#Lamb Spare Ribs

[hearts4hughes]

ೃ࿔:･ wallstreet!rafe gets jealous and teaches you a lesson

requested here | warnings: explicit sexual content, jealousy / possessiveness, rough sex ( spanking, hair pulling, verbal domination), semi-public sex (implied surveillance), power imbalance (consensual), light degradation kink, unprotected sex (be smart irl!!)

it starts with a smile. one you don’t think twice about. a harmless, polite thing—glossy, restrained, professional. that’s all it is. but the man across from you reads it like an invitation. and the worst part? you don’t stop him.

rafe, in his slate suit and loosened tie, nursing bourbon like it’s a grudge. he sees your hand brush the lapel of edward god-knows-what’s last name, sees the way you lean in, sees the way your eyes glint when you laugh at something that’s not even funny.

his jaw ticks, stomach churning with something dark. it’s one of the quarterly cocktail hours hosted at cameron capital. it’s low lighting, overpriced whiskey, glass windows that show off the skyline and how high you’ve climbed. the kind of night designed for champagne deals and elegant intimidation.

you’re only here because he asked you to be. and now you’re giggling at his colleague like you weren’t just in rafe’s office this morning, circling calendar dates on the wall with him, brushing fingertips when you passed him a pen.

then the guy—edward, elliott, some loser with a hedge fund and veneers—has the audacity to say, “you free tomorrow? i know a place with good coffee, and better company.”

rafe’s drink hits the table a little too hard. the sound slices through the low thrum of the room, but no one dares to notice except you. the jealousy doesn’t come in all at once. it creeps, slow and searing, like heat behind his ribs. like a splinter working deeper under skin every time you smile at the guy. every time you laugh a little too softly, or lean a little too close.

it burns low in his gut and up his spine. something primal and ugly that knots his jaw and flares behind his eyes, until his vision goes a little too sharp. he can feel it. the clench in his fists. the tension in his throat. the way his knee won’t stop bouncing under the table.

he doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe, just watches. when your new friend finally calls it a night and bids you farewell, rafe’s already on his feet. the ground creaks under his heavy footsteps. you bite your lip and grin as your ‘lover’ walks away, not noticing how rafe is red like a cartoon character.

“i need you to stay late.” his voice is clipped. there’s no explanation, no eye contact.

you blink. “now?”

“did i stutter?” he growls, foot tapping against the floor like you’re an inconvenience to him. you follow him out of the room like a lamb. your heart’s already pounding, but not because you know what this is about, but because you don’t. he’s ignoring you, which he never does. not like this. not even when he’s stressed.

the office is quiet after hours, cold and metallic in its silence. the floor to ceiling windows are all black glass now, reflecting you both back in flickers.

he doesn’t say much while you work. he just snaps directions such as, “slide deck.” “q3 projections.” “no, not that file. the revised one.” his mouth a hard line. his hands too fast on the keyboard. his jaw set like a fucking war is coming.

twice, you ask, “did i do something?”

he doesn’t answer either time. just flicks his gaze up and goes, “you done?” like you kept him waiting.

when the meeting prep’s finished and the last spreadsheet closes, you both step into the elevator. and that’s when it hits—the silence, the tension, him.

he’s standing there, broad and angry, and buzzing with something you can’t put your finger on. then, he shatters the silence like thick glass.

“you’ve been real friendly with my colleagues lately.”

you look up, startled. “what?” you feign innocence, eyes doe and innocent like you didn’t tell edward what color your panties were.

“don’t play dumb.” he scoffs, eyes still straight ahead, not sparing you a single glance. “you’re smarter than that.”

“rafe, what are you-“

“coffee?” he cuts in, tone sharp. “that guy asked you out for coffee and you didn’t say no.”

you stifle out a laugh. the elevator feels too small, the air too thick, and rafe too intense. “were you watching us?”

he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “i watch everything that’s mine.”

your heart stutters. “i didn’t realize i was.”

he turns slowly, like it takes effort to hold back, and corners you with one hand on the wall of the elevator, the other gripping the chrome railing beside your waist. “last time i checked,” he says, voice molten, “you’re my assistant.”

“that’s all i am to you?” you shoot back, breath catching.

his eyes drag down your face, over your lips, chest heaving from the fight you didn’t know you were about to have.

“you think i stay late with every assistant?” he says lowly. “you think i give other people raises just to keep them close? think i let anyone else see me like you do?”

your back hits the elevator wall. “you’re jealous.”

his mouth finds your jaw. “you wore my favorite dress tonight.”

“so?”

“so don’t act surprised when i make you mine in it.”

you gasp and his mouth is on yours, possessive and punishing. he kisses you like he wants to ruin you for ever talking to someone else. your fingers twist in his tie, yanking him closer, and you feel him groan into your mouth. he presses you into the wall, his hand sliding under your thigh, hiking your leg up, already hard against your hip.

“say it,” he murmurs, biting at your throat. “say you’re mine.”

and you don’t want to. you want to argue, make his face twist in disgust and anger. but the way he touches you, like he owns you, like he’s never going to let you forget this, overrules your desire to win.

“i’m yours,” you whisper. “fuck-i’m yours.”

his mouth splits into a grin against your collarbone. “that’s what i thought.” the elevator dings, doors still closed. but neither of you move. not until you’ve paid for every second you smiled at someone else.

his hands are everywhere. palming your ass, pushing up your dress, dragging rough down your thighs like he’s starving. his mouth is on yours again, teeth knocking, tongues filthy. it’s not even kissing, not really, it’s claiming.

“you gonna let him buy you coffee?” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek. “let him make you laugh?” you don’t answer. you’re too busy grinding down against the bulge in his slacks like a horny brat. so he grabs your face hard and makes you look at him. “answer me.”

“n-no,” you pant. “no, rafe. just wanted to see if you’d do something about it.”

that’s what breaks him. he spins you, presses your front to the cold steel wall, yanks your panties down and doesn’t bother with unzipping more than he has to. he frees himself with a growl and drags the tip through your folds. he’s slow, soaking, like he already knows you’re drenched for him.

“you wanna be a little tease?” he breathes, cockhead nudging at your entrance. “then take it. take what you asked for.”

then he’s slamming into you in one unforgiving thrust. no warning and no mercy. you scream, hands flying to the railing, trying to brace yourself as he fucks into you like the elevator’s about to drop. he’s trying to ruin you.

your cheek presses to the wall, breath fogging the steel as he drives into you, again and again and again, rough and fast and cruel. smack! his hand lands hard on your ass.

“this pussy’s mine,” he growls. smack! again, harder. “mine to fuck. mine to look at. mine to make cum.” you’re sobbing now, strung out and broken and so close, tears clinging to your lashes. it’s too much, too good, and too dirty to recover from.

“rafe,” you whimper. “i’m-fuck-i’m gonna-“

“you better,” he hisses, “you better cum on my cock like a good fucking girl.”

and you do. you clamp down on him so tight it rips a moan out of his throat. it’s raw, wrecked, desperate. he thrusts once, twice, then buries himself to the hilt, and paints your warm walls white. you gasp at the feeling of his release inside of you. he stays stuffed inside of you, keeping your cum mixed together. he almost wishes to get you pregnant, to be attached to you in another way.

you both pant there, bodies trembling, pressed to metal and glass and each other. then, with a light chuckle, you murmur, “elevator cams,” your voice is weak from getting pounded into.

he laughs, low and wicked. “guess the intern’s getting promoted.”

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[averalia]

A little much

Part 1// Part 2

| Pairings: Thomas Shelby X Reader, Platonic!Peaky Blinders x Reader

| Warning/s: mentions of abuse, smoking, Implied emotional abuse/neglect, PTSD symptoms, Discussions of self-worth, self esteem issues.

| Summary: After years of hidden trauma, you find unexpected solace and fierce protection in Thomas Shelby, the man you once viewed as your enemy.

The chill of the Garrison’s private room seemed to seep into your bones, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of your parents' home, yet both held you captive. You sat rigidly, hands clasped in your lap, eyes fixed on the flickering gaslight, trying to appear as small as possible. The heavy oak door creaked open, and a hush fell over the room. Your father, a man whose presence usually dwarfed any space, now seemed insignificant next to the figure who entered.

Thomas Shelby.

You’d only seen him from afar, a whisper on the wind, a shadow in the newspapers. He was the devil in a tailored suit, a man who built his empire on blood and fear. And now, he was your intended.

"Mr. Shelby," your father’s voice, usually a booming command, was now laced with an unnerving subservience. "My daughter, Y/N."

You flinched as your father’s hand landed on your shoulder, a possessive, almost forceful gesture that made you acutely aware of the bruising beneath your sleeve. You didn't dare meet Thomas Shelby’s eyes. You knew what he would see: a pawn, a transaction, a means to an end.

"Miss Y/N," His voice was a low rumble, surprisingly smooth for a man of his reputation. "A pleasure."

You remained silent. Speaking without permission was an act of defiance, a transgression that had led to countless punishments. The memories of bitter winds whipping your exposed skin, the icy bite of snow on your bare feet, the searing pain of a belt against your back – they were etched into your very being.

Your father cleared his throat, a sharp, warning sound. "Y/N, speak."

You finally lifted your gaze, forcing yourself to look at him. Thomas Shelby was even more imposing up close. His eyes, the color of a stormy sky, held a flicker of something you couldn't quite decipher—calculation, yes, but also a hint of… curiosity? His face was a chiseled mask, betraying no emotion.

"It is… a pleasure, Mr. Shelby," you managed, your voice barely a whisper, hoarse with disuse.

He simply nodded, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer than necessary before shifting to your father. "The terms are clear, then?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Shelby. She's yours. Completely. No further obligations." Your father’s words were a cold blade, severing the last thread of your past life. You were property, given away without a second thought.

The wedding was a blur of grey and muted whispers. You were dressed in a simple, unadorned gown, feeling less like a bride and more like a sacrificial lamb. Thomas Shelby stood beside you, a dark, imposing figure, his hand at your back a phantom weight that you braced yourself against. He never looked at you, his gaze fixed on the vicar, his expression unreadable.

Later, in the opulent silence of his Small Heath home, you stood in a room that felt too grand, too empty. The air hummed with an unspoken tension. He walked in, shedding his jacket, loosening his tie. You instinctively took a step back, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs.

"There's a spare room," he said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth or malice. "Across the hall. You can stay there."

You blinked, surprised. You’d expected… you didn’t know what you’d expected, but not this detached practicality. "Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

He turned then, his eyes finally meeting yours. "It's Thomas. And you're my wife now, Y/N. Best get used to it." There was no softening in his tone, no hint of affection, just a statement of fact. You were his. A transaction. A means to an end. And in your mind, he was nothing more than the enemy who had sealed your fate.

Life in the Shelby household was a strange dance. You moved through the grand rooms like a ghost, observing, listening, always on edge. Thomas was rarely home, consumed by his business, his empire. When he was, he was a whirlwind of activity, barking orders, making deals, his mind always churning. You avoided him, whenever possible, preferring the solitude of your room, the quiet solace of books.

One particularly cold evening, you were in the drawing room, a book open on your lap, but your mind miles away. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls. You hadn’t heard him enter.

"Can't sleep?" His voice startled you, and you nearly dropped the book.

You turned, clutching the book to your chest. "Just… reading."

He moved to the drinks cart, pouring himself a whiskey. "You spend a lot of time in here. Or in your room."

You shrugged, uncomfortable with his sudden attention. "It’s quiet."

He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze distant. "You're… quiet."

The observation was so simple, yet it struck a nerve. You had been trained to be silent, to be invisible. "Is that a problem?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

He turned, a faint frown on his brow. "No. Just an observation." He paused, then gestured to the armchair opposite him. "Sit. Unless you prefer to stand."

You hesitated, then slowly sat, still clutching your book. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts.

"Your father," he began, his voice low, "he spoke of your… compliance."

You stiffened, a cold dread washing over you. He knew. He knew about your parents, about their abuse, about the fear that governed your every move.

"He said you were… well-behaved." The words were almost a question.

You stared into the fire, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. Well-behaved. You’d been beaten into submission, starved into obedience. "I learned early on," you said, your voice barely audible, "that it’s easier to agree than to argue."

He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the crackle of the fire. "Is that why you didn't protest the marriage?"

You finally looked at him, your eyes burning with a mix of defiance and raw vulnerability. "Would it have mattered?"

He didn't answer, just watched you, his stormy eyes searching, probing. You felt exposed, laid bare under his scrutiny. He was the enemy, the one who had bought you, but in that moment, there was a flicker of something in his gaze that wasn't purely transactional. It was something akin to… understanding. Or perhaps, you were just desperate for it.

Days bled into weeks, and a fragile, unspoken truce settled between you and Thomas. He still spent most of his time at his office or out in the grimy streets of Small Heath, but his presence in the house became less of a looming threat and more of a distant, yet constant, hum. You found yourself observing him, albeit from a distance. You saw the way he commanded a room, the sharp intelligence in his eyes when he discussed business, the quiet intensity when he sat alone, smoking.

One afternoon, you were in the garden, trying to coax life from a neglected rose bush. Your hands were grimy with soil when you heard footsteps behind you.

"You have a knack for it," Thomas said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You straightened, wiping your hands on your apron. "Just trying to make something grow."

He nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips, a rare sight. "My mother used to say the same about me. Said I had a knack for growing things, even if they were weeds."

You actually chuckled, a soft, unfamiliar sound. "Perhaps some weeds are just misunderstood flowers."

He looked at you, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes. "Perhaps." He paused, then said, "You never talk about your family."

The easy atmosphere vanished. You turned back to the rose bush, picking at a dead leaf. "There’s nothing to talk about."

"Everyone has a past, Y/N."

"Some are just… best left buried." You felt the familiar tightening in your chest, the fear that always accompanied thoughts of your parents.

He watched you, his gaze intense. "Are you afraid of them?"

The directness of the question startled you. You didn't answer, instead focusing on the task at hand, your fingers trembling slightly.

"You don't have to be," he said, his voice low, steady. "Not anymore."

You slowly raised your head, meeting his gaze. There was something in his eyes, a quiet promise, a strange sense of protection. It was a foreign feeling, one you hadn’t experienced in a very long time. He was still the man who had bought you, the head of a notorious gang, the enemy. But for the first time, you wondered if there was something more to Thomas Shelby, something beyond the cold, calculating exterior. And you, against your will, felt a faint, unsettling flicker of hope. He still saw you as a means to an end, a strategic alliance, but the way he looked at you, the way he spoke, it was beginning to chip away at your hardened defenses. You were still trapped, but perhaps, just perhaps, the chains weren't as tight as you’d always believed.

The incident with the rose bush marked a subtle shift. Thomas started appearing in the garden more often, not to garden himself, but to observe you. Sometimes he’d offer a brief, almost gruff comment about the weather or the state of the plants. Other times, he’d just stand, smoking, his silence less intimidating and more…companionable.

One evening, you were in the library, a vast room filled with leather-bound books that smelled of old paper and dust. You were perched precariously on a rolling ladder, reaching for a particularly old copy of Wuthering Heights on a high shelf. Your fingers brushed against the spine when the ladder wobbled violently. A gasp escaped your lips as you lost your footing.

Before you could fall, strong arms encircled your waist, steadying you. You instinctively clutched the book to your chest, your heart hammering.

"Careful, Y/N," Thomas’s voice rumbled close to your ear. His breath, smelling faintly of tobacco and something uniquely him, brushed against your hair.

You felt the warmth of his hands through your dress, a jolt of unexpected sensation. He didn’t immediately let go. Instead, he held you for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on your face. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a surprising softness, a fleeting concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low.

You swallowed, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "Yes. Thank you, Thomas." The name felt strange on your tongue, more intimate than you were used to.

He finally released you, and you stepped away, feeling a strange mix of relief and… something else you couldn't name. He picked up the fallen book, his fingers tracing the worn cover.

"Bronte?" he mused. "Bit of a dramatic read for a quiet evening."

You managed a small smile. "I find comfort in it. Their troubles make mine seem… manageable."

He looked at the book, then at you, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Sometimes, the only way through is to face the storm head-on." He handed the book back to you. "If you ever need a hand reaching for another, just ask."

It wasn't much, but it was a gesture of consideration, of shared humanity, that you hadn’t expected from him. He was still the enemy, the man who had taken away your meager freedom, but moments like these chipped away at the solid wall you had built around your heart.

The cracks in your perception of Thomas Shelby deepened over time. You witnessed his fierce loyalty to his family, the quiet way he looked after his younger sister, Ada, the protective edge in his voice when he spoke to Finn. You saw him at work, making impossible decisions, always with a calculated shrewdness that was both terrifying and undeniably impressive. He was a force of nature, yes, but he wasn’t just a monster.

One rainy afternoon, you were helping Polly organize some ledgers in the office when Thomas walked in, looking more harried than usual. He ran a hand through his dark hair, sighing.

"Bloody business," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Polly, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. "Problems, Thomas?"

He just grunted in response, his gaze landing on you. "Y/N," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone so clearly stressed. "You know anything about this new ledger system Polly’s trying to implement?"

You were surprised he even acknowledged your presence, let alone asked for your input. "A little," you admitted. "My father was obsessed with meticulous record-keeping. I learned a few things."

He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "Tell me."

You found yourself explaining, detailing the advantages of the new system, the potential for greater efficiency. As you spoke, his eyes, usually so guarded, seemed to soften, a spark of interest replacing the weariness. He listened intently, nodding occasionally, sometimes interjecting with a sharp, insightful question.

When you finished, a rare, genuine smile touched his lips. "That's… surprisingly useful, Y/N. Thank you."

You felt a warmth spread through you, a feeling of genuine accomplishment. It was the first time in your life that your thoughts, your knowledge, had been valued.

Later that evening, as you were preparing for bed, there was a soft knock on your door. You opened it to find Thomas standing there, a small, wrapped parcel in his hand.

"Heard you like books," he said, holding it out.

You took it, your fingers trembling slightly. It was a first edition of Jane Eyre. You knew the story well, of a quiet, resilient woman finding strength and love in an unforgiving world.

"Thomas… thank you," you whispered, genuinely touched.

He shifted uncomfortably, a rare vulnerability in his usually composed demeanor. "Polly said you mentioned it once. In passing."

He remembered. He actually remembered something you’d said, something so trivial. It wasn’t a means to an end, it wasn’t a business transaction. It was a gesture, small but significant, from a man who was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to see you as more than just his wife by arrangement. And you, in turn, were beginning to see him not just as the enemy, but as a complex, surprisingly human man who was capable of unexpected tenderness.

[brayneworms]

blood on the bandage, ghost in the room | izuru kamukura

kinktober day two: wet dream

word count. 2.1k

content. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, wet dreams, masturbation, past hinata/reader (flashback), introspection, kissing/making out, handjobs (more alluded to than explicit but still), gender-neutral reader (they use body butter and lip balm which i consider to be gender-neutral)

♪ deadlines (hostile) by car seat headrest

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

Izuru’s dreams wouldn’t make sense to the average person.

They are quick and hard and violent like a surgeon sawing away at you. They are more akin to haemorrhages than anything else. He does not often find recurring imagines in his states of hypnagogia—he knows the common ones. Teeth falling out, turning up to a social event naked, falling from a great height. Maybe it’s an indication of how fear has been cut from him by the root, rubbed down to a polished nub, that these dreams quelled as soon as he went under the knife. 

But—it’s annoying. Actually, it’s the thing that makes him realise he is still capable of feeling annoyed. There are trickles of his old self here. Hajime Hinata. He turns the name over in his head like a coin, faces flashing, green eyes-red eyes, short hair-long hair, ordinary-special. The differences between him and Hinata are strides rather than steps, but the boy insists on clinging to him. He supposes, grudgingly, it makes a certain amount of sense. Izuru had been made from the scraps of Hinata; had scrounged himself to completion from Hinata’s spare rib, for want of a poetic comparison. No effort could erase the boy completely.

And yet what remained of him annoyed. Izuru had no favourite foods (sustenance was sustenance) but sometimes when they gave him custard for dessert his stomach did an involuntary twitch and saliva trickled between his teeth. Izuru logically knew that the four toothbrushes in the pack were functionally identical, yet found himself drawn to use the blue one first, every time. Izuru had no friends, no family, no affection—and yet, and yet, when he saw you… 

It was like Hinata existed in gasps of consciousness, sparks of recognition that Izuru doesn’t know how to reconcile. He sees you across the grassy campus and knows the yuzu smell of your skin because you buy drugstore body-butter with the green lid. He knows the feeling of your hair beneath his hand and how your head fits in the hollow of his neck, that your heart beats slightly faster than the average person at around 89 beats per minute and that you have a mild intolerance to lactose that often doesn’t stop you indulging anyway. 

He is a creature cut from desire; such things have been surgically removed from him, and Izuru can’t imagine missing them. He’s seen the way things like love and lust cause people to fetter away their inhibitors, their sense, their selflessness. Desire makes the world an animalistic one; renounced from it, he is clean. Alone, perhaps, but clean. 

Not lately, though. His dreams have become disturbed. Jittery flashes from a life that is not his, but was, flash through him at night like an old film reel. It’s a feeling he cannot reconcile—Hinata had loved you. Izuru does not. But the body, the flesh remembers, even if the mind is absent. 

The body remembers all too well. Izuru dreams:

A camp bed, all they could afford. Most of Hajime’s furniture has been fleeced for spare yen to pay off the tuition fees for Hope’s Peak (the parents don’t know this debt will be settled with finality some way into their son’s second year, their money paid back in blood). The two of you have to squish up close together to have room for both of you, but Hajime privately does not mind, and he suspects—hopes—that you don’t either. Your presence and touch is not foreign, not by this stage of knowing each other, but it still makes him nervous. He feels like a spring lamb around you, his hands too big, too clammy, god he hopes you don’t notice him wiping them on his sweats every chance he gets. And you, doused in the thin lacquer of premature summer heat, skin glimmering with sweat beneath your loose shirt and shorts. Your knee presses into his, lazy, unshaved, but moisturised always with sunscreen and that body butter he likes. It’s citrusy—lemon or yuzu or something. 

You’re gorgeous. So gorgeous Hajime has no idea how he got so lucky. Some talentless loser—but he has to stop thinking about himself like that, really. You’re not talented either. Not desperate enough to remortgage your house to get into Hope’s Peak on a pity course, either, which he reckons still makes him a damn sight more pathetic than you. It’s fine. Whatever. He’s fine being pathetic around you since you seem to like him anyway. 

You look up at him. Your lips gleam dully with remnants of balm; it smudges up over your cupid’s bow, highlighting the skin there. “What’re you looking at?” you ask, in a tone that makes Hajime think you already know. He feels himself go impossibly warmer. 

“Nothing,” he blusters, fidgets anxiously with his too-big fingers. “D’you, uh, have enough room?”

“Well, no. But it’s fine. I might prefer it this way,” you say.

“Ahaha…” His laugh trails to an awkward stop. “Might you?”

“I might. You could convince me.” 

Ah. Okay. He’s not totally dense; he can pick up a hint. As long as the other person giving it to him is wearing bells and flashing red lights and a siren. He draws in a quick breath, steeling his suddenly galloping pace before leaning forward. His nose and chin brushes against yours, the angle awkward, too close; a spring digs into his thigh as he noses closer, feeling the soft slide of your lip balm on his mouth. It’s too hot to kiss properly, he thinks—no, despairs. There’s little he loves more than kissing you. Sex is good—sex is great—but he stumbles under the sheer pressure of it sometimes. With kissing there’s no real standards to uphold, as long as he remembers to keep control of his tongue. 

Still, he’s a young guy, and his body doesn’t listen to reason all the time. Only a few minutes later he has to pull back with a groan, glancing awkwardly where your hip rests in the cradle between his thighs. “Sorry,” he mutters, flushed to his ears. “Sorry, it’ll, uh, go down. If we stop.”

“Do you want to stop?” you ask. Hajime feels slightly dazed when he looks at you like this; your hair a little rumpled, shirt pulled to one shoulder leaving the other bared, looking up in a way that makes him feel big, loved, though maybe those are the same thing, he doesn’t know. 

“Not… not really,” he stammers, feeling grotesque in the face of his own desire. “But I don’t want to—like—just because it’s there doesn’t mean you have to do anything. I don’t want you to feel like you have to. You can just ignore it.”

Your hand on his knee. Not pushing up, just there, but it still makes hot sparks run up his spine. “I can help. If you want.”

Jesus. Hajime closes his eyes briefly, trying to ignore the way his body hums hotly. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Do you want?”

Of course, I do, he wants to shout. Can’t you see how much I want? I’m made of want. Instead he just gives a shaky nod, forcing himself not to shut his eyes; the vulnerability of it might be too much to bear. You lean forward and he loses himself in the hazy river of your lips against his, the slow lull that kissing you draws him into. Your hand slides slowly up his leg, squeezes at his thigh, kneads his flesh like bread until he feels his bones turn to jelly, until he’s straining against the fabric of his sweats and letting out pathetic choked noises into your mouth. This is what you do, he thinks as he rocks his hips lazily against your hand. You turn him insistent. 

Your hand slips under his waistband. He has a brief moment of panic, wondering when the hell the last time he trimmed or groomed or did anything down there was before your hand wraps warm and firm around him and the thoughts slip straight out of his head. He’s almost sleepy with pleasure as you stroke him, embarrassingly wet already so there’s no give beneath the soft of your palm. 

And he doesn’t have to hide, not with you, not ever, so he bucks his hips up into the tunnel of your hand, seeking something, so close—

And Izuru wakes. 

It’s cold and around him there is a perfect darkness. It is the furthest thing from a sunbathed summer afternoon as there could be. The sheets on his bed are pristine white and starched with something antiseptic. And the biggest difference is that he is Izuru, not Hinata—he is the furthest thing from that boy, that simpleton, someone who could never conceive of what he might one day become, and—

He’s erect.

Izuru blinks down at himself, ostensibly bewildered, which in and of itself is a pleasant change. But no, there’s nothing pleasant about this. It feels—strange, he can feel his skin prickling against his nightwear. He tries to breathe; it’s not as if this is the first time this has happened. Biology still has as much sway over his body as usual, and he knows that an endocrine system is nothing but a hormonal playground until around age twenty-four or twenty-five, and so yes it happens sometimes. He just ignores it until it goes away, which generally happens quite quickly.

He waits. Nothing happens. Every shift against the fabric seems only to make it worse, in fact.

Izuru grits his teeth. He’s not inherently averse to this—it’s new, and new is always a touch more interesting than the same. But it is, perhaps, a worrying symptom of a larger issue. Hinata, still inside his brain somewhere, tucked away like a badly-kept secret, like a loose penny. He’s not a fan of the idea that he may decide to come back out again one day. 

And he knows this is Hinata’s doing, because when he reaches out tentatively to lay his palm flat over the tent in his pyjama pants, it’s your face that flashes through his mind. It’s yuzu body butter and gossamer lip balm, and a noise rises in the back of his throat before he can stop it, something low and soft. His fingers fan out like a spiders’ body, smoothing over the fabric, the dip of his palm pressing against where he throbs. He remembers your hand doing something similar. 

And it’s second nature—or first, he supposes grimly—that slips his hand beneath the loose waistband of his pants. He doesn’t wear underwear to sleep, so there’s nothing but skin and a thatch of hair before the pads of his fingers graze the side of his dick. Izuru hisses, straight through his teeth; his sensitivity is heightened, no doubt from ignoring this side of himself for months. Just taking himself in hand makes his head spin. 

He knows that most people his age think of something when they do this—other people, commonly, but also pornography or some specific fetish. Izuru doesn’t know what to think of—but his body seems to have made the choice for him. The flesh remembers; as he makes the first slow, firm stroke, it’s you he thinks of. The warmth of your breath against his jaw, the soft of your hand on his dick. 

It would feel better, he thinks absently, if it were you doing this instead.

…How absurd. What a stupid thing to think.

But he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, even loathing his own train of thought. He’d thought he’d have to relearn this, but his hands move on autopilot, remembering how he likes to touch, to squeeze, to wait. His thumb strokes over the head, collects the prespend there and the sound that starts echoing from him as he fucks into his hand makes his brain buzz. One of his legs is flung over the side of the bed, long hair a tangle beneath him; he feels out of sorts, clumsy, and the unfamiliarity makes his blood quicken. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, bucks his hips into his hand. He’s close already. It’s barely been ninety seconds. Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine—

“I can help,” you whisper into his ear, some pretty sweet-smelling ghost. “If you want.”

With a strangled cry, Izuru comes into his hand, clamping the inside of his elbow against his mouth to stifle the noise. In the seconds after he’s breathless, heart shredding in his ears, blinking up at the swimming darkness of the ceiling. It’s dizzying—not just the experience, the crash of adrenaline, but the way it makes his perpetual clarity dim for a minute. 

For a moment, he shuts his eyes, wishes that when he opened them he’d see you lying beside him.

Izuru chalks that thought up to one of Hinata’s; these days, it’s getting harder to tell the difference. 

[somnambuletta]

glutton for abstinence

in slumber, jack traces apostolic warnings against your skin in the letters of forgotten alphabet.

he writes them just beneath your navel, where the sweat still beads like holy oil. symbols not meant for the clean or the saved. glyphs from tongues that spoke before language—before law—when gods still walked barefoot and bloody through the tall grass of olympus, when desire was a thing worshipped and feared.

you do not wake, but your body spares thoughts. still shaking from the storm he summoned inside you, not moments before. your thighs twitch as if recalling the parting of them. your stomach rises and falls in shallow cadence, a psalter cooed in broken breath.

his talons move slow, awed and devout. they draw lazy circles into the damp flesh of your belly, and though they could open you like scripture, they do not. they linger instead. teasing. tempting. a lion lying with a lamb and dreaming of hunger.

he curls his chest over your back, and you feel the tremble of his panting—like a furnace behind your spine. not the panting of exertion, no. that has passed.

such is the panting of restraint, and such is worse.

jack presses his face into your hair and inhales with the desperation of a dying priest. he smells you like a thing sanctified, like you're perfumed in frankincense and blood. the scent of your perspiration, your spent body, the sweetness of sleep still salted with sin—it drives him mad. jack buries himself in it, nose pushed deep into your strands, and whimpers. he whimpers.

you are heat and holiness, a lamb made unclean beneath his teeth.

and he kisses your neck again, trembling lips grazing the bruises he left there like a penitent revisiting his own blasphemy.

“echo,” jack whispers. the name drips down your skin like wax.

“galatea. my little hebe.” names of girl-gods built to please and perish. nymphs doomed to serve the love of louder gods, softer creatures devoured by the affections of titans. he chooses them carefully.

you stir, only faintly. a little sigh. a twist of your wrist against the sheets. and he stills—listening. watching. wanting.

even now, with your body wrung out and quiet, you are too much for him. you sleep like a sacrament desecrated in secret. jack watches like the devil at the tabernacle, hands trembling with need.

he tries to be good, but his chest bellows, rising and falling in staggered bursts against your spine. breath hot, frantic—dampening the back of your nape like how mothers lick the wet off their children. his mouth hovers open just above the bruises he’s already carved into your shoulder, teeth bared in approbation and regret; because he knows you’d taste of heaven if heaven were made of meat. and he can still taste you.

on the back of his tongue, copper-slick and warm. a ghost of what he took from you, what you gave him so freely—your body quivering, your voice caught somewhere between prayer and plea. it lingers in his mouth, sweet and obscene, and it kills him.

his tongue moves before his thoughts do. dragging along your shoulder. not to clean. not to kiss— but because jack must have.

and then his teeth follow. a little pressure. enough to feel the divot where his last mark still purples.

he groans—low, pained. almost pitiful.

he could. god, he could. it would be so fucking easy.

jack could peel you open like pomegranate fruit, sweet and gleaming inside. could split your ribs like dry wood and feast. he knows where your liver sleeps beneath the skin. he could reach it. he could tear it loose with nothing but hands and hunger and that slow, holy strength that haunts the cursed. he imagines it often: red meat steaming in his palms, slick and delicate as cow’s tongue.

and your heart—still fluttering like a bird even as he bites down.

but he doesn’t. he won’t.

because you are his lamb.

his soft thing. and though you smell divine—sweaty and wet and glowing with heat from the inside out—he cannot take you that way. not yet. not ever, if he can help it. the want claws at his ribs, gnashes behind his teeth. it begs to be loosed. but he presses his face deeper into your hair and moans instead, quiet and broken, the sound of a man damning himself with every breath.

he shudders, holding you tighter. worshipping through restraint.

the wolf does not bite the lamb— not because he is not hungry,

but because he has fallen in love with the sound of her heartbeat.

and though she sleeps beside him, offered, undone, he buries his face in her neck and does not feed.

because he would rather ache than lose her.

and oh, how jack aches.

[cece693]

TILL WE MEET AGAIN

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader sypnosis: Hannibal has experienced death—from the lives taken by his own hands, from the slow bleed-out of his lineage—but always, at every turn, the personification of death has looked on and become a source of comfort and companionship.

The first time Hannibal Lecter saw you, he was a half-starved boy—cheeks chapped raw, breath a crystal plume, grief frozen to the inside of his ribs. He had slipped his captors’ knots at dusk and trudged through unending white until his legs buckled. When he finally surrendered to the drifts, he expected the curtain of sleep to close for good.

Instead, a hush like church bells with no choir settled over the field. Hannibal’s lashes fluttered open.

Mischa stood a few feet away from him, her wool dress unstained, her cheeks apple-bright as they used to be before hunger hollowed them. “Hanni!” she squealed, tiny boots scattering powdery snow as she dashed forward. Her small hands wrapped around his legs. The warmth of her touch seared straight through the cold; tears stung Hannibal’s eyes before he could blink them away.

“How—?” His voice rasped like a file over wire. He sank to his knees so he could fold her into the crook of his coat. The scent of woodsmoke and milk—memories, nothing more—rose from her hair, and his heart lurched toward a hope he knew was poison.

Footsteps whispered across the crusted surface behind them, measured and unhurried. Hannibal twisted, shielding Mischa with his body. A man approached: tall, dusk-haired, dressed in a black coat that dragged no weight through the snow. He carried no lantern, yet a pearl-grey glow clung to him as if the pale Northern lights had chosen his shoulders as their altar.

“You aren't supposed to be here. You weren't on the list.” the stranger murmured in flawless Lithuanian. His voice was low as hearth-ember, the sort meant to soothe lambs before a storm—or lull deer before the arrow flew.

Hannibal’s lips skinned back over chattering teeth. “If you are one of them—”

The man shook his head. “Not one of them. Nor any man you’ve ever known.” He crouched, the motion effortless, so that his eyes leveled with Hannibal’s.

Mischa peered over her brother’s shoulder, curiosity outshining fear. “Are you an angel?” she whispered.

“Some call me that.” The stranger’s smile curved soft, secret. “Others have darker names. All are stories pointing at the same horizon.”

Uneasy awe rippled through Hannibal; the orphan in him wanted to trust that smile, the starved beast snarled warnings—yet fascination bloomed between those warring halves. Here was a being fashioned of winter twilight and distant lullabies, beautiful in a way no living creature dared be.

“You speak like bedtime,” Hannibal murmured, voice raw. “Gentle, but promising dreams I do not want.”

“Dreams follow the sleeper, not the voice.” The stranger’s gaze flicked to Mischa, then back to Hannibal. “You cling to her because she is your heart made flesh. But hearts are not meant to freeze beside broken bodies. They’re meant to beat.”

“She is my heart.” Hannibal’s arms tightened around his sister. “Take me instead.”

The stranger’s silver-grey eyes deepened, ocean meeting nightfall. “Your thread is knotted further on. If I tug it now, the tapestry will unravel.”

“Then knot me to hers!” Hannibal’s plea cracked out, half command, half child’s sob.

A glimmer—pity or perhaps quiet admiration—flickered across Death’s face. He leaned close, and two slender fingers brushed an errant lock of hair from Hannibal’s brow. The touch was chill as first frost, yet its weight settled the very marrow in the boy’s bones, anchoring him to a moment that felt older than stars.

“I can’t, Hannibal,” Death breathed, each syllable a sigh of winter wind through chapel stone. “Not even I may unravel the pattern once it’s woven. Your hour is tethered far ahead, and hers—” He spared a tender glance at Mischa, who clutched his hand with fearless trust—“hers is now.”

Tears scalded Hannibal’s vision, but fascination burned hotter than grief. So near, Death smelled not of grave soil or rot, but of midnight water and distant incense. In the strange half-light he seemed carved from the moon: pale, luminous, infinitely gentle—a beauty more absolute for being utterly beyond reach.

“Then at least let me walk with you to the gate,” Hannibal pleaded, “One last breath beside her.”

Death studied him, snowfall collecting in the stillness around them. At length he inclined his head. “A few steps, little wolf. No further.”

Blood roared in Hannibal’s ears as he rose. Mischa’s mitten found his fingers—warm, impossibly alive—and together they followed Death across the meadow. Snow parted before the trio, revealing a faint ribbon of silver light that quivered like harp string. Each footfall hummed inside Hannibal’s ribs, as though the ground itself recognized the procession.

They halted at a place where air turned glassy and the sky far above curved inward, forming a pale archway alive with tiny constellations. Mischa’s eyes widened, reflecting a universe Hannibal could not see. She turned to him, small face aglow. “It’s beautiful, Hanni.”

Death knelt to Mischa’s height. “Are you ready, maža žvaigždutė? Your mother waits in the candle orchard.”

Mischa’s eyes shone at that word—Mother. She glanced once at Hannibal, seeking the permission a brother’s love had always granted. The frost on her lashes melted to tears, but they were not tears of fear. “You will find me later, yes?” she asked him.

“Across every sky.”

Mischa slipped her hand into the stranger’s. Their fingers interlaced like dark silk through snow-white wool, and where their palms met, a soft glow bloomed—pale gold, as if the sun remembered them despite the depths of winter.

“You may not understand now, Hannibal, but you will in the future. Till we see each other again, guard the spark I have placed in you.”

Tiny motes of light drifted up from the joined hands and vanished into the storm-dark sky. Hannibal, for an instant, felt their warmth brush his cheeks.

Mischa glanced back one final time. In her eyes was a serenity Hannibal had never witnessed in life: not the glassy vacancy of sleep, but a waking radiance, as though she had glimpsed a secret garden just beyond an open gate and recognized her own name written among the flowers. She mouthed I love you; the words fogged in the air, then blew apart like dandelion seeds.

Hannibal’s own voice caught—splintered wood in his throat—but he managed a nod, solemn as any vow. He would not ruin her passage with a child’s sob. Then she crossed the veil. Her small form shimmered, turned weightless, and drifted upward like lantern silk caught by a warm draft. Hannibal thought he heard a bell far away—or perhaps his own heart crack open—before the portal folded in on itself with a sigh and the night snapped shut.

He was alone.

Except—no, not quite. Death remained, standing where the rift had been, his coat stirring in wind that touched nothing else. The pale glow that had enveloped Mischa still limned his outline, casting faint halos around each strand of hair.

Hannibal stared, grief and awe warring in his eyes. “Why stay? Your task is done.”

Death’s gaze swept over the snow-bound child as though weighing many futures at once. “Because endings sow beginnings,” the reaper answered. “And because beauty deserves witness—even the brutal kind.”

Hannibal’s fists curled at his sides. “You find me beautiful?” The question escaped him raw, incredulous.

A slow smile—quiet, devastating—ghosted across Death’s lips. “In time, the world will call your works monstrous. But remember: roses bloom from ground enriched by bone. You will become a gardener of shadows, Hannibal Lecter. And when your garden reaches full flower, I will walk its paths again.”

“Perhaps I will invite you to dinner,” Hannibal whispered, a dark edge already sharpening behind the words.

“I will accept.” Death inclined his head, courtly as a prince of frost. “But first, live. Learn the weight of every flavor—sorrow, rage, desire. Let them season your palate until nothing is wasted.”

A silence like falling ash settled between them. Hannibal held the reaper’s gaze—saw infinite winter, yes, but also an ember of something warmer, older than grief. Reverence flooded him. He did not bow; instead, he placed a blood-raw hand over his hammering heart.

“I will cultivate wonders you cannot yet imagine,” he vowed. “When next you come, you will leave sated.”

“I look forward to it.” With that, Death stepped back. Snow curled upward in a swirling plume, the sky seeming to inhale him. When the flurry settled, the field lay unmarred, moonlit and deathly quiet, as though no miracle had ever touched it.

[nogoodsheepstealing-greatgrandma]

Calling all Aegon II fans who hate Book Dany for burning Mirri (for murdering her baby) and crucifying the slavers (for crucifying slave children) - how do you feel about Aegon's little light show?

Lastly King Aegon II turned his attention to the Shepherd. When brought before the Iron Throne for judgment, the prophet refused to repent his crimes or admit to treason, but thrust the stump of his missing hand at the king and told His Grace, “We shall meet in hell before this year is done,” the same words he had spoken to Borros Baratheon upon his capture. For that insolence, Aegon had the Shepherd’s tongue torn out with hot pincers, then condemned him and his “treasonous followers” to death by fire.

On the last day of the year, two hundred forty-one “barefoot lambs,” the Shepherd’s most fervid and devoted followers, were covered with pitch and chained to poles along the broad cobbled thoroughfare that ran eastward from Cobbler’s Square up to the Dragonpit. As the city’s septs rang their bells to signal the end of the old year and the coming of the new, King Aegon II proceeded along the street (thereafter known as Shepherd’s Way, rather than Hill Street as before) in his litter, whilst his knights rode to either side, setting their torches to the captive lambs to light his way. Thus did His Grace continue up the hill to the very top, where the Shepherd himself was bound amongst the heads of the five dragons. Supported by two of his Kingsguard, King Aegon rose from his cushions, tottered to the pole where the prophet had been chained, and set him aflame with his own hand.

Or what he did to Maester Gerardys for the crime of *checks notes* obeying his maesters vows and offering him medical treatment?

Aegon II lived the rest of his life in great pain…though to his honor, when Grand Maester Gerardys offered him milk of the poppy, he refused. “I shall not walk that road again,” he said. “Nor am I such a fool as to drink any potion you might prepare for me. You are my sister’s creature.” At the king’s command, the chain that Princess Rhaenyra had torn from Grand Maester Orwyle’s neck and given to Gerardys was now used to hang him. He was not given the quick end of a hard fall and a broken neck, but rather a slow strangulation, kicking as he gasped for air. Thrice, when he was almost dead, Gerardys was let down and allowed to catch a breath, only to be hauled up again. After the third time, he was disemboweled and dangled before Sunfyre so the dragon might feast upon his legs and innards, but the king commanded that enough of the Grand Maester be saved so “he might greet my sweet sister on her return.”

They found him hanging from the battlements of the gatehouse beside Dragonstone’s steward, captain of the guard, master-at-arms…and the head and upper torso of Grand Maester Gerardys. Everything below his ribs was gone, and the Grand Maester’s entrails dangled down from within his torn belly like so many burned black snakes.

And perhaps you can compare Gerardys' fate to that of Tyland Lannister... whose fate is indeed very fucked up.

Though the Crown had been flush with gold upon the passing of King Viserys, Aegon II had seized the treasury along with the crown, and his master of coin, Tyland Lannister, had shipped off three-quarters of the late king’s wealth “for safekeeping.” King Aegon had spent every penny of the portion kept in King’s Landing, leaving only empty vaults for his half-sister when she took the city.

Queen Alicent was fettered at wrist and ankle with golden chains, though her stepdaughter spared her life “for the sake of our father, who loved you once.” Her own father was less fortunate. Ser Otto Hightower, who had served three kings as Hand, was the first traitor to be beheaded. Ironrod followed him to the block, still insisting that by law a king’s son must come before his daughter. Ser Tyland Lannister was given to the torturers instead, in hopes of recovering some of the Crown’s treasure.

Down in the black cells, Ser Perkin’s men even found King Aegon’s former master of coin, Ser Tyland Lannister, still alive…though Rhaenyra’s torturers had blinded him, pulled out his fingernails and toenails, cut off his ears, and relieved him of his manhood.

However consider that Tyland stealing and hiding the treasury led directly to Rhaenyra's downfall. The bankruptcy of the realm - and the taxes Lord Celtigar had to raise as a result - was disastrous to Rhaenyra's reign. Of course any monarch was going to order Tyland be interrogated. Had her interrogators succeeded in getting the information out of him, the tide of the dance would have changed completely. If if weren't for the gold, his fate would have been the same as Otto Hightower and Jasper Wylde (Ironrod).

And yes, you can pull out the 'both sides' argument. You can argue that in this fantasy-medieval world both sides commit war crimes - in a world where beheadings and hangings are normalised and committed by both sides, where torture and ripping out tongues is normalised and committed by both sides - can any side claim a moral high ground? But even considering ideas of moral relativism when discussing a fantasy-medieval world, what purpose did it serve to torture Maester Gerardys, other than mere sadism?

Blood and Cheese

And perhaps you can ask, well, what purpose did it serve to kill Prince Jaehaerys? And to psychologically torture Helaena in such a horrifically cruel way? Well, no purpose at all. No justifiable purpose anyway. But I maintain that Rhaenyra did not order it, or even know it was going to happen:

Her first act as queen was to declare Ser Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent traitors and rebels. “As for my half-brothers and my sweet sister, Helaena,” she announced, “they have been led astray by the counsel of evil men. Let them come to Dragonstone, bend the knee, and ask my forgiveness, and I shall gladly spare their lives and take them back into my heart, for they are of my own blood, and no man or woman is as accursed as the kinslayer.” Word of Rhaenyra’s coronation reached the Red Keep the next day, to the great displeasure of Aegon II. “My half-sister and my uncle are guilty of high treason,” the young king declared. “I want them attainted, I want them arrested, and I want them dead.”

GRRM put these two announcements next to each other for a reason for starters - though this was before Luke's death...

On Dragonstone, Queen Rhaenyra collapsed when told of Luke’s death. Luke’s young brother Joffrey (Jace was still away on his mission north) swore a terrible oath of vengeance against Prince Aemond and Lord Borros. Only the intervention of the Sea Snake and Princess Rhaenys kept the boy from mounting his own dragon at once. (Mushroom would have us believe he played a part as well.) As the black council sat to consider how to strike back, a raven arrived from Harrenhal. “An eye for an eye, a son for a son,” Prince Daemon wrote. “Lucerys shall be avenged.” Let it not be forgotten: in his youth, Daemon Targaryen had been the “Prince of the City,” his face and laugh familiar to every cutpurse, whore, and gambler in Flea Bottom. The prince still had friends in the low places of King’s Landing, and followers amongst the gold cloaks. Unbeknownst to King Aegon, the Hand, or the Queen Dowager, he had allies at court as well, even on the green council…and one other go-between, a special friend he trusted utterly, who knew the wine sinks and rat pits that festered in the shadow of the Red Keep as well as Daemon himself once had, and moved easily through the shadows of the city. To this pale stranger he reached out now, by secret ways, to set a terrible vengeance into motion.

Daemon, named the Rogue Prince for a reason, was acting independently of the Black Council - and of Rhaenyra. In fact, the Council itself is suggested to be acting independently of Rhaenyra:

The bird arrived as Rhaenyra and her blacks were mourning Ser Erryk and debating the proper response to “Aegon the Usurper’s” latest attack. Though shaken by this attempt on her life (or the lives of her sons), the queen was still reluctant to attack King’s Landing. Munkun (who, it must be remembered, wrote many years later) says this was because of her horror of kinslaying. Maegor the Cruel had slain his own nephew Aegon, and had been cursed thereafter, until he bled his life away upon his stolen throne. Septon Eustace claims Rhaenyra had “a mother’s heart” that made her reluctant to risk the lives of her remaining sons. Mushroom alone was present for these councils, however, and the fool insists that Rhaenyra was still so griefsick over the death of her son Lucerys that she absented herself from the war council, giving over her command to the Sea Snake and his wife, Princess Rhaenys.

This account is considered by Archmaester Gyldayn to be the most likely. Especially since it stands in contrast to her reaction to Jace's death, making it likely that beforehand she had been withdrawn in her grief.

Broken by the loss of one son, Rhaenyra Targaryen seemed to find new strength after the loss of a second. Jace’s death hardened her, burning away her fears, leaving only her anger and her hatred.

Still, assuming she wasn't responsible for Blood and Cheese, should she have executed Daemon for it? I suppose no more than Aegon should have executed Aemond for murdering Lucerys - a child and a messenger - rather than throwing him a congratulatory feast. Robb Stark would have done it. Robb Stark also paid dearly for it. And Daemon is both the father of two of her children and the rider of Caraxes in a war where every dragon counts, where the remainder of her children's lives are still at stake.

How many innocent ratcatchers did Aegon hang in revenge for Blood and Cheese?

Ok, well what about Nettles?

Obviously I am not here to defend Rhaenyra's treatment of Nettles - but I know TG like to raise it as an example of 'both sides are just as bad'.

On that note, I can compare Daemon's bloodless takeover of Harrenhal to Aemond beheading children. I can detail both Aemond and Daeron's war crimes in the riverlands, including allowing the mass rape of children. I can point out that the Greens also attempted to court Dalton Greyjoy, and remind you that their allies the Triarchy are guilty of their own fair share of kidnap and enslavement.

But lets keep this to comparing Rhaenyra's actions to Aegon's actions. First off, most of her councillors - aside from 2 - were urging her to suspect the remaining dragonseeds, were warning her of the threat of two more dragonriders turning Green, the threat this would pose to her surviving children. And she ultimately acted on the word of her master of whisperers, Mysaria. At a time when Rhaenyra is documented as being in a deteriorated mental state due to her grief at losing 4 children, and paranoia - a consideration that even Septon Eustace allows.

“Her Grace had been betrayed so often, by so many, that she was quick to believe the worst of any man,” Septon Eustace writes. “Treachery no longer had the power to surprise her. She had come to expect it, even from those she loved the most.”

Was Aegon also in a deteriorated mental state due to grief and paranoia when he executed the ratcatchers? Yes, I suppose - though they didn't have dragons or pose much of a threat. But was Aegon also in physical pain himself when he tortured and gruesomely murdered Maester Gerardys, or when he put on his little light show? Yes, I suppose that is a consideration - I'm sure Maester Gerardys forgave it. But Rhaenyra's paranoia and grief didn't compel her to order anything out of the ordinary in this fantasy medieval world - arrests, interrogations, beheadings. Aegon's treatment of the Shepherd and his followers, of the ratcatchers, of Maester Gerardys, is particularly sadistic and pointless.

I'll have to do a separate post to discuss Mushroom and Eustace and their motives, which are not as simple as one always tells the truth about Rhaenyra and one always lies - but it is worth noting that it is Eustace's account that insists Rhaenyra ordered Nettles be executed specifically out of jealousy, that calls Nettles a 'common thing with the stink of sorcery'. I am not saying there is no shred of truth to it, but it wouldn't be out of character for Eustace to depict events in the most misogynistic way possible (plus he wasn't in the room). This is the same guy who went 'who would fight for Rhaenyra now she's fat and ugly?', so it's not beyond him to cast her as a jealous bitch. Maybe it did go down as Eustace says (again, still considering Rhaenyra's mental state), or maybe Mysaria claimed to have proof of an actual plan to betray the Blacks, not just adultery?

It might be so. Yet Queen Rhaenyra did not act at once, but rather sent for Mysaria, the harlot and dancing girl who was her mistress of whisperers in all but name. With her skin as pale as milk, Lady Misery appeared before the council in a hooded robe of black velvet lined with blood-red silk, and stood with head bowed humbly as Her Grace asked whether she thought Ser Addam and Nettles might be planning to betray them. Then the White Worm raised her eyes and said in a soft voice, “The girl has already betrayed you, my queen. Even now she shares your husband’s bed, and soon enough she will have his bastard in her belly.” Then Queen Rhaenyra grew most wroth, Septon Eustace writes.

Eustace says Rhaenyra asked about both Addam and Nettles, but Mysaria is only quoted answering about Nettles. Which doesn't explain why Rhaenyra subsequently ordered Addam's arrest too. We don't have any alternative accounts to Eustace's, but then we could also consider Gyldayn's motives in compiling historical accounts the way he does (though that admittedly can lead us down many rabbit holes).

So maybe Rhaenyra was acting out of spiteful jealousy, or maybe paranoia and a deteriorated mental state, or maybe false evidence, or maybe some combination of the above. Either way, again compare to how Aegon treats Maester Gerardys. You can argue he does so out of paranoia, out of pain - but he could have simply had Gerardys arrested or executed. He didn't have to kill him the way he did. 'Both sides are bad' still leaves room for 'one side was worse', and each side was made up of more actors than just Aegon and Rhaenyra.

After all, who does Daemon ultimately lay the blame on?

The prince greeted me politely, but as he read I saw the joy go from his eyes, and a sadness descended upon him, like a weight too heavy to be borne. When the girl asked what was in the letter, he said, ‘A queen’s words, a whore’s work.’

We could likewise pin the blame on Alicent if you wish, for Aegon ordering the mutilation of a 10-year-old Aegon the Younger and a 13-year-old Baela.

“You fed his mother to your dragon,” she reminded her son. “The boy saw it all.” The king turned to her desperately. “What would you have me do?” “You have hostages,” the Queen Dowager replied. “Cut off one of the boy’s ears and send it to Lord Tully. Warn them he will lose another part for every mile they advance.” “Yes,” Aegon II said. “Good. It shall be done.” He summoned Ser Alfred Broome, who had served him so well on Dragonstone. “Go and see to it, ser.” As the knight took his leave, the king turned to Corlys Velaryon. “Tell your bastard to fight bravely, my lord. If he fails me, if any of these Braavosi pass the Gullet, your precious Lady Baela shall lose some parts as well.”

Well, she didn't say anything about Baela, he just added another child to the mutilation list (if you replaced Aegon with Joffrey and Baela with Sansa, would TG still be salivating?). And Alicent wasn't around when Aegon chose this particularly violent and gruesome execution:

Rhaenyra Targaryen had time to raise her head toward the sky and shriek out one last curse upon her half-brother before Sunfyre’s jaws closed round her, tearing off her arm and shoulder. Septon Eustace tells us that the golden dragon devoured the queen in six bites, leaving only her left leg below the shin “for the Stranger.” Elinda Massey, youngest and gentlest of Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting, supposedly gouged out her own eyes at the sight, whilst the queen’s son Aegon the Younger watched in horror, unable to move.

"This was revenge for Blood and Cheese... Aegon would have assumed Rhaenyra ordered it..." Hey if I was picking a way to go, I'd take a slit throat over being eaten alive. One is a great deal quicker.

Is the psychological torture Aegon the Younger went through here justified by the psychological torture Helaena went through? Do I even care to entertain it? Do you want me to go all the way back to the psychological torture Rhaenyra went through over Lucerys while Aegon and Aemond were partying - how terrifying were his final moments, was his death mercifully quick, did he feel himself being eaten alive, was he swallowed whole, was he still alive when Vhagar digested him - she didn't have a body to bury, only the horrors of her imagination. (hey TG, replace Aemond and Vhagar with Ramsay and his hunting hounds).

Aegon the Elder at this point had also very recently just murdered Maester Gerardys in the most pointlessly gruesome and sadistic way. So you know what, I'm inclined to think he didn't have justice for Helaena in mind when he forced Aegon the Younger to watch. I think he's just like that.

While we can theoretically blame Daemon for Blood and Cheese, and Mysaria for Nettles, Aegon has no such deniability for the ratcatchers, for the Shepherd and his followers, for Maester Gerardys, for Rhaenyra, for Aegon the Younger and Baela. While we can see the high stakes behind the interrogation of Tyland Lannister (which could have changed the course of the entire war), what point did it serve to torture Maester Gerardys? And while we can make mitigating considerations for both Aegon and Rhaenyra's mental state, one is considerably more sadistic than the other.

[wwwdotwhat]

Long Before The Lamb

How I like to think Ratau relinquished the crown.

This is referencing that sick new update (where those pillars appear and you can make heart offerings for lore tablets) because I LOVE LORE

—————

His body burned with the stream of heat radiating from the cavern. His chest ached, his heart a trapped animal banging on its cage. The pillar stood tall, mocking him, tugging the red beam of energy from his crown and watching him kneel. The stone scraped his knees, dyed in red-brown ink from past travellers.

‘Make offering.’

The stone inscription laughed at him, waiting in front of the swarming red cave where tendrils of black and red mingled in a silken veil. His heart begged him, screaming, throbbing, to lower his hand. To close his fist and decide ‘later’, or ‘never’.

He plunged his hand into his chest, his flesh giving way in a sickening squelch of agonising pain. The will of the crown parted his ribs, spewing his beating heart into his hand. Its first taste of air shrivelled it in horror, beating limply.

He staggered upwards, his chest closing once more like a seamstress pulling a thread. He gasped for air, feeling his insides swirl with magic. Soon enough, his veins sparked again, and another muscle began to form within him.

The crown’s eye swivelled around, as if guarding him while he shakily stood, regenerated.

He scraped his feet along the new splatters of scarlet, gentle kneeling once more to offer the nearly still heart in his hands.

The cavern’s colourful wisps grew excited, swirling outward and grasping his heart in a grip so fiery he felt burnt. Withdrawing his hand in a hiss, he watched the ribbons of red drag his heart away before manifesting a single, stone tablet.

He frowned. A commandment stone. He had seen many before. Each the same, virtues handed to him by the One who waited, all for him to choose.

The heat steamed around him as he stood once more, extending his hands to meet the warm stone. Engravings danced, suddenly, in a chatter so quick he held his breath.

The crown atop his head opened its eye, crinkling in a nonexistent grin.

“You are not the first, nor will you be the last. Another will come, another will conquer, another will erase your story in a breath. The time is now for you to prepare in prayer. There is a chance your soul will be spared.”

He clenched his jaw.

“You are not the last, Ratau.”

—————

The Lamb grinned, absorbing the devotion from his shrine. “You wouldn’t believe how sick he got. I had to find at least 20 flowers.” he said, turning to face him. “Thank god for your garden.”

Ratau nodded, leaning on his staff. “It is always my pleasure.”

The Lamb smiled, digging into his robes. “I also gotcha a crystal,” he sang, “I know ya like em, and your shack needs a new light.”

His hand opened to receive a crystal shard, warm and pointed in his hand. Ratau frowned. “Anchordeep is certainly warmer than I recall.” he commented, turning the shard in his hand.

“Is it? I don’t know, I’m always warm.”

Ratau hummed, dismissing the thought and pocketing the crystal. “Join us for Knucklebones tomorrow.” he said, smiling.

“You know I will.” the Lamb replied, turning and wandering to the pentagram where he vanished.

Ratau felt for the stone, still abnormally warm in his robes.

“You have come from a place I never wanted him to find.”

[myths-of-fantasy]

All it takes is one black lamb to dismantle an empire Ref / Ao3 Link / Previous / Next

“You bow your head in service, in humility”

You serve the Lord of Death and yet still grant offerings to others?

He may wait as long as he likes but the Lord of Death is merely that - it has always been a fool’s game to place all of your Faith in the palms of only one, narrow-scoped divine.

Mm….

Eve left the Red Crown to its musing as she pulled out the pouch she’d been collecting the gold of the rival cultists in. She could see nothing wrong with attempting to begin currying favor with a divine outside of the bishops of the Old Faith (which, she mused to herself - included Waiting One below) - it would reassure her to know she had another god invested in her survival while she performed this modified contract of a quest for the Waiting One. So she scanned the information written on the tree, observing the various bags left behind by even servants of the Old Faith based on the symbols and colors used for the coin-pouches littering the little clearing. 

A small offering from a humble lamb, they signed and poured a small amount of the coins into the entangled portion of branches that looked like interlaced palms. 

She was only slightly surprised to watch the coins glow softly before dissolving into dust. She was much more surprised to watch the vague scowl on the face of the tree-trunk seem to… soften and the intimidating red hollows that looked like eyes began burning with warm, yellow light. 

In place of the small pile of gold the sheep had poured in appeared a veritable cornucopia of berries and meat as the light from the tree disappeared.

Thank you Beast, you are ever virtuous, Eve signed appreciatively and extended her hoof. The crown gave the mental equivalent of a sigh and took on its pouch form, allowing the ewe to gather the kindly granted food to transport back to the cult as she quickly left the room. She released the Red Crown to return to her head. That was nice. I think I will continue to leave offerings - I will have plenty of gold from defeating followers of the Old Faith, it’s not like I can’t spare any. 

You are strange and undevout.

I do not recall ever swearing my devotion to the One Who Waits.

The crown seemed to start at this.

But… you act in service of him.

I am merely repaying a debt - the Chained God granted me a second chance at life in exchange for building his cult. I am assembling his cult and when that is complete, I had intended to continue my own solo journey. I have no stake in the squabbles between gods - those that do oft end up like this.

She motioned to the body of an already deceased cultist, body far along the path of decomposition and seemingly abandoned rot by his fellows and scavengers alike. The sheep crouched, allowing the red crown to become a dagger she recalled seeing one of the rival cultists with and began the painstaking process of prying the bones from the carcass to collect.

You hold fear that you would end as this heretic did?

Crimson Lord, I hold certainty that I would, they said calmly. They were getting better at this, faster and more efficient. They were already done with the rib-cage and moving onto the tedious, time-consuming task of collecting the tiny bones in the neck. She sent a flood of power into the body, trying to loosen the sinewy grip of the mortal flesh as much as possible. The gods of these lands are selfish creatures and often, the reward for being the most devout is being the first to die an agonizing death. Think of Amdusias and Valefor.

The Crimson Eye remained silent as she carved, skinned and tugged the bones free from the unlucky stag laying at her feet.

[lunarscaled]

❝ i’ll hear the truth, or you’ll wear chains. ❞ [ groazei aka alucard ]

A FEAST FOR CROWS @groazei

"What chains could you shackle me with that you have not already bestowed upon me!"

-> Voice noisy like rust scraping over stone, ragged with each of their heaving breaths that tickle their throat until they think they'll fall into a fit of hacking coughs; he had taunted and herded them into a long, thin English alleyway built high between buildings with old, greyed brick and like a fool they had thought they could escape him at the last moment. Of course not. Not him---Hellsing's finest monster, master of all he surveyed as his domain, a dog barely reined in by its leash. Leaving the organization had gained Lyric ground but lost them any of its frivolous protections from his savagery: the socket where the eye he had plucked out with his fingers, no anesthesia, had once been feels painfully empty now behind the patch of cloth. ( they wonder what they might lose this time. what new terror and tragedy he will inflict upon them. their body trembles with the fear of what has not yet happened to them. ) In the corner of the dead-end, their arms are wrapped around their ribs as if it will stop his teeth or hands from tearing through them however he likes; they are pushed as far back into the dark as they can be while they feel their lip quiver and their eyes water---they are so sick of being afraid, and yet it is all they can do. Cower and yelp like a small beast, lash out against him and be brutally reprimanded, try to be free or escape him again only to find no success. He takes one long step closer. The height of his body seems stretched dramatically as he boughs over them like the willow, one hand placed palm-flat on the wall next to their head. They can hardly see any more of his expression in this position than the inhuman glow of his eyes and the faint reflected light that catches the lines of his gaunt body. ( they hate this. they hate him. ) ( they know what he wants. )

"Leave me be!"

-> The victim's desperate plea. All the force in their chest that cracks off the walls and fade into the dead night, every building empty and with them any chance of dragging in more lambs to the slaughter. ( what about help? help was beyond them in this equation. ) They are so strong---or they try to be. Try to bear the weight of their past and the weight of the mistakes of others on their back and never complain; they work hard, diligently, they do what they can until their hands crack; they make amends everywhere they can, so why is this happening? What have they done to deserve it? They are so sick with hate in the pit of their gut it makes them want to do anything, say anything so they may never set eyes on him again, but he comes back! Again, again, again, always with more taunts and more tortures! He bleeds their reactions from them drop by drop as if it something to be savored, his appetite which can never be satiated forced upon them who never wanted it. Was their eye not enough grief for him? What else will he take? Their liver; their kidneys; their fingers, one at a time? They fear many hands and many eyes upon them, dissecting them like fresh kill. They fear him, and hate him, and it makes their head fill with such pain it wants to split right in two looking at him right now. ( what of Anderson? what of Anderson? where was he to tame his beast, his lover? his quarry? where was he to spare them of this, an innocent? how dare he look away---how dare he look away! )

"What else can you take from me! I can't sleep, I can't work, I have no one to turn to!"

( how could any of them LOOK AWAY! )

"There is nothing left in me for you! You're spending your nights, the terrible No Life King, chasing a NOBODY!"

[dragonfelling]

Happy Storyteller Saturday! TOP. TEN. JEREMIAS. FACTS!!!!!

Happy STS! 😎

Oh man, Jere... My boy.... In no certain order

1. Jeremias is the head doctor of the Aeraki Infirmary. He comes from a long line of doctors, starting with his great great grandma. The family is split between the McCulloughs and the Landsdownes (who are dentists)

2. His favorite food is between quail and spare ribs. He likes really rich food. He also likes lamb, veal duck and venison and is partial to pork or chicken unless its been marinated for a while. He prefers meat with all of his meals. He doesn't really like seafood. - Jeremias is a doctor though so most of his meals are whatever he can pick up durring his breaks or whats brought to him by the servants. (Usually cured meats and fruits are a typical Anemoian lunch)

3. While he is not as good at surgery as his father, and does have a higher complication / mortality rate vs his father.... He does have a much higher degree of creativity with his practice. He is also much more medicine savvy. His father created hormone therapy but Jeremias improved it. Jeremias also created essentially THC gummies for insomnia and pain. He also pulled up old asthma solutions from Seane's notes to try them with the Crown- and while most did not help and some made it worse, they at least got the boy through his teen years until a more permanent solution was found.

4. Jeremias has a flat affect. Its common in his family, and people like to call it the McCullough Dread. Its not that Jeremias isn't feeling, but he just shows almost no outward sign of strong emotion. He has a tendancy of speaking in a monotone way and he almost never smiles unless prompted to. His lack of outward emotional communication is very offputting to people. He didn't even smile on his wedding day until Amara reminded him. She, and anyone else very close to Jere though can tell through other ways how hes doing. Amara likes to tell people he smiles with his eyes and Mav would say that Jeremias only puts his hands on people he likes, unless hes doing his job.

5. The McCullough family crest is a Midonian wolfhound in a rampant, regardant pose. It holds a mourning flower. This crest is stamped into all the medicine the McCulloughs make.

6. Jeremias never planned on having children, but through a number of bad decisions and poor morals he ends up with a couple bastards he doesn't know for a long time. He raises a boy named Kid who is like his son, but hes just an apprentice. He tries to keep that distinction. He is also a step-dad before he has his own kids that he cares for. Amara has a daughter called Deidre and they get along okay for a while.... Until she decides that hes the worst after her mom dies and he covers up the reasons behind it. Eventually they patch things up though :-)! Jeremias has his own with a woman named Lauren. Hes introduced to her by one of his newer apprentices. She helps him realize just how crappy of a person he's become and he dedicates the rest of his life to helping others with his wealth: including funding an orphanage through his own money and charity galas. With her I thinkkkk he has a daughter and son? Elizabeth and Jeremiah?

7. Jeremias cares for a ton of mice in his infirmary. He uses them to test medications and also uses them as a teaching opportunity for Kid, his apprentice. Helps him learn some responsibility. He also allows a boy named Owen to care for some mice for his own experiments, under the watchful eye of Jere.

8. Jeremias McCullough's name means "god will uplift" and "son of hound/boar" - he raises his families standing from the horrible reputation left by his father. Boars are a common symbol of evil, manipulation and violence in Ascendancy and hounds tend to be an icon of loyalty, lust and skill.

9. Jere was once a throw away character, as Seanes sheepish weird son, but grew into a veryyyy important cornerstone character of the stories in Aeraki. He touches almost every life: being a doctor, friend, lover or wise figure.

10. Jeremias regret his life up until he was 40 something. Seeing how he hurt his body with reckless drug use and how he now wanted to be there for those who needed him...... He made a deal with the Devil. Or more so the God of the Dead. In exchange for his service and loyalty in life and beyond that, he would live until Demaskus decided to grant his death. He is technically an acolyte of the devil :'-3

[softdaydreamsdiary]

“Inspiration”

Ours was a house of God.

Many homes, one church, one God, many hands,

“Jesus loves me this I know,”

Pastors granddaughter, sins of the father, accursed bloodline. Christ said let the little children come to me.

Long nights in a darkened basement, empty pews, dusty nursery, a room in the back with a pulpit and nothing else.

“For no mark of sin may enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Visceral touch, prepared for harvest upon an unholy altar.

Strange situation, dissection, perfection through salvation.

“Your sins were bore on the cross.”

When does a child understand sin? How old do you have to be to go to Hell? How many lashes to absolve my iniquity?

Only speak when spoken to. Spared not the rod. Idle hands are the Devil’s playthings.

“For the Bible tells me so.”

Dress up, porcelain doll, glass house, ritual sacrifice, white knuckle, love me love me love me-

Outside of wedlock, no immaculate conception, “you’re just like your Mother,” martyrdom as my birthright.

“Whether covered entirely by the stain of sin, or wearing even a single drop, it matters not”

Gut me. I have known nothing else. This is my gift, my purpose, “It’s all part of Gods plan.” Jacob’s Wife. “You were made to serve your Husband.”

Savior, take me as a humble convert. My bleeding heart for your righteous crusade, hands clasped so tightly, reverent, weeping, possess me-

“All sinners left marked before judgement, however mournful, will be denied.”

I wish I was still pure. Only ever good for eating. Succulent mana, ritual offering, dirty dirty dirty-

You spread me open and study as if I were scripture, I find faith as monastic fingers turn each delicate page, speaking in tongues, you transcribe my word with no need for translation.

“The first blood belongs to the Lord.”

Divine blessing, guardian Angel, let me worship something please, higher power make me yours. Save me so that I may be clean.

Who am I if I’m allowed to live? Where does Isaac lay his head to feel safe? What does Abraham repent, if anything at all?

“Be not afraid.”

Where is the line for sacrilege in your heart? Shatter my every taboo, break me upon your wheel, indulge me in this secret heresy.

I am both Abel and Cain. Neck splayed, you deny me the butchers knife. I lie until I can’t anymore. Born-again.

“By His wounds you were healed,”

I don’t know how to love gently. Black sheep, prized yew, The Devil and The Lovers, euphoria, for once I was lost-

Baptize me, please. God, let me feast upon your sacrament, I believe I came from your rib. Won’t you let me back inside?

“Little ones to Him belong,”

Kneeling by the bed, penitent, your teeth at my throat, praying to be chosen, eyes closing, head bowing, make me your disciple, hedonists messiah-

I’ve never known a merciful God. Your breath of life into my lungs, my tears as holy water upon our brows,

“Blessed are the meek,”

Your tongue set to pilgrimage and I am crucified, catharsis to be devoured as a lamb of God.

Please, let me love you. I would tie my soul to yours, if I may make a deal with the Devil, forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

“For they are weak but He is strong.”

Eternal damnation, final revelations, cosmic machinations. I have only my promise and devotion.

I would walk into outer darkness to wash your feet, bear the thorny crown to purchase your passage into Heaven,

“For they shall inherit the Kingdom of God.”

I pray to become the Garden of Eden. Hide me away and let no man set foot nor eye upon your sacred ground.

Peter judge me as a sinner, but do not take me where he cannot follow.

Free will for the damned, and I choose a simple vice.

They shall know us by our love.

“Amen.”

-r 9.24.2024

[lazyhousecarly]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage Brown Leather Bomber Jacket Designer Aviator Genuine Lamb Skin Small.

[grandhotelabyss]

Thoughts on Fosse? I had to look him up, but apparently he's principally a dramatist and frequently compared to Ibsen. What's with the craze for all these mild-mannered, stylistically restrained Norwegians?

I think he got the Nobel on the strength of his novel, Septology. A summary from the laudatory New York Times review:

“Septology” is narrated by Asle (also a Catholic convert), a widowed painter living outside a coastal village in Norway. The action transpires over the course of a few memory- and prayer-filled days around Christmas, while he’s working on a painting of a purple line and a brown line intersecting to form an X, which he likens to the cross of St. Andrew. Asle is visited only by his neighbor, Asleik, a salty and chatty fisherman who’s always inviting him to dinner at his sister’s. He drives to the nearby town, to check on his namesake and doppelgänger, another painter named Asle. The latter is gravely ill, hospitalized because of alcoholism, and the narrator Asle is taking care of his dog, Bragi. The climactic (outward) event of the seven novels is a boat ride Asle takes with the dog and the neighbor, to attend Christmas dinner at Asleik’s sister’s house. He dies in the spare bedroom before they eat her specialty, smoked lamb ribs.

The seven-novel sequence, nearly 800 pages, is narrated in a stream of consciousness with no sentence breaks, and the namesake-doppelgänger story line is never definitively established as an extended speculative exercise or an astounding coincidence (or taciturn act of autofiction). Each novel begins, midthought, the same way, with Asle reflecting on how to finish his painting of the St. Andrew cross; each one ends the same way, mid-Latin prayer, at least until something else happens in the final book.

Fosse said, and to an interviewer who claimed that his work made her feel the presence of God on earth:

I had a kind of religious turn in my life that had to do with entering this unknown. I was an atheist, but I couldn’t explain what happened when I wrote, what made it happen. Where does it come from? I couldn’t answer it. You can always explain the brain in a scientific way, but you can’t catch the light, or the spirit, of it. It’s something else. Literature in itself knows more than the theory of literature knows.

I am sympathetic to this. Carve that last sentence on the lintel of the English department. I can't comment on his work because I haven't read him. His vogue in the Anglosphere seems to be part of the depoliticizaton of culture I've already observed several times—a healthy impulse. Yet, if I'm being ungenerous, Septology doesn't sound like my type of thing. Another reviewer mentions "the art of tedium."

I remember sitting in a very strange graduate class called Discourse of the Novel over 15 years ago as the professor, a famously erratic, perhaps even unwell, and yet formidably learned man of deconstructive intellectual tendencies, improvised a distinction I had never encountered before and have never encountered again between two types of novelists, or maybe writers in general. There is the writer of the "semanticon," interested in words, principally nouns, i.e., the things of this world, on the one hand; and, on the other hand, the writer of the "syntacticon," interested not in things but in the grammar of forms and ideas. Joyce vs. Beckett, I think he offered as examples; we read Beckett's Company in the class ("A voice comes to one in the dark"), but nothing by Joyce, announcing his allegiance to the syntacticon. Despite my reputation for deploying overstated binaries, I'm not sure this is a very persuasive one; I just like the two words. But, if I absolutely had to choose, I would be more allegiant to the semanticon myself, as I am more attracted to Joyce than I am to Beckett. If I were going to write an artfully tedious 800-page religious testament of an experimental late modernist novel, it wouldn't be one long sentence full of repetitions; it would be no sentence at all, just a list, a litany, of words, with no two repeated: semanticon, syntacticon.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Cooks Cowed By Meat Edict," North Bay Nugget. May 26, 1943. Page 1 & 16. --- By BETTY DESJARDINS Tomorrow, May 27, ham actors will come into their own to gain recognition in Canada as "just the thing for the duration." Hungry theatre-goers will pack playhouses to capacity to glimpse, in starved approval, the ham actor swinging into his incomparable performance.Shades of Hamlet's ghost! This famous product of the pen of Shakespeare will gain hitherto unheard of prominence in movie fan circles, and cows, pigs, sheep and other farm animals will, or should, be banned from appearing in moving pictures by a rigid board of censors, lest the sight of potential Sunday cuts, yet on the hoof, provoke panic in crowded theatres. across the Dominion.

And all because a little paper-hanger bearing the name of Schicklegrueber picked a fight, resulting in the onslaught upon Canadians of a series of uncomfortable rations coffee, tea, butter, sugar, beer, liquor, and now meat.

Thursday, nervously fingering the brown Spare "A" coupon from her No. 2 ration book, unhappy Mrs. North Bay, along with several dozens of her kind, will stand regretfully in line before the meat counter in her favorite groceteria, carefully avoiding with dewy eyes the display case decked gaily with parsley, dill pickles and MEAT.

Slowly, in line with the miserable little procession, Mrs. North Bay finally shuffles her way up to the salesman who, wearing a deliberately solemn face in place of the usual leer, gazes at her with companionable melancholy and taps his fingers expectantly upon the counter.

Mrs. North Bay stifles a sigh, silently hands her ration book to the waiting man, and utters: "You do it." The grocer may have a fairly broad imagination, but he cannot guess the likes and dislikes of the various members of Mrs. North Bay's family. Bravely, how- ever, he begins: "Sirloin? sausage? leg of lamb? tenderloin? roast of beef? veal cutlets?" Receiving no answer he continues: "Back bacon? ham? Short rib roast? Spare ribs?Stewing beef? Hamburger?"

Other customers, particularly toward the end of the long line, begin to cough gently and shift. from one high heel to the other, in a delicately hintful manner, as Mrs. North Bay delves into her handbag and extracts therefrom pages 12 and 13 from the North Bay Daily Nugget, Tuesday, May 25 issue.

Unmindful of the distressing fact that she has been holding up the line for 20 minutes, she peruses with concentration the literature thereon. Through Group A to Group D she reads, debating long and hard upon. the merits of the various meats listed.

Her eyes light up. She has decided. Customers crane their necks, the salesman, with an artificial smile lighting his features, waits breathless, for her next remark. Then "For goodness - rakes! I just remembered that my husband went fishing yesterday and caught six fish. Why did I even think of buying meat!"

And she flits happily out of the store, bound for home and her six fish and, entering the family domicile, says to her husband, who has been patiently waiting for his dinner for 45 minutes: "You know dear, there is really nothing to this meat rationing situation!"

[recitedemise]

Of course she knows him well. She's the same, isn't she? She, like something bibled, had come sprouting from his ribs.

And he's not yet aware, no, but the eyes he'd feel at night aren't at all his goddess's. It's hope that makes him think this, hope and desperate need like delirious delusion, but such is the mirage of a well humbled man. Fouler yet, such is the desire of a soul too ruined. At mass, Gale would feel as though watched, its weight kinder, far sweeter, and its touch boasting patience as though rich in time. Mystra's colder, undoubtedly, like how watching an eclipse is both grand and distant, but Gale can't help but wish well unto a fever, to cling onto that inkling like a blight on bone. So, she hangs as he leads them, watching him live fantasies as he herds his little flock. She knows his god has left him as he prays up toward the rafters. Every night, every session, his words unmet...

But maybe, just maybe, she can fill his hollow.

Imagine that, begs the hour. Yes. Envision the pretty, sparkly robes made of hand-spun gossamer. This mortal thing's alone, scrabbling for a goddess and wrenching back his hands to find only spirits. See? You are more his savior, more his beacon in the plundering dark. Indeed, she has heard his cries and his guttering little pleas that would fade unto the void. And won't you guide him, monster? Swaddle him gently in the cradle of your jaws? Wear the frock of a god and do away with the loneliness...

You'd like that, wouldn't you? Don't lie. We'd know.

Speak. The thought cuts right between them, slithering like a murder as it notches half a dagger in the valleys of their ribs. It's this lamb that deserves her. Hells, perhaps it's this lamb she deserves in her gullet. She'd keep him safe, no doubt, to fall oh so enamored where the gods had tossed him out. He eyes her with a patience, a twinkle of a question burnt honest in his eyes. He doesn't know she wraiths him, that she'd lumber in the ribbing of the church after dark, but they've both been alone for centuries long enough.

She has heard his prayers and not found him spoiled.

"Dekarios. Gale Dekarios," he greets. "My apologies. You'll have to forgive a man for his more humble indulgences. The last time I'd shared my name goes further back than I care for. Always father, you understand. Getting to say it again is, well, admittedly refreshing." When he smiles, its flavor is equal parts vunlerable and heart-bared gentle. How telling. Head bowed, he hopes the color up his collar is veiled beneath the dark. He does as wont, however, and succumbs to his desire to see her glow. Yet, such is the heart of such men of cloth, apparently. Candle taken, he moves with a smile and fills her hand. "It's late. I know most wonder why I'm so insistent on keeping them burning, these candles," he murmurs thoughtfully, "but one should never start dismissing that light they offer. I could never quite manage it, laying down to sleep knowing someone's in the shadows. I know what they're feeling, shambling in the dark on unfamiliar roads. If we can help them not to trip, then it's best not to spare any effort." He elbows her. "And I prefer your knees unbloodied, Serana. You've a lovely name."

My, such godliness like hers begets a follower in turn.

oh father , isn't it a sin to lie ?? the view from the rafters hath shown her a much different story. a man with so much love to give , but none other than the diminishing flock to give it to. with only the stone walls to fill his ears echoing back his own footsteps. never , have i ever been alone. so resolute in faith that She stands behind him now with a scowl to fend off the hungry wolf. yet serana looks at him , eyes overflowing with heartbreak because she sees nothing but his own shadow keeping him company here in this temple. day after day. mass after mass. while the bat nestled into the warm rafters to listen. even now. these walls feel empty despite the stone idols that fill them.

don't lie to me , serana wants to say. only to swallow it down , only responding to him with an empathetic nod. for now.

being one step beneath godliness has one attuned to such things. the ability to sense a presence. much the same as a mother's intuition. a knowing. and yes , the goddess's essence is all around. like fingerprints. or the ash that was left behind in a fireplace. signals of life in days gone by but has otherwise long been abandoned. ( would She save him from the beast in Her temple ?? or turn a blind eye in excommunication ?? ) and though she knew not why , to serana it didn't quite matter. looking at him now , there wasn't an atom in her body that could conjure what he could've possibly done to warrant such a blizzard over ones shoulder.

no. he doesn't deserve this. what could he possibly have done ?? what god wouldn't want the devotion she's witnessed ?? who would be self-righteous enough to believe that their faithful deserve to be abandoned when they sin ?? wasn't there room for forgiveness ?? serana knew not how to rule as a god. what she did know is that she'd not treat him this way , were he hers.

" it's serana- " teeth clamp down afterwards , lips curling into a smile as she follows him , his new shadow. anything to keep her from revealing her hand. to keep his name from stumbling out , because he hasn't shared it yet , has he ?? he doesn't know of the womanly ghost in his halls , who hums his name to herself like a prayer he had taught her. could the wolf love the lamb whose neck it's teeth necklaced ?? was it able to love ?? or was it just infatuation ?? which one was deadlier ?? " and you ?? father- ?? " silently , her hands are offered. pass her what you need. let her touch taint your holy candles. she'll do whatever you ask with that sugary sweet smile on her face. anything to stay in these halls with you.

[fieriframes]

[You do not hear of lamb ribs. So, are these spare ribs or back ribs? Hi, Piper said, as casually as she could. We’re back. I like the way it already starts. So, we're gonna make a brine?]