and your lord father was Hand to a different king." Not so different as you might think, reflected Tyrion. "It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen, thereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight or nine, as I recall, and you had just been bom." A queer time to come visiting. His mother had died giving him birth, so the Martells would have found the Rock deep in mouming. His father especially. Lord Tywin seldom spoke of his wife, but Tyrion had heard his uncles talk of the love between them. In those days, his father had been Aerys's Hand, and many people said that Lord Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but Lady Joanna ruled Lord Tywin. "He was not the same man after she died, imp," his Uncle Gery told him once. "The best part of him died with her." Gerion had been the youngest of Lord Tytos Lannister's four sons, and the uncle Tyrion liked best. But he was gone now, lost beyond the seas, and Tyrion himself had put Lady Joanna in her grave. "Did you find Casterly Rock to your liking, my lord?" "Scarcely. Your father ignored us the whole time we were there, after commanding Ser Kevan to see to our entertainment. The cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies were too grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your food too bland ... and you yourself were the greatest disappointment of all." "I had just been born. What did you expect of me?" "Enormity," the black-haired prince replied. "You were small, but far-famed. We were in Oldtown at your birth, and all the city talked of was the monster that had been born to the King's Hand, and what such an omen might foretell for the realm." "Famine, plague, and war, no doubt." Tyrion gave a sour smile. "It's always famine, plague, and war. Oh, and winter, and the long night that never ends." "All that," said Prince Oberyn, "and your father's fall as well. Lord Tywin had made himself greater than King Aerys, I heard one begging brother preach, but only a god is meant to stand above a king. You were his curse, a punishment sent by the gods to teach him that he was no better than any other man." "I try, but he refuses to learn." Tyrion gave a sigh. "But do go on, I pray you. I love a good tale." "And well you might, since you were said to have one, a stiff curly tail like a swine's. Your head was monstrous huge, we heard, half again the size of your body, and you had been born with thick black hair and a beard besides, an evil eye, and lion's claws. Your teeth were so long you could not close your mouth, and between your legs were a girl's privates as well as a boy's." "Life would be much simpler if men could fuck themselves, don't you agree? And I can think of a few times when claws and teeth might have proved useful. Even so, I begin to see the nature of your complaint." Brorm gave out with a chuckle, but Oberyn only smiled. "We might never have seen you at all but for your sweet sister. You were never seen at table or hall, though sometimes at night we could hear a baby howling down in the depths of the Rock. You did have a monstrous great voice, I must grant you that. You would wail for hours, and nothing would quiet you but a woman's teat." "Still true, as it happens." This time Prince Oberyn did laugh. "A taste we share. Lord Gargalen once told me he hoped to die with a sword in his hand, to which I replied that I would sooner go with a breast in mine." Tyrion had to grin. "You were speaking of my sister?" "Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send us off, but your sister was having none of that. 'He's mine/ she said, 'and you're just a milk cow, you can't tell me what to do. Be quiet or I'll have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders."' "Her Grace learned charm at an early age," said Tyrion, amused by the notion of his sister claiming him as hers. She's never been in any rush to claim me since, the gods know. "Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a better look," the Dornish prince continued. "You did have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your head was larger than most ... but there was no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers, Lord Tywin's Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make at the sight of infants, I'm sure you've heard it. The same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, 'He killed my mother/ and twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, 'Leave him be, you're hurting him/ that Cersei let go of you. 'It doesn't matter/ she told us. 'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long."' The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was pleasantly warm for autumn, but Tyrion Lannister went cold all over when he heard that. My sweet sister. He scratched at the scar of his nose and gave the Dornishman a taste of his "evil eye." Now why would he tell such a tale? Is he testing me, or simply twisting my cock as Cersei did, so he can hear me scream? "Be sure and tell that story to my father. It will delight him as much as it did me. The part about my tail, especially. I did have one, but he had it lopped off." Prince Oberyn had a chuckle. "You've grown more amusing since last we met." "Yes, but I meant to grow taller." "While we are speaking of amusement, I heard a curious tale from Lord Buckler's steward. He claimed that you had put a tax on women's privy purses." "It is a tax on whoring," said Tyrion, irritated all over again. And it was my bloody father's notion. "Only a penny for each, ah ... act. The King's Hand felt it might help improve the morals of the city." And pay for Joffrey's wedding besides. Needless to say, as master of coin, Tyrion had gotten all the blame for it. Brorm said they were calling it the dwarf's penny inthestreets. "Spread your legs for the Halfman, now," they were shouting in the brothels and wine sinks, if the sellsword could be believed. "I will make certain to keep my pouch full of pennies. Even a prince must pay his taxes." "Why should you need to go whoring?" He glanced back to where Ellaria Sand rode among the other women. "Did you tire of your paramour on the road?" "Never. We share too much." Prince Oberyn shrugged. "We have never shared a beautiful blonde woman, however, and Ellaria is curious. Do you know of such a creature?" "I am a man wedded." Though not yet bedded. "I no longer frequent whores." Unless I want to see them hanged. Oberyn abruptly changed the subject. "It's said there are to be seventyseven dishes served at the king's wedding feast." "Are you hungry, my prince?" "I have hungered for a long time. Though not for food. Pray tell me, when will the iustice be served?" "Justice." Yes, that is why he's here, I should have seen that at once. "You were close to your sister?" "As children Elia and I were inseparable, much like your own brother and sister." Gods, I hope not. "Wars and weddings have kept us well occupied, Prince Oberyn. I fear no one has yet had the time to look into murders sixteen years stale, dreadful as they were. We shall, of course, just as soon as we may. Any help that Dome might be able to provide to restore the king's peace would only hasten the beginning of my lord father's inquiry - " "Dwarf," said the Red Viper, in a tone grown markedly less cordial, "spare me your Lannister lies. Is it sheep you take us for, or fools? My brother is not a bloodthirsty man, but neither has he been asleep for sixteen years. Jon Arryn came to Sunspear the year after Robert took the throne, and you can be sure that he was questioned closely. Him, and a hundred more. I did not come for some mummer's show of an inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this lummox Gregor Clegane ... but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of that." He smiled. "An old septon once claimed I was living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is, Imp?" "No," Tyrion admitted warily. "Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my mother's firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now, not my patient, prudent, and gouty brother." Tyrion could see the sun shining on the Blackwater Rush half a mile ahead, and on the walls and towers and hills of King's Landing beyond. He glanced over his shoulder, at the glittering column following them up the kingsroad. "You speak like a man with a great host at his back," he said, "yet all I see are three hundred. Do you spy that city there, north of the river?" "The midden heap you call King's Landing?" "That's the very one." "Not only do I see it, I believe I smell it now." "Then take a good sniff, my lord. Fill up your nose. Half a million people stink more than three hundred, you'll find. Do you smell the gold cloaks? There are near five thousand of them. My father's own swom swords must account for another twenty thousand. And then there are the roses. Roses smell so sweet, don't they? Especially when there are so many of them. Fifty, sixty, seventy thousand roses, in the city or camped outside it, I can't really say how many are left, but there's more than I care to count, anyway." Martell gave a shrug. "In Dome of old before we married Dacron, it was said that all flowers bow before the sun. Should the roses seek to hinder me I'll gladly trample them underfoot." "As you trampled Willas Tyrell?" The Domishman did not react as expected. "I had a letter from Willas not half a year past. We share an interest in fine horseflesh. He has never bome me any ill will for what happened in the lists. I struck his breastplate clean, but his foot caught in a stirrup as he fell and his horse came down on top of him. I sent a maester to him afterward, but it was all he could do to save the boy's leg. The knee was far past mending. If any were to blame, it was his fool of a father. Willas Tyrell was green as his surcoat and had no business riding in such company. The Fat Flower thrust him into tourneys at too tender an age, just as he did with the other two. He wanted another Leo Longthom, and made himself a cripple." "There are those who say Ser Loras is better than Leo Longthom. ever was," said Tyrion. "Renly's little rose? I doubt that." "Doubt it all you wish," said Tyrion, "but Ser Loras has defeated many good knights, including my brother Jaime." "By defeated, you mean unhorsed, in tourney. Tell me who he's slain in battle if you mean to frighten me." "Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, for two. And men say he performed prodigious feats of valor on the Blackwater, fighting beside Lord Renly's ghost." "So these same men who saw the prodigious feats saw the ghost as well, yes?" The Domishman laughed lightly. Tyrion gave him a long look. "Chataya's on the Street of Silk has several girls who might suit your needs. Dancy has hair the color of honey. Marei's is pale white-gold. I would advise you to keep one or the other by your side at all times, my lord." "At all times?" Prince Oberyn lifted a thin black eyebrow. "And why is that, my good imp?" "You want to die with a breast in hand, you said." Tyrion cantered on ahead to where the ferry barges waited on the south bank of the Blackwater. He had suffered all he meant to suffer of what passed for Dornish wit. Father should have sent Joffrey after all. He could have asked Prince Oberyn if he knew how a Dornishman differed from a cowflop. That made him grin despite himself. He would have to make a point of being on hand when the Red Viper was presented to the king.

§ § §

BRAN

The tower stood upon an island, its twin reflected on the still blue waters. When the wind blew, ripples moved across the surface of the lake, chasing one another like boys at play. Oak trees grew thick along the lakeshore, a dense stand of them with a litter of fallen acorns on the ground beneath. Beyond them was the village, or what remained of it. It was the first village they had seen since leaving the foothills. Meera had scouted ahead to make certain there was no one lurking amongst the ruins. Sliding in and amongst oaks and apple trees with her net and spear in hand, she startled three red deer and sent them bounding away through?the ?rush. Summer saw the flash of motion and was after them at once. Bran watched the direwolf lope off, and for a moment wanted nothing so much as to slip his skin and run with him, but Meera was waving for them to come ahead. Reluctantly, he turned away from Summer and urged Hodor on, into the village. Jojen walked with them. The ground from here to the Wall was grasslands, Bran knew; fallow fields and low rolling hills, high meadows and lowland bogs. It would be much easier going than the mountains behind, but so much open space made Meera uneasy. "I feel naked," she confessed. "There's no place to hide." "Who holds this land?" Jojen asked Bran. "The Night's Watch," he answered. "This is the Gift. The New Gift, and north of that Brandon's Gift." Maester Luwin had taught him the history. "Brandon the Builder gave all the land south of the Wall to the black brothers, to a distance of twenty-five leagues. For their ... for their sustenance and support." He was proud that he still remembered that part. "Some maesters say it was some other Brandon, not the Builder, but it's still Brandon's Gift. Thousands of years later, Good Queen Alysanne visited the Wall on her dragon Silverwing, and she thought the Night's Watch was so brave that she had the Old King double the size of their lands, to fifty leagues. So that was the New Gift." He waved a hand. "Here. All this." No one had lived in the village for long years, Bran could see. All the houses were falling down. Even the inn. It had never been much of an inn, to look at it, but now all that remained was a stone chimney and two cracked walls, set amongst a dozen apple trees. One was growing up through the common room, where a layer of wet brown leaves and rotting apples carpeted the floor. The air was thick with the smell of them, a cloying cidery scent that was almost overwhelming. Meera stabbed a few apples with her frog spear, trying to find some still good enough to eat, but they were all too brown and wormy. It was a peaceful spot, still and tranquil and lovely to behold, but Bran thought there was something sad about an empty inn, and Hodor seemed to feel it too. "Hodor? " he said in a confused sort of way. "Hodor? Hodor? " "This is good land." Jojen picked up a handful of dirt, rubbing it between his fingers. "A village, an inn, a stout holdfast in the lake, all these apple trees ... but where are the people, Bran? Why would they leave such a place?" "They were afraid of the wildlings," said Bran. "Wildlings come over the Wall or through the mountains, to raid and steal and carry off women. If they catch you, they make your skull into a cup to drink blood, Old Nan used to say. The Night's Watch isn't so strong as it was in Brandon's day or Queen Alysanne's, so more get through. The places nearest the Wall got raided so much the smallfolk moved south, into the mountains or onto the Umber lands east of the kingsroad. The Greatjon's people get raided too, but not so much as the people who used to live in the Gift." Jojen Reed turned his head slowly, listening to music only he could hear. "We need to shelter here. There's a storm coming. A bad one." Bran looked up at the sky. It had been a beautiful crisp clear autumn day, sunny and almost warm, but there were dark clouds off to the west now, that was true, and the wind seemed to be picking up. "There's no roof on the inn and only the two walls," he pointed out. "We should go out to the holdfast." "Hodor," said Hodor. Maybe he agreed. "We have no boat, Bran." Meera poked through the leaves idly with her frog spear. "There's a causeway. A stone causeway, hidden under the water. We could walk out." They could, anyway; he would have to ride on Hodor's back, but at least he'd stay dry that way. The Reeds exchanged a look. "How do you know that?" asked Jojen. "Have you been here before, my prince?" "No. Old Nan told me. The holdfast has a golden crown, see?" He pointed across the lake. You could see patches of flaking gold paint up around the crenellations. "Queen Alysanne slept there, so they painted the merlons gold in her honor." "A causeway?" Joien studied the lake. "You are certain?" "Certain," said Bran. Meera found the foot of it easily enough, once she knew to look; a stone pathway three feet wide, leading right out into the lake. She took them out step by careful step, probing ahead with her frog spear. They could see where the path emerged again, climbing from the water onto the island and turning into a short flight of stone steps that led to the holdfast door. Path, steps, and door were in a straight line, which made you think the causeway ran straight, but that wasn't so. Under the lake it zigged and zagged, going a third of a way around the island before jagging back. The turns were treacherous, and the long path meant that anyone approaching would be exposed to arrow fire from the tower for a long time. The hidden stones were slimy and slippery too; twice Hodor almost lost his footing and shouted "HODOR!" in alarm before regaining his balance. The second time scared Bran badly. If Hodor fell into the lake with him in his basket, he could well drown, especially if the huge stableboy panicked and forgot that Bran was there, the way he did sometimes. Maybe we should have stayed at the inn, under the apple tree, he thought, but by then it was too late. Thankfully there was no third time, and the water never got up past Hodor's waist, though the Reeds were in it up to their chests. And before long they were on the island, climbing the steps to the holdfast. The door was still stout, though its heavy oak planks had warped over the years and it could no longer be closed completely. Meera shoved it open all the way, the rusted iron hinges screaming. The lintel was low. "Duck down, Hodor," Bran said, and he did, but not enough to keep Bran from hitting his head. "That hurt," he complained. "Hodor," said Hodor, straightening. They found themselves in a gloomy strongroom, barely large enough to hold the four of them. Steps built into the inner wall of the tower curved away upward to their left, downward to their right, behind iron grates. Bran looked up and saw another grate just above his head. A murder hole. He was glad there was no one up there now to pour boiling oil down on them. The grates were locked, but the iron bars were red with rust. Hodor grabbed hold of the lefthand door and gave it a pull, grunting with effort. Nothing happened. He tried pushing with no more success. He shook the bars, kicked, shoved against them and rattled them and punched the hinges with a huge hand until the air was filled with flakes of rust, but the iron door would not budge. The one down to the undervault was no more accommodating. "No way in," said Meera, shrugging. The murder hole was just above Bran's head, as he sat in his basket on Hodor's back. He reached up and grabbed the bars to give them a try. When he pulled down the grating came out of the ceiling in a cascade of rust and crumbling stone. "HODOR!" Hodor shouted. The heavy iron grate gave Bran another bang in the head, and crashed down near Jojen's feet when he shoved it off of him. Meera laughed. "Look at that, my prince," she said, "you're stronger than Hodor." Bran blushed. With the grate gone, Hodor was able to boost Meera and Jojen up through the gaping murder hole. The crannogmen took Bran by the arms and drew him up after them. Getting Hodor inside was the hard part. He was too heavy for the Reeds to lift the way they'd lifted Bran. Finally Bran told him to go look for some big rocks. The island had no lack of those, and Hodor was able to pile them high enough to grab the crumbling edges of the hole and climb through. "Hodor, " he panted happily, grinning at all of them. They found themselves in a maze of small cells, dark and empty, but Meera explored until she found the way back to the steps. The higher they climbed, the better the light; on the third story the thick outer wall was pierced by arrow slits, the fourth had actual windows, and the fifth and highest was one big round chamber with arched doors on three sides opening onto small stone balconies. On the fourth side was a privy chamber perched above a sewer chute that dropped straight down into the lake. By the time they reached the roof the sky was completely overcast, and the clouds to the west were black. The wind was blowing so strong it lifted up Bran's cloak and made it flap and snap. "Hodor," Hodor said at the noise. Meera spun in a circle. "I feel almost a giant, standing high above the world." "There are trees in the Neck that stand twice as tall as this," her brother reminded her. "Aye, but they have other trees around them just as high," said Meera. "The world presses close in the Neck, and the sky is so much smaller. Here ... feel that wind, Brother? And look how large the world has grown." It was true, you could see a long ways from up here. To the south the foothills rose, with the mountains grey and green beyond them. The rolling plains of the New Gift stretched away to all the other directions, as far as the eye could see. "I was hoping we could see the Wall from here," said Bran, disappointed. "That was stupid, we must still be fifty leagues away." just speaking of it made him feel tired, and cold as well. "Jojen, what will we do when we reach the Wall? My uncle always said how big it was. Seven hundred feet high, and so thick at the base that the gates are more like tunnels through the ice. How are we going to get past to find the three-eyed crow?" "There are abandoned castles along the Wall, I've heard," Jojen answered. "Fortresses built by the Night's Watch but now left empty. One of them may give us our way through." The ghost castles, Old Nan had called them. Maester Luwin had once made Bran learn the names of every one of the forts along the Wall. That had been hard; there were nineteen of them all told, though no more than seventeen had ever been manned at any one time. At the feast in honor of King Robert's visit to Winterfell, Bran had recited the names for his uncle Benjen, east to west and then west to east. Benjen Stark had laughed and said, "You know them better than I do, Bran. Perhaps you should be First Ranger. I'll stay here in your place." That was before Bran fell, though. Before he was broken. By the time he'd woken crippled from his sleep, his uncle had gone back to Castle Black. "My uncle said the gates were sealed with ice and stone whenever a castle had to be abandoned," said Bran. "Then we'll have to open them again," said Meera. That made him uneasy. "We shouldn't do that. Bad things might come through from the other side. We should just go to Castle Black and tell the Lord Commander to let us pass." "Your Grace," said Jojen, "we must avoid Castle Black, just as we avoided the kingsroad. There are hundreds of men there." "Men of the Night's Watch," said Bran. "They say vows, to take no part in wars and stuff." "Aye," said Jojen, "but one man willing to forswear himself would be enough to sell your secret to the ironmen or the Bastard of Bolton. And we cannot be certain that the Watch would agree to let us pass. They might decide to hold us or send us back." "But my father was a friend of the Night's Watch, and my uncle is First Ranger. He might know where the three-eyed crow lives. And Jon's at Castle Black too." Bran had been hoping to see Jon again, and their uncle too. The last black brothers to visit Winterfell said that Benjen Stark had vanished on a ranging, but surely he would have made his way back by now. "I bet the Watch would even give us horses," he went on. "Quiet." Jojen shaded his eyes with a hand and gazed off toward the setting sun. "Look. There's something ... a rider, I think. Do you see him?" Bran shaded his eyes as well, and even so he had to squint. He saw nothing at first, till some movement made him turn. At first he thought it might be Summer, but no. A man on a horse. He was too far away to see much else. "Hodor?" Hodor had put a hand over his eyes as well, only he was looking the wrong way. "Hodor?" "He is in no haste," said Meera, "but he's making for this village, it seems to me." "We had best go inside, before we're seen," said Jojen. "Summer's near the village," Bran objected. "Summer will be fine," Meera promised. "It's only one man on a tired horse." A few fat wet drops began to patter against the stone as they retreated to the floor below. That was well timed; the rain began to fall in earnest a short time later. Even through the thick walls they could hear it lashing against the surface of the lake. They sat on the floor in the round empty room, amidst gathering gloom. The north-facing balcony looked out toward the abandoned village. Meera crept out on her belly to peer across the lake and see what had become of the horseman. "He's taken shelter in the ruins of the inn," she told them when she came back. "it looks as though he's making a fire in the hearth." "I wish we could have a fire," Bran said. "I'm cold. There's broken furniture down the stairs, I saw it. We could have Hodor chop it up and get warm." Hodor liked that idea. "Hodor," he said hopefully. Jojen shook his head. "Fire means smoke. Smoke from this tower could be seen a long way off." "If there were anyone to see," his sister argued. "There's a man in the village." "One man." "One man would be enough to betray Bran to his enemies, if he's the wrong man. We still have half a duck from yesterday. We should eat and rest. Come morning the man will go on his way, and we will do the same." Jojen had his way; he always did. Meera divided the duck between the four of them. She'd caught it in her net the day before, as it tried to rise from the marsh where she'd surprised it. It wasn't as tasty cold as it had been hot and crisp from the spit, but at least they did not go hungry. Bran and Meera shared the breast while Jojen ate the thigh. Hodor devoured the wing and leg, muttering "Hodor" and licking the grease off his fingers after every bite. It was Bran's turn to tell a story, so he told them about another Brandon Stark, the one called Brandon the Shipwright, who had sailed off beyond the Sunset Sea. Dusk was settling by the time duck and tale were done, and the rain still fell. Bran wondered how far Summer had roamed and whether he had caught one of the deer. Grey gloom filled the tower, and slowly changed to darkness. Hodor grew restless and walked awhile, striding round and round the walls and stopping to peer into the privy on every circuit, as if he had forgotten what was in there. Jojen stood by the north balcony, hidden by the shadows, looking out at the night and the rain. Somewhere to the north a lightning bolt crackled across the sky, brightening the inside of the tower for an instant. Hodor jumped and made a frightened noise. Bran counted to eight, waiting for the thunder. When it came, Hodor shouted, "Hodor!" I hope Summer isn't scared too, Bran thought. The dogs in Winterfell's kennels had always been spooked by thunderstorms, just like Hodor. I should go see, to calm him ... The lightning flashed again, and this time the thunder came at six. "Hodor!" Hodor yelled again. "HODOR! HODOR!" He snatched up his sword, as if to fight the storm. Jojen said, "Be quiet, Hodor. Bran, tell him not to shout. Can you get the sword away from him, Meera?" "I can try." "Hodor, hush," said Bran. "Be quiet now. No more stupid hodoring. Sit down." "Hodor?" He gave the longsword to Meera meekly enough, but his face was a mask of confusion. Jojen turned back to the darkness, and they all heard him suck in his breath. "What is it?" Meera asked. "Men in the village." "The man we saw before?" "Other men. Armed. I saw an axe, and spears as well." Joien had never sounded so much like the boy he was. "I saw them when the lightning flashed, moving under the trees." "How many?" "Many and more. Too many to count." "Mounted? "No." "Hodor." Hodor sounded frightened. "Hodor. Hodor." Bran felt a little scared himself, though he didn't want to say so in front of Meera. "What if they come out here?" "They won't." She sat down beside him. "Why should they?" "For shelter." Jojen's voice was grim. "Unless the storm lets up. Meera, could you go down and bar the door?" "I couldn't even close it. The wood's too warped. They won't get past those iron gates, though." "They might. They could break the lock, or the hinges. Or climb up through the murder hole as we did." Lightning slashed the sky, and Hodor whimpered. Then a clap of thunder rolled across the lake. "HODOR!" he roared, clapping his hands over his ears and stumbling in a circle through the darkness. "HODOR! HODOR! HODOR!" "NO!" Bran shouted back. "NO HODORING!" It did no good. "HOOOODOR!" moaned Hodor. Meera tried to catch him and calm him, but he was too strong. He flung her aside with no more than a shrug. "HOOOOOODOOOOOOOR!" the stableboy screamed as lightning filled the sky again, and even Jojen was shouting now, shouting at Bran and Meera to shut him up. "Be quiet!" Bran said in a shrill scared voice, reaching up uselessly for Hodor's leg as he crashed past, reaching, reaching. Hodor staggered, and closed his mouth. He shook his head slowly from side to side, sank back to the floor, and sat crosslegged. When the thunder boomed, he scarcely seemed to hear it. The four of them sat in the dark tower, scarce daring to breathe. "Bran, what did you do?" Meera whispered. "Nothing." Bran shook his head. "I don't know." But he did. I reached for him, the way I reach for Summer. He had been Hodor for half a heartbeat. It scared him. "Something is happening across the lake," said Jojen. "I thought I saw a man pointing at the tower." I won't be afraid. He was the Prince of Winterfell, Eddard Stark's son, almost a man grown and a warg too, not some little baby boy like Rickon. Summer would not be afraid. "Most like they're just some Umbers," he said. "Or they could be Knotts or Norreys or Flints come down from the mountains, or even brothers from the Night's Watch. Were they wearing black cloaks, Jojen?" "By night all cloaks are black, Your Grace. And the flash came and went too fast for me to tell what they were wearing." Meera was wary. "If they were black brothers, they'd be mounted, wouldn't they?" Bran had thought of something else. "It doesn't matter," he said confidently. "They couldn't get out to us even if they wanted. Not unless they had a boat, or knew about the causeway." "The causeway!" Meera mussed Bran's hair and kissed him on the forehead. "Our sweet prince! He's right, Jojen, they won't know about the causeway. Even if they did they could never find the way across at night in the rain." "The night will end, though. If they stay till morning..." Jojen left the rest unsaid. After a few moments he said, "They are feeding the fire the first man started." Lightning crashed through the sky, and light filled the tower and etched them all in shadow. Hodor rocked back and forth, humming. Bran could feel Summer's fear in that bright instant. He closed two eyes and opened a third, and his boy's skin slipped off him like a cloak as he left the tower behind ... ... and found himself out in the rain, his belly full of deer, cringing in the brush as the sky broke and boomed above him. The smell of rotten apples and wet leaves almost drowned the scent of man, but it was there. He heard the clink and slither of hardskin, saw men moving under the trees. A man with a stick blundered by, a skin pulled up over his head to make him blind and deaf. The wolf went wide around him, behind a dripping thornbush and beneath the bare branches of an apple tree. He could hear them talking, and there beneath the scents of rain and leaves and horse came the sharp red stench of fear ...

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DAVOS

Lord Alester looked up sharply. "Voices," he said. "Do you hear, Davos? Someone is coming for us." "Lamprey," said Davos. "It's time for our supper, or near enough." Last night Lamprey had brought them half a beef-and-bacon pie, and a flagon of mead as well. Just the thought of it made his belly start to rumble. "No, there's more than one." He's right. Davos heard two voices at least, and footsteps, growing louder. He got to his feet and moved to the bars. Lord Alester brushed the straw from his clothes. "The king has sent for me. Or the queen, yes, Selyse would never let me rot here, her own blood." Outside the cell, Lamprey appeared with a ring of keys in hand. Ser Axell Florent and four guardsmen followed close behind him. They waited beneath the torch while Lamprey searched for the correct key. "Axell," Lord Alester said. "Gods be good. Is it the king who sends for me, or the queen?" "No one has sent for you, traitor," Ser Axell said. Lord Alester recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "No, I swear to you, I committed no treason. Why won't you listen? If His Grace would only let me explain-" Lamprey thrust a great iron key into the lock, turned it, and pulled open the cell. The rusted hinges screamed in protest. "You," he said to Davos. "Come." "Where?" Davos looked to Ser Axell. "Tell me true, ser, do you mean to burn me?" "You are sent for. Can you walk?" "I can walk." Davos stepped from the cell. Lord Alester gave a cry of dismay as Lamprey slammed the door shut once more. "Take the torch," Ser Axell commanded the gaoler. "Leave the traitor to the darkness." "No," his brother said. "Axell, please, don't take the light . . . gods have mercy . . . " "Gods? There is only R'hllor, and the Other." Ser Axell gestured sharply, and one of his guardsmen pulled the torch from its sconce and led the way to the stair. "Are you taking me to Melisandre?" Davos asked. "She will be there," Ser Axell said. "She is never far from the king. But it is His Grace himself who asked for you." Davos lifted his hand to his chest, where once his luck had hung in a leather bag on a thong. Gone now, he remembered, and the ends of four fingers as well. But his hands were still long enough to wrap about a woman's throat, he thought, especially a slender throat like hers. Up they went, climbing the turnpike stair in single file. The walls were rough dark stone, cool to the touch. The light of the torches went before them, and their shadows marched beside them on the walls. At the third turn they passed an iron gate that opened on blackness, and another at the fifth turn. Davos guessed that they were near the surface by then, perhaps even above it. The next door they came to was made of wood, but still they climbed. Now the walls were broken by arrow slits, but no shafts of sunlight pried their way through the thickness of the stone. It was night outside. His legs were aching by the time Ser Axell thrust open a heavy door and gestured him through. Beyond, a high stone bridge arched over emptiness to the massive central tower called the Stone Drum. A sea wind blew restlessly through the arches that supported the roof, and Davos could smell the salt water as they crossed. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean cold air. Wind and water, give me strength, he prayed. A huge nightfire burned in the yard below, to keep the terrors of the dark at bay, and the queen's men were gathered around it, singing praises to their new red god. They were in the center of the bridge when Ser Axell stopped suddenly. He made a brusque gesture with his hand, and his men moved out of earshot. "Were it my choice, I would burn you with my brother Alester," he told Davos. "You are both traitors." "Say what you will. I would never betray King Stannis." "You would. You will. I see it in your face. And I have seen it in the flames as well. R'hllor has blessed me with that gift. Like Lady Melisandre, he shows me the future in the fire. Stannis Baratheon will sit the Iron Throne. I have seen it. And I know what must be done. His Grace must make me his Hand, in place of my traitor brother. And you will tell him so." Will I? Davos said nothing. "The queen has urged my appointment," Ser Axell went on. "Even your old friend from Lys, the pirate Saan, he says the same. We have made a plan together, him and me. Yet His Grace does not act. The defeat gnaws inside him, a black worm in his soul. It is up to us who love him to show him what to do. If you are as devoted to his cause as you claim, smuggler, you will join your voice to ours. Tell him that I am the only Hand he needs. Tell him, and when we sail I shall see that you have a new ship." A ship. Davos studied the other man's face. Ser Axell had big Florent ears, much like the queen's. Coarse hair grew from them, as from his nostrils; more sprouted in tufts and patches beneath his double chin. His nose was broad, his brow beetled, his eyes close-set and hostile. He would sooner give me a pyre than a ship, he said as much, but if I do him this favor . . . "if you think to betray me," Ser Axell said, "pray remember that I have been castellan of Dragonstone a good long time. The garrison is mine. Perhaps I cannot burn you without the king's consent, but who is to say you might not suffer a fall." He laid a meaty hand on the back of Davos's neck and shoved him bodily against the waist-high side of the bridge, then shoved a little harder to force his face out over the yard. "Do you hear me?" "I hear," said Davos. And you dare name me traitor? Ser Axell released him. "Good." He smiled. "His Grace awaits. Best we do not keep him." At the very top of Stone Drum, within the great round room called the Chamber of the Painted Table, they found Stannis Baratheon standing behind the artifact that gave the hall its name, a massive slab of wood carved and painted in the shape of Westeros as it had been in the time of Aegon the Conqueror. An iron brazier stood beside the king, its coals glowing a ruddy orange. Four tall pointed windows looked out to north, south, east, and west. Beyond was the night and the starry sky. Davos could hear the wind moving, and fainter, the sounds of the sea. "Your Grace," Ser Axell said, "as it please you, I have brought the onion knight." "So I see." Stannis wore a grey wool tunic, a dark red mantle, and a plain black leather belt from which his sword and dagger hung. A red-gold crown with flame-shaped points encircled his brows. The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm's End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king's close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face. Yet when he saw Davos, a faint smile brushed his lips. "So the sea has returned me my knight of the fish and onions." "It did, Your Grace." Does he know that he had me in his dungeon? Davos went to one knee. "Rise, Ser Davos," Stannis commanded. "I have missed you, ser. I have need of good counsel, and you never gave me less. So tell me true-what is the penalty for treason?" The word hung in the air. A frightful word, thought Davos. Was he being asked to condemn his cellmate? Or himself, perchance? Kings know the penalty for treason better than any man. "Treason?" he finally managed, weakly. "What else would you call it, to deny your king and seek to steal his rightful throne. I ask you again-what is the penalty for treason under the law?" Davos had no choice but to answer. "Death," he said. "The penalty is death, Your Grace." "It has always been so. I am not . . . I am not a cruel man, Ser Davos. You know me. Have known me long. This is not my decree. It has always been so, since Aegon's day and before. Daemon Blackfyre, the brothers Toyne, the Vulture King, Grand Maester Hareth . . . traitors have always paid with their lives . . . even Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was daughter to one king and mother to two more, yet she died a traitor's death for trying to usurp her brother's crown. It is law. Law, Davos. Not cruelty." "Yes, Your Grace." He does not speak of me. Davos felt a moment's pity for his cellmate down in the dark. He knew he should keep silent, but he was tired and sick of heart, and he heard himself say, "Sire, Lord Florent meant no treason." "Do smugglers have another name for it? I made him Hand, and he would have sold my rights for a bowl of pease porridge. He would even have given them Shireen. Mine only child, he would have wed to a bastard born of incest." The king's voice was thick with anger. "My brother had a gift for inspiring loyalty. Even in his foes. At Summerhall he won three battles in a single day, and brought Lords Grandison and Cafferen back to Storm's End as prisoners. He hung their banners in the hall as trophies. Cafferen's white fawns were spotted with blood and Grandison's sleeping lion was torn near in two. Yet they would sit beneath those banners of a night, drinking and feasting with Robert. He even took them hunting. 'These men meant to deliver you to Aerys to be burned' I told him after I saw them throwing axes in the yard. 'You should not be putting axes in their hands.' Robert only laughed. I would have thrown Grandison and Cafferen into a dungeon, but he turned them into friends. Lord Cafferen died at Ashford Castle, cut down by Randyll Tarly whilst fighting for Robert. Lord Grandison was wounded on the Trident and died of it a year after. My brother made them love him, but it would seem that I inspire only betrayal. Even in mine own blood and kin. Brother, grandfather, cousins, good uncle . . . " "Your Grace," said Ser Axell, "I beg you, give me the chance to prove to you that not all Florents are so feeble." "Ser Axell would have me resume the war," King Stannis told Davos. "The Lannisters think I am done and beaten, and my sworn lords have forsaken me, near every one. Even Lord Estermont, my own mother's father, has bent his knee to Joffrey. The few loyal men who remain to me are losing heart. They waste their days drinking and gambling, and lick their wounds like beaten curs." "Battle will set their hearts ablaze once more, Your Grace," Ser Axell said. "Defeat is a disease, and victory is the cure." "Victory." The king's mouth twisted. "There are victories and victories, ser. But tell your plan to Ser Davos. I would hear his views on what you propose." Ser Axell turned to Davos, with a look on his face much like the look that proud Lord Belgrave must have worn, the day King Baelor the Blessed had commanded him to wash the beggar's ulcerous feet. Nonetheless, he obeyed. The plan Ser Axell had devised with Salladhor Saan was simple. A few hours' sail from Dragonstone lay Claw Isle, ancient sea-girt seat of House Celtigar. Lord Ardrian Celtigar had fought beneath the flery heart on the Blackwater, but once taken, he had wasted no time in going over to Joffrey. He remained in King's Landing even now. "Too frightened of His Grace's wrath to come near Dragonstone, no doubt," Ser Axell declared. "And wisely so. The man has betrayed his rightful king." Ser Axell proposed to use Salladhor Saan's fleet and the men who had escaped the Blackwater-Stannis still had some fifteen hundred on Dragonstone, more than half of them Florents-to exact retribution for Lord Celtigar's defection. Claw Isle was but lightly garrisoned, its castle reputedly stuffed with Myrish carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups, magnificent hawks, an axe of Valyrian steel, a horn that could summon monsters from the deep, chests of rubies, and more wines than a man could drink in a hundred years. Though Celtigar had shown the world a niggardly face, he had never stinted on his own comforts. "Put his castle to the torch and his people to the sword, I say," Ser Axell concluded. "Leave Claw Isle a desolation of ash and bone, fit only for carrion crows, so the realm might see the fate of those who bed with Lannisters." Stannis listened to Ser Axell's recitation in silence, grinding his jaw slowly from side to side. When it was done, he said, "It could be done, I believe. The risk is small. Joffrey has no strength at sea until Lord Redwyne sets sail from the Arbor. The plunder might serve to keep that Lysene pirate Salladhor Saan loyal for a time. By itself Claw Isle is worthless, but its fall would serve notice to Lord Tywin that my cause is not yet done." The king turned back to Davos. "Speak truly, ser. What do you make of Ser Axell's proposal?" Speak truly, ser. Davos remembered the dark cell he had shared with Lord Alester, remembered Lamprey and Porridge. He thought of the promises that Ser Axell had made on the bridge above the yard. A ship or a shove, what shall it be? But this was Stannis asking. "Your Grace," he said slowly, "I make it folly . . . aye, and cowardice." "Cowardice?" Ser Axell all but shouted. "No man calls me craven before my king!" "Silence," Stannis commanded. "Ser Davos, speak on, I would hear your reasons." Davos turned to face Ser Axell. "You say we ought show the realm we are not done. Strike a blow. Make war, aye . . . but on what enemy? You will find no Lannisters on Claw Isle." "We will find traitors," said Ser Axell, "though it may be I could find some closer to home. Even in this very room." Davos ignored the jibe. "I don't doubt Lord Celtigar bent the knee to the boy Joffrey. He is an old done man, who wants no more than to end his days in his castle, drinking his fine wine out of his jeweled cups." He turned back to Stannis. "Yet he came when you called, sire. Came, with his ships and swords. He stood by you at Storm's End when Lord Renly came down on us, and his ships sailed up the Blackwater. His men fought for you, killed for you, burned for you. Claw Isle is weakly held, yes. Held by women and children and old men. And why is that? Because their husbands and sons and fathers died on the Blackwater, that's why. Died at their oars, or with swords in their hands, fighting beneath our banners. Yet Ser Axell proposes we swoop down on the homes they left behind, to rape their widows and put their children to the sword. These smallfolk are no traitors . . . " "They are," insisted Ser Axell. "Not all of Celtigar's men were slain on the Blackwater. Hundreds were taken with their lord, and bent the knee when he did." "When he did," Davos repeated. "They were his men. His sworn men. What choice were they given?" "Every man has choices. They might have refused to kneel. Some did, and died for it. Yet they died true men, and loyal." "Some men are stronger than others." It was a feeble answer, and Davos knew it. Stannis Baratheon was a man of iron will who neither understood nor forgave weakness in others . I am losing, he thought, despairing. "It is every man's duty to remain loyal to his rightful king, even if the lord he serves proves false," Stannis declared in a tone that brooked no argument. A desperate folly took hold of Davos, a recklessness akin to madness. "As you remained loyal to King Aerys when your brother raised his banners?" he blurted. Shocked silence followed, until Ser Axell cried, "Treason!" and snatched his dagger from its sheath. "Your Grace, he speaks his infamy to your face!" Davos could hear Stannis grinding his teeth. A vein bulged, blue and swollen, in the king's brow. Their eyes met. "Put up your knife, Ser Axell. And leave us." "As it please Your Grace-" "It would please me for you to leave," said Stannis. "Take yourself from my presence, and send me Melisandre." "As you command." Ser Axell slid the knife away, bowed, and hurried toward the door. His boots rang against the floor, angry. "You have always presumed on my forbearance," Stannis warned Davos when they were alone. "I can shorten your tongue as easy as I did your fingers, smuggler." "I am your man, Your Grace. So it is your tongue, to do with as you please." "It is," he said, calmer. "And I would have it speak the truth. Though the truth is a bitter draught at times. Aerys? If you only knew . . . that was a hard choosing. My blood or my liege. My brother or my king." He grimaced. "Have you ever seen the Iron Throne? The barbs along the back, the ribbons of twisted steel, the jagged ends of swords and knives all tangled up and melted? It is not a comfortable seat, ser. Aerys cut himself so often men took to calling him King Scab, and Maegor the Cruel was murdered in that chair. By that chair, to hear some tell it. It is not a seat where a man can rest at ease. Ofttimes I wonder why my brothers wanted it so desperately." "Why would you want it, then?" Davos asked him. "It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as Robert's heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son." He ran three fingers lightly down the table, over the layers of smooth hard varnish, dark with age. "I am king. Wants do not enter into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm. Even to Robert. He loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother. The Lannister woman gave him horns and made a motley fool of him. She may have murdered him as well, as she murdered Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. For such crimes there must be justice. Starting with Cersei and her abominations. But only starting. I mean to scour that court clean. As Robert should have done, after the Trident. Ser Barristan once told me that the rot in King Aerys's reign began with Varys. The eunuch should never have been pardoned. No more than the Kingslayer. At the least, Robert should have stripped the white cloak from Jaime and sent him to the Wall, as Lord Stark urged. He listened to Jon Arryn instead. I was still at Storm's End, under siege and unconsulted." He turned abruptly, to give Davos a hard shrewd look. "The truth, now. Why did you wish to murder Lady Melisandre?" So he does know. Davos could not lie to him. "Four of my sons burned on the Blackwater. She gave them to the flames." "You wrong her. Those fires were no work of hers. Curse the Imp, curse the pyromancers, curse that fool of Florent who sailed my fleet into the jaws of a trap. Or curse me for my stubborn pride, for sending her away when I needed her most. But not Melisandre. She remains my faithful servant." "Maester Cressen was your faithful servant. She slew him, as she killed Ser Cortnay Penrose and your brother Renly." "Now you sound a fool," the king complained. "She saw Renly's end in the flames, yes, but she had no more part in it than I did. The priestess was with me. Your Devan would tell you so. Ask him, if you doubt me. She would have spared Renly if she could. It was Melisandre who urged me to meet with him, and give him one last chance to amend his treason. And it was Melisandre who told me to send for you when Ser Axell wished to give you to R'hllor." He smiled thinly. "Does that surprise you?" "Yes. She knows I am no friend to her or her red god." "But you are a friend to me. She knows that as well." He beckoned Davos closer. "The boy is sick. Maester Pylos has been leeching him." "The boy?" His thoughts went to his Devan, the king's squire. "My son, sire?" "Devan? A good boy. He has much of you in him. It is Robert's bastard who is sick, the boy we took at Storm's End." Edric Storm. "I spoke with him in Aegon's Garden." "As she wished. As she saw." Stannis sighed. "Did the boy charm you? He has that gift. He got it from his father, with the blood. He knows he is a king's son, but chooses to forget that he is bastard-born. And he worships Robert, as Renly did when he was young. My royal brother played the fond father on his visits to Storm's End, and there were gifts . . . swords and ponies and fur-trimmed cloaks. The eunuch's work, every one. The boy would write the Red Keep full of thanks, and Robert would laugh and ask Varys what he'd sent this year. Renly was no better. He left the boy's upbringing to castellans and maesters, and every one fell victim to his charm. Penrose chose to die rather than give him up." The king ground his teeth together. "It still angers me. How could he think I would hurt the boy? I chose Robert, did I not? When that hard day came. I chose blood over honor." He does not use the boy's name. That made Davos very uneasy. "I hope young Edric will recover soon." Stannis waved a hand, dismissing his concern. "It is a chill, no more. He coughs, he shivers, he has a fever. Maester Pylos will soon set him right. By himself the boy is nought, you understand, but in his veins flows my brother's blood. There is power in a king's blood, she says." Davos did not have to ask who she was. Stannis touched the Painted Table. "Look at it, onion knight. My realm, by rights. My Westeros." He swept a hand across it. "This talk of Seven Kingdoms is a folly. Aegon saw that three hundred years ago when he stood where we are standing. They painted this table at his command. Rivers and bays they painted, hills and mountains, castles and cities and market towns, lakes and swamps and forests . . . but no borders. It is all one. One realm, for one king to rule alone." "One king," agreed Davos. "One king means peace." "I shall bring justice to Westeros. A thing Ser Axell understands as little as he does war. Claw Isle would gain me naught . . . and it was evil, just as you said. Celtigar must pay the traitor's price himself, in his own person. And when I come into my kingdom, he shall. Every man shall reap what he has sown, from the highest lord to the lowest gutter rat. And some will lose more than the tips off their fingers, I promise you. They have made my kingdom bleed, and I do not forget that." King Stannis turned from the table. "On your knees, Onion Knight." "Your Grace?" "For your onions and fish, I made you a knight once. For this, I am of a mind to raise you to lord." This? Davos was lost. "I am content to be your knight, Your Grace. I would not know how to begin being lordly." "Good. To be lordly is to be false. I have learned that lesson hard. Now, kneel. Your king commands." Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis touched it to Davos's shoulder, it felt no different than any other longsword. "Ser Davos of House Seaworth," the king said, "are you my true and honest liege man, now and forever?" "I am, Your Grace." "And do you swear to serve me loyally all your days, to give me honest counsel and swift obedience, to defend my rights and my realm against all foes in battles great and small, to protect my people and punish my enemies?" "I do, Your Grace." "Then rise again, Davos Seaworth, and rise as Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the King." For a moment Davos was too stunned to move. I woke this morning in his dungeon. "Your Grace, you cannot . . . I am no fit man to be a King's Hand." "There is no man fitter." Stannis sheathed Lightbringer, gave Davos his hand, and pulled him to his feet. "I am lowborn," Davos reminded him. "An upjumped smuggler. Your lords will never obey me." "Then we will make new lords." "But . . . I cannot read . . . nor write . . . " "Maester Pylos can read for you. As to writing, my last Hand wrote the head off his shoulders. All I ask of you are the things you've always given me. Honesty. Loyalty. Service." "Surely there is someone better . . . some great lord . . . " Stannis snorted. "Bar Emmon, that boy? My faithless grandfather? Celtigar has abandoned me, the new Velaryon is six years old, and the new Sunglass sailed for Volantis after I burned his brother." He made an angry gesture. "A few good men remain, it's true. Ser Gilbert Farring holds Storm's End for me still, with two hundred loyal men. Lord Morrigen, the Bastard of Nightsong, young Chyttering, my cousin Andrew . . . but I trust none of them as I trust you, my lord of Rainwood. You will be my Hand. It is you I want beside me for the battle." Another battle will be the end of all of us, thought Davos. Lord Alester saw that much true enough. "Your Grace asked for honest counsel. In honesty then . . . we lack the strength for another battle against the Lannisters." "It is the great battle His Grace is speaking of," said a woman's voice, rich with the accents of the east. Melisandre stood at the door in her red silks and shimmering satins, holding a covered silver dish in her hands. "These little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power, Davos Seaworth, a power fell and evil and strong beyond measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends." She placed the silver dish on the Painted Table. "Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire." Stannis stared at the silver dish. "She has shown it to me, Lord Davos. In the flames." "You saw it, sire?" It was not like Stannis Baratheon to lie about such a thing. "With mine own eyes. After the battle, when I was lost to despair, the Lady Melisandre bid me gaze into the hearthfire. The chimney was drawing strongly, and bits of ash were rising from the fire. I stared at them, feeling half a fool, but she bid me look deeper, and . . . the ashes were white, rising in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling. Snow, I thought. Then the sparks in the air seemed to circle, to become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down on some high hill in a forest. The cinders had become men in black behind the torches, and there were shapes moving through the snow. For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered, and when I did the sight was gone, the fire but a fire once again. But what I saw was real, I'd stake my kingdom on it." "And have," said Melisandre. The conviction in the king's voice frightened Davos to the core. "A hill in a forest . . . shapes in the snow . . . I don't . . . " "It means that the battle is begun," said Melisandre. "The sand is running through the glass more quickly now, and man's hour on earth is almost done. We must act boldly, or all hope is lost. Westeros must unite beneath her one true king, the prince that was promised, Lord of Dragonstone and chosen of R'hllor." "R'hllor chooses queerly, then." The king grimaced, as if he'd tasted something foul. "Why me, and not my brothers? Renly and his peach. In my dreams I see the juice running from his mouth, the blood from his throat. If he had done his duty by his brother, we would have smashed Lord Tywin. A victory even Robert could be proud of. Robert . . . " His teeth ground side to side. "He is in my dreams as well. Laughing. Drinking. Boasting. Those were the things he was best at. Those, and fighting. I never bested him at anything. The Lord of Light should have made Robert his champion. Why me?" "Because you are a righteous man," said Melisandre. "A righteous man." Stannis touched the covered silver platter with a finger. "With leeches." "Yes," said Melisandre, "but I must tell you once more, this is not the way." "You swore it would work." The king looked angry. "It will . . . and it will not." "Which?" "Both." "Speak sense to me, woman." "When the fires speak more plainly, so shall I. There is truth in the flames, but it is not always easy to see." The great ruby at her throat drank fire from the glow of the brazier. "Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon." "I have told you, no." "He is only one baseborn boy, against all the boys of Westeros, and all the girls as well. Against all the children that might ever be born, in all the kingdoms of the world." "The boy is innocent." "The boy defiled your marriage bed, else you would surely have sons of your own. He shamed you." "Robert did that. Not the boy. My daughter has grown fond of him. And he is mine own blood." "Your brother's blood," Melisandre said. "A king's blood. Only a king's blood can wake the stone dragon." Stannis ground his teeth. "I'll hear no more of this. The dragons are done. The Targaryens tried to bring them back half a dozen times. And made fools of themselves, or corpses. Patchface is the only fool we need on this godsforsaken rock. You have the leeches. Do your work." Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, "As my king commands." Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy's blood, Davos knew. A king's blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches. "Say the name," Melisandre commanded. The leech was twisting in the king's grip, trying to attach itself to one of his fingers. "The usurper," he said. "Joffrey Baratheon." When he tossed the leech into the fire, it curled up like an autumn leaf amidst the coals, and burned. Stannis grasped the second. "The usurper," he declared, louder this time. "Balon Greyjoy." He flipped it lightly onto the brazier, and its flesh split and cracked. The blood burst from it, hissing and smoking. The last was in the king's hand. This one he studied a moment as it writhed between his fingers. "The usurper," he said at last. "Robb Stark." And he threw it on the flames.

[mxliv-oftheendless]

Black Dahlia (Chapter 6)

Morning all, and welcome back to Black Dahlia! This is sorta more of a filler chapter where not much action happens, but don’t you love those kinds of chapters? Hope you enjoy! Also, there’s no “Keep Reading” thing this time because I’m posting this from my phone and I can’t put a “Keep Reading” thing there from my phone for some damn reason. Sheesh, Tumblr, amirite? Anyway, read on and enjoy!

After completing their search of the sector, the only room they hadn’t checked was the chem lab, as it was locked.

“Shandi has the keys,” Starchild told Heather. “So we need to find Shandi.”

Shandi, luckily, was in her special effects lab, making sure effects worked for the concert. She was happy to open the lab for them, she just had to finish a test run.

Heather watched the generated ghost fly around and moan and cackle, and she had to admit—her effects were impressive. She definitely had the means to conjure a realistic-looking scythe… but what potentially was her motivation? She definitely stood to lose something if the park closed.

“Do you like working at KISS World, Shandi?” Heather asked her conversationally.

Shandi looked up at the question, and smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty great. I mean, that security lady, Delilah, is kind of intense, but Mr. Goldman’s nice. It’s definitely better than always being on the road. Why do you ask?”

“I dunno, I just heard the park might close if this witch mystery isn’t solved,”

Shandi looked surprised. “Really? That’s terrible!”

Heather nodded. “Yeah, it is.” Reassured slightly, Heather went back to watching the ghost.

Suddenly, the door banged open and someone ran inside, tackling the ghost—or trying to tackle it, rather. There was a grunt, and then a splash. Why was there a splash?

“Freddy!” a voice cried out. Daphne?

The form on the floor sat up. “What is this place?” he said aloud—it was Fred.

The ghost disappeared, and Shandi turned the lights back on. “It’s my special effects lab,” she said.

Heather looked, and it was indeed Fred on the ground, looking soaked, with Daphne behind him. “Hey, kids!” she said cheerfully.

Starchild was not so cheerful. “I thought I told you guys to stay back,”

Daphne glared pointedly at Fred as he picked himself up off the ground. “Some of us had other ideas,”

Shandi looked at Fred’s soaked clothing. “Don’t worry, Fred, we can dry you off.” She turned to her two assistants. “Beth? Christine?”

The two girls went over to a huge fan and turned it on. The blast of air blew Fred back, and distorted his voice as he tried to speak.

When the girls turned off the fan, Daphne spoke again. “I take it you didn’t find the witch?”

Heather shook her head. “Nope,”

“We searched this whole sector except for the chem lab,” Starchild replied. “That’s why we came to Shandi.”

“I’m the only one who has the key,” Shandi explained. “C’mon, let’s go.”

The group followed Shandi down the hallway to the lab. “If you don’t mind me asking, Shandi,” Heather said to her, “why is the lab locked?”

“For the last few months, chemicals have gone missing,” Shandi replied. “So I keep the lab under lock and key. No one gets in without coming to me first.”

“What kinds of chemicals?”

“Gases, mostly. The gas is harmless to people, but the effect it makes is cool.”

Shandi unlocked the door, opened it, and turned on the lights. There were tables set up, and a machine over in one corner, but other than that the tables were bare. “See?” Shandi gestured to the tables. “Empty.”

Fred’s eyes lit up at the sight of the machine. “Hey, is that a chemical analyzer?”

Shandi smiled. “Pretty smart of you, Fred,”

“I’ve got a couple at home,” Fred pulled out the evidence bag containing the red dust. “Hey, do you think you can analyze this? It’s the residue from the witch’s mist.”

Shandi took the bag. “Sure. Anything for a fellow chemie.”

Fred watched her go over to the analyzer. Heather raised an eyebrow at that, then turned to find Daphne glaring in Shandi’s direction. Jealousy on both fronts, eh? This is sure to end well…

The analysis was going to take a few hours, so Fred and Daphne decided to meet up with the rest of the gang.

“Would you allow me to escort you back to the surface, m’lady?” Starchild asked Heather jokingly, bowing like a gentleman as Daphne and Fred walked off.

Heather laughed and curtsied. “Oh, how very kind of you, sir,”

As they were walking back to the surface, Heather suddenly thought of the flowers lining the wall. “Hey, by the way, I wasn’t expecting the flowers outside the wall. Who did that?”

“Uh…” Starchild rubbed the back of his neck. “… We suggested it. The band, I mean. We didn’t actually expect them to do it.”

Heather wasn’t expecting that. “Oh… Well, they look really nice.”

The two of them were silent for a moment, then Starchild said, “Heather… if you wanted to, you could come back.”

Heather turned to him in surprise. “I could?”

“As I said, if you wanted to. We’d all accept you back. If you don’t want to, it’s okay. But… we miss you almost every day.”

Heather couldn’t find a reply, except for, “… Can I think it over?”

Starchild nodded. “Of course. Take all the time you need, and when you’re ready, we’ll be there.”

-KISSTERIA-

Heather rejoined the gang in the security building. Upon walking into the room with the security cameras, she immediately noticed Shaggy and Scooby were shaking, glancing around. “What happened to you guys?”

“Like, we ran into the witch and some freaky KISS monsters!” Shaggy replied. “We like barely escaped with our lives!”

From where she was sitting at the computers, Velma rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Shaggy.” She turned and explained to Heather, “They ran into the Crimson Witch, and she apparently made KISS monster statues come alive. By the time we got there, they were gone.”

Heather raised her eyebrows at both the story and Velma calling her the Crimson Witch. “Freaky. How was your visit to Chikara?”

Velma frowned at the thought of the woman. “I’ll give her this: she can tell a story.”

“It still seems kind of freaky to me,” Daphne stated. “Too freaky to be real.”

Heather didn’t reply to that. She wished it was too freaky to be real, too.

She and the gang gathered around Velma’s chair as she keyed up character profiles of all the people they had met tonight. “I can’t say we don’t have enough suspects,” she said. “The problem is finding a motive.”

“The only one who’d like the park to shut down is Chip,” said Fred. “But he doesn’t seem smart enough.”

Daphne turned to him. “Shandi’s smart enough,”

“I know,” Fred replied. “But she’s way too cute to be a suspect.”

Daphne glared at him. Heather rolled her eyes. “I’m not too sure about Shandi, Daphne,” she said to the obviously-jealous girl. “I asked her earlier about it—I don’t think she wants the park to shut down.”

“What about Manny Goldman?” Velma asked.

Heather frowned as Manny’s profile came up onscreen. “Manny would never do something like this,” she insisted. “He’s not the type. Besides, he doesn’t even want the park to close.”

“Like, neither would the security lady,” Shaggy chimed in. “They’d lose their jobs.”

“Chikara’s the one who’s most obsessed with the witch,” Velma said, turning her chair around. “She talks as if she’s really supernatural.”

“She’s not?” Shaggy asked.

“No, Shaggy, she’s not. No matter what you think you’ve seen, there has to be a rational explanation.”

Heather didn’t give a reply to that, either. The way this mystery was going, she was going to let Velma stick to her philosophy for as long as possible—she wasn’t going to sink so low as to shatter it for her.

“It all centers on that rock,” Fred commented.

“The so-called Rock of KISSteria,” Velma agreed, “which seems to be KISS’s Detroit Rock.”

Heather snorted slightly at that. It was a lame cover story back then, and it was a lame cover story now.

“You mean the one they sing about in that song ‘Detroit Rock City’?” Shaggy asked. “I always thought that stood for rock and roll!”

“Huh.” The gang and Heather turned to see Spaceman and Starchild entering the room. It was Spaceman who had spoken. “Never thought of that,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess that works too.”

“Did you figure anything out?” Starchild asked the group.

“Not yet,” Daphne answered. “But if we had that rock, we might be able to set a trap.”

Starchild smiled at her. “Then maybe it’s time we hand it over to you, darling,”

-KISSTERIA-

Heather watched in anticipation as Demon placed the ornate box on the table, trying hard not to bounce on the balls of her feet in excitement.

“I do not like this,” Demon growled.

Starchild just kept smiling. “It’s going to be fine,”

“How do you know?”

Starchild just pointed at his right eye.

Demon was not amused. “Oy…”

Catman spoke up. “C’mon, Demon. If we don’t stop the witch tonight, the park’ll go under!”

“So let’s rock these kids already!” Spaceman exclaimed.

The two of them placed their hands on the box one after the other, and Starchild followed. When they placed their hands on the box, a musical note sounded out.

Demon finally heaved a sigh and threw his hands up in the air. “Alright,”

He placed his hand on the box, and a fourth musical note sounded. Then the top decoration of the box twisted around, then sank down. The box opened, and the Rock of KISSteria was revealed to them all.

Perhaps it was because it had been years since she’d seen it, but the sight of the majestic black diamond took Heather’s breath away. She had always taken pride in the fact that her family helped to create that rock, and to see it before her eyes again was nothing short of an honor.

The rest of the gang seemed awed as well. “Jinkies,” Velma breathed. “It’s a black diamond!”

“The largest in the world,” Starchild informed her proudly.

“That explains why the Crimson Witch has turned this place upside down looking for it!” Daphne exclaimed.

“Now it’s just a matter of setting a trap,” Fred said, getting his serious plan-making look on his face.

“Yeah!” Shaggy agreed, placing his hand on Scooby’s head. “So like, who’s going to be the bait?”

All of them, Heather included, turned to look at them and chorused, “You are!”

Shaggy and Scooby visibly deflated at the news. “Scoob, how is it that out of four ginormous superheroes, you and I have to do the hard part?”

Scooby sighed despairingly. “Oh, just lucky, I guess,”

Heather smiled at them. “C’mon, guys, you can do it! KISS can’t lure her out; they’re too obvious.”

“Yeah,” Catman agreed. “Put yourself in our shoes.”

Shaggy perked up at that. “Y’know what? That might just help.”

-KISSTERIA-

“… and then we’ll throw the net over the witch!” Fred concluded, smiling in excitement as he finished explaining his plan. “So, how’s that sound?”

He was met with silence. Demon, in his usual blunt fashion, spoke up first. “Your plan is to lure her out with the Rock of KISSteria… and throw a net over her?”

“Yeah!” Fred nodded. Then his smile faded slightly. “Why? Is that bad?”

Catman shrugged. “I mean, it’s not a bad plan. It’s just…”

“You’re going to need to do better than that,” Spaceman finished.

Velma looked skeptical. “She’s just a woman in a costume. How hard can it be to trap her?”

“Very hard,”

Everyone turned to Heather. Her arms were crossed, her gaze was on the floor, and the younger kids were instantly struck by the haunted look on her face. She looked up at Fred. “Fred, far be it from me to get in the way of your trap-making, but it’s not going to be that simple. Either add on to it, or scrap it and think of something else.”

“But Aunt Heather—” Fred began, but Heather cut him off, her voice now firm.  

“I don’t care. You need to do better than just throwing a net over her!” She turned to the rest of the gang. “And that goes for the rest of you. The Crimson Witch is dangerous, kids. She’s not some run-of-the-mill monster who’s just a human in a costume. You all have to understand that from here on out, you could get seriously hurt, or even killed. So figure it out, but in the gods’ names, do not just settle for throwing a net over her.”

She turned on her heel and headed for the door, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll go tell Manny we’re making a plan.”

When she had disappeared out the door, Daphne made to follow her. “Let her go,” Starchild said to her. “She’ll be fine.”

“I’ve never seen her like that before,” Fred said worriedly. “What is it about the Crimson Witch that makes her so upset?”

“Chikara mentioned Heather, too,” Velma piped up. “But she kept calling her ‘Black Dahlia.’ Why is that?”

KISS glanced at each other, and it was Starchild who answered. “There’s a lot about Heather she doesn’t like to talk about, and a lot more to her than you realize.”

“But Aunt Heather’s… Aunt Heather!” Fred insisted. “She’s not some maniac with a ton of secrets! She’s just Aunt Heather, my sixty-year-old aunt who likes flowers and rock music! Why would she want to keep secrets?”

Demon glared at him pointedly. “Let’s say something happened to you, so horrible that you were never the same as you were before. Would you want to talk about it?”

None of them had an answer to that.

#black dahlia #chapter six #black dahlia series #hey shandi what was that water there for? #was it like just an excuse to reveal your assistants’ names? #oh well #maybe someday i’ll write a sidestory about spaceman and velma’s visit to chikara #and include chikara’s references to heather #the majestic rock of kissteria is revealed! #ooooh BLACK DIAMOND! #fred’s on the right track... he’s just not on the right train #heather has some unresolved issues #and they cause her to sorta snap a bit #jeez if only she knew how much these boys care about her #demon’s got a hell of a point tbh #kiss au writing #scooby doo and kiss: rock n roll mystery #my writing #stay tuned for chapter seven!

[thenightling]

My thoughts on Marvel’s War of The Vampires

Recently Marvel comics did a storyline called War of the Vampires.

In this story Dracula’s castle is destroyed and several vampires are vying for power.  There are warring factions apparently trying to gain dominion over all the vampires of the the Earth.   

The supernatural members of The Avengers and their allies are forced to get involved.  Blade: The Vampire Hunter gets recruited into The Avengers main roster.   

Dracula turns up in his old man form, looking frail and weak, and deliberately surrenders himself to the Russian government and he is taken prisoner.  (Avengers issue 014, 2019.)

And yes, Dracula conjures an electrical storm for dramatic effect during his entrance because Dracula is a freakin’ primadona!  I love him. :-P   

The Avengers want to take him back to America where they can better watch and keep him.  They consider him a proverbial living weapon and don’t want the Russian government to have him and potentially use him as a weapon.  Dracula claims he just wants some peace and quiet and is tired of the constant fighting and death.

While captive Dracula deliberately goads Tony Stark by telling him that his father came to him begging and offered anything (including Tony, in childhood) if he could be made immortal.

It briefly looks like Dracula is trying to provoke Tony into taking him from the Russians to drag him back to the America to be held by The Avengers in Avengers Tower.  However this is misdirection from the writers and not his actual plan and he does not want to leave Russia at all.   His deliberately creates a distraction. 

He creates a prison riot by psychically influencing the prisoners but does not try to escape even though he had the perfect opportunity.  He merely does this to prove to Stark that he can and that he is right where he wants to be, affirming his claim that he has surrendered himself and is tired of fighting.   

Further note:   They have all these elaborate restraints on him. An anti-bite face mask (that still allows for speech), a chest plate that’ll stake him if he gets too frisky (First time I saw that was in Boom Comics’ Dracula: Company of Monsters.  Someone’s stealing from someone else), heavy chains, covers on both his hands to keep him from using his claws, devices that somehow prevent him from taking bat, wolf, and mist form, and some sort of IV system to keep him semi-starved and weak / possibly drugged.  But no one thought to dampen his psychic powers?  The Raft (Superhuman prison) can do that but the Russian equivalent (currently being visited by Tony stark) can’t?    

Red Widow has the cruel task of interrogating him even after he has told them many of his secrets.  She rounds up all of Dracula’s vampiric previous lovers (and there are quite a lot).   

She tells him she’ll torture and kill them slowly unless he shares everything with them.  If he does share all the knowledge he has, she’ll kill them quickly.  Either way they die.  

 The scene also reveals that Dracula has male and female lovers.

Marvel’s Dracula has now been confirmed as having had male and female lovers.  This is not the only bisexual or panasexual Dracula in pop culture.  The German production of the Frank Wildhorn Dracula the Musical (Dracula das Musical) gives him brides and grooms in his castle and Dario Argento has said his version of Dracula is bisexual, and Marvel has now confirmed that their version of Dracula has had male and female lovers.    

  The first victim in the torture-interrogation is this pretty, androgynous creature.

I don’t know much about this pretty elfish, semi-androgynous character.   I’m not even entirely sure the character is male (but others have Identified him as male).  In any event Dracula wept blood tears when this unnamed character was killed.  And he (the lover) was clearly willing to die for Dracula. 

I don’t know his name so I am going to call him Samuel.  And in my mind he was the pretty castle librarian whom Dracula became infatuated with.  There.  Headcanon achieved.  

Further note: Usually if you make Dracula cry, it means he’ll take brutal and violent revenge. This is a universal truth with all versions of Dacula.  Never make him cry.  

Seriously, I want to know this guy’s story.  Dracula cries for him!  In front of his enemies, he weeps for him!   Did Dracula make him a vampire or was he already a vampire when they met?  Give us this story, Marvel!   Who is he???

Later it’s revealed that Dracula’s capture was part of an elaborate scheme so that he would get dumped in Chernobyl.

But this is precisely what Dracula wanted all along.

It is in this vast, isolated, irradiated wasteland that Dracula has decided to re-establish his kingdom of the vampires.   Everything was part of his elaborate plan just to re-establish his vampiric kingdom.   

But based on his reaction to the lovers being slaughtered, I don’t think that part was quite in his plans. So again, I ask, who was that pretty male lover whose death brought Dracula to tears?

By the way, I freakin’ love this story. I just hope Marvel doesn’t screw it up by doing something cliche like letting the radiation from Chernobyl mutate the vampires living there.   

Further note: Many of the vampires in this storyline were semi-innocent and sympathetic and some of the heroes were just douches, such as seeing “heroes” killing a coven of vampires who plead that they were peaceful and never fed on the innocent and literally said “Please don’t hurt us.” and begged for their lives.  “The good guys” ladies and gentlemen.   

It’s a good story but I’m tired of deconstruction.  I like my heroes actually having compassion and mercy.  You shouldn’t have to make good characters asses to make the antagonists sympathetic.  Marvel’s Dracula was already likable since Tomb of Dracula.  

A few other things I didn’t like.  

1.  Captain Marvel is shoehorned into the story even though it could very easily have been told without her.  It’s blatantly obvious that she was only in there to promote her new movie And it was shameless.   She’s crammed onto each cover so heavily that if I was just judging by the cover I wouldn’t even know Dracula was in this story!

Also, for some reason Captain Marvel is now immune to Ghost Rider’s Penance Stare because of course she is!  At this point I feel like asking who is left who is NOT immune to The Penance Stare?!?  Morbius is immune, The Punisher is immune, and now Captain Marvel is immune.  

This is getting as bad as Mjolnir.  A few years ago Loki (who was acting as protagonist in his own solo comic, Loki: Agent of Asgard) ended up under the "inversion spell" during the Axis event / storyline. The spell inverted his personality. Since he had been on a redemption arc this made him betray his friends, act selfishly and self-righteously.   And somehow "because he no longer felt guilt" was able to lift Mjolnir.   Now let's look at Ghost Rider's Penance Stare.   Morbius is immune to the Penance Stare because he feels constant guilt for the lives he's taken.  Frank Castle is immune to the Penance Stare because he feels no remorse for anything he's done. It would seem they are using the "Morbius reasoning" that Captain Marvel feels constant guilt. But constant guilt for what?  She (the comic book version) doesn't have as many sins as her cinematic counterpart and even then she was being manipulated by aliens who played with her mind.   Marvel keeps making too many excuses to allow the current "Flavor of the month" or "Cool kid" to do things to make them super special.   Currently by their logic if you feel no guilt you are immune to Ghost Rider's Penance Stare AND can lift Mjolnir.  That pretty much means all you need to be the best of the best in Marvel is to be a sociopath. Too many people are being allowed to lift Mjolnir and too many characters are immune to Ghost Rider's Penance Stare.  

2.   She-Hulk now looks ridiculous.  She looks like Lobo from DC comics but painted green.  And she no longer answers to She-Hulk (because acknowledging she’s female and being proud of it is somehow anti-feminist... somehow?  HOW does this make sense!?!?)  Going by “Hulk” just puts her in her cousin’s shadow, something that was the complete antithesis of the character and probably the opposite of what they intended with that stupid name change.

3.   Less than a year ago Marvel promised it would stop doing so many events and now while one event was going on (War of the Vampires) the banner across each cover and on the splash page promoted the upcoming War of the Realms.  It’s literally just one “big” event after another.  The events have lost all means.   Now mere story arc titles are called “events.”   

4.   The cover art is very... boring.  Too many comics are heroes and villains lunging at each other in mid-battle.  It’s stale and uncreative. And I, a fan of Marvel’s horror properties, can barely tell there are vampires in the story. Hell, Dracula’s a key player and he’s not on any of these covers.    

But for all my complaining I did love this storyline.  It was fun.  Dracula was cunning and manipulative.  His bi / pan sexuality isn’t treated like a big deal and felt natural for the character.  And most of it was very well illustrated.  I also like the new costume for Dracula, it looks less like a warrior drow (something I hated since 2010).  and I’m glad to see Dracula in use in Marvel comics now for something other than a mere Halloween event.  And I love the ending with Dracula forming his new kingdom at the end of Avengers, issue 017 (2019).  Just don’t screw it up by mutating them from Chernobyl radiation. That’s stupid and cliche.   In general this was good though, refreshing compared to what Marvel Comics has been these last few years.  

#Marvel Comics #War of the Vampires #Count Dracula #Marvel's Dracula #Iron Man #Tony Stark #Blade: The Vampire Hunter #Avengers: War of The Vampires #Avengers 014 through Avengers 017.