#bird boy and princeling

[acourtofquestions]

Legit finishing EoS (even amid THAT hot mess) I was still freaking out over them, cause even in the little moments their friendship just makes my heart so happy🥹😊 — thank you for this🫶 I NEEDED IT😭

“Dorian lingered longer, graceful and steady, even as Rowan found himself struggling to speak past the tightness in his throat.”

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There’s not much art of Dorian/Rowan, so I had to get these scene from KoA. Look at them 😩🖤

Commission by @Badeyart

[bumblesimagines]

The Beasts of The North

Request: Yes or No

Summary: When Jace travels to the North to meet with the Lord of Winterfell, he expects to meet the well-known Wolf the North. What he didn't expect was a bear residing in Winterfell as well.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, unknown age gap since (Y/N) is early to mid twenties and Cregan is mid twenties, technically not HOTD Cregan personality or appearance wise rip (inspired by Cordeliacordate on Ao3's interpretation of Cregan),

So sorry to Tom Taylor but he is not what I envision when I think of Cregan 😭 I always saw Cregan looking more like Roman Reigns or Alexander Dreymon as Uhtred

~~~

By the time the sun began to rise, Winterfell had already come alive with the hustle and bustle of servants, residents, and villagers coming and going as they began their routines. The mixture of chatter, laughter, occasional yipping of a dog, and the sound of birds singing and squawking floated through the cracked open window, reaching the ears of the two men lying beneath bundles of furs and blankets to keep them warm from the cold. 

"Cregan," (Y/N) sighed, sleep oozing out of him ever so slowly. The bed just felt oh so comfortable and heavenly, enticing him to sleep for a few more hours. There was much to be done, though, and he couldn't allow himself nor Cregan to forget lest they risked an earful from Sara. "The princeling will likely arrive today." 

"Aye," Came the gruff, sleepy response from the lord, his strong arms still coiled tightly around (Y/N) and showing no signs of releasing him so they could both begin their day. Instead of climbing out of bed and preparing himself for the day ahead, Cregan pulled (Y/N) closer to his chest and nuzzled his face against the back of his neck, the fuzz of his beard scratching and tickling him.

(Y/N) pushed his cheek into the soft silk of the pillow beneath his head, savoring the feeling for a moment before he forced himself to sit up and detach from Cregan. One of the furs slipped downward from his chest, exposing his skin to the coldness of the room, though (Y/N) had grown acclimated to the harsh temperature of the North. Cregan made a low rumbling noise of discontentment, his hands blindly searching for his lover but (Y/N) slipped out of bed before Cregan could wrangle him back into his embrace. 

"We wouldn't wish to leave a bad impression on the princeling, would we, Cregan?" (Y/N) spoke teasingly, echoing back the words Sara had told them when they received word of Prince Jacaerys intent to fly out to Winterfell on his dragon. Neither of them were fools, however, and they'd rapidly pieced together the reason why when they received word of the boy prince's uncle, Aegon Targaryen, being crowned in King's Landing over Rhaenyra Targaryen. War was brewing, and both sides needed an army before it could spill over. 

"Mm," Cregan responded, grunting softly as he pushed himself up against the headboard, the wood creaking beneath the weight of his sturdy back. His black hair had loosened free from the bun he'd wrapped it in before bed, resting and brushing over his shoulders in a mess of bedhair he'd have to brush before they broke their fast. His gray eyes watched him, lingering on (Y/N)'s nether regions with a curl of his lips until they were covered up by pants. "Starks never forget their oaths. We hardly need to be reminded of 'em."

"I detest the idea of a royal guest as much as you do, Cregan, especially one raised to believe in the Seven." (Y/N) reminded him, the warmth of the stone floor digging into the bottom of his feet as he crossed the room to close the window, finding himself thankful for whichever Stark had the idea of building the Great Keep over natural hot springs. Through the window frost, he could see those walking around below, preparing for the feast that'd be held in honor of their guest. "But supporting the boy and his mother would be better than supporting the Hightower lot." 

"The boy," Cregan echoed and chuckled breathily, his fingers scratching at his chin before he tugged the furs and blankets off himself and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rose with a heavy, still exhausted sigh and approached him, an arm wrapping around his shoulder and lips pressing against his temple. "You're hardly much older than him, I hear. Besides, you were once new to Winterfell. Perhaps you can help him get accustomed to how things are around here." 

"What if he's a spoiled brat and I cannot stand to be around him?" (Y/N) groaned softly at the thought and rolled his head back to rest it on Cregan's shoulder. Cregan smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek next, his palm lightly squeezing his shoulder before his thumb rubbed into the exposed skin soothingly. (Y/N)'s eyes flickered away from the roof to study the side of his lover's face. "Or what if I like him enough to entice him into bed, hm? What will you do then?"

Cregan laughed heartily and spun him around to press their chests together, his hands dropping to grasp at (Y/N)'s hips and hold him still. He dipped his head and kissed him properly on the lips, swallowing the mischievous giggle that left (Y/N). He grew back with crinkled eyes and pressed his forehead against (Y/N)'s. "I doubt some little princeling will catch your eye, my darling. He'd likely be the one trying to entice you, even with that attitude of yours." 

"That attitude had you tripping over your own feet to sweep me off mine." (Y/N) lightly jabbed his finger into Cregan's chest, feeling the lord's body shake with another laugh. Cregan didn't bother to deny his words and instead pecked the bridge of his nose, rubbing his hands into (Y/N) hips before pulling away to finally get dressed. 

Following suit, (Y/N) collected the rest of his clothes off the floor and slipped out of Cregan's bedchambers into his own across the hall, discarding the old clothes on the bed and greeting the maids that fluttered in to help him get dressed. The wool fabric pressed and dragged against his skin, the layers of clothing warming his chilly skin in a matter of minutes. By the time he finished, Cregan had dressed too, and together they headed down the hall and down a set of stairs. 

"Good morrow, you two." Sara greeted them from her spot by the table and casted them a glance over her shoulder, little Rickon fastened to her hip with two fingers in his mouth. His big brown eyes turned toward them and brightened, a wide smile breaking out on his chubby face at the mere sight of his father. He looked so much like his mother, Lady Arra Norrey, in certain lights, especially in his gleeful moments.

"Hello, my little pup." Cregan greeted softly when he scooped his young son into his arms, nuzzling his nose into the boy's belly just to hear him crack up with laughter. He freely slumped against Cregan's chest and (Y/N) pressed a fleeting kiss to his small temple, a smile tugging at his lips when Rickon giggled in response. 

"Prince Jacaerys should be arriving soon." Sara reminded them like a mother would her children, turning away once she finished her conversation with two servants to face them. Despite her status as a bastard, Sara took care of things around Winterfell just as much as Cregan and (Y/N) did, perhaps more than them. Her pale blue eyes, nearly the same shade of gray as Cregan's, flickered between the two lovers. "His room will be beside (Y/N)'s. I do hope you'll behave yourselves." 

Their smirks only made her roll her eyes and heave a sigh, her hands smoothing out the bottom of her dress as she sat beside them at the table. (Y/N) dug into his breakfast with eagerness, the subtle ache in his stomach disappearing with each gulp of food and juice until his plate was clean. He dapped at his lips with his handkerchief before brushing the crumbs from Rickon's chin, his eyes softening and a gentle smile spreading across his face. Cregan swooped in to kiss the top of his head, an act those around them hardly batted an eye at. 

"My Lord, My Lady, Ser" Maester Orwen called out when he entered the room, dipping his head in respect and greeting. He shuffled closer to them, his hand brushing over Rickon's head affectionately. "There have been reports of a dragon not far from here, My Lord. It appears our guest will soon be arriving." 

"Thank you, Maester Orwen." Cregan sighed and stood from the table, handing Rickon off to his sister with a kiss to the boy's temple before he motioned with a nod for (Y/N) to come along to greet their new royal guest. (Y/N) grimly realized he never bothered asking for how long the prince would be staying with them and gave a heavy sigh.

Maester Orwen followed the two men out into the chilly morning air, the snow crunching beneath their boots and their heads angled toward the gates. (Y/N) knew very little of Prince Jacaerys apart from the rumors circulating his parentage and the fact he was to be his mother's heir as the eldest son, despite the possibility of being a bastard.

An unfamiliar shriek echoed through the air above them and he tilted his head upward to watch the shadow of a dragon pass overhead in awe. It dipped downward toward the ground beyond the walls around Winterfell, the alarmed shouts of villagers quieting with reassuring calls from the guards around. 

The gates soon parted, a lonesome figure stepping through and making his way toward them. (Y/N) had an image in his head of what the Prince would look like; silver-haired, purple eyes, boyish features, and a snobby attitude known to royals and most nobles. That image promptly shattered when Prince Jacaerys stopped before them. His hair, (Y/N) noted, was a chestnut brown color as were his eyes, two notable Targaryen and Velaryon traits he lacked. He was lanky and still appeared boyish due to his age but his features were hardened and eyes determined. No amount of determination, however, would cover up the trembling of his body. His clothes lacked a layer or two to keep him fully warm from the cold.

"Prince Jacaerys Velaryon," Maester Orwen greeted and bowed, offering him a friendly and welcoming smile despite the glances and disinterest of those around him. A small smile appeared on Prince Jacaerys face, giving a slight dip of his head in greeting before looking back at Cregan and then at (Y/N). He paled a little at the sight of them, despite his reddened face from the cold insistently nipping at it. "May I introduce the Wolf of the North, Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell, and our trusted master-at-arms, Ser (Y/N) Mormont of Bear Island. I am Maester Orwen, here for whatever you may require."

"Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Jacaerys," Cregan spoke, voice devoid of most emotions and face largely stoic. (Y/N)'s lips curled at the way Prince Jacaerys adams apple bobbed nervously. His lover was an imposing man, he knew that well. Naturally tall and burly with a piercing stare that sent shivers down even the most hardened of knights. What had most men cowering only made (Y/N) swoon. 

"T-Thank you, Lord Cregan." Prince Jacaerys cleared his throat. "It is a pleasure to meet the both of you. I am here, as you must know, on my mother's behalf-"

"Speaking of politics already?" (Y/N)'s head lolled to the side and Prince Jacaerys eyes flickered back to him, his cracked lips parting and closing. Cregan's features morphed, his lips tugging into a grin and eyes crinkling with amusement as he turned to eye (Y/N). "Straight to the point type of lad, aren't you?"

"What Ser (Y/N) means to ask-" Maester Orwen sent him a swift scolding glare. "-is if you require anything, My Prince. We could have a meal or hot bath readied for you, if you'd like to rest after a long... flight." 

Prince Jacaerys lips pressed together, uncertainty written on his face but he looked away when (Y/N) arched a brow at him. "A hot bath sounds lovely, thank you. I, uhm-" He swiped his tongue over his lips and shuffled his feet, his composure rapidly disappearing the moment Maester Orwen stepped away to instruct some servants. "As I was saying, I am here as my mother's envoy to garner support for her cause and claim. Many years ago-" 

"My father, Lord Rickon Stark bent the knee and accepted Rhaenyra Targaryen as the heir to the Iron Throne." Cregan finished for him and spared a glance over his shoulder before he turned to (Y/N), his eyes shimmering with amusement. His hand came to rest along (Y/N)'s midback and (Y/N)'s eyes narrowed. "My love," (Y/N) swore he heard the prince choke quietly on his spit. "Since Prince Jacaerys will be residing in the room next to yours, you should show him the way." 

"There are servants for that, Cregan." (Y/N) squinted at him, the mischief on his face clear as day. "I have squires and wards to train, not to mention-"

"All that can wait for the Prince, can it not?" Bastard.

A brief cheeky grin graced Cregan's handsome features and he leaned in to kiss the area between (Y/N)'s eyebrows, giving his back a pat and nodding to the startled prince before he turned and marched further across the yard to tend to his own duties. (Y/N) watched him go with pursed lips, making a note to himself to get back at him for it later.

"I-"

"Come." (Y/N) ordered sharply, momentarily forgetting the young man before him was royalty and not another clumsy boy he had to shape up. Prince Jacaerys hardly seemed to notice, nearly slipping on the icy stone as his legs quickly moved to follow him into the castle.

(Y/N) led him through the hallways until they returned to the Great Hall, coming to a stop beside Sara and Rickon once more. "Your brother's the worst." He muttered quietly in her ear, earning a soft snort before he turned to the prince. "Prince Jacaerys, this is Sara Snow, Cregan's Stark half-sister. This little lad is Rickon Stark, Cregan's son." 

"Ah," Prince Jacaerys dipped his head in greeting and Sara curtsied as best she could with her nephew in her arms. A wide smile spread across his lips as he took in Rickon, lifting his finger toward the boy and chuckling softly when Rickon wrapped his little fingers around it. "Pleasure to meet you both," Rickon answered in an incoherent babble. 

"I suppose I should show you around since Cregan is..." (Y/N) almost sighed. "Busy."

With Prince Jacaerys proving to be rather obedient and quiet, (Y/N) had little trouble leading him around the castle and showing him the different rooms, halls, and towers connected to it. The prince only piped up to ask questions, mostly regarding the history of Winterfell or about a member of the Stark family until they reached the hall leading to the bedchambers and pushed the door open to Prince Jacaerys temporary room. 

"The bath has already been drawn, Prince, and the belongings you sent ahead have been put away. If you require something and cannot locate anyone else, my bedchambers are to your left and Cregan's bedchambers are across." (Y/N) told him, eyeing the tempting steaming bath before turning to look at the prince. He studied his surroundings curiously. "Is there anything you need as of right now? I have fools to train."

"Are-" Prince Jacaerys cleared his throat once more. "Forgive me if I am overstepping but... are you and Lord Cregan..." He trailed off, the light red color returning to his skin and eyes jumping away from him.

"The Old Gods care not if you lie with someone of the same sex or love them, Prince. I'm sure as a child of the Seven you've been taught differently, but we followers of the Old Gods do not hold the same values." (Y/N) explained simply, watching the prince slowly nod. "Cregan and I are lovers, and if that bothers you, I suggest you deal with it for the duration of your stay." 

"It- It doesn't bother me," Prince Jacaerys assured quickly.

"Good." (Y/N)'s lips dragged into a small smirk. "Welcome to Winterfell, then." 

[themotherofhorses]

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

summary: “she’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?”

warnings: explicit language. angst. much angst. nothing but angst. i cannot stress it enough.

notes: well this is rather unfortunate.

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

The raven arrives at nightfall, at an hour so late that only Aemond is awake to accept it. The princeling could not find sleep that night, instead rolling off the bed and crossing the chambers to his windows, before pulling back the heavy tapestries and throwing them open one by one.

The cool air is a welcoming feeling to his feverish skin, hot to the touch from hours of lovemaking under the sheets.

He stands facing the darkness, naked and at utter peace, in pure happiness. His precious girl sleeps soundly behind him, with the thick furs pulled up to her chin, hiding the most of her beneath the blankets. She is so utterly beautiful in the moonlight. It’s been three long months since his sons were born, and Aemond was beginning to hope his seed would again take. His loins ache at the thought, and he fights the sudden urge to slip in between her thighs. Perhaps she’d give him a daughter this time.

In his dreams, she wears her mother’s face, in a gown of Targaryen colors with a dragon hatchling sitting on her shoulder. She pokes him awake in the morning, and pleads for a quick ride atop Vhagar before grandmother arrives to begin her history lessons.

His daughter has his love’s eyes and smile, he thinks again, and her nose scrunches up in the same way hers does.  

I want it.

He shakes his head.

Let her rest, you fool.

When the black raven arrives at his windowpane, he is a bit confused. He waves the bird away before it could make another squawk, and stares down at the scroll taken from it, eying the blood-red ribbon tied into a pretty, tight knot around. In his head, he weighs the choices in taking it as his own. Should he…? Or should he not? His curiosity clashes with his righteousness.

Aemond decides to, in the end.

He takes the scroll to his desk, quietly lighting a small candle before taking a seat and unrolling it out to read. The writing is in pretty cursive yet smells of cheap ink, with a slight smudge staining the edge of the paper. It is addressed to his handmaid, he realizes, starting with her name that leads to a sweet congratulations on her newfound motherhood. Twins, your uncle had said. How marvelous to hear. I hope to meet them soon, my dear.

With all the love in this lifetime—your mother, Alys Rivers.

“With all the love in this lifetime,” he repeats aloud, shaking his head, refusing to believe. His fingers tighten around the letter, the tips turning a jarring white. “Your mother, Alys Rivers.”

Aemond then glares up at the woman lying in his bed, a bitter twist on his mouth. She shifts a little bit beneath his gaze, but remains relaxed and asleep and blissfully ignorant of the rising anger sparking deep inside him.

Who is she? For the first time since he met her, he asks himself that.

He should’ve suspected this.

“A bastard, Lord Beesbury, mothered by the daughter of a milk cow.”  

Aemond turns away from her, back to the darkness outside.

Her mother is a bastard rivers woman, it seems. At least that is how it reads. Alys Rivers. She carries no man’s last name in her letter. What is her daughter, if not the same as her? He picks at his mind, trying to remember if she ever mentioned her father. Aemond returns to staring up at the moon and the white stars blinking high above in the midnight sky.

He suddenly feels no desire to return to bed with her tonight.

But she is the mother of your children, his mind argues, and it leaves him irritated.

She’s given him two heirs, his first-born children, beautiful twin boys that are mirrors to their own father, himself. And the daughter he’s dreamt of…But…they’re bastards too, he then reminds himself. You love them the same way you love her, do not lie to yourself. It was not enough to ease his thoughts, and reason with him, and stop the ugly bitterness from rising in his throat.

Damn her.

Aemond stuffs the letter inside one of the desk drawers, not wishing to lay eyes on it again. Maybe he’ll burn it later in the day. He then shrugs on his robe, tying it around his waist, before leaving the room. She’ll wake up in the morning, and search for his hand buried within the sheets. When she realizes she is alone in the bed, he knows she will pout before readying to tend to her babies, like the mother he’s made her into.

Damn her.

Then she will move on to her responsibilities, like the silly, dumb handmaid she is.

Damn her.

That is all she should’ve remained, Aemond thinks, curiously calm as he strides down the hallway. He doesn’t know where he is going, but he knows he will not return this night. Bastards never amount to anything else.  

Aemond hasn’t spoken to her in three days, dismissing his handmaid from his bedchamber before he retires for the evening. She no longer fetches his hot baths or crawls beneath the blankets with him. He hasn’t allowed it. He avoids the nursey too, where he knows his twin sons sleep in their cots, too young to notice their father’s absence. Aemond walks the halls of the Red Keep, as he has walked a thousand times before, but disregards all the rooms where he knows her presence painfully lingers.

She does not fight nor question him. He knows she won’t.

“Aemond.”

He hears her voice in his slumber, always- sometimes in a breathless whisper, and most times in a scream, or a whimper, or an anguished howl. She always manages to find him, following him into his dreams and nightmares and antagonizing him into insanity. Her shadow stands over his bed. And around her neck dangles the sapphire necklace, while her pretty eyes weep both tears and blood.

“Aemond, please!” she cries, bawling up the sides of her dress in her fist. The plain cloth is stained in dried blood, splashed across her belly and thighs. “Aemond, please, I need you, husband!”

“AEMOND.”

This time tonight, it causes Aemond Targaryen to jerk upright, pulled from a horrible nightmare that still clouds his thoughts. The sheets are tangled between his fingers, and his heart is heaving heavily within his breast. He hears her voice echoing, begging for her husband. “Aemond.” His attention quickly darts to the door, where his mother stands, tall and regal and noticeably pissed. She calls his name again loudly. Although still groggy, he stumbles his way towards her.  

His mother does not greet him. Instead, her brown eyes remain on his empty bed, skimming across the sheets and the way the heavy fur blanket nearly hangs off the foot of his bed. He must’ve kicked it off him during his sleep.

She frowns at the sight, before looking back at him.

“So it is true, then.”

Aemond rubs at his eye, tilting his head in confusion. “What is true, mother?”

“That she hasn’t been seen in your room for the past three days; instead, she’s returned to her old room across the castle, where the other maids sleep. Three days, and three nights.” His mother spoke in anger, yet her face remained a mask that betrayed nothing. It is one thing he greatly admired about her, in the same way it terrified him the most. “And you haven’t visited your sons as well, I’m told.”

He flushes. “I’ve been busy,” he grumbles, shifting on his bare feet. “I’ll see them tomorrow, in the morning after we break fast together.”

“Tomorrow? You’ll see them tomorrow? AEMOND!” she shouts, incredulous. Her hair hangs loosely around her face, and she pushes a thick strand behind her right ear. “You wanted these babies so badly, and yet you are beginning to neglect them before their second nameday. Have you lost all fucking sense?!”

Aemond bites his tongue in an attempt to keep his own temper from flaring up in response to her yelling. He says nothing in return, which he knows only upsets his mother further.

“What has happened, Aemond?” she asks. “This is unlike you. You love those boys, and that girl too.”

“Nothing,” he says, a bit too quickly. “Nothing has happened. I’ve simply been too busy to play anymore games with her.”

“Games? Games?! That is all shit,” his mother blazes. “Utter shit. Do not begin to take me as a fucking fool, Aemond. I am not your father, and I am not your brother, and eldest sister either. Now you tell me, boy, what has happened.”

Aemond sighs. “She’s a bastard—‘innit the truth, mother?” He meets her eyes and feels his poor heart sinking at the silent shock that instantly falls across her features and the way she makes no move to deny it. “A bastard.” Saying it aloud, it makes him wish to return to his bed, and curl up in his sheets, completely hidden from this cruel world that damned him to fall in love with a stupid bastard girl. “A damn, no good, bastard girl from Harrehnal—”

But he is then cut off by a sharp backhand blow to the side of his face that quickly sends him stumbling two steps back, almost falling hard against the wall. Aemond holds his cheek, breath hitching as he brushes a tender finger against the already reddening skin that he knows will surely show a dark bruise on the morrow. It feels hot, and it stings. He looks up at his mother, who has never hit him before.

“How dare you speak of her in such a way,” she spits, purpled with rage. Her hand twitches at her side, as if she itches to slap him again. He deserves it, he thinks. “HOW DARE YOU. She is the mother of your children, and you dare behold her with such loathing venom?”

“AND YOU DID NOT THINK TO TELL ME BEFOREHAND?” he shouts back, half hurt from the realization that she watched him fall smitten with the bastard, and never thought to tell him the truth. “She is the cousin of those bastards that took my eye, their own blood!”

“And? It is the truth, yes, that she is a riverlands bastard, born to a woman at Harrenhal. Lord Larys is her true uncle, who brought her to us at my request. But damn you, Aemond, that girl is so fucking in love with you.”

All his words fall stuck in his throat, and he fails to push them out.

“Have you nothing more to say?”

His queen mother sniffs when he says nothing, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. Perhaps it is best she drinks the moon tea, lest she gives you another child that you won’t love nor appreciate because of its mother’s unfortunate bastardy.” Aemond remains silent, and her mouth drops into another scowl. “You lied to me when you promised that you would never be your father or Aegon.”

I am not, he wants to scream out. His knees buckle in weakness at her cruel words, and the sheer disappointment laced within them. It hurts worse than her slap.

I love her so much, I swear, and my boys too. I love anything she gives me, and I promise…I promise…I promise…

“You, Aemond, carry their eyes and hair and nose, everyone can see. But I know the truth now—you carry their pig attitude as well,” she remarks, pushing herself toward him. “I’ll send her back to her mother, I promise, and find another handmaid for you, one that is to your liking.”  

She says not another word, instead turning to the houseguard that had accompanied her to his hall. “I’m tired. Please help me back to my bedchamber,” she asks, pressing her fingertips against his temple. “I would appreciate such, my good knight.”

His mother leaves him silent and still, sad and scared and helpless and heartbroken, staring down at his toes as they grow damp from his tears.

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taglist for everything aemond: @randomdragonfires @aemvnd @moonteas @chompchompluke

[malfiora]

Can't Get Enough

by captainBAEhab

Tags: GrayWing, getting together, previous DickKory, fluff, thirst traps

The first time they met was...less than stellar. Kori had been raving about her new boyfriend for ages and finally got to introduce him to the Titans during their annual holiday party. "You'll like him, he's from Gotham," he'd been assured.

Nightwing is curious – until in walks the princeling of Gotham, Dick Fucking Grayson. There's a blissful moment in which he thinks (knows) this is a mistake, but, nope, Kori is greeting him with a kiss and heart eyes. How had they even met? And what could Kori have possibly seen in him?

He watches to find out. Dick waltzes around, flashing his best paparazzi smile at the Titans and regaling them with ridiculous socialite stories. What's worse is that everyone else is actually charmed by this, if the faint blushes and waving hands are any indication.

When Dick finally makes his way over to him, he gives Nightwing a sweeping look and his smile tightens to a smirk. "You, I know," he declares. "My family's cleaned up enough of your messes."

And so Nightwing vows to hate the guy, even if the others vouch for him.

"Oh, c'mon, he was trying to be nice," Troia says. No.

"Yeah, isn't that just how Gothamites say 'hello'?" Beast Boy tries. Nope.

Nightwing gets the last laugh when Dick and Kori break up three months later.

---

Or so he'd thought. As fate would have it, night shift in Gotham falls to Nightwing one weekend. Batman and Robin are off world, Red Robin is on the West Coast, the Batgirls are on the other side of the world for a "mission" (read: vacation), and Red Hood won't return his calls. And apparently some upstart gang thinks it's the perfect window to kidnap a Wayne for ransom. But not just any Wayne, oh no.

Dick Fucking Grayson is sitting in the middle of a dingy room, gagged and tied to a folding chair. Nightwing removes the zip ties first and the gag absolutely last. As soon as he's able to, Dick pushes off the chair to stand but immediately falls back into it with a grunt.

"Whoa, take it easy," and Nightwing scans him for injuries. "Looks like your ankle is sprained."

"Doesn't matter, the girl –"

Nightwing raises an eyebrow. "What girl?"

"The other victim." Turns out, the upstart gang is more daring than they initially seemed and kidnapped two hostages. "I'm not leaving her, I have her my word."

It's a bad idea, he should complete Dick's rescue before going back for another hostage, but Dick's eyes are burning with determination and it's crumbling his resolve. "Fine," Nightwing sighs, "hang onto me."

They hobble down the hall to another dilapidated room. Huddled in the corner is a girl, probably a preteen, with smudged glasses and a shock of red hair. She launches herself at Dick the moment she sees him and hugs him around the middle.

"Hey, Carrie," he says through a pained smile and he pats her head. "I told ya I'd come back for you. And I brought a friend."

Carrie peeks up at him and smiles. Nightwing crouches so he's level with her. "Hey, Carrie, my friend here's a little hurt, so I need your help. Is that okay?" She squeezes Dick tighter but eventually lets go and nods. "Awesome. I need you to go a few steps ahead of us and tell me if you see or hear anyone coming. If you do, make this signal with your hands." And he flaps his hands like a bird.

"Like this?" She imitates the gesture.

"You're a natural."

Carrie diligently checks around every corner as Nightwing supports Dick through the building. Either the goons all left or they get extremely lucky, but they don't encounter anyone, and soon enough they're free of the lair. GCPD arrives a minute later with paramedics, so Nightwing gives Dick over to the paramedics and calls it a day. But not before he watches Dick smile down at Carrie and offer his hand to her while they wait for her parents.

See, he's never seen this side of Dick before. Warmth, protectiveness, concern for someone and something other than his hair and his fancy clothes and gaudy cars. It's...weird and vulnerable and a little precious, and so now Nightwing is curious – what else is there to Dick Fucking Grayson?

Which, of course, leads him to Twitter. He scrolls through Dick's posts and retweets, just skimming, all the way back to when he first created it, just as part of his investigation. It's not obsessive if he's only looking, right? It's a patchwork of silly ramblings, vague political statements encouraging Gothamites to vote without endorsing anyone, links to interviews with various Waynes, and photos of charity events. Normal, even a little thoughtful. Must be Dick's PR team, right? Except that wouldn't explain the thirst traps.

There aren't many, but they're there, sprinkled into perfectly innocuous posts. Hashtag-no-filter selfies of him allegedly just waking up, post work out poses, fit checks in various dressing rooms, just there, for everyone to – FUCK.

He accidentally liked one of the posts.

And so now Nightwing is faced with a dilemma: does he un-like it and pretend it was a mistake? Or leave it there and act nonchalant? Dick is going to get the notification either way, and moment now –

"Well hello there 😏" comes the DM notification from @ not_a_dick_joke and nonononono this can not be happening right now. "Glad you liked the pic! But here's a more recent one" and sure enough Nightwing gets an alert saying he's got a photo.

Dare he? Should he open the messages to see? Well...a peek couldn't hurt at this point. Lo and behold, it's another thirst trap, this one of Dick with his shirt half unbuttoned and holding a sign with a scribbled 'to my savior' on it.

Nope. That's enough Internet for the day. Nightwing logs off of Twitter and considers deleting the app for five whole minutes before doing something more productive like polish his wingdings again.

---

And everything is fine for another couple weeks, in which Dick definitely sends more selfies and Nightwing definitely looks at them and leaves him on read and this is definitely normal and healthy behavior for both of them. Until it isn't.

@ not_a_dick_joke: is getting kidnapped the only way I'll get you to talk to me? okay then 😊

What...what does that mean? Holy fuck, is Dick Fucking Grayson going to get himself kidnapped just to get Nightwing to talk to him? That's just...(stupid/hot/crazy/sweet).

So naturally, Nightwing must check on him. He drops by Wayne Manor, onto a balcony he's seen Batman use before. Sure enough, Dick is there, waiting, elbows leaning on the balustrade. He grins when he sees Nightwing.

"So that did the trick, huh? I was wondering what I'd do to get you over here if that didn't work." And then he's tugging at Nightwing's wrist and pulling him inside the manor. "C'mon, I wanna show you something." He tossed a wink back at him. "Something I can't post on Twitter."

[sky-kiss]

Raphael x Jaheira: Leash

A/N: extremely short lol, but inspired by how absolutely damn unhinged Andrew and Tracy got on a stream. And the gorgeous art they inspired. Holy damn, Red is so psycho talented.

R x J: Leash 18+

Jaheira catches his lower lip between her teeth. “Come now, pretty bird. No songs for me?” 

Oh, he croons, preening for her amidst his sea of lavish silks. He is red. Red like the kiss-sucked bruises on his throat, red like his sheets, red like the wine trickling down his throat, tracking down his abdomen. The half-elf digs her knees into his hips, pulling back on the leash as she might with any well-trained mount. He arches, lower lip caught between his teeth, as she traces the path of the wine with her nails. 

“And in what tongue would you prefer these songs, High Harper?” the devil purrs. “I do consider myself a—” he gasps, hips jerking as she fists a hand in his hair. “ —most magnanimous host.”

Jaheira considers this, fighting back a shiver as he traces the underside of her breasts. She slackens her grip, and he tuts, disapproving, tucking his face in the curve of her neck. Teeth press against her throat, canines threatening to break the skin. She tugs on his collar, and he hisses. 

No marks, aye—that is the rule. Much like any spoiled princeling, he is inclined to break these agreements. 

“You might have surprised me.” Jaheira clucks her tongue. “Barely house-trained. Ah-ah. You do not bite unless asked.” 

He sinks his teeth deeper, and she grunts, instinctively yanking on the collar, binding him. Raphael bears the abuse, tongue lapping at the fresh wound. He groans. “Such a delicious vintage. Why—I can still taste Demogorgon’s fury on you.” 

She laughs, tipping her head back to grant better access. Ah, but let him have this indulgence. Jaheira leads him in a lazy rock, pleased by the way his hips judder when she squeezes him—greedy boy. 

“Ah, you would drink from me, then? How generous.” 

Raphael tweaks her nipple with his thumb. “Behave, Harper. Even these mighty new friends would struggle to wrest you from my claws—should it strike my fancy.” 

She pats his cheek, fighting back a groan of pleasure as she takes him deeper. Raphael’s left-hand settles over hers, still gripping the leash. He presses her back and draws the collar tighter, and it’s all the permission Jaheira needs to push them further. Her free hand settles on his sternum, pushing him back, making him snarl, jerking against this binding.

“Oh, beautiful boy,” she croons, pressing her thumb to his lower lip. “You believe I’d need them?” 

He thrusts up into her, long lashes fluttering over his cheeks—he is beautiful. Pleasure coils low in her belly as she wraps the leather around her forearm. Raphael grasps the leash and pulls her down to him. Until they press chest to chest, pace erratic as the half-elf rides him. This joining is a savage thing, teeth bared, swallowing each other’s air as they chase their pleasure. Jaheira finds it…well, it is the simplest sort of exchange. 

She strokes his hair in the aftermath, pleased when he presses a glass of fine wine to her lips. They are the sort to linger in the afterglow, neither embarrassed by their nudity. Both are old enough to welcome this…calm. 

Raphael digs his finger into the small of her back, honey-colored eyes glittering with mischief. “You will convince dear Tav to reconsider my offer?” 

She scoffs. “As if they would listen! These heroes will do as they please. You know this.” 

“I know this.” He licks the marks he’s left on her throat. “But the devil will have his due.”

[synchodai]

PROMPT: Beds were expensive and heating was scarce in the middle ages, and so bedsharing was a common practice amongst people from all walks of life. Jace naturally shares a bed with his brothers, but finds the nights becoming more lonely as he is elevated to Prince of Dragonstone. Jacaerys & Aegon III centered. Gen.

WORD COUNT: 800+

This is a preview snippet from a fic on AO3.

________________________________________

For as long as Jace could remember, his brothers had been his bedfellows. Luke had been a sound sleeper, though Jace did find his brother's foot in his face on occasion. Joff, on the other hand, was prone to rolling off the bed. The eldest had been so scared of hearing the little one's head thudding against the hard floor that Jace taught himself to sleep lightly. There were many a night that he would wake during the darkest hours just to nudge Joff closer to him and Luke. The princeling always threatened to stray too far.

Their mother's coronation and the crisis within their House necessitated many a change. As the presumed heir to the Iron Throne and de jure Prince of Dragonstone, Jace was given his own bedchambers in the apartments designated for the lord of the castle. Ever the dutiful prince, he occupied his new room without complaint. For the first few nights, he was even glad to be rid of Luke's drooling and Joff's fidgeting.

The novelty of sleeping alone soon wore out, however, when Luke did not return from Storm's End.

From then on, the cold and vastness of his princely bed overwhelmed him. He would endure kicking and pulling every night if it meant having Luke and Joff beside him once more. But that was the desperate wish of a lonely boy. A would-be king had no need for childish bedfellows to cling onto in the dark of night. He was a man grown now, Jace had told himself — and highborn men only allowed lovers and wives to warm their beds. He knew for a fact that his stepfather Daemon would snuggle up to his dragon rather than share his bed with another man.

But Jace did not have the heart to tell Aegon that, when his little brother snuck into his bedchambers that one night.

The boy slipped under his sleeping brother's covers. "Jace…" whispered Aegon, shaking his shoulder. "Are you awake?"

"If I wasn't, I am now," Jace grumbled groggily. "Aegon? Why are you…"

"I had that nightmare again," said the boy as he pressed his face against his brother's back. "The one with dragons."

Aegon suffered from night terrors since he was old enough to dream, and it was their mother who comforted him whenever he had them. She had told him that their grandsire, the late King Viserys, was much like Aegon. He had dragon dreams, she had called them — a gift of their bloodline. But Aegon insisted every time that these were nightmares, not dreams.

"Mother has her chambers barred," he said. "I think she and father were quarreling."

Jace groaned. Daemon had indeed stormed off to the Riverlands earlier that day, and their mother had locked herself in her rooms for the rest of it. Naturally, the queen's duties fell upon her heir when she was otherwise indisposed. And so, Jace turned around and opened his arms wide.

"Come here then," he said. Aegon drew close like a bird settling into its nest. It wasn't too long ago that he could have cradled Aegon in his arms. But a few more turns of the moon, and his little brother would be as tall as he was and not so little anymore. Their mother had indulged his younger brother, but sooner than not, Aegon shall have to learn to face whatever nightmares he has on his own. He was scarcely a year younger than Joff, and that one would never countenance crawling into their mother's bed like a frightened babe.

Though Jace would not be entirely truthful if he said his brother's presence was unwelcome. With Aegon there, his oversized bed felt cozy for once.

Jace sighed. "Dragons, you said?" he asked, his eyes still half closed.

"Of red and green and blue and silver and gold," muttered Aegon into Jace's chest. "So many that they looked like storm clouds in the skies. They swallowed mother."

The boy clung onto Jace's bedclothes. "They took you too," he said in a fearful whisper.

"We are dragonriders," mumbled Jace. "Dragons shan't eat us. That besides, tis impossible for them to number so many. The only living dragons are on Dragonstone and in the Dragonpit, and you've been to the caves below the keep, Aegon."

"Yes, but… What about the Dragonpit, then?"

"That place has fewer still."

"How do you know?"

Jace then realized that his brother had never been to the Dragonpit. The one time Aegon had been to King's Landing, they hadn't the time to take him there. That was the day their grandfather died — when he no longer could dream and their mother was usurped.

"I shall take you there one day," said Jace, patting his brother's flaxen hair. "When mother has secured the throne, we can go to the Dragonpit ourselves and you shall see that there is nothing to fear."

"Nothing to fear," echoed Aegon, quiet as the wind.

"If there is," said Jace with a yawn, "I shall keep us safe."

Aegon did not speak, and in those moments of silence, Jace began drifting back to sleep. Although, he did recall his brother's voice, scarce heard and lost in the dragons' rumbling beneath the keep.

"Do you swear?"

Before the darkness of slumber overtook him, Jace managed to reply, "I swear."

[writingamongther0ses]

WIP Re-Intro: Hiraeth

Themes: Homesickness, obsession, magic, friendship, found family, desire, moving past childhood, LGBTQIA+

Contains: Obsession, mentions of war, mental illness

Four girls. Four lands.

On Earth, three years after she left the kingdom of Camelot, sixteen-year-old Anna Bethel has been obsessed with leaving her small town in Wales and returning to the kingdom to reunite with her best friend, Princeling Ari. An experiment leaves her stumbling between Earth and the World Between Worlds, where a lonely guardian tries to keep things together as things start to fall apart- including in Camelot.

In Neverland, the chief's daughter and warrior Liliha can only watch as the fairies begin to die, time begins to catch up to Peter Pan as the Lost Boys disappear, and Captain Hook claims to have captured and killed a Wendy Bird. When things reach her tribe, and her family begins to age rapidly, Liliha must get to the bottom of things.

In Wonderland, things are twisted and strange, especially since the four queens were killed and Queen Alice took the throne. The Hatter is a loyal companion, but Alice wants all her friends as they are pushed further and further away as her mind reflects the land. Outside, she is a warrior determined to conquer the land. Inside, she's screaming.

In Oz, Princess Tip has had to suddenly take the throne in the wake of an identity crisis, thankfully with the help of Tin Man and Cowardly Lion. The Champion of Oz, Dorothy Gale, has vanished without a trace and King Scarecrow has taken ill. Oz is starting to rot, reflecting the ill and distressed state of its rulers, and Glinda refuses to help.

All four must look to each other to get to the bottom of things and save their homes.

[oceansborn]

𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖖𝖘 ::: ekin koc ;  33 ;  cis man ;  he/him .  ANNOUNCING the arrival of EMIR of house TYRELL, PRINCE of HIGHGARDEN. rumors around the courts talk of their CONSCIENTIOUS yet UNFORGIVING nature, and bards have often likened them to A BIRD OF PREY TAKING FLIGHT WITH A SINGLE FEATHER FALLING BEHIND / CHARCOAL-SMUDGED FINGERS / THE FIRST RAYS OF THE MORNING SUN CRESTING ON THE HORIZON. it is said their loyalties lie with THE REACH, but will they succeed in bringing their side to victory? may the old gods and the new show them their favor in these turbulent times, for they will surely need it.

stats.

full name: emir tyrell // title: prince of highgarden (heir) // age: thirty three // gender & pronouns: cis man, he/him // orientation: heterosexual // relationship status: widowed // children: a daughter, princess defne tyrell (3) // allegiance: the reach & house tyrell // spoken languages: common tongue (fluent), high valyrian (better written than spoken) // religion: faith of the seven

physical.

height: 6'0 // build: athletic, lean // eye colour: brown // hair colour & type: dark brown // dominant hand: right

temperament.

best: conscientious, just, compassionate, introspective, intuitive // worst: detached, cynical, resentful, perfectionist, stubborn // moral alignment: neutral good

bio.

(tw: death, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth)

the heir of highgarden has always been aware of the responsibility resting on his young shoulders. as a boy, he was a diligent student with a love for architecture and art. although well-trained to navigate the buzz of court life, the princeling thrived most in peaceful environments — cherishing the vast fields of golden roses that paint highgarden's landscape above all else. he seeks quietude after social outings, only feeling completely himself at his family’s ancestral seat and around his family.

while he'd never intended to marry young, life had different plans for emir. he fell in love with a noblewoman and married her a few days shy of his 23rd birthday. the next years were the happiest of his life — though he realised this in hindsight, as the couple struggled to start a family of their own. emir assured his wife that they were young and would be blessed with children in time, and she eventually fell pregnant nearly seven years after they got married. the reach rejoiced at the news, as did emir and his wife.

emir's daughter defne was born at the height of summer when highgarden was in full bloom. always his wife’s favourite season, she didn't live long enough to cherish another summer. she died three days after giving birth to defne. grief-stricken, emir spent very little time in his daughter's nursery during the first year of her life. while he's a loving and devoted father now and is adamant to name his daughter as his heir, his wife's passing changed his gentle nature. he's withdrawn, distracts himself with work, and can be cruel and spiteful when he feels pressured to address his emotional turmoil. he also refuses to remarry.

wcs.

childhood friends, his deceased wife's family, a confidant whose advice he actually sometimes takes/at least considers (he's stubborn as a mule and rarely asks for help, much less accepts it, but for this person he makes the occasional exception), a fling/situationship since his wife's passing (angsty vibes considering he doesn't want to marry again? hehe).

[sarcasticdolphin]

"Mistake (or not)" Smrt and little Rudolf into Smrtolf with older Rudolf. Not in the least bit canon.

So I had a thought about what would happen if Smrt accidentally killed little Rudolf. I think I sent Adri an ask (or part of an ask) about it as well. And now here it is in drabble form. I was thinking this would be cracky but it turned out more serious.

For the amazing @adridoesstuff as all the Smrtolf drabbles are.

This is kind of a weird drabble. Definitely not quite my standard structure for the English. Under the cut for length.

Smrt’s hand slips. Or that is what he tells himself. What else could it be? The boy - the princeling - so clearly yearned for him. It was just that his hand had slipped.

But the prince doesn’t even seem to notice his own demise, rather hesitantly climbing into Smrt’s arms and tucking himself against Smrt’s chest.

The damage is already done, and so Smrt embraces the boy, cradling him close, as he might a young angel. It is almost on instinct that his lips brush against the boy’s brow, blessing him. Granting him wings.

Smrt comes back to himself perhaps a quarter of an hour later, still sitting on the boy’s bed with the newest member of his little flock tucked in his arms. He might not be able to see Aemilia, but he can feel the coldness of her gaze all the same. Rather hypocritical in this case. She had been calling the prince to her only minutes ago. And she did so like having new siblings that she could teach the joy of flying.

The young angel - Rudolf, that’s the name of his Empress’s son - is snoozing so Smrt carries him, reminded each passing moment of just how young the boy is. 

----

To some extent, Smrt isn’t even really sure that the princeling notices his own death at all. Or perhaps it would be better to say he rejoices at it. Rudolf still has his tutors, but they no longer run him through endless military drills. Well, expect Aemilia. But flying is such a pure joy in it of itself that even her strict instruction cannot possibly put a damper on it. And most angels prefer her style for flying lessons, even if they chafe against it at first. The winds are not to be taken lightly, even in Smrt’s peaceful realm.

No, instead of logistics Rudolf learns of birds, of feathers. Of gardening and painting. Smrt for his part teaches the boy preening. Normally he wouldn’t, but the boy’s joy is infectious and Smrt rather selfishly wants part of it. 

That Rudolf grows still is unusual - Smrt’s youngest angel does not remain that way for long, soon towering over more than a few of his instructors and siblings, but still joyous as ever. Happy in a way that he hadn’t been that day Smrt had plucked his young soul from the world. Happy in a way that the Empress never was.

It’s odd, in a way. Smrt had thoughts the boy’s presence might be painful for him, might remind him constantly of the Empress who wanted nothing to do with him, who had thrown him from her life, but nothing of the sort happens. Perhaps it is the boy himself, making every space brighter for his presence and soothing Smrt. 

Smrt is watching Rudolf’s music lesson- one with the harp - as a raven hidden in the branches of a nearby tree when the thought comes to him. For all Smrt had taught Rudolf preening, he was not among the angels who were truly Rudolf’s principal tutors. In the beginning he had simply thought he had no talent to teach the prince. Well, none besides reaping souls. And that would ruin Rudolf’s beautiful joy.

But Smrt could sing. Most often he did so to the souls that needed a lullaby as they passed. It seemed to help. Or at least Smrt thought it did, but it was not as if he could simply ask the souls. 

So he takes the boy for a lesson one day, leading him into a grove, humming a melody then singing it. Rudolf echoes him with perfect ease, eyes bright with an awestruck starlight that would have had Smrt blushing if such a thing were possible. 

Aemilia is grumpy that she is no longer Rudolf’s favorite tutor by the next week, and Smrt takes every excuse he can find to give Rudolf more singing lessons in what quickly becomes their little grove. Their place, hidden even from the other angels. 

Smrt isn’t totally shocked as the boy’s feelings change - it is perhaps more common than not for his angels to harbor some form of affection for him that is perhaps more romantic than platonic, but Rudolf seems so human in his adoration. In his love, sweet and pure. Or perhaps it is more worship.

Still, his angels are reserved creatures and Rudolf has learned from his siblings. Even though he desires more, the prince seems ever so hesitant to even accept the tender brush of Smrt’s lips against his cheek. He even blushes in a way that angels - the younger ones that still can - rarely do.

It is natural, Smrt tells himself, that he prefers Rudolf be the one that preens his wings. He had taught Rudolf himself, after all. The prince knows his preferences in a way that few angels do. And Aemilia is busy enough with her own duties. Better for sweet Rudolf to be the one that tends to him, if only so Smrt can assess his skill. A smaller part of Smrt wants Rudolf to be the only one that preens his hair feathers too, but the preening of hair feathers is not something that can be quickly learned. Still, one has to start somewhere. And while Smrt’s hair feathers are sensitive, he is far from the most sensitive. It is natural that Rudolf would begin preening hair feathers with Smrt’s.

For all Rudolf’s skill at preening he is too starstruck to do more than a few feathers the first time Smrt invites him to preen his hair feathers. And Smrt finds it sweet. That his prince thinks so highly of him.

So of course Smrt does what any good teacher would. He shows Rudolf how it is done. How to preen hair feathers. It is such an intimate act between angels that he wouldn't’ dream of asking another of the flock to be there, instead showing the prince using said prince’s own hair feathers. The boy is blushing the entire time, and Smrt wonders later if the lesson was even the least bit effective. Probably not, in hindsight. But Smrt can’t bring himself to care.

Which of them initiates the kiss is anyone’s guess, in the end. Rudolf had been tucked into Smrt’s arms, humming along as Smrt sang a melody for him. It had felt so natural. An extension of what they already were. The preening of each other’s hair feathers felt more intimate. Still, Smrt will treasure it - that soft and hesitant first kiss - until the end of time itself.

[dragonbanexxi]

The Great Bronze Conspiracy

***!!!NOT CANON COMPLIANT!!!***

Aegon Targaryen x OC Targaryen Royce

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two very different men sit across from each other, with calculating eyes studying the other diligently.

One dressed in an earthy emerald doublet, with the aurora a poised peacock. The other adorned in his bronze armor encrypted with sacred runes for protection and good fortune.

Two very different men with one distinct mutual hatred for the infamous Rogue Prince.

“You’re a fool if you think there isn’t any better offers for my grandsons hand.” The Hightower man drawls. Eliciting a tight smirk on his companions face.

“You’re a fool if you think if you think you can crown the little princeling king with only Lannister gold and very few allies.” Ser Gerold rebuttals back.

“Marry the prince to my niece.” The Bronze Knight says gruffly. “The boy will become king and my niece his queen. She is also just as much of the blood of the dragon as the rest of her paternal family. Wed them and together we will finally put an end to Daemon Targaryen once and for all.”

The Lord Hightower’s eyes shine with contentment at that last statement. It’s been his greatest desire to get rid of the Rogue Prince for years now. A cocky smile breaks out on his face as he offers his hand to Ser Gerold .

“Very well.” They shake hands firmly.

“Let us join our houses. My grandson with your niece.”

“Long may they reign” Ser Gerold says with a large smile.

“Long may they reign.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 1: Amélia

“Uuughhh” an annoyed frosty haired girl groans. “Septa Minnie! I’ve been practicing my good posture and walk all morning.”

Taking off the stacked books from on top of her head, the young lady gave her septa a girlish pout. Her brown eyes shift to the large window, peering outside. Taking in a sunny pasture, with butterflies flying about and birds chirping happily. The lady’s tender heart yearned to frolic about through the flower beds barefoot.

“It’s such a lovely day. Why can’t we go pick flowers at the meadow?”

The woman of faith pursed her thin lips at her mentee. Tsking at the young ladies childish suggestion.

“You are a young lady now Amélia. Soon to be ten and six. Picking flowers is for little girls.”

Amélia Royce turns away from Septa Minnie. Not wanting her to see the displeasure on her lovely face.

“Scarlett Redfort still picks flowers.” The Lady of Runestone grumbles under breathes.

The only daughter of Lord Griffin Redfort who was the younger brother of the actual lord of the Redfort Keep. Scarlett Redfort is stunning girl with the loveliest midnight shade of raven hair and riveting ice blue eyes that shone with wildness. Amélia didn’t particularly care for the Lady Redfort; she found her to be snobbish. Yet the Runestone girl had to admit Scarlett was a talented kisser. Both girls having had many intense kisses with each other. Usually after finishing a whole bottle of cherry wine.

Septa Minnie manages to hear Amélia talking under her breath. Whacking her wooden stick harshly on the young maidens hands.

‘Fuck you’ Amélia curses the bitter wench in her mind. Not daring to say it out loud. Instead honey brown irises glare daggers at the rigid septa.

Damn that woman’s spectacular hearing. Septa Minnie’s ears have caused Amélia a great number of lashes on her hands throughout the years; for being impertinent at the worst times. In retrospect Amélia does have a naturally combative nature. Preferring to debate and argue her way out trouble. In truth the girl brings it upon herself the majority of the time.

“Scarlett Redfort is a girl with a horrid lack of manners and loose promiscuous morals.” Her voice stern. “Besides the Lady Redfort isn’t the one marrying into the royal family.”

Well that much was true about the Lady Scarlett Redfort. At the age of ten and four, she had been found kneeling infront of a Westerling boy who was squiring for her father. It didn’t take long to decipher what they were doing. Given that the raven haired girl had her delicate hands down the Westerling boys pants. The golden haired boy had been sent home immediately after.

“Have they even accepted the match?.” She huffs changing the subject before she says something else that’ll get her hit.

“Papa never tells me anything.”

“Well I’ll have you know little lass, the lord hand is quite impressed with your dowry.” The gruff voice of her Uncle-Pa spoke behind her. She turns around with a large grin on her pretty face, engulfing her Uncle-Pa in a bear hug.

The middle aged man sports an amused grin and is adorned in his shinning bronze hunting armor. His beard a fusion black and grey hairs tickling her temple as he hugged his ward back.

“But what truly sealed the deal is your Valyrian look my dear.” The man says as he ruffles the girls hair.

Amélia feels her eye twitch.

Despising the fact that it’s true. The Lady of Runestone has the Valyrian look. Tall and regal frame, with long, thick, frosty platnuim curls cascading down her back.

Her eyes however did not shine that otherworldly violet. Instead they rang true to her Firstmen heritage, gleaming the color of the warmest purest whiskey.

Smoothing out her ruffled hair she says,

“How tragic that they are promised a Valyrian lady, but they will instead end up with a barbaric Firstmen savage woman.” She jokes, snorting unladylike.

Causing Septa Minnie to look at her with vexation.

“Well you will need to learn your graces lass. The last thing we need, is you scaring off the Hightowers. I worked hard to secure this match.”

Amélia rolls her bratty brown eyes.

Her uncle and her Septa share a conspiring look.

“Give us a moment Septa Minnie” the woman curtesy’s her way out the living parlor. Leaving the two Royce’s alone.

“Must you always give an attitude to your Septa?” He sighs pinching the bridge of his nose.

The young lady smiles innocently. “I just wanted to pick flowers” shrugging her shoulders.

Her uncle isn’t at all amused. Peering at her with his dark brown eyes.

“She has point Méli.” He sits himself in one of the cushioned seats.

“You will be the Queen someday.”

“A treasonous statement Rhaenyra Targaryen is the heir apparent.” She drawls uninterested in the same conversation they’ve had a million times over.

“Have you forgotten what Daemon Targaryen did to your mother?” He growls angrily at her.

Guilt begins to swarm her belly. She hadn’t forgotten what her sire did to her dear mother. The monstrous Rouge Prince had bashed his wife’s head in with a rock until she bleed to death. Amélia had been a mere babe when her mama had murdered. Though Ser Gerold had told her about the Lady Rhea’s tragic demise, making sure to go into great detail.

Suddenly Amélia feels her breakfast in her throat, the urge to vomit making her wheezy.

The hatred the girl developed for her sire afterwards is a vast raging one. The beauty may not remember her mother, yet her loyalty for Rhea Royce is unwavering.

‘I hate you Daemon Targaryen!’ The voice inside Amélia’s mind says with antipathy. ‘And I hate your daughters!’

Ser Gerold is her true father. She prefers him anyway. When her father walked away from her attempting to steal her birthright, Ser Gerold defended her in the Eerie. She owes her Uncle-Pa her life. Amélia will always heed his advice and follow his directions.

That is why her Uncle- Papa, has secured a betrothal between her and the Prince Aegon. Together they will secure his claim to the Iron Throne and bring Daemon Targaryen to justice.

“No papa. I haven’t forgotten.” Her voice small. Sad brown eyes filling up with glossy pent up tears.

Ser Gerold pats her head with his large hand in a fatherly fashion.

“Your mother will be avenged my dear. Daemon Targaryen will pay for his crime against our house.” Her uncles voice void of its usual gruffness. Oddly soft.

“He has wed the Princess Rhaenyra. Any ally of his is no friend of ours.” Ser Gerold raises a sharp brow at her.

She nods her head in agreement.

“You will be the Queen one day. It will be your mothers bloodline that will continue on, come what may.”

“Come what may… “ she parrots back at him. Not all liking the sound of that sentence.

A cheery smile appears on his face.

“Why don’t you begin to ready yourself for the ball at Gulltown lass?” He suggests eliciting a happy grin from his teary eyed niece.

“Oh! Yes it is tonight isn’t it? Oh I have the loveliest new powder blue gown just perfect for the ball tonight!” Amélia says excitedly wiping her eyes dry with her long sleeve.

Giving her uncle-pa a daughterly kiss on cheek, the lady ran out the palor and to her chamber. All thoughts about revenge were pushed to the side. Tonight she is going to dance and dance until her feet give out.

And look her mighty best while doing so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Starting off this chapter light! This fic will have more politics compared to my other two fics. I hope you guys enjoy Amélia! She’s going to be quite the spitfire. Thank you guys ❤️ Comments are always welcomed.

[garrick-cargyll]

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN PRINCESS JAEHAERA AND SER GARRICK CARGYLL

Context: Following the deaths of the Targaryen children, Garrick and Jaehaera share a vulnerable moment together.

@jaehaeraxtargaryen

Three young souls have found peace with The Seven. The three royal children of House Targaryen have been murdered by an unseen hand — leaving behind no trace. The news has yet to break to the whole of Westeros, their care-takers executed with swift ruling. The Princess Jaehaera Targaryen is among the last of her family to be told of the news. The few servants allowed within note the Princess has remained almost completely inside her new chambers within the Red Keep, only leaving to meet with her brother, the Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, for prayer. The sibling’s sworn sword, Ser Garrick Cargyll, has taken up his post after assisting the Prince in the questioning and execution of the royal children’s households.

JAEHAERA: She sits by the open window, one that overlooks the pretty view of the courtyard below. Not gardens, no — but a place to watch the people come and go like she couldn’t in her room before. Her heart is heavy and her lavender eyes tinged in red. Three little birds plucked from their nest… two eggs in the cradle. One old enough to fly, but wise enough to fight. Three little birds plucked… The words turn over in her head, something of a song, her fingers dancing across the stone sill. Her mind speaks in riddles, but her chest grieves with certainty. But there’s a sound at the door, and she turns her head, lithe body tucked on the ledge, feet pulled tightly beside her beneath her silver gown. “Garrick?” her voice is hoarse, her dreamy tone laced with sorrow. Tears prick her eyes again, but do not fall. Because she is not alone in her sorrow — and he has lost much, too. “They…” her gaze flickers back to the window, and her voice is far away. “They were so little”.

GARRICK: A wooden dragon. A gift Garrick carved himself for Aenar for his fourth name day. That is all he has left of his nephew; a token plucked from the boy’s room after all was said and done, after he cut off the heads of those who failed to protect the princeling, after he wandered the halls of the Red Keep with a void in place of his heart. A part of him nearly enjoyed killing those people, a quiet sort of rage guiding his hand in an attempt to reach the elusive touch of justice. No true justice could be attained when innocent children were murdered so… “Princess,” the sworn sword spoke, his voice gruff, low, aching. His aimless steps had led him to her. He saw the red pain in her eyes that he was certain was mirrored in his own. “I’m… so sorry,” he muttered as his tired steps carried him a bit closer to her, his hand clutching the wooden figure. Both of them had lost family on this fateful night, greeting the day with tears and broken hearts. “I wish—” he paused, struggling to voice out the haunting thought that had been spinning inside his mind since he witnessed the horror of last night. “I wish I could have protected them. I should’ve been there to protect them…” How many times would he fail this family?

JAEHAERA: And she can hear it in his voice. Garrick is speaking, but like her, he is far away. The loss of the children was strange to her, a rush of emotion she hadn’t felt since she’d lost her own brothers — when it had been Garrick there, who had held her as she’d screamed her greif and woken up crying in the night. this feeling was the same — because they were gone, and this time, she did not have to be told. she knew they would not come back. His voice only confirms it. It is a deep pain that settles into her, but there is a second settling. Another feeling, another rush of emotion that she finds strange — because this time, she knows, someone shares it with her. And that where he had always taken the time to be gentle with her, and was determined to be for him. Because she had known these childrens for mere miutes in comparison — and she wanted to take that pain from him. Lavender gaze sliding back to him as his frame move closer, she holds her hand out to him, and it shakes. Lithe fingers tremble, but they are sure. She reaches for the one that holds something, and when her hand covers his own, she looks up at him with mournful understanding. His pain is obvious — his face gaunt, almost, in the pale light. Fight or flight. two baby birds in the cradle… And she squeezes his hand as new tears leak past her eyes, clinging to her pale lashes. “You didn’t fail, my knight. You didn’t fail,” her voice is cracked, it is raw, but she needs him to understand. “This isn’t your fault. Garrick, you —” she hiccups, she can’t help it. But she wants to be strong for him. She wants him to feel safe, like he has done for her. But each time she tries to speak, more tears come. “— you have always protected us”. And she doesn’t move her hand as she looks back to the window, squeezing her eyes shut as her shoulders begin to shake, too. When she opens them again, she watches a child scamper across the courtyard through the morning mist. Would they always feel like this? Was her family truly doomed to never bask in the light again? Another hiccup, another shaken breath as the tears come like rain.

GARRICK: You didn’t fail, my knight, his princess said. And it broke him to hear that. Both for the ache of what their families had lost and for the relief it brought to hear that. His eyes watered then, and he looked at Jaehaera with open vulnerability. A part of him would continue to carry some shame and guilt for what happened —it was somehow embedded in his very bones to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. But he couldn’t deny how soothing it felt to hear those words from her of all people. Kindly, tenderly, she reminded him this cruel turn of fate wasn’t his fault. Her hand reached out for his and there was no hesitation at all to take it. The memory of the fateful day she was taken echoed in his mind. To this day he could still see her, hand held out as she cried out for him; as he tried to rush past the crowd and the turmoil, crying back her name. There was nothing between them now, no obstacles to keep his silent promise: wherever he reaches out for him, he will take her hand. “I will do everything I can to keep protecting you,” he managed to say, his voice low and hoarse, choked up by the pain and sadness that invaded all of his body. Garrick meant her family as a whole, he meant her and her brother. He is the sword of the Targaryen prince and princess. On a deeper level, though, Garrick meant Haera. “With every strength and… and devotion the gods have placed in me,” he whispered, feeling the first tear fall down his cheek, “I will protect you”. Jaehaera’s body shook as she cried quietly and the knight moved over to sit by the window, his hand still holding hers as the princess looked out, perhaps managing to see some of the hidden cruelty of the world in even the most innocuous of scenes— a child in the courtyard. Or perhaps she still saw some beauty and hope in it all, despite it all. The two of them cried in silence. There was nothing to say, really. But Garrick felt a subtle wave of serenity mix in with the turmoil within, the tender acknowledgment that sharing an emotion, even one as complicated as their grief, was made a little less painful in each other’s company. It still hurt, and it compounded in seeing Jaehaera be in pain as well, but there was something inexplicably soothing in not feeling entirely alone in its ravenous void. Lavender eyes met his own for a moment and Garrick dared to move a little bit closer. His gaze asked for permission each step of the way, as he inched toward her and as he tentatively wrapped his arms around her. Nothing was said, for words had no place there. The princess and her knight just grieved together in silence.

[simiansmoke]

@timid-plumber cont.

"Royal family drama? N-no. DK's never really said anything about any drama. All I know about is his dad being annoyed when he showboats in the arena."

If there had been anything deeper than that, DK had made sure to keep it to himself. Heck, he'd hardly told Luigi anything concerning that secret crystal thing that held powers within it. It was totally cool with Luigi that he wasn't a completely open book; too much sharing could be to one's detriment. But that meant that more of his past would be a surprise if brought up by someone else. "What's wrong with being soft? With liking art and music? Can't a leader be those things and like those things while also having a firm hand when necessary?"

An sliver of amusement edges at the corner of Dread's smirk. "I'm sure he hasn't. Poor thing. Probably doesn't want anyone else to know about what a failure to thrive heir he turned out to be without the... proper pruning." Sure, that was one way to put it. Tearing the unfavorable limbs off saplings and grafting on the desired results...though sadly for DK and the rest of them, Dread had made sure to add a few of his own in there...the mutinous sort that for some reason didn't take to royalty.

With his flankside towards the visitor, Dread angles himself into a contortion that makes it easier to keep an eye on his hapless guest. An easy angle to burst up and give merciless chase if his predatory instincts to do so were tickled.

"...well, between you and I-...being soft is one of the worst things us Kong can be. Particularly a ruler." A snort moves stubborn strands of hair out of his eyes briefly until he picks them and tucks them back manually.

"And anyway...the boy was far behind the curb in combat skills. He spent too much valuable time singing like a bird in the forest with no sense of self-preservation. Well...the king put a stop to that when the kremlings invaded. Sometimes I wonder what this kingdom would be like if that first wake-up attack ended with more than just a little princeling blood spilled...heh. A bitter, grieving king can make a much stronger impact than a soft-hearted one."

[notmuchtoconceal]

Tired and Free (Stronger, Habit of Me)

ON MY KNEES, DON'T MAKE ME STOP:

ONE MORE TIME, ONE MORE TIME \\./ //.\\ \.// 710380960171069083017 (A Far From Complete Survey of the Record, Detailing But a Scant Few of the Ways In Which You Are A Duplicitous, Backstabbing Manslut Who Don't Use Protection) . o . ( o ) . o . o /./.\.\/.\/./.\.\ o

( o )

{{FROM 111-1 :-- Where Instigation is Shown to Be Mutual}}

[Close-up: The plucky face of a toothy, square-jawed Anglo-Aboriginal-Asiatic-Miscellaneous Man-God, whose perfect teeth worthy of depiction in gold-emboss alike with stained glass attained their character of distinction hammered by years of poverty, malnutrition and dick-fistings from repeated lippings off, being visibly an uncompromising prophet and intellect.]

- G'day, Major. Name's Haruspex. Bruxer Haruspex. Former captain of the Ruelandese National Guard. Reportin for duty. Know we've been acquainted on many occasions, what with our numerous adventures over the years, but -- y'know... sometimes ya just loike to restate the basic premises and assumptions so everyone's on the same page. Never know who might be listenin in. Some freshfaced new recruit might not know the hierarchy yet. Best you just play it loike a radio thing y'know -- restate the basic premises and assumptions succinctly before each altercation, that way anyone can just jump right into the story.

He said funny things like that. He said funny things in that funny voice of his :-- It made your dick hard how funny his voice was.

- So, get this. All the men back in my village in Rueland -- they were all tragically (tragically overused, that word tragically) well, they were all tragically murdered in the same three week span while out huntin ostrich -- No, no. Ostrich. Ostrich plural. Back in Rueland we couldn't afford all those extra blowy noises. Only learned men and old-school ultra-poofs who fancied gettin fisted up to the elbow with Crisco for lube could afford all those extra blowy noises -- though the truth was, we was all to stupid to tell the difference, we're bein honest. There was one lad -- a gentleman and a scholar. He weren’t harmin no one, mate. (.) Jus tryin to translate Can’t into contemporary Inglish. Never hear that poor fucker so much as wheeze again. … Strained the tongue too much, we're bein honest. All those blowy noises. We needed to keep our tongues strong. So many long mornins -- suckin cobra venom true a goat teat ta build up a tolerance lest we venture out into the front yard alone. Stared down the black eyes of that devil bird down many a lonely road ... Well, get this. I was the only boy in left in my village after that. You know what that means? Means I got the attention of all the -- wait for it -- the attention of all the --- all the girls. I was absolutely showered in -- pause for effect -- showered in girls. Major ... um. ... Major, do you know what I like? Major, do you know what i really, really like? Major. Major -- do I gotta say it? Do I really gotta say it out loud? Major. Major. I like -- I like girls. Oh my Gosh. I love girls. I love their pillow fluff bodies. I love their silky fragrant locks. I love their big doe eyes -- and I love how my heart flutters into lard ripples of buttercreme when I'm just shaftin em -- poundin on em like a lil yippin puppy. Oh I just wanna be pet! -- Oh I just wanna be pet! -- um, Major. Major, I'm not gonna lie ... can I … can I be real with you for a moment? I think I just -- come closer -- I think I just really, really wanna be pet?

[scratch behind the ear]

… Major! Major, you make so happy major! Oh, the girls -- oh Major when i lived with all the girls they pampered me like a princeling. They slopped me lips in wineys -- they stuffed me cheeks with ciggys -- they bit me venomously down me lowly hangin lips -- haha -- once I got in a scrape with a mongoose. Tore that fucker in half. Ate its heart out in retribution. Still got seven inches. Couldn’t even afford lemonade as a chaser ... guess what? Now? Now I drink for the emperor. I can imbibe elixirs from across the globe and name region of origin by scent alone. I can identify over 808 types of poisons, toxins, corrosives, unguents, tonics, herbal teas, snake oils and supplements down to the individual peptides -- to say nothin of the dungy taste of another man's spit -- 

[[Wanted to cut in right here, mostly to show him his big intro is worthy of the ashcan, but unfortunately it remains beneficial to the reader to be aware of who's speaking, even if that necessitates having to introduce Brux for the 8th fucking time -- Laik]]

… ostrich. It was only the one, really. Birds are a lot smarter than you wanna give em credit for, well …

 ... bird.

His passion for the fairer sex was, on occasion, a novel diversion -- though often destabilizing to group cohesion.

- Goils! Goils! Goils!

If the outermost extreme of his peripheral vision caught so much as the hemline of a skirt, he would veer out of formation blindly into oncoming traffic.

[Schreibermachen – greets the gun barrel morning with a glint of dawn]

- Look over yonder, Psychorrhax. Toward the gray and blighted horizon -- Cpt. Haruspex leaps and dances as though attempting favor with the sun, or else dares to implore the bounty of a cargo drop.

[Young Psychorrhax views – resolute in the most measured scorn]

- Perhaps it is code, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

- Astute as always, Young Psychorrhax. Please be so kind, as with your cocksucker’s lips so full-figured and forward, to do our company the favor of rendering unto speech the fiery valor of our fallen comrade. 

[Corneal Contraction in Aerial View]

- 'Need no help, friends. Learned urban foraging in the Ruelandese Guard. Can survive a whole lunar cycle on this here roundabout.'

[[Brux, lacking in Tranny Vision (TM) -- which he uninstalled out of a backdoor access concern, arising solely to facilitate encounters such as the following -- will take a minute to get the gag -- Laik]]

… is the woman giving up to him her cherries, Cpt. Schreibermachen?

- In moments he shall be spitting up the pits!*

[[Yes, Brux really did teabag a woman for five whole minutes before realizing most goils don't got those. Sorta makes you wonder about the state of the female sex over in Rueland, or if maybe Brux is reinventing himself a little more than he lets on. Hey, he's not a total and complete dumbass, he's a tantalizing enigma! -- Laik]]  

[[*Yes, this really is the caliber of dialogue I had impromptu with my boyfriend. If being in love makes you a LARPer, I think every European needs to just get over themselves and accept they're a bear-fucking theater fairy. -- Alkali, the Second Laik, He Who Henceforth is Established]]

If the prospect of rescuing young women were to intercept the docket, his short term memory would obliterate itself and he would seize into a deadlock by the dictates of his mating instincts. 

- That conical fortress up on the top of the hill? Estimated material of construction: tetrahedra-sifted Jovian swirl concrete. Estimated date of construction 370-390 Post-Imperial Trans-Fracture. Estimated plundering -- well-- hehe. There are girls in there, Major. Baskets and baskets full of... wait, no. Hold on, see. This part – this part is very relevant to my backstory, you see, because I was very well taken care of, and that's influenced my loike -- sensuous philosophy of life, y'know? First time I saw a battlezone, I saw a guy's head get blown clean off ... Well, more like a buddy, really. I can't even remember his face -- yeah. It's hilarious now but at the time I was thinkin 'Shit. I'm a lover not a fighter. I'd rather be twirlin a baton than a rifle, but hey. I look good doin either.' -- I dunno. Loikely, I wasn't so glib in the moment -- y'know. I was just thinkin of the sorta thing that I'd like to say to a girl once I found one, but I gotta be honest with ya, Maj. I don't remember findin any. What I can remember faintly was curlin up into a ball and cryin me eyes out -- just bein so scared and so alone and wantin to die

<<<

>>>

... some memories, mate. Some memories are a lot like a boomerang... or maybe a girl -- y’know. Ya throw em. Ya get distracted. You’re not payin attention -- they’re gonna slap ya right back you're not payin attention.

Cpt. Schreibermachen -- that fuck Joey -- once hoisted a pair of silk women's undergarments up the flagpole of the Display and Punishment Pavilion, and lace and shimmer billowing, Brux was by means of sheer appetite able to scurry thirty feet vertically, where clinging to himself like a scared koala, he lost any sense of spatial or temporal orientation and found himself lacking in the grit to leap back down.

[a song of hollow alloy – shrieking on a buckling gourd]

- Major. Major, don't help me. I can do it. I can stay up here. I can stay up here all day -- with the panties. Nobody look. I'm gonna sniff em.

You turned away. For the sake of the common decency, you turned away.

[Cpt. Schreibermachen's hand eclipses the sun]

- Look upon my labors, Psychorrhax -- and tremble.

[Laika doing jazzhands]

- I’m trembling -- I’m trembling, Cpt. schreibermachen, sir! 

- Your struggle is not heroic, Psychorrhax! You flinch from greatness as a temple priestess from a backhand! Your heart is full of falsity, cowardice, and petty vanity! I long to be rid of you as a golden beast would be a brood of ticks!

Some moment in the past -- his shoulders shone with blacker luster.

Cpt. Schreibermachen stares through a porthole. The black room. The black glass. Psychorrhax in biohazard gear -- banana beetle yellow -- stares through a porthole of his own. Curtains of latex. Sheets of latex. The sweat fragrant on his fingers. Pooling on the bed. A pool of yellow beetles. He stares up. Mirrors on the ceiling. Larger than the others.

- Been awhile. Missed how good you smell.

[[No Comment -- Laik.

All the comments -- Al.]]

Some nights, he found himself wanting for spectacle and was forced to manufacture dilemmas in which he might showcase his expertise – to be tempted to compete for a treat unrightfully earned.

=-= = =.= = =-=

The starlight of city lights shone into the wide gilt and marble grid of the solarium. Cpt. Haruspex ejected his soda stream. 

o))<

- Nobody move. Joey pissed the punch.

The spittle dripped down Laika's face.

- Cpt. Haruspex, you took but a sip...

[[Got to film this shit like forty times. When Joe was reviewing the footage for the transcript, he replayed the final shot on the viewer with a similar repetition, simply to revel in the self-evident reality of having absolutely selected the finest take, the one which embodies most the pathos of the scene as latent on the page in all its torrid ardor, embodied now in stunning three-dimensional reality by moi. -- Laik

None but I have witnessed the scenes in which the Wallies dance -- Al]]

[radiant day through the windows in Joey's insertion shot]

- He has you there, Haruspex. Not even your finely honed culinary prowess could have so quickly and silverly ascertained that it was my broth which pollutes the vino!

[Brux requested two white elephants and a troupe of acrobats for his]

- I could sniff out those fruity notes with both eyes open!

(DROTTIN - and a crab-stalk grafted on his dick, bro.)

- As if you couldn’t. As if anyone couldn’t!

- It’s citrus, Haruspex!

- Citrus is a fruit, golden boy.

(DROTTIN - You turned it into the world’s worst tinto verano. I’m fuckin thirsty, bro!)

–\\./–

Cpt. Schreibermachen – that fuck Joey – glanced at you through the light. Through currents of the straw to gold of his hair, all motes shone as points on rings of iron cross.

His smile – its manifold condescensions – unmoored his face from the affection it so rightfully earned. He seemed only ever – to be half-looking away. You could somehow see – yourself blurry in his periphery. Though flesh before you – already you carried the quality of memory.

- Not that I ought guarantee myself a good first impression – though I ought expect to still give a second and third!

The full weight of his eyes fell on Laika Psychorrhax – squire still at heart – and Laika smiled with the warmth of a saint or Madonna painted powder blue and scale of shellac over the rim of a bow of candleglass.

- As though his neck were that candle and his eyes the flickering flame!

To see the light snuffed out. The wax glide down the slope of your arm. As a shard of the mosaic of her face entered you by slip of palm. 

– Glistening gossamer – What milky nebulae fins between my fingers!

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-2 :-- Where Fraternization is Shown to Be More Than Strictly Fraternal}}

- Welcome to A Bruxaria – a show that may or may not still be The Bruxcast. On my program today, I have the effervescent lil tall sip of fizz, Cpt. Luxor Drottin ready to serenade us with some fine poppy foam bubbles I know you'll be eager to trickle right down your shirt fronts!

- What up, Brother Brux. You got a special girl in your life yet, bro?

- She's out there, mate! Might be listenin in right now for all we know!

- Bro, what I know is you're gonna make the luckiest lady alive the lady who makes you the luckiest man alive. You're so special, Brother Brux. You deserve a special girl to be with all the rest of your days ~ !

- Cpt. Drottin, I have to ask – you a Great Dane or just a Standard Swede?

- Deffo not enough Finns to make a whole fish, bro.

- An avalanche every iceman cometh, I am indeed the jelliest of donuts!

(STICK IT IN A PUSS O/o STICK IN A PUSS o/O

YOU LOVE TO CUP THE VULVAE /O CUP THE VULVAE /o

CUP THE VULVAE O/O )

- Bro, you should soundproof Cpt. Hlaford when you're recording, otherwise stick em someplace soundproof, bro. Holy hell – What are you even spending 9/10ths of our total broadcast budget on if you can't account for basic quality of life improvements?

- Mate, we hadn't always been a big show. You're a young up-and-comer. You weren't with us in the early seasons. I started out as a pirate channel in a janitorial closet and did every show to the hammer beat of Wally deadliftin in nothing but a big sweaty-ass stained lycra singlet and cheese scented wool socks, the singlet himself (itself -- weren't once human!) almost obscenely padded out by a fat heavy knit cotton tee which'd accrued mothscales on pine like sycamore sap; sweatmarks foamroasted in tree rings so much so I thought he were wearin some sorta throwback arctic camo -- sometimes just strippin outta his drenched as shit singlet, tossin his goofy coconut tropical-scented pineapple-printed dick briefs at me head, full on fuckin sloshin me like urinal piss foam in a mug I served outta the tap at me own bar -- and Wally fukin drank it down, asked for another and another -- by the end, I was dehydrated, lyin on me side jitterin and he just bleched and said he was goin out fer a beer /// Live on air, his stinky fuckin briefs hittin me head, and it's so sweet and anointed and heedy like a fuckin pina cooldada it takes awhile to taste the burn :-- Joshua Openly Fornicatin Christos, I bet this man's cock is delicious! I just wanna stare the seat of his pants everyday the rest of my life and cringe thinkin bout how good it'll taste, but never ask cause I'm such a shy and delicate flower -- I had to hear it during recording, during editing, on the air. It's part of me creative process now. There just is no motive to create without hearin Wally scream through a wall, punch through the wall, chase me round the room, hollerin after me to gimme back his soul. Destroyin all my equipment, but not before it can all be backed up to the satellite, way out in space, where Wally's domain can not yet penetrate out into the upper atmosphere ~0~ !

... Tell you the truth, I can't coax him into helpin me do it unpaid, so I just sorta loike – y'know. Built my sets around him. Sometimes cut off pathways in advance to keep him boxed in... change the patterns of nature to make him predictable, just sorta like – you know. Follow him and record so inspiration can strike the second he lets his guard down and thinks he's free to be himself, but I'm just over here bein a nosy lil anthropologist lady who wants to record the sound of him gettin it on so I can once again feel the butterly tinglin in my nowhere places when the currents of life are alive and fruitful like a smoothie churnin an egg-beater round my brain out which I will fry the heartiest crepes?

- Bro, to be completely honest – I have so many questions, I don't even know where to start, so um – I won't unless you give me a few moments to collect myself, which I doubt you will?

- Mate no, by all means. This is a show where two people talk! A talk show. I have to show you talking! In all the hours we've been together, I'm sure I definitely have footage of you talking. Go ahead. Prove it to me now and to the viewers at home that you have participated in my talk show by talking to me – Now. Live on air. Edited only for initial broadcast.

- Um –

- Cpt. Drottin, you know, I think –

\\./

[[Commercial breakfast. Dignity & self-respect. You ain't what I eat. -- Laik]]

//.\

Cpt. Schreibermachen glanced at Drottin through the light.

He seemed for a moment, only anonymous. Some face more flesh than memory, shed as the cicada shell of a mask.

- Never have I met a man before as you, brother – as uncut and void of substance as myself. 

Cpt. Drottin let himself linger -- in the glance that he threw back.

He would stroll as he would linger. Some eternal dusk whenever he took things slow. Though his eyes was the hardball palming the mits of the leather, soft. No fangs to see in the dusklight he crept.

Corrosion softest in the creases. Parts of him wore away, from wear and from moisture, and it seemed inevitable – that he should decay though still a young calf he was. To slaughter before spoil. No caustic splotches. No sheens of oilslick to stain. The wear of age which deep intuition had bent into seams varicose down the planes of his face – hairline fractures in the light which only you would see, for only you looked and met not a man's eyes before meeting the topography of his skin as you interrogated your seawall against oblivion every morning.

You had seen comelier young men putresce on the vine. He was simply microdosed with his own fermentations, dispersed in beads along the sweet. You never tasted his punch, or into what frenzy it drew you.

- I will hear you, brother – for you are a virtuous man.

Schreibermachen wore a brief of cotton, Drottin a brief of aluminum. The translucence of the strands wrung-spun and glow-wormed in the rays of the evening sun, refracted off the contouring of their meddle.

Their cocks they pushed together, to careen shaft to shaft, in boy's adventure fables where they knew the heroics of their capacities for life and for daring, ascending and descending the ropes from which they hung and swung, sang and wrang (though sometimes it were vine or stone) and they could press only closer to cling in embrace, singing praises of valor, sputtering salival and bellowing, articulations upon articulations as you strove to meet his eyes ~

Though your head craned back as his, slick inside the prison of his briefs, as you foamed through the cling of yours -- your slick coating his, beading through the meshing to mingle with his as he stewed in your seepage and his stung your nicks -- your cockheads so tight inside the dual collar of your phimotic ring, magenta and clamped upon by the joint limitations of your own crucified anatomies, where you were girdled in flesh as you were gartered in fly, as much two bodies trapped within a mind as two minds trapped within a body, inches upon inches /

Your eightheads together, (4 + $ - CAP = ←) meeting his eyes with the mutual piteousness of your need, hovering at a threshold of ecstatic communion, condemned to never plummet off, but shoot deep roots into the rocks at the edge, to drop fruit to be carried far in the rivers below ~ your trunks entwining and your branches parting farther, the spongeal nodes of your need still aching and pressed together, no longer able even to rub, but merely to give and merely to pulse in the same heartbeat of your idiot-eyed surrender to himself and to you ~

Breeches around your ankles in the public squares, your uniform jackets drenched with drool, foaming down your legs and into your breeches, briefs so soaked-through there is nothing left to-be unseen ~

... and you are breathing in the spice of Cpt. Drottin's beard, longing to bite at it, but you can only hold him, wishing your faces were clamped even closer together, stuffed by the figure-eight of a dual-chambered inflatable gag, lips bolted in the optical illusion of a vice-grip jaw to jaw so you could meet his eyes, only his eyes, and never be away from those pools into which you longed to drown, but would plunge only into to scale up – for the light you saw was but a reflection of your own.

… you are the true foundation, Brother Joseph;

Drottin sang to ache ~

the exhaustion he could no longer prolong.

/o

[ Camera left rolling for six hours.

Through the silky, slatten light

falling through embers of alleys;

Cpt. Hlaford bums a smoke off a derelict saint, to bless him with a bottle of spiced rum, and a pirate jig they will do.

A pirate jig they did do for you.]

o|

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-3 :-- Where Instigation By an Outside Party is Established}}

Cpt. Psychorrhax lingered long in Brother Jacek's line of sight.

His eyes could move nowhere but where they willed -- for Psychorrhax moved them by subtle stirrings of weaves and misdirects.

A carnival hare in a conjurer's grip, more meat than felt. Held taut by his throat, stirring in the hand of fate. Though he moved with an air of what was causal, if slight and rushed -- precocious a boy that he was -- around him the currents of the air lit ablaze as if molecules ignited in figure eights, and so lent to his every motion the swell of a crashing wave and with it all the drama of a dance ~ though it was mute as the tall grass, billowing though he was still / a mound all around the vegetation.

Brother Jacek held his gaze -- he tracked Laika everywhere.

( o )

{{FROM Heute Ist Der Tag (An Dem Ich Dich Traf) :-- Where Sycophantry is Itself Revealed to Be a Form of Instigation}}

[Close-up: Cpt. Drottin shorn of beard and bear fur, looking particularly barely legal despite being a 6'6" scruffy blonde goat demon (sprawling, stony and desolate as a winter landscape bereft of his key mammalian bounty, expressed now in the subtle fury of a simmering lechery) prancing about under terms of mandated faggotry in heavy yoke and chainlink, dick keyed up like a bank-vault rigged to blow if tumbled -- Laik]

- Sir, please --

Cpt. Haruspex needed to check the whine on that fan.

... don't make him wear that ridiculous thing outside. It's degradin enough that he's gotta wear it in! Way he's gotta hear himself jingle as a jungle cat harnessed in bells! ./. Stripped of his pride by every clattering din-ga-ling, ding-a-ling, hell-ooo-oooo . .\. Mate, lookit him shrimped! Dick's gotta be gettin all bent up squirmin round inside that tight pinchy thing! It's gonna come out all segmented like a centipede, scurry up your leg with its claws. Man his age shouldn't be stuffed into things like that! Hurt his self-esteem you tellin him what a happy lil slaveboy he is, all decked up as older brother's submissive totemized fuck-display!

[a biting of the lip~

a tenting of the trousers.

reluctance, aching to be rid of itself~]

Cpt. Haruspex you feel -/- ( o ) -\- would make for a great piece to complement Cpt. Drottin. They could recline on the armrests of your chair, //. ( o ) .\\ Elbows nestled in the smalls of their backs, two perfectly symmetrically chained slave brothers. -//- -//- -\\- -\\-

-One suggestion, there he goes. Threatens to turn me to furniture! Elbow me in the back til it bursts open like a dislocated knee, prejac jelly donut with pus and tobacco leaves rolled and puffed! Just the day-in day-out grindin and crushin, thoracic to the tray, bone-gutted loike ---

- Sir, may I say --

Cpt. Psyhorrhax approached in a haze of black merlot as Haruspex allowed the ostrich feather of his eyes to wave back and forth.

- Him! Yes, him! Laika would make for a much better slave brother!

Cpt. Psychorrhax attempted to hold his smile.

He conspired not to let his glee turn to disgust, glancing at Cpt. Drottin -.- visibly so much less than the nothing he was typically allotted.

- He'd be perfect, mate. Yeah. Laika's soft. Delicate. Spurnful and mournful. He's even prettier than Drottin. Got more sculpt. More bone. Got more woman scorned in him. He'd look twice as fetchin in a cocktail dress! He is round. He is soft. He is not not masculine, though his leg's definitely look pert and powerful poppin out the hem, muscular and tendony as free-range devil birds farmed for hate! Drottin is more... more somethin, tho not necessarily more of a soapdish. Prone to scum and lilac scent alike, you understand well nuff! Got so many beautiful boys to choose from, sir! My flesh bared in shorn and moisturized submission display would be a pox upon your eyes and induce mass blindness if televised! You must insist on torturing me so brazenly, for I have such a dutiful and loyal soul -- you yearn to test my resolve!

[[Fucker's referrin to Jacek now. Three just ain't enough! -- Laik]]

You would see Cpt. Psychoraggia presented before you in time. You would require two additional symmetrically-arranged slave brothers to complete your envisioned footstool, for two men would be a necessity of stability and comfort to support the weight of your size sixteens, and it would take two additional to unlace, suckle and lick with hoary breath.

[pretty sure this was still Brux talking]

- Sir, your proclamations are difficult to parse -- am I still the rest for your scaled grindstones or will I be an accessory to the footstool? Would I be honored to breathe deep of the earthy and brie-like tang of your post-parade bootsocks? It would be a much more pleasing fate, sir! You know you enjoy the sight a Brux on his knees. Don't even need pads, mate. Just let em swell up like baboon asses on each of my loike knobs, lettin the joints get all loobed up with inflammants, press em together and you thigh fuck me like some beautiful marbled skin-flap pussyboy!

From the look Laika refused to give it was evident to any with eyes to see he found himself taken by Cpt. Haruspex's enthusiasm.

[[The relevance for the inclusion of this scene here will become apparent in time. For now, be a good lil spectator and just enjoy the sights -- Laik

Eyes forever fit to feast. -- Al]]

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-1 :-- Where Somebody Must Certainly Be Aware They Ain't Bein Subtle!}}

(_/~ ( o ) ~\_)

- Brother Jacek. Why the long face? You look as hoarse as you sound!

- I'm not sad, Brother Brux.

- Mate, you don't gotta hide nuthin from me. It's me, your buddy. It's me, Brux. You know I'd only ever lie to you if you weren't in your right mind and I needed ta subdue ya! Not that – y'know, you're ever fully in yer right mind, so I guess i'm never fully tellin ya the truth? and that's loikely the cause of some of your strain? but – y'know. Nobody's ever always in their right mind, mate. We all gotta lie to protect ourselves. It's not your fault that when people're around you they need extra protection and thus got a higher likelihood a lyin, and their lies – innocuous things that they are – only put ya further on edge. I swear to you, mate. I'm always tellin ya as much of the truth as I can, or I think ya can handle! and I know I'm super self-absorbed, but loike – I'm really tryin with ya, mate!

... not that I'm spellin this out cause I wanna manipulate ya or nothin, it's more like – I just need ya to see where I'm comin from, cause sometimes bein impersonal really is the best way to care for somebody?

... cause loike – y'know.

... on some level I really do wanna be your mum, but loike – realistically I can't? I feel like I'd be lyin to ya if I really did try to be your mum full-time, cause as much as I'd want to, I'd be openin myself up to more baggage than I could handle, and then I'd get strained and my strain would strain ya more, and it would begin to compose a vicious cycle of bitin off more than I can chew with a man who – I'm sorry to this say this mate – can really stuff his mouth cause he's not afraid to use his teeth?

…  gosh, mate – I keep my distance around some men who, y'know – I dutifully serve and love and adore and now I gotta get close enough ta you to make ya feel safe and protected, but also – you could eat me. You really could. That is a probable outcome and it is one I need to protect myself against. It's not like – it's not like I don't want ya to be able to eat me either, cause – y'know. Chances are if ya couldn't eat me, I'd just have contempt for you? I'd certainly find you a lot less intriguin. There's somethin inherently fascinatin about danger that makes ya compelled to rush toward it? Though also – it cannot be overlooked – there's also somethin about danger that repulses ya and makes ya wanna stay away?

... I get it, mate. I get it. I wanna do everythin I can for ya, but I can only do it from a safe distance of no less than ten and no more than seven feet, and sometimes – y'know. You really do need me to get closer, but I can't? It's not your fault. It's not anybody's fault. There's simply an inherent difficulty in two men bein intimiate with one another, which is why men are best off bein intimate with girls, y'know – not that I gotta tell a fine, sharp-nosed poonhound like you, Brother Jacek, it's more loike –

- You're thinkin bout Joey and Laika?

- Red-handed as a reach-around in the jelly jar, Brother Jacek! Cherry as always! I cannot tell a lie, but I sure can filibuster! Roight, see – with Joey and Laika, it's loike – are they the same person? Like all blondes? It's kinda weird how much Laika wants to be loike Joey, right? 

- You wanna be like Joey, Brother Brux.

- Mate, I do not wanna be like Joey. There's not a whole lot about Joey which is admirable or beautiful or thrillin, he's a thoroughly miserable person who can't love anybody but monsters. No offense. I was not thinkin of either you or our commander whom I venerate with offerings, or Laika himself for that matter, who seems to be a vain, petulant, amoral crackpot if you really squint between the hours of two and three.

... um, do I really think that? Do iIthink my loving and devoted brothers who I spend most of my time around are thoroughly loveless shells of human beings who can only inflict suffering upon themselves and upon each other? Have you ever noticed? This the sort of talk that you find uplifting and inspirational, Brother Jacek? would you like me to keep going, or would it be more productive if I bitched about Wally instead?

( o )

{{FROM: Johannestag-0 :-- Where a Poor Boy is Ruthlessly Eviscerated by an Imported Sissy From a Failed Nation}}

[[Our weekly Stygian Council meeting, already in progress -- Laik}}

With a storm wind, you rose the hand mallet.

It swung toward the anvil.

In the thunderclap which sparked, all had known -- that you were the only one with might enough to shut Joey up.

- Permission, sir!

Brux was piping up now --

… to bar Cpt. Schreibermachen from the introduction, indexing or glossification of any new businessships for a period of at least three lunar deci-cycles to perhaps even six solar hexi-cycles! 

Overruled. Without Joey being the only one to talk, the venture would have to remain with Brux.

- Sir, you're sayin it with your face…

It was customary -- to humiliate all dissenters with the gavel.

Cpt. Haruspex, your dearest and most treasured confidant, fellow of strange lands and stranger loves, did not deserve the route degradation of our custom so delivered with such painful constancy.

- He is such a route disappointment to him, Cpt. Schreibermachen -- 

Cpt. Psychorrhax leaned to speak.

… that he is ashamed even to honor his failings with a public admission of evident reality, for Cpt. Haruspex's reputation remains so starkly in ruin, he would kick up dust before he realizes he has no shards left to hammer.

These words you knew to be Laika's – 

For from the dulcet tones of his soprano, his diction mimicked Schreibermachen's as though a bird call through reeds, breathing venom into the hoary and wild snout of a petting zoo monitor lizard.

- I will throw pixie stick filling in your eyes Laik!

In Cpt. Haruspex's homeland, this statement would be deciphered as an act of targeted, disproportionate malice against an unstandard male -- for there remained a place where Brux remained but simply substandard.

- Sir, your breathtaking economy which melds the eloquence of your wit with the wit of your ecology could be but a dim remembrance cutting at the margins of sensibility outside the orthodoxy of the transcription!

Brux was keenly aware that Joey could cite plausible grounds for the necessitation of a footnote by -- with the ostentation of his sycophancy -- drawing attention to where he recorded his poetic impressions of your entrenched and solemn brow with but the most astute acuity.

- No new business it is!

Cpt. Haruspex shuffled his slick prints.

… well not if Sir's gonna encourage Joey to include that in the written report. To think that Cpt. Hlaford's fine and exquisitely legible and timely shorthand should be plastered over with Joey's jittery ink blotted scribblings, reeking as a packet of firecrackers engulfin gunpowder paper fortunes outta lunar meadowlings of flutter'd watermoths-- well, mate, it's like ya don't even wanna put together a dossier whose calligraphic simplicity recalls the stunning brushwork of printed Kyoto seclusion!

Cpt. Hlaford, finger blades sloshing the black tide, lashing at the manta flesh which gilled the filter of his ink theremin -- did not cease to recoil, though embodied the chaos within the lancing of his strokes.

- Cpt. Haruspex --

This was Cpt. Psychorrhax.

… Cpt. Hlaford resents that his achievements could be only ever fodder in petty games of onesupsmanship between men who lack even the lack of courtesy to consider one another their rivals.

As all were implicated in this comment, Wally could not resent it -- though under any circumstance, could have found ample cause to do so.

- Make me lick the blood off yer boots, aye.

Cpt. Hlaford's wrists would flick -- as his lips moved, puckering as suckerfish past gritted teeth, tethered by fingerbones to sugar-strings.

… once you kick me when i'm down, sir.

- Old business it shall remain then!

Cpt. Haruspex was eager to move back.

- New business resumes then!

As Joey was eager to remain forward.

- Terrorism funding! Today we're talkin bout terrorism funding!

Their throats filled the air. The room filled with their groans.

Cpt. Haruspex, a classicist well-at-heart, proved eager to scrape, as a horse carcass from a grill floor, our most languishing historical custom.

- What if the terrorists --

Brother Jacek, still as the earth below the storm wind -- held himself to attention. By some secret will, he found the fortitude to speak.

… aligned with the anarchists.

Cpt. Psychoraggia knew well the terror cells to be among our country's most well-endowed and respected counter-military measures -- they who would align with enemies of the state, both known and unknown, only if -- and when -- competitive salary or the need for artful experimentation necessitated nonseasonal conflict.

- They are our brothers too, Cpt. Jacek -- our brothers in headgear and neckscarf; cradling jet-propulsion tanks of double-humped gin.

Laika let his hand linger long on the sun-warmed slab of Brother Jacek's back. Joey saw nothing -- for he felt so truly what was evidently so evident, his hand could stain only what glosses the hide.

[[Gosh, I am just so lucky I never know which parts of Sir's narration are wryly sarcastic cries of anguish stemming from the unspeakable violence he's witnessed and perpetrated. Makes me feel so warm and fuzzy that for for all I know, all his words can mean the exact opposite and I've been autistic the entire time like some idiot dumbass! -- Laik

A stylist of pure probability -- Al]]

( o )

{{FROM: Johannestag-1 :-- No Elaboration Necessary}}

The room was spinning – You weren't.

You didn't feel too bad – Far from it.

This wasn't a place – You'd been too often.

- Maj. *******, sir – you switch from water to soda on your third and soda to tonic on your sixth – becoming so quickly well-traveled, your adventurousness knows no bounds -- a roadmap well-inscribed on the velium of a carcass, to be raptly gilded by the veinery of your bloat!

That lil fuck Laika – He was cute.

You didn't care much what his words mighta meant in reality – You just knew it'd be good to dick his face right here in the open.

- Bloated with fermentation, Psychorrhax – a dent in the sterling hull of his tap! Though his mass is admirable enough to lead navies– he has been fasting since noon before last, and not a single molecule stirs otherwise in his guts, shriveled beneath boughs of striated hardwood!

Holy fuck, Joey – you had a chocolate croissant and a Zoobier earlier – you're corrupted. You'll never regain your ketonic aura. Your face is already fat with carbs – Go throw up, you'll be pretty again.

Bro, you gotta trust you on this – Don't let anybody from the press catch you. Don't even look in a mirror, you'll never recover. 

- The major is aware, Psychorrhax – lean prose is the product of a honed mind, in which a lean body is also the inevitable consequence. The workshop of his mind is cold butchery – for his words flay your still living cadaver and slice through the sinews of your pectoralis down to the bone, to wedge into finely sliced sheets some scalpel of his silent tongue – flat as sharkskin against the roof of his mouth when he does not lick …  I am more fanciful, as though it needed be said aloud. A certain hunger stirs in my joints – a heaviness to my head and the clarity of steam rising off warm lakes of some clairvoyant space.

… I could have said as much… with half as much, this is certain – Had I not poisoned myself with a drizzle of cocoa and sweet orange on barley.

Economy. Economy. Economy.

It was all you drilled in this kid – and still he went first class.

- Big guy. Big buy – Whaddya you doin? Whaddya you lookin like that for? You tryin to make me grandma, wolfy? I ain't grandma. Don't care what big eyes you got – I ain't lettin you in. Nuh-uh. Not into my brickhouse. Brick shithouse. That's you. Need brick while I shit. Gotta be defensive. Stay defensive. Best defense is a good offense – Best offense is to never defend. Put you back in your hayloft – Where you belong. All those sticks. All these sticks – Hey. I don't know about those. You know about those? One of you – one of you is a witch. I can sense it. I been practicin – practicin my remote viewin – so I can find the remote. Find it anywhere. It's under the couch cushion – We got thirty sex cents. A pretzel. A copy of Jodi Flightplan on DVD. Gosh. What treasures. Treasures of antiquity. Gonna put em in a museum. We will Foster – All behaviors. 

Your fuckin dad – holy shit, you loved this guy.

- Hey! Hey, big guy! You look with your eyes, not your hands, you hear? Eyes are big and freaky – don't need your big – weird ass crab claws on me. Big hairy dick vein. Oh my Gosh. You use that moisturizer I got you?

You're gonna give that fucker a hug –

- Oh no, oh no! 

Gettin you this cushy fuckin job.

- Oh no!

Had to admit, padre – don't always get it, but sometimes – sometimes ya make a lick a sense.

- I need to be guarded – against my bodyguard – he might sneeze! Might sneeze on me! Change the makeup of my germs – I am a salad – Why is nobody – nobody puttin up a lil sheet. Sheet of glass for me to go behind? Where I can get naked – all ripply. Let people see me as a pretty lady.... I have tits. My tits are marvelous! I am spewing forth curdled milk from the goaty dugs which are the source of my supreme fecundity – lick my balls.

He was a riot –

He or somebody else actually thought this shit was poetry. 

- Father, do not forsake decency by continuing to wander about fully clothed!

Joey – don't egg him on – he's liable to get scrambled when you try'n make him overeasy. 

- You're becoming quite the clucking hen, Maj. ******* – though an omelet we will make, every egg you shall insist on cracking yourself upon the rim of the pan will scream out in the ecstasy of betrayal; for it was these into this fold which you have lain, to hear solely the song of how they sizzle!

If Laika was an egg – he'd be Faberge.

- Best you leave me on the mantle as you return to the kitchen. 

Only time you wanted Brux – was when you had no idea where he was. 

- Sir. Sir, stop. You could not – you could not – you could not knock out all three of those massive pillars holdin up the balcony – Naw, naw mate. Even with a charge from this distance, you don't have the breadth, or – dare I say? Yes. Yes, I do – You lack the ferocity to demolish stonework that distance apart unless you wanted to risk makin a damn fool of yourself – y'know – unless you tried some – wicked, loike – hurl of one pillar into another at breakneck speed sorta –

Cpt. Haruspex – you needed to admit – displayed, on occasion, a remarkable ear for strategy.

- X – XII – XIV – He has rediscovered whiskey, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

Don't need no fuckin helmet kid – This forehead splits axes.

( o )

{{FROM: Johannestag-2 :-- The Reality of What You Chose}}

The priests of the labrys he bent to his will – weighed with snow in gnarled poses, heavy as the boughs of spring – craned to him to blow mountain horns through the handles of their hollow axes.

- I have not spoken to Brother Laika in some time! What rulers echo in every void utterance! The pleasure has most certainly been his!

The rhubarb hues swollen beneath the sterile goatiness of his face – slick with his sweat, some idiot aureole played as his hair unfurled from the gilding of its honied comb – A kaleidoscope of arms and suckers in the brass-edged prongs of a heliacal crown which was his hair blowing in the breeze of the slate blue day – Metallurgical in the covalence of its bonds, the day overlooking the white of the plaza, yellow ivory by ash of gold.

- Sir, your words move me as only Cpt. Schreibermachen's do – have you, by some iota of probability unpaid, perchance to've read him?

...

–

As seeds scattered in the wind, they wanted not, yet wanted only to die.

A whole brood came of age, spurning the ovipositor which laid them. Without contradiction of their wants, the falsities of the false world into which they were born, they knew they themselves to be expendable – people who should have never been, sold now and always, to people who weren't worth it, on land which was not theirs :-- serving only the machinery for which they had been bred to be slaughtered.

The Carpenter removed his hood – he was but (A) Baal by kinder words. 

He sang to them. In harmonic resonances of love, he sang to them. By the grosses, from bridges which rose in honeycombed towers, drone embryos flew without wings – into the traffic of tankmen to be torn under wheels pulverized & dragged – limbs flash-fried a second here and there, wasted :-- untold countless unclaimed prophets squandered. 

((( o )))) Without the lubrication of blood to properly anoint at proper variables – The machinery chugged and sputtered to a halt.

The streets caked with viscosities of skin and sinew – gelatin of bone and meat pumped by arterial sepsis. Clean. Pure.  Sears of gunmetal perfumed on tongues. Product rotting on shelves without plot or purchase, writhing with fresh and effervescent life, singing the songs of flies.

The structures collapsed by the rings of their stumps, pumping always lead in their sutures, where true necessity reigned, hollow hearts followed hollow heads – as all were as gourds in the wind.

A hedge trimmer to a bonsai, an octopus to a cutlet. With ice to a sickle, whole densities of shoulder were shed in the shaving. Another turn of the waltz – into place, they fell, and into space, they rose.

Deprive themselves of them – for they have spoilt their generations, every vivisection floating like debris, around the miracle of these pollutants.

~!~

;w L

L o :

–

Cpt. Haruspex's tongue would slip when his hands would slight him.

Cpt. Haruspex's words would fail him – when by the slight of glance, his eyes would fall upon Cpt. Schreibermachen sipping coffee. 

( o )

{{FROM: ( o ) V>IIV7 ( . ) :-- I Am Unafraid}}

He could meet his own eyes. Meet his own eyes, though his breath weighed leaden on his chest.

Cpt. Psychorrhax stared. Stared and struggled to remember.

This man was no stranger to him. This man was simply nobody.

An anonymous face. An able body.

This person looking back had no past, no future, and knew himself to be simply a collection of discontinuous moments and fragmentary observations which did not cohere into a whole, less he strained his wrist and bloodied his hands in another effort to hold himself together.

Cpt. Psychorrhax could think of things.

Think them, though they contradicted what he knew.

There were times in his life – the life of this person staring back – where he could disappear into the bold colors and winding patterns of the tapestry of life, though when fire took to the gold lace and silk, he was not even ash, merely a solitary ember whirling as a feather on a draft which would vanish amongst the dust of the tiles, swept away as one iota of detritus to compose the weightless gray clump of pollutants in some bin.

He could reach out to this person. Press his hand to the glass and meet him eye to eye. From his quivering throat, some pressure passed his lips. It was as though the other man struggled first to speak –

but cut himself off so as not to interrupt. 

This man – though his eyes were gentle – was far from an unimpressive specimen of manhood. Possessing of grace and athleticism, still robust but for a figment of the boldness of his brothers – the beauty in him could not be denied, though neither could it budge him. As upon a moonlit shore, the black waves would roll, and in the salt wind carrying the smell of campfires extinguished, sepulchral tongues could lick at bare feet buried in the sand – still warm from the sun so long past set.

[gagging on cock, sputtering, accelerating]

-- Please. Continue.

-- History is written by the winners, and to assume there are winners and losers is to assume a polarized view, not only of history, but of human thought and the universe from which it extends. As there are no winners and losers -- for the rules of any game could only ever be human dreams -- there remain countless histories unwritten where all the many things never here have already occurred, and what greater worlds were these we now see! We rescue them by our recollections which never were, and so enrich this world we know not to be our hell, for we could make it nothing but ... longing always for there to be somewhere more worse!

-- Might be I'm from Upside-Down Land Joe, but you thinkin backwards makes it happen forwards makes me wonder about all the upright things that'd never be :-- like what it'd be like if Laik were talkin!

\ . o

{{FROM: 7(o)8v\ . >I3>VL . /^3(o)L Doppelteleere}}

-- Welcome to the Laikaverse. Tonight on our show, we have the only man who ever mattered to me, and he should matter a lot more to you. Ladies and gentleman & all interesting packages I need to unwrap cause they make me wanna guess, tonight I am proud to present my one and only guest. My best friend & brother, Cpt. Laika Psychorrhax.

-- Yo Yacko. How's havin the only show worth watchin treatin ya?

-- I get all the views I deserve. All of them. I don't need your hearts. I rip em from the chests of all who oppose me. I'm a barbarian & a brute and I de-stigmatize cannibal psychopathy by bein cute in a bad boy way which Laik keeps makin boyband, all his fuckin smiles. I'm basically the best. Don't need to mention it. Know how bad you want this dick, bro.

-- Don't need fuckin seven or eight middle names. I like havin the two. I think it makes it less disingenuous when I wanna brand, which I don't need to cause I am arbiter of all possibilities which present themselves!

-- Well spoken, better sucked. We can actually talk about shit that bros care about at some length before I make you suck my dick. Sometimes I just wanna hear two dudes talk and suck each other's dick, bro. I don't wanna go to the fuckin ballet. Like the choreography is spellbinding, but it's too hyperstylized to be sexy. I'm not a fuckin rube, I just don't know why your dick needs an aerial shot bro. Can't the dick be a subject in its own right, does it have to be a dream-image in a propagandistic context? Holy fuck, what have words done to your brain, bro.

-- Why I wanna go to the ballet, I fuckin live it!

-- Dance, lil seducer-assassin. Smack you on the ass with my ruler before I make you gulp down a shot of poison, send you out into the Siberian winter to ice-skate in the light of the moon while Spider Willow watches from the barn. Cradling all her agricultural tools and her chemistry set, hollow and silvery knowin what she hath sown.

-- Holy fuck, bro. Fuck my ass and cuddle my scared shivering body! I don't need no comparative mythology course before you refuse to blow a load on my face cause that would deplete your heightened stoic life essence and dim the solar crown radiating out your gold-threaded dick-header! Fuckin wrap me in a myrtle jockstrap and crush my balls, bro! Shower me in the gold of all which is cloudy and stagnant and stifled! I long to be blessed by your brine, the salt of your labor and excretion! I'm not a fuckin black hole, Joe! I'm a fruit, I gotta burst and seed, bro.

-- Juicy lil pomegranate. Juicy lil apple. Juicy lil date.

-- Fuckin masticate me to make water into wine, bro! It's a fuckin miracle when you dismember me! Oh my fuckin God, bro. That's what you are to me, no fuckin irony, no fuckin academic obfuscation! You magnificent beast! Rip me to pieces and devour me! Splatter my blood all over these pristine white walls, that the scene of my execution should look as though Pollack convex within a Bollack! Mirror me in flesh to eyes dimmed by torpid flames into new universes of neuronal tumescence! Your fat engorged prick at which I long to suckle like the teat of a bull is the one true Source of My Life and I Am Slavish Before It! To me, your cock could never be a means to inflict pain or inject corrosion, for it is the very font of all which I most cherish. It is truly Life Itself!

-- Yeah, like I said. Know how bad you want this dick, bro.

( o )

Cpt. Schreibermachen – your brother Joseph, who we knew as Joey – craned the axal column of his vertebrae the full facsimile of a three-sixty degree turn which the stabilities of his anatomy would allow – craning the long and exquisitely tense musculature of his neck, inviting what tuggings they would allow to what sparse growth sprouted there – some scraggling and beckoning from the spots and scabs which shone as gold veining the granite jetsam of a cavewall – staring up into the winding cloudwell which was as a sea itself pouring out. A sea itself pouring out and around, peering through the looming densities, always peering where the sun still blistered brightest, for it bleached and acidified all which it could only relentlessly and unendurably hammer upon.

– It’s here, it’s here!

Joey bellowed ahead. Brux screeched from behind.

– Why, why, why? Why would it be here, Joey? It confounds all matter of public record and therefore common-sense, that it should be here! You are a lunatic! You are excitable, irritable, and contemptuous of the facts before you and all around you! You slumber lazily in a silence which is deafening for it is tragic, that your bountiful young intellect, all your talents and potential, should be squandered on such hysterical and meaningless fancies! My poor brother! My poor Joey! Nobody can help you! You’re lost and alone in this world, with adversaries all around and no safe haven to shelter you! For who you are and what you are able, you have been marked – doomed to wander, now and forever, spurned by all you may help and all who may help you! My poor brother! My poor Joey! Why don’t you ever call? We used to be so close? Would you like to talk about it? You know you’ll always be my special lil guy, Joey…

From the first of the free asymmetrical zippers on his uniform jacket – the clanging color and metal latticework which composed a public garden of pins, medals, ribbons & cokecaps blushing lushly from his lapel – he propelled with great rapidity a violet cloak of embossed and threaded fleur di lys glittering in spun gold, and with it obscured the chatter.

– Continue to ignore him at all costs! My revelations were revealed to me verily in a session late first this morning before last, then early this evening before this! My unconventional methods – the methods of which remain still too unconventional to explain this present moment, and perhaps still too many future ones at length! – was arrived upon for my frustrations with the hole always cleaved away by the cookie-cutter upon the sheet left me at last a ball of dough which was in its sum now entirety the residuals of the previous frames off which the gingerbread men did march ;– bunched up and rerolled anew, until there was only one but none! I was odds and sods, an oddity out committing sodomy and I wondered truly if I was as inverse as it was said, feeling this emptiness so persistently, for I knew once what spectacular shines burst forth within!

Brux was shouting. Shouting into the roaring wind.

– The more I talk over him, the more his scrawny lil book boy spinal nerves open to new possibility and influence will be confounded and disrupted –forced to talk in my same dilating and contracting rhythms, so all he attempts to exposit becomes as me; a yawning void, suffocating and expanding, crushing you inward, stupidly and glassily, as the puckering lips of a depthless carnival hare more orange'n gold!

Brux was shouting. Shouting as he rolled his cloak across the mud.

– They were revealed to me in a moment of meditation come trance come transcendent ecstasy as I lay pressed once more grinding against my brother in the dark night of our shared compartment, where I longed only to be one and deathless with him eternally ;– knowing myself as I could never be! Torn from the wrong side-in, always back out!

Cpt. Drottin strode forward. On his head, the marble idol flecked with streamers of freshly-oiled copper wire, the anemone-eyes of a harness and visor distended from the notched circuitry of its flexors.

– Bro, I can’t see shit with this shit on, bro.

To the sun, his eyes were pressed. To the horizons, his fingers reached, and some distant ether mist rose to take him in hand. His feet, firm and pressed against the ground, felt in the sutures of their bones what currents flowed beneath the earth, and from his love-nut – tight, swollen, puckering as his balls still fat and swollen with the seawalls he held back ; uncummed, uneaten, the fire in his guts and balls ;– eyes alit with leaky cock, hungering for potentials unearthly and obscure.

– All of this I know. No dissent may take into account what I know, when it refuses to see, refuses to hear – it is not good-faith criticism to call me a lunatic not for what I believe, but only for I can no longer believe not even in you, but what you think you need to obscure yourself!

From Brux’s lips emanated forth raspberries as he leapt into the protracted and violent syncopations of the worm.

– You’re approaching JRPG text-dump levels of unnecessary verbiage, Joey! I have no emotional connection to anything you say, for nobody talks like that, nobody thinks like that, nobody really thinks two dickless nerd boys getting it on (not offense to my good friend, Cpt. Drottin. I would gladly rub my dick bulge against yours were it not already too excruciatingly tender to merely hold your hand. Though I confess also … I see not the need to work up the strength to perform an action which I have fundamental contempt for, and I (full-disclosure) sometimes worry about you. Nevertheless, I hope impromptu public confessions are something you can live with, and like… things don’t have to get too weird between us, for you remain my brother and my heart’s most secretive longing and any dream of a life without you is but living death) … but um, no. Dickless nerd boys can rub their cute lil bumps together anytime, Joey! That’s why boys being into other boys is for losers! That’s why you deserve a wedgie! Fuck pussy, loser! Pussy, pussy, pussy! You talk too much! You’re the annoying one! You’re overplayed and nobody likes you!

The salt breeze through his hair, Cpt. Psychorrhax allowed his heart to flutter. The weight upon his chest poured fourth its waters as a goblet overflowing and all throughout the channels of him came the calm which rendered as a warm mist the ice which clotted in his veins.

An elbow to his brothers shoulder – the limitations of the framing did not reveal the cube on which he stood to gain elevation.

– He grows more enchanting by the day, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

He looked upon Cpt. Haruspex, and found him magnificent.

Joey looked away – rightfully, manfully – at more important things.

( o )

Woe to us, for whom petty games of tribe and warfare were enough.

Woe to us, for whom petty games of family and drama were enough.

Woe to us, for whom petty games of myth and nation were enough.

Woe to us, who bore conflict for we needed the pain of others to feed, lacking wholeness and center within ourselves, we who could know only kindling by friction, necessitating others be left fuel for the fire.

Woe to us, who are the inheritors of the world we have built.

\./

Cpt. Haruspex, falling to one knee, kisses Joey thrice across each boot, his ankle flexing and swerving to accommodate the gallantry of his lips. First on the caps, then on each side of the heel, coming back to the first, then ricocheting off the second, to kiss each underside the tip.

“Schreibermachen, my brother. For you I adore, and for the people of this land whose wandering eyes, whose listless and unruly minds, whose souls are as roaring seas eager to overtake the land; whose hearts are as frail songbirds fluttering in gilded cages – for you and for them, and for my five fellows and myself, I endure with you These Seven Woes.”

On both knees now, he slides forward with great rapidity. Stumbling onto his hands, pushing forward to propel himself first at ankle level, pulling himself up by his calves to press both hands firm against his ass. Burying his face in the taut black heft of Joey’s bulge. Pressing his tongue to the seam of the leather. Meeting his eyes with an intensity demanding wounding, for it was now in simple and absolute compliance.

//o\

Cpt. Schreibermachen, descending to one knee, extends his hand to caress the fold of Brux’s ear, the other to his shoulder, meeting him in the miasma of his eyes, to usher in a daybreak through the perpetual exhaust-starved ruin which was the marshland on which we built.

Oh, fog of discontinuity be now blown away to bring forth the vapor mist of things too variably complex to render before stalwart and primeval eyes! We who see best with eyes not sealed shut, but brought down in dustings of perpetual remembrance of what is right, so many present wrongs being errors wrought in hostile alignment we may brazenly disregard to laugh at the unfaithful who call themselves their inverse!

“Haruspex, my brother. Though contemptible at times, I could never hold you in contempt, needing what no man could offer, needing space which no man could own, living out strange contradictions on foreign shores. I could never hope to understand – all the hows and whys of what you are, and cannot stop you from feeling whatever you may feel, regarding me how you will regard me, as gifted as I am with all the gifts of self-discernment, association, style, and all other boons of life and liberty. For this, I say to you – the pleasure of this chastisement is minimal, I being a sadist worthy of my stiches – for I wish I needed not blood, wish you needed not to bleed. Wished I could crush all leeches of the earth, stake every vampyre to the soil by the base of a crucifixion, to leave all pawnbrokers as bricks on which to lay the foundations of homes. I would kill anytime I wish, and stop anytime I please. I implore you not to usher in a bloodbath, and yet I cannot prevent you. I have doomed you, by my refusal to enslave you, to a freedom which is enduring, and you know not how to be a beast, then rightfully spurn my pretensions! I say to you, I am no better. I say to you I am merely myself. I say I strive for truth above my ego as my highest aim. You insist all truth-seeking exists to gratify the ego, and I say – is egoism not then your highest truth? Tell me now, tell me true. What game lacks a winner, what contest lacks a loss. I will ask why you play and what you hope to gain, and to this think to myself – for all answers you believe will bore me – that no matter the outcome, in every game which I watch or I play, I learn always something knew!”

Eyes falling closed in the sweet sublimity of surrender, his bare teeth icy with the dead light half-subsumed by the fog of his breath, he slips into trance meeting that spotlight distant, now washing over his eyes and through the golden straw of his brother’s hair.

( o )

Through the pools of liquid crystal, we saw Our Lord Cpt. Drottin :– battered in his whities, still suspended in the winter air.

Daily we pray to him, to pantomime the consumption of his flesh for our daily bread. The wine flowing as overabundant richness from the soles of our feet: calloused and tawny as the blood we lapped from the stump of his neck and bronze-eyes of his mutilated palms.

Our hair we perfumed with the oils we let drop and shatter, to smear alike in filth and richness through our fingers. The gloss was ours to wear, pungent and sweet, cloaking us even as we reeked. In masks of floral brocade, we looked to one another in half-glances through the line, beckoning these violations we too might suffer openly. That we too may be marked. Be condemned. Revealed for those bounteous things we are.

Rippling as winds across the plain, the clouds veiling those shallow ponds of depthless eyes – his heartfelt and agonizing eyes We saw now drenched in tears with rivers upheaving pikes of mountainpeaks sutured shut to crystal ice :– His milky skin so flushed, the steam rising off his face as much His tears, Our spit, Our piss pouring into his still wedged-wide pi(ee) hole from tubes he chugs down deservedly and gladly.

The demolished balcony of his muscle-gut grows thicker and more ridge-like the more he attempts to maintain balance. Attempts to press himself up. Pressurize himself to grow through the very seams of his bones as he chugs – chugs, chugs – all his brothers have to offer.

Our only worthy substitute. Our one true Lord and Savior. Only through he could our pain be allevied, for by partaking of His was Ours lessered.

( o )

“This is the brick,” Cpt. Drottin rose the monolith which was this red rock, burst to dustclouds of a thousand fragments, from which we made our cornerstone. “I have learned love is Laika.”

This brick he bashed into the nose of the man closest him, the fourth of his own line. Shattering on impact, he stumbled into a wall most certainty there, which he could neither pass through nor scale, not with the great plateaus of his nostrils gushing onto his linens to compose the organic facsimile of a performance in splattering rosewood.

Laika … could only spit.

“What the fuck does that prove? How am I the asshole cause you brick your own guy in the face like a dumbass? Durr-durr. Yeah, buddy! It’s me! I’m the one who’s as insecure and insane as Brux! I’m a tiny dog-hearted lil bitch with no loyalty outside what my own ravenous and whimsical appetite dictates me! That’s why I sit there and not only let him constantly verbally abuse my boyfriend while I not only say nothing, but secretly agree while I masturbate furiously to his hate-filled comments all night long and thank God he’s got such little self-awareness he can spew such torrents of atrocious nonsense which nobody else got the balls to agree with openly like a smokestack out to skies all the more glorious only for how the carbon emissions refract the sun into the splendor of an oilslick trapping every rainbow in its grime to reveal a resinous amber of industrial runoff more fragrant than the bile of whales or pitch of trees!”

He gave Cpt. Drottin only more reason to smile.

“In what other ways may I make my speculations known but by opening your ears to the neigh-saying which never ceases from the horse’s mouth? Do you not see how the straw in which you stuff his emptiness fails to spin itself to gold? Your senses I have amplified as the record I have let play on repeat and all throughout the night the music still blares. Why do you not listen, Brother Joseph?”

( o )

" ... A dead child. Born dead, for his mother was dead the whole of his incubation. No life in her, none to feed his soul. Born hungry for the life she never lived. Though he breathes, he speaks, he stares and sees. Born dead. No woman I designed as perfect as she, grown from the finest selection of bones, hand-sewn with a flesh of my own conjuring from alchemical arts black as the inner cities out which I hail, could look upon him without shrieking, he being a monster and she but his mate.”

At last, a long exhale Laika let out. As a train departing a station would kick up a storm in winding tunnels in the dead of night, eyes bleary for it was still such a long way home, and you knew not how long you would need to wait in the cold and dark, the ambiguous eyes of strangers all about. The uncertainty of your being inviting probing, as if showcasing by hem of garter a wound you longed to see torn open that blind-eyes may glimpse in any spilling out what another wouldn’t say – half-begging the blind to reinforce those things you knew never to be – he found himself … uncertain how, somewhere far from the previous moment, half-aware of an apotheosis partially-recognized, yet dinged by the despair of how far he still had to go, how little progress he’d seemed to have made, having only recognized how lost he was.

( o )

“For some reason…” he says, “the bulletin is taking extra long today!”

Cpt. Psychorrhax , stationed across from him, sat cross-legged in a Lord Byron power-pose whose raw charisma more than overcame its innate faggotry. His uniform hung from him as though endowing its regal aura to the air, agitating each and every individual molecule to the barbarism of civility which was the eternally-becoming democratic process.

“Heads will roll,” he promises.

Brux, lipping the cap of his pen, which unbeknownst to him, the fourth on his left had earlier used to shove a hemorrhoid back up his own ass, stared dreamily and inkily wondering what pungency he smelled.

“You do somethin with you hair, Laik? Seem like you got a glow today!”

Napoleonically, he smiles. The light hitting him composes a frieze, burning itself into Brux’s retina for the rest of his miserable daze.

Neoplatonically, he recieves.

“Gosh, you’re so cute now that you’re all-grown up lil Laika! I just wanna pinch you. I just wanna pinch you and smack your cheeks and whip out my cock and bash with you wit it for bein such an arrogant lil runt? Who the fuck you think you are, cunt? Think you fuckin deserve to get dicked jus cause you’re so beautiful and manly and your every errant motion enslaves me to the daemonic divinity within you? Gosh, lookit me. I’m Laika! I’m gonna go brag over the air bout how I know the cutest and most adorable blackest-hearted lil Witch King. Ooooh. I put a spell on yoOoOuUuU. NoOoOoOow yer mOoOoOoinne. Get real. You see one fuckboy, you seen am I (em all). I already seen two today, so it’s like I seen the entire universe. Twice. Before lunch. I’m still not even hungry! Joey’s not the only one who can fast and develop the cognizance of a vegetable! I am the stupidest, laziest motherfucker I know and there is nobody alive more intolerable than me! I have a quarter Aboriginal Ruelandese ancestry which means only ¾ths of all the baseless fearmongering I spew is factually racist, while a whole fourth remains informed by the experiences of a former-fuller person of color!”

Laika didn’t need to speak. Before even the eight who were his could rise with him, the way they walked – he walking before them, said all he needed to say – said more than he could ever say with words.

Brux spat onto page when he stabbed it with his pen.

“You’re applyin the Lovecraft principle of describin the indescribable in too many words and applyin it to how you dissed me! Real fuckin clever, Laik! Yeah, guess you know what a fuckin hack author your boyfriend is real well out there livin the dream yourself! Two fuckin feet a proximity to you and I don’t gotta fantasize bout what it’s like to be an axe-murderer anymore! Durr-durr. I’m a drunken lunatic man-beast! I’m so stupid I’m gonna hack apart and eat everyone I love cause my artistic achievements are non-starters which utterly fail to mask my dwindlin irrelevance! Hurr-hurr! I shall never be eternally young and battered, ever-dying and reviving, renewed by my own darkness! I got no fuckin idea where these suggestions’re comin from, but what I do know is they got nuttin to do wit you, nor your supposed secretive means, you lil fuck!”

Onto the Arabic gardens, the patio.

Another day in paradise.

They sang for him, as they would sing for anyone.

( o )

“I like Brux when he’s manly,” he said aloud to himself.

Staring at his own shadow. Starring at the dancing grasses. The dancing grasses he longed to smoke, to feel himself lie back well-reclined within himself, knowing only good food and good music at tangerine sunsets of a perpetual dawning, well-alive and well-aware of the multitude within and without, wanting only needlessly, needing only to want.

“Sometimes he’s so beefy and broad. He’s uncouth with a violent strangeness which is dazzling as it is coarse. Like a horsehair tail sprouting flytraps or any manner of strange things which blur the vegetable from the insect, with a fuzziness at most arachnid.”

These words. There must have been truth. Some were certainly his.

“Why does he insist on being written as this absurd and outrageous sissy? Is it all Joey’s lies? Some of it has to be Joey’s lies. What percentage of the things that Joey says are totally lies? (I feel anyone who believes in proper syntax is a liar who wishes to modulate my biorhythms along some arbitrary pole. Drunk you is real you. Sobriety is the Lie that Hey Zeus the Wino sold to his habituates.) Brux can’t possibly be a bigger liar than Joey and Laika. In some regards, Brux simply has to be the lesser of two evils. Brux is so much better of a team bitch than Laika. Laika fucking sucks at being team bitch. Holy fuck. He either lies there and takes it or lies there and enjoys it lewdly and disgustingly or lies there and hates it and it’s literally rape but he won’t fuckin say anything. He won’t even be like …. ‘hey bro, stop fuckin rapin me!’ or 'bro i’m real fuckin pissed bout all those times you raped me.’ Naw, man. He’s just like … gonna sit there and hate you and not mention those times you raped him. Fuckin coward. Every time you rape Brux he won’t shut the fuck up about it. He goes over the PA and lies about how many times you raped him so now you don’t even know if it was an implanted memory or if you really did rape him. Why would anybody rape Brux? Does he get hotter when you’re drunk? Do you think he would look extra rapeable if he was sober and you were drunk? I think you should get real drunk at a time when you know Brux has to be sober and see if you rape him. Why would you do this as a thought experiment, just make it happen, bro. Big bro rapes Brux all the time anyway. Maybe Brux is insane because big bro rapes him too many times. Maybe Brux is insane because big bro won’t rape him. Brux is always tryin to get big bro drunk and big bro still won’t rape him. I think he definitely did fuck with your memory, either surgically or through hypnotic suggestion.”

( o )

Though you turned the page, and the song of its leaves rolled as waves over rifle fire in your ear, somehow you still heard him. Though he never spoke, never glanced up, simply thumbed his pen on the wood of the table – tapping his cap on the lattice of its top: vents of chainlink running parallel as spokes from the hubs of wheels of silver lizard scale.

“You like me a lot. Tempestuous as I am beautiful, I am all which the man you profess to love could never be, and so you wear your repulsion of me openly and deign to spurn me, spurning only yourself for you wish to lay encoiled with me arm-in-arm and call me brother. Chastising yourself only for you know in time you will succumb to my sick fancies and find yourself incompatible with who you think you are, unable to recognize any longer which inadequacies you adopted of me, and which were always your own, you so willing and desirous to bare the endowment of all I take of you, reveling in those spaces in which I leave you to fester.”

The things he couldn’t say – to which you seemed to give shape and clarity with a panache which needn’t be telling, any difficult projections casting only light on smooth, marred surfaces – simply elevated him, reductions though they were, for he was habitually enlarging himself in whatever confines you put him, as a foam perpetually boiling over.

“Hot pot with me, Joe. Give you a splash as you dunk em in.”

Dunk tank goon. He would make an excellent dunk tank goon. The target which would dispatch the lever to send him splashing ought be water-sensitive as the type you’d see in carnival squirt gun games, modified along the duration of a trough where men could shoot of their distillations, flowing down to the basin of the tank proper, filling with the piss in which he would inevitably drop and need to drink himself out.

“We could work so well together. Is it really good for yourself, for me, for our shared brotherhood or the people of our land, if you continue to find me arbitrarily repulsive for no reason other than to suit yer idle fancy?”

...

“I wish myself presently…” Joey decided, “To make myself unknown.”

Brux … rotated counterclockwise.

“My spine, my spine!”

Joey had taken Brux to the tabletop. Around his head, the crook of his elbow crushed him in suffocation, descending down his face, a rolling pin in a harmony of notes ringing out in creaking leather. Flattening him down to dough, he rested there, cap-off beside his plate unruffled, in a headlock as he looked up at you swollen and helpless, Joey smiling as he pried his legs apart with his ankles and pinned him by the arches of his calves.

[sky-kiss]

prompt: they* go fishing

*whoever you want, raph/haarps would be fun maybe)

A/N: Mslanna, you wild and I love you. I truly should have taken this opportunity to write like. Wild West Au Raphael. Out on a boat. Fishing.

_________

Raphael x Haarlep: Fishing

_________

"You're brooding, boss."

Raphael doesn't look up at this little gibe, attention fixed, glaring, on the drafted contract. It's hardly his best work. He could fit a few more manipulative subclauses into section sixteen. A few phrases in the main body need reworking to allow for the maximum wiggle room on his part, but…

…well, he supposes his heart truly isn't in it today. It's a shame not to love your work.

Haarlep snorts, inspecting their claws. "Oh, Raphael is pouting, darling. His new favorite toy doesn't want to play." 

"Hush, you." 

"'Hush, you?'" They give him a look, hands planted firmly on hips. Haarlep hooks an arm around his neck, slipping into his lap. "Take note, Korilla: this is what depression looks like. No energy for witty repartee. No time for his old hobbies." 

His warlock shakes her head. Haarlep adjusts themself in his lap, squirming into some semblance of comfort. It'd be easier as the Archduchess, but ease has nothing to do with their prerogative: Haarlep wants attention. Haarlep wants to distract and inconvenience.   

"You're being tedious," they grumble. Haarlep pinches the back of his neck, claws threatening to break the skin. "They'll never want to play if this is how you act. Come, have a little fun. Entertain me." 

"I've no interest in your flesh, servant." 

Haarlep snorts. "However shall I cope, princeling?" The incubus waves off his rebuttal, sliding from his lap in one fluid movement. They clap their hands. "Oh, it's been a while. Can't we play in the Well?" 

The cambion pinches the bridge of his nose. Fishing, Haarlep likes to call it, though it is barely an accurate reflection of the sport. "Haarlep…" 

"You'll feel better. You always feel better after, dear." Almost as an afterthought, low and sickly sweet. "I know you, Raphael. Trust." The words make him itch, innocuous but with a hint of command. Trust? In the Hells? Trust this miserable creature? He thinks not. 

But Raphael stands, hands linked at the small of his back. He lets himself be led to the soul pillars, his prized jewels. Haarlep delights in them, eyes flickering over the shimmering service, tracing the souls trapped within. Their tail thrashes behind them. 

He's reminded of a housecat: trapped indoors, still hungry for prey, watching birds flutter past their window. 

"You'll have to throw them back," Raphael warns. 

"No fun at all." But Haarlep plunges their hand into the pillar, snake-quick. The stone's surface breaks around their arm like water. Haarlep catches one unfortunate soul, brings it forth, and squeezes. Savage glee flits across his features. The incubus holds their victim up for Raphael's inspection: a pretty little thing, no more than twenty, screaming, agonized, pledged to him for all eternity. A summer of pleasure for eons of torment; Raphael chuckles. 

"There, look at you enjoying yourself. Good boy," Haarlep purrs, dragging the tips of their claws across the spirit's flesh. They howl. Irritated by the noise, he tosses them back into the pool. It's no fun without a fight. They want something more stoic, more breakable. "You'll feel so much better about the situation if you just relax, princeling. Here," they yank their hand free of the pillar, bringing a fresh soul. Raphael recognizes them: one of his newer acquisitions. An opinionated little shit who thought they'd retain the upper hand in a deal with a devil. "Make this one scream." 

He does. And when the spirit is too weary to satisfy them with its cries, Haarlep thrusts them back into the pillar and fishes out new entertainment. The cycle begins again. A touch of mindless cruelty to break the monotony of his day…

…and Haarlep is right, damn them. Raphael feels better.

[cryptidsncurios]

Troubled Birds; a sentence meme ( part 1 ) | Accepting! @royalbratprince sent: "The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math."

The boy was an utter mess upon his arrival to the hotel---and, had Kuja any emotional attachments, would have been entirely aghast with his condition: clothing reduced to tatters, usually stylish hair askew, lines of tiny cuts adorning his flesh here and there, accompanied by smears of blood.

Though Kuja imagined that such a line delivered had been more rhetorical than anything else---for he was uncertain the princeling was even aware of his presence upon the seat directly adjacent the weary traveler---nonetheless, the Messenger, casually returning his gaze to his book, responded with a tease tinting his tone:

“If that is the case, I do hope you intend to hire a tutor.”

[saratogaroadwrites]

Adamantus (11/12)

Adamantus | saratogaroad rating: G+ total wordcount:  15,328 characters: Aulea Lucis Caelum, Regis Lucis Caelum, Noctis Lucis Caelum, Ardyn Lucis Caelum relationships: Aulea/Regis, Aulea & Noctis other tags: Mother-Son Relationship, Character Death, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence warnings: Character Death Starts The Plot

When Noctis is three years old, Regis takes ill. The doctor tells her that he will recover, that all will be well.

It isn't.

Aulea Lucis Caelum is left to raise a son on her own, knowing that a Kingdom depends on her strength and will to survive.

She will not lose him, too.

=

Pitioss, or at least its exterior, gleams in the setting sun. He's known the name of this haunted place for the past five years, been training for it for the past eight, but even with all of his knowledge just the sight of it makes Noctis' stomach churn.

Luna and Ignis would say something about that being the shadows that somehow cling to each of the tiny windows above the structure, a covering that blocks all light from going inside. Prompto, Iris, and Selena would agree with him and cling to one another as bird cries echo off the canyon walls all around them, trembling and wanting to go home, even while Nyx and Gladio would want to charge in at his sides and end this.

Nyx had tried, but Ardyn had nipped that in the bud.

"Only members of the royal line may enter here, Ulric," He'd said, shoving Nyx to sit on one of the bench seats in the back of the airship they'd used to get from Insomnia to this Godsforsaken place, "If you try, you'll end up a pile of ash on the ground."

"You're lying," Nyx had shot back, but Noctis had been unwilling to risk it. Though Nyx had protested--and rather loudly at that--Noctis had ordered him to stay back and wait.

That had been almost two hours ago, when the sun had been up and hot on the back of Noctis' shirt as Ardyn led the way through the canyons to the ruins themselves. Now they stand at the precipice, and Noctis is unsure how to take the next step forward.

"Are you sure you can't come with me?" He asks, staring at the lift that will take him down. Ardyn heaves a sigh, causing Noctis to look up at him.

"Three things, princeling," Ardyn begins to tick off on his fingers, "The attemptee must be mortal,"

"Which you're not."

"Of direct descent from the Line of Eos,"

"Which we both...are..."

"And," he finishes with a flourish and a reach to tweak Noctis' nose as if he's eight and not eighteen, "Capable of grand feats of acrobatics. I am many things, my dear boy, but a spring chocobo is no longer one of them. No," he leans back, something oddly dark in his eyes, "if I could, I would. But I cannot, and so you must shoulder the weight."

Noctis thinks of his mother, her eyes lined with the past fifteen years of ruling Lucis, her hair more gray than dark, her shoulders bowed and tiny beneath his arms as he'd hugged her goodbye just this morning. If she could do this for him she would. He knows that. She'd even offered over breakfast. She's done so much for him, had been willing to stand up to Gods for him, but this...this time, it's on him. He takes a breath and steps onto the elevator.

"If I'm not back in a day," he begins, but Ardyn cuts him off with a "tut" and finger wave.

"I shall deliver the news to your lady mother, I assure you," Ardyn sweeps his hat off and holds it to his chest in a solemn yet amused gesture as he begins to disappear from sight. "But I'm sure you'll be back before then, oh King of Kings."

And then he's gone, out of sight, as Noctis descends into hell itself.

There is no other way to describe the interior of Pitioss but hell. Ardyn had described it once, an amalgamation of Solheim technology and godly desire, but no words could have ever done it justice. Noctis stares as he walks along sandstone pathways, ducks under glowing red spikes, and comes upon imagery no doubt meant to evoke the Six and perhaps even Eos herself.

There's a story here, he thinks as he cautiously makes his way through, like the paintings in the Hall of the Citadel tell the story of the line of Lucis from Izunia to Regis. The only difference is he has no idea how to interpret this story with its stone effigies and magical traps. Ardyn has told him the story of Eos and her betrayed, Uncle Cyril has vetted it as best he could, but this...

None of it makes sense. Why would they go through so much trouble to lock away whatever was left of the Goddess of the Dawn? The Six aren't all bad; his mother has a little shrine to Shiva carved out of white marble in her room and there's usually a stick of incense lit in offering, and his mother wouldn't do that if Shiva was bad, but...maybe there's more to this than he's seeing.

Maybe that's how the world always is.

Noctis is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't see the crumbling bit of floor above a pit of spikes until it's too late and he is falling, falling, falling--

Pain, white hot, all-encompassing. He opens his mouth to scream but there is no air, no breath, no life. There is nothing but the pain, the agony of his demise upon this ancient trap. What logical thought remains flees, turns to his mother a thousand miles away. He can see her face, the lines there, the loss in her eyes. This will add to it, so much so that it isn't just his fall that makes his heart hurt.

He wishes he'd told her he loved her before he left, even if she already--always--knows.

She can't hear him apologize, but he does so with his last breath.

Then he lands on the stone, chest burning from within, and hangs suspended between life and death for just a moment. There is a hand on his head, a half-familiar face staring back at him.

"Get up," his father says, his voice echoing through the hall and Noctis' skull in equal measure. "Noctis, you must get up."

"Dad--" he gasps, lungs remembering how to function, heart remembering how to beat, "How--"

Regis smiles at him. His spectre, glowing faintly in the dark of Pitioss, is already fading. Each beat of Noctis' heart makes him fade faster. Noctis reaches out, tries to grasp smoke.

"Wait!" He cries out. "Dad!"

Regis disappears into crystalline shards, pulled to where Noctis cannot follow. He remains on the stone for another minute, then two, then five, before he can finally gather the strength to get to his knees.

His father is somehow with him. His mother, his friends, Luna, they're all counting on him to come home. Ardyn is counting on him to see this through.

He can't fail. Not here. Not now.

With a deep breath, Noctis lurches to his feet and starts walking deeper into the darkness. Pitioss throws all it has at him, all its twisting corridors and flaunting of gravity's rules, until it has no more traps, no more tricks, just a plunge into darkness so deep his flashlight can't hope to penetrate.

Noctis stares into the abyss and hesitates, boots scraping across stone so old no one has been here in ages. He knows what he has to do, knows there is no turning back, and yet--

"I am with you always," Regis' voice whispers through the air, fading into nothing more than an echo. There are hands on his shoulders, offering support, pushing him forward, reminding him that he is never alone.

Lucis Caelum he was born, and Lucis Caelum he shall die. But not today. No, not today.

Gritting his teeth, Noctis leaps into the pitch beneath him. He lands on bended knee, nearly laughs at the thought, and catches himself with both hands upon the shoulder of the Goddess. For a moment, a heartbeat, he stares into a stone eye nearly the size of his head.

From this side, Eos looks like his mother.

The thought is fleeting, a momentary passing, before it is replaced by sheer panic as the stone begins to crack away beneath him. His hands slip away as the stone is replaced by something bright, something like light itself, and the statue begins to move.

He falls backwards with a cry, unable to see as the chamber is overtaken by light itself. He can't see, can't warp, can't get out--

He lands on something warm, feeling oddly protected for just a moment. Years later, when he tells his children and their children of this day, he will swear to all he holds dear that someone had pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, even though he had been alone.

In the moment, he can only feel the warmth of the light.

"And so the Chosen King has fulfilled his duty, outwitting even the Gods themselves."

Noctis slowly opens his eyes, sure he's gone blind, but--no. He's outside again. The sun is rising. Ardyn is standing in the golden light, a dark mist rising from his skin. He lifts his head as Noctis hobbles closer, but does not turn around.

"I knew you could do it," He says in a voice that is so very soft. He keeps his face to the steadily rising sun, the mountains cast in shadow all around them. Noctis stares.

"What's..." The wind blows in his direction. A waft of rot and decay make him cough and cover his face. When it clears, he stares at Ardyn. "What's happening to you?"

"Ah, that..." Ardyn lifts a hand, staring at his fingers. He has never hesitated before. Not like this. Noctis tries to swallow back the lump in his throat. "Well, I've outlived any human alive. The Scourge was all that kept me going, you see, and with it vanquished..."

Noctis' heart sinks to his ankles. He sways, almost topples. This can't be happening.

"You're dying."

"A couple of thousand years overdue, but yes," Ardyn does not sugarcoat things for him. He never has. Instead he turns around, offers Noctis the fondest smile he's ever given despite the black stains upon his face and teeth and says, "Do take care of yourself and your lovely mother, hrm? You deserve all the happiness this life sees fit to give you."

Noctis stares through blurring vision as the sun continues to rise. Ardyn's form is fading out, blurring around the edges. Noctis tries not to cry, tries to smile instead, but he knows it doesn't reach his eyes.

"I'll miss you," He says through the lump in his throat, "...thank you."

Ardyn smiles.

"Walk tall, my boy."

And then he's gone, nothing but a cloud of dust in the morning breeze.

(When Nyx makes his way up the path to the ruins an hour later, Noctis is still standing there, face to the sun. Tears have made trails in the sweat and dirt on his face, but he is very much alive.

He is very much alone. Nyx does not ask for an explanation, nor does he need one.

"Noct," Nyx says instead, reaching for him, taking his weight when Noctis' body threatens to collapse from exhaustion. "It's time to go home."

In the light of the morning sun, Noctis takes a shaky breath of clean mountain air.

"Let's go home.")