#out meat?? top tier

[possessedmen]

The restroom encounter

"Well, look what we got here, darlin'," I drawled, my voice thick with a southern twang, oozing with a cocky, vulgar attitude that wasn't mine before. "You caught me right after I took over this fine piece of ass." I looked and the limp body on the floor and the I shifted my eyes back to the mirror, "This son of a bitch fought like a wildcat, but I'm the goddamn winner now."

I laughed, a rough, guttural sound from my borrowed vocal cords, as I ran my hands over this new body, feelin' every muscle, every curve that now belonged to me. "See, I ain't from 'round these parts. I'm a drifter, a fuckin' conqueror, and this body? It's my ride now. I forced my way in with a kiss. Yeah, it's as fucked up as it sounds, and twice as nasty."

Leanin' against the sink, my eyes locked onto yours with a fierce intensity that could cut glass. "He didn't want it, oh no, he fought like hell. Called me every name in the book, shoutin' at me to stop, you fuckin' monster, you piece of shit. But I had to pin his sorry ass down, right here on this cold, hard floor. Pressed him down, my hands on his wrists, my knee on his chest, and then he started whimperin', cryin', beggin' like a pathetic little bitch. But I slipped in through his mouth, like a slick, unstoppable slime. He fought, oh he fought hard, but now I'm the one callin' the shots."

I let out a harsh laugh, the sound bouncin' off the walls, filled with a twisted pride. "Look at this body, darlin', ain't it somethin'? Ripped, toned, and fuckin' perfect. I chose well, didn't I? This vessel, it's like a goddamn masterpiece, and now it's all mine. I've got plans, big fuckin' plans, and with this hot piece of meat, I'm unstoppable. But hey, don't look so scared, sugar. You should be honored, standin' in the presence of such perfection."

Finally, I stopped leanin' on the mirror, turnin' to you fully. With a smirk, I grabbed my cock, "Now, how 'bout we have some fun, you and me? You get to enjoy this prime, top-tier body, and I get to show you just how fuckin' superior I am."

[bbokicidal]

"You'll Do Great." | SKZ [S.C.] & [K.S.]

Pairing : Boyfriend!Seo Changbin x Reader | BestFriend!Kim Seungmin x Reader Genre : Fluff Warnings : None Notes : The person that requested this is top tier for requesting it specifically for my bias & wrecker. You're so real, tysm. These are written as shorter blurbs/what he plans for you and how he handles your nerves.

Summary : When you're nervous for your first day at a new job tomorrow, your boyfriend/best friend takes notice of your anxious habits and finds a way to calm you down.

Changbin -

He'd noticed pretty much immediately after the call that you'd received how nervous you'd gotten. Sitting in the studio together and watching as you bounce your leg and answer the call; The smile on your face is more than enough to make him a bit giddy in return. He feeds off of your happiness constantly - it's as if it's infectious to him.

But as the phone call ends and you tell him you'd gotten the job you were hoping for, the two of you share a soft hug before he rubs a hand over your back and questions if you were excited for your first training day. And as the realization settles in, your smile gradually fades.

Of course you were excited to start this job; You'd wanted it for a while now but now that it was in your palms, what if you fucked up? What if you did something wrong and they decided to go with a different candidate instead? What if you weren't what they actually wanted for the job?

Changbin cocks a brow at your lingering silence and stands, bringing your attention back to him as he pushes in the desk chair. "Come on, we're heading out."

Not one to question your boyfriend, you nod and grab your jacket before following him out. "Where are we heading? Home, or did he have to stop by the--"

"We're going out for dinner. My treat." He turns to look at you as he makes his way through the maze that is the jYP company building.

You blink a bit in surprise, the promise of free food a tempting ordeal. "Okay..-!"

He decides to treat you to a nice meal as preparation for the following day. Taking you to a BBQ place and renting out a small room for just the two of you to sit in, he pays for it all with a smile on his face and lets you order whatever the Hell you want. Grilling the meat himself and making sure to feed you the first few pieces that come off, the two of you relax when you sit and it seems your nerves for the new job have completely dissipated from the enjoyment of food.

Sharing a meal with him was always nice, but it was even better when he was giggling with you the entire time and making such nice conversation that you didn't have a moment to worry about the job. By the end of the night as the two of you are heading home, his hand lays over your thigh in the passenger seat and he spares you a shy smile - even if he's been your boyfriend for almost two years now.

"You're going to do great, you know that? You're gonna slay this new job."

"Okay, Bin. Thank you, but please don't ever say slay again." You giggle, tangling your fingers with his in your lap.

Seungmin -

"Quit it."

"But it's gonna be awfuuuuul." You whine, dragged by the sleeve out of the apartment building and down the sidewalk towards the corner store. "What if they don't like my art style? I mean I know they looked at my portfolio to like, hire me and everything but--"

Seungmin whips his head back to look at you and you hush up immediately, watching the way his lips quirk upwards at the corners as he turns back around. He continues walking, grip loose on your sleeve before eventually falling away with you at his side. Seeming happy that you'd complied and hadn't tried to run back to his dorm as safety from the biting chill of the night, Seungmin pulls open the door to let you in first.

And then promptly cuts you off to step inside instead.

It makes you laugh, following him in and wandering behind him to find snacks. A few bags of chips are picked up along the way around the store, one soda for you and an iced americano for him, along with a small packet of candies he'd found somewhere in there. He turns to take everything from your hands, placing it on the counter and tugging his card from the back of his phone to pay.

"No more sulking." He demands in a soft tone, voice lower at being in a public place. His head tips to peek at you and you feel heat creep to your cheeks at his eyes being on you, nodding curtly and diverting your attention to a candy bar nearby.

He taps his card against the reader before sliding it back into his phone case and taking the bag of snacks. You follow along like a puppy lingering behind, trailing back a bit until he pauses ahead and waits for you to be back by his side.

"I said no sulking," He looks to you, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"I know, I'm just nervous."

"I know." He blinks. "I was nervous too when I started this job. But everything went okay, even if there were times I wanted to give up or just quit. And I fucking rule at my job now, don't I?"

You peek up at him, voice quieting as if you'd get bodyslammed by a passerby if you said it too loud. "Of course you do. You're one of the best performers I know, Min--"

"Exactly." He stops, causing you to stop as well. And leaning down, he grips you by the jaw so you can't pull away when he leans in closer. "And you're one of the best artists I know. So?"

You hesitate, knowing he expects you to finish the analogy on your own. "I'm gonna.. fucking rule at this new job."

"Damn right you are." Seungmin nods firmly before dropping his hand and beginning to walk again. "Come on, pretty girl. We got shit to do. Shit being watching movies all night while Felix rages at LOL."

Your lips quirk into a shy smile as you linger, following after soon enough and running to catch up with him. He lets you hold onto his arm as you make the walk back, and though he isn't quite sure when his hand slipped down to hold onto your own - he definitely wasn't going to mention it or complain.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

quaso tier list

I noticed that croissants are a trendy food now…? There’s many different variations of it on social media and many eateries doing their own creative spin on it. I thought it would be funny to make a croissant tier list (from Rollo's perspective) on what does or does not qualify as a "real" croissant.

This is dedicated to you, quaso king 🥐

DISCLAIMER: This is just for fun and in no way reflects my own opinions!! I don't mean to be rude or to talk down to the establishments who make and/or serve any of the croissants pictured here. I think they should make whatever they want to (get your coin) and salute them for their innovation! o_o)7

And now, without further ado...

The reasoning (again, with Rollo's perspective in mind):

"as god intended" = Rollo has very conservative and plain tastes, so I firmly believe he would place a normal ass croissant in the top tier and nothing else.

"socially acceptable but still sinful" = In this tier are common variations of the regular croissant but have some addition(s) that Rollo may deem "too much". This may include sweet (chocolate, cream, fruit, nuts, powdered sugar) or savory (cheese, vegetables, meat) fillings/toppings.

"abomination" = This tier includes croissants that still retain the "croissant" (crescent) shape but have 1-2 elements that are... off... somehow. For example, miniature croissants (that you are encouraged to dip into your drink), whole spears of asparagus stuffed inside the pastry, carving out the middle of a croissant and filling the cavity with other things, and... frozen croissants *shivers* Also here is the "crookie" or combining cookie dough with a croissant.

"blasphemy" = This is when the croissants start fucking with the shape or the form (which Rollo does NOT approve of). Both examples in this tier are just slightly twisty variants, which (while still offensive) is not as offensive compared to what's to come. Also here is a giant croissant, which got downgraded from "abomination" tier despite being the correct croissant shape due to the sheer excess of size.

"contrition" = Here we have flat, crispy as heck croissants and these fat... round... wheel-like stuffed croissants with a LOT of filling. Rollo would call the former basically a potato chip (it only ranks this high because it technically keeps the crescent shape) and the latter too indulgent and being slightly off from the original crescent.

"damnation" = These are not even croissants anymore, it's literally a muffin, a waffle, a donut, and burger buns made with croissant batter.

"eternal damnation (to hellfire with you)" = Rollo voice) WE HAVE GONE TOO FAR, IT IS TIME TO STOP. Yes, you are looking at croissant BOXES, croissant ONIGIRI (with strips of nori and toppings/fillings characteristic of actual rice balls), and some... croissants of a churro-like shape...) The last item here is a rice paper croissant... which, while resembling the shape typical of a croissant, is completely different in composition and is therefore messing with tradition. It is deemed worthy of eternal damnation.

[seat-safety-switch]

"Ribfest is back," shouts The Mayor, immediately before he descends into the turret of the tank and seals the door behind him. He is not wrong: Ribfest is indeed scheduled for this weekend, but the amount of cowardice shown in this one interaction makes me question his moral authority to preside over it.

This event is special in my town, but not for the reason that it used to be. Every year lately, folks get tooled-up on their homemade barbecue sauces and start to lay siege to the town around them. Nobody is really sure why this started so recently, but the active theory from the FEMA scientists is that AliExpress "has a lot of great shit for sale" and you'd be stupid not to experiment with putting some of it on some fall-off-the-bone braised pork.

Now, most folks would tell you that if you're going to end up fighting off your neighbour with an ice pick every year, simply don't go. This is a dismissive argument made in poor faith. And, worse than that, it's disrespectful to the meats, a concept that would make my dear mother faint in horror. The threat of imminent death that hangs over every moment of the proceedings simply adds a new dimension to the flavour.

Here's how I do it: I get in and I get out, fast. You don't want to be caught unaware while you're busy tucking into some "C"-tier stuff slopped out by the kindergarten teacher, Ms. Shotwell. No, the real strategist figures out from last year's ordeal who has the best barbecue in town. And this time, it's Barley Mowat, a young gun who used to be a television journalist before the Bad Times began. He got replaced by a machine sentience, has no job. Lives for the ribs, as do most of us now. Sometimes he starts to tell you a fact about how sewer pipes are made, or how many football fields long a structure is. It's best to just let him talk, even outside of the shrieking rage fest of a Ribfest-induced hallucination. We hang out at the bar, sometimes. He drinks a lot.

Barley's ribs are once again top-tier: he's got some kind of green chile sauce this year. Lends a real taste of the Southwest to every bite, which is tender and rich in equal measure. Plus, he clobbered a dude from the backpack store with a golf club when he tried to steal the up-armoured NASCAR that I used to drive to the event. Don't park in the designated spots, folks: like I said, get in and get out.

[missmorize]

My Personal Alastor Headcanons

Not because I'm a simp or anything ahahahah.... All SFW aside from some cursing of course. :)

I am sleep deprived and stupid so some of these maybe shit and have terrible spelling errors. My mind is running at 3% and some of these were spontaneously made up because that's how my mind works. Enjoy.

📻 Viv let us play with Alastor's sexuality and so I hc he is demisexual (totally not me projecting and basing it off my own experiences, nahhhh...) and he rarely falls for anyone, but when he does he falls HARD.

• That being said, the flirtation begins. He is terrible at it... He respects boundaries and is incredibly respectful but he 100% butchers pickup lines because he genuinely thinks our generation likes those.

- "If you were a vegetable you would be a cucumber."

- "Do you have an extra heart? Mine was stolen."

- Can demons have strokes? That's probably what you are saying

- Angel Dust hears and DIES. Surprisingly gives some solid advice.

- "Stop with the pick-up lines. Just be yourself and it'll work, trust me, ya weirdo..."

- So he does. AKA secretly follows you, will randomly spawn to open doors for you or pull out chairs, chivalry isn't dead, dear! Also tells you about his grizzly murders in his lifetime, if anyone disrespects you prepare for your knight in shoulder pads, will be slick and dedicates one of his radio shows to you and plays an old song from his day. Makes you SWOON. Angel is proud.

- Also likes dates to Cannibal Town and introduces you to Rosie. She thinks you are the cutest thing in the world, prepared to be coddled by both.

📻 He likes to play dress up with you if you let him. Picking out your wardrobe is SO fun for him.

📻 Is a top tier cook. Usually prefers meat and will cook that for you, but if he finds out you are a vegan/pescitarian/etc he will do that. Gets excited when you compliment his cooking.

📻 HE HAS A SECRET TAIL HE IS ASHAMED OF AND I WILL NOT HIDE IT. I LOVE WHEN POWERFUL CHARACTERS HAVE A MILD INCONVENIENCE THAT MAKES THEM LESS SCARY.

📻 He learns words and if it's not from Rosie... Be prepared because it gets bad and gets cringe.

- "Ah! Darling, I heard some demons today as I was on a stroll, they were from your era. What is a mee-mee?"

- "I see... I see. They also said the word "gyatt" to a woman, I assume that is a compliment, so my dear, you have a-"

- You stop him right there, explains what that means and he short circuits. He walks over to the corner and just places his head against it. "I would like to be alone for a while..."

- "If mama knew I said this she would beat my ass to next Tuesday..."

📻 I know it says he's not big on touch but I HC he really doesn't care. He never seems to show any recoil from it, but maybe its just if its strangers?

📻 Will educate you on everything he knows on the macabre and morbid.

📻 Will FORCE you to sit down and check out vintage stuff. Watching TV? Not anymore, there is a microphone cane through it. Charlie has bought you like six phones now...

📻 He is overall an attention seeking puppy.

📻 Does things that get him praise. He WANTS his ego boost and knows you'll give it to him.

📻 Gossips with you about everyone and anything, listens to you rant and will give some genuinely good advice unless its like about an ex or something.

- "Simple, dear! Just kill them."

📻 Jokingly (?) tries to get you to sell your soul to him.

- "All in jest, don't worry! I think the look on your face is HILARIOUS!"

📻 If he sees you upset he tries to make you smile.

📻 If you are short he will put things on the top shelf and stifle a laugh as he watches you try to get it. Bless Husk and Angel for getting it for you.

📻 Angel is the only male he doesn't really have a problem with, hence when he hears about Valentino he has a bit of anger, also just because he thinks hes gross and perverse. Someone like that doesn't deserve to be breathing.

📻 Whiskey is his forte. VERY picky with his drinks, he doesn't like the cheap stuff like Husk does. A lot of people say he drinks wine but I imagine he only likes the hard stuff.

📻 He is the type of man to leave the toilet seat up. Vaggie has voiced her opinions on it.

📻 When he got Niffty out of that toilet he probably waited until the bubbles almost stopped. He's a little bit of an asshole.

📻 Actively pranks Husk. Someone save the cat-man...

- Switches his alcohol with non-alcoholic and sees how long it takes him to realize or get drunk even though he's not.

- Plays poker against him but will actively cheat to make sure he wins 100% of the time.

- Puts cucumbers down to scare the shit out of him.

📻 Since he is a deer demon (a Stag at that) he is VERY territorial, especially of the Hotel. This is HIS home. Will never admit it though.

📻 ✨Sweet Southern Boy✨ (Not really a HC I just wanted to say that, nor is he really sweet)

📻 He hides his accent. It will come out though when he is extremely extremely angry or when he is extremely relaxed.

📻 Will wake you up by staring in your face, you may or not have screamed once.

📻 Bullies Sir Pentious. He's still pissed about him ripping his tailcoat and he holds a grudge.

📻 Also not a headcanon but doesn't mind personal space, will come into the bathroom as you shower for conversation and draw on the steamed mirror. If you ask him to stop he will and completely understands.

📻 Sits and stares at a wall sometime.

📻 Gets everyone to taste his coffee, it is mostly coffee grounds.

📻 Has ate a dog demon on more than one occasion. Unapologetically.

📻 You know those compilations of like people getting hurt on youtube? If he used the internet that shit would be the funniest thing in the world to him.

📻 Uses 1920s slang to confuse everyone.

📻 Jealous.

- Plationic: Um... He's your best friend, right? Why are you giving attention to others when he is RIGHT THERE. Oh? They can do that, well he can do it ten times better. Watch what else he can do! Yeah, he's the coolest, right?

- Romantically: Time to butt heads and flex every possible way. Will RUIN the person's confidence, the psychological warfare begins. He is the better one and he must make it known. If they start flirting with you, blood will be spilled.

📻 When people try and lecture him it goes in one ear and out the other.

📻 His hair tufts are his ears, that may actually be canon, not sure.

- If he gets comfortable enough and you scratch behind they he MELTS. It scared him at first but once he first fell asleep it was nice.

📻 Will tell you about his mother constantly. Bases a lot of his morals and being a gentleman off how his mother taught him and treats women like ✨queens✨

📻 I HC one of his biggest problems with Lucifer and why they had tha number was because he was absent in Charlie's life so much and since his dad left him and his mother he believes absent fathers are the worst. He believes you have an obligation AS A FATHER to be the best you can be and raise your child.

- Absent father? Will bully so hard. He hates them to a fault, even if it wasn't their fault. He refuses to take criticism on it and its one of the things he is most stubborn about. Man got some daddy issues he doesn't want to talk about.

📻 His daddy issues lead to abandonment issues.

📻 His mom passing away will make him be extra attentive if someone he cares about is sick.

- Will check in and only really care if it's the girls.

- Will probably tell the guys to suck it up. Rip.

📻 Touch and affection starved and just doesn't show it. I don't care if it's not in character, let me project my issues in peace.

📻 Says the most out of pocket shit just for shock value.

📻 Rosie teaches him things he isn't allowed to say.

📻 His favorite body part to eat is the heart. He thinks it's poetic.

📻 Owns a record player because of course he does.

- If you want him to try modern day music, you best be getting vinyls.

- If you pull up Spotify he will feel betrayed.

- "So... My radio show isn't good enough? You need some... Application to play music for you?"

- Will guilt trip you and not feel bad. You already use phones and social media, like... Will only indulge if you play HIS type of music, and even then he will bitch about how it sounds better on the record player and how he play it on his show instead.

- I clearly know nothing about how radio shows work and I don't care.

���️Mildly suggestive depending on who you are:

📻 Likes boobs, he just likes sleeping on them. He was a mama's boy and he probably rested his head on his mother's chest all the time growing up.

[shellxrls]

https://www.tumblr.com/shellxrls/745942693287477248/ok-but-rafe-shifter-if-youre-comfortable-is

rafe. is very much. into butt stuff.

this man has bought me countless pretty buttplugs that he loves to see under my skirts. sometimes if I’m actin’ up in public he’ll discreetly (not really) reach round and give it a tug. then I’m left fucking soaking cause :(((

if he’s giving backshots he might run a finger over my other hole or even start to scissor me out just to mess with me.

he doesn’t do actual proper anal a lot but when he does he does it well!!!! rafe is like that with a lot of things tbh

he also ate my ass once and it was the best but he’s never done it again and I’m so close to just blatantly begging him to cause OHEMGEE

also he’s a playful spanker to his core!!! at the country club, at home, at Barry’s, at a party. he is always one to just give it a swat cause it’s there. he likes to see the meat jiggle.

- rafe shifter

— link

ik rafe regularly thinks he owns your pussy but tbh there’s just something about him also owning your ass that’s so <3. cuz it’s just ab one of the raunchiest things ever and he loves corrupting you like that so much.

i bet he’s trying his hardest to build a whole butt plug collection for you and wait whys that kinda sweet awwee.

also i knowww his ass slaps wld be top tier. cuz u alr said he has a firm hand so i bet that’d apply when spanking ur ass as well <3.

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twenty-One

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

No tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

Tumblr Masterpost

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty

AO3 LINK

Author's Note: This chapter got out of control and ended up split (did I add another 1k per beta notes? yes, yes I did). I also wrote half of this chapter in the blackout haze I was in during this past season soooo take that as you will.

Many many thanks to @darkwolf76 for her un-spoiled eyes on this chapter and the encouragement I needed! Go check her work out for Strong Family Feels!

Much love to @selfproclaimedunicorn who likes to see what pretty jars we can shove these characters into to shake them around. ALSO check out her fantastic fic as well!

@vampire-exgirlfriend is my favorite person in the whole world, the Rhaenyra fan to my Alicent fan, the fox to my rabbit. I adore you and this story would not be here without you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Oh, Father, Tell Me

Aegon spirals on his morning ride and in the face of Daemon's arrival. A tense conversation with Larys Strong. Won't anyone just leave him the fuck alone?

The wind howled between the cracks around the windows and Abby snuggled deeper into the covers, Wylla’s hands clasped around her own. The bed was three times the size of the one she had in the Red Keep, and she tried not to think that the last person in this bed had been her mother.

“It’s alright,” Wylla whispered. “You shed all the tears you need.”

The words had been robbed from her in this haze of grief and loss, of confusion, and so many other things that raked at the soft meat of her insides. She could only nod into her pillow, and let Wylla push her hair from her face, half unfamiliar words in the song she sang quietly to her. It was only as Abby finally began to drift off, did she hear the sound of the door open, but she did not open her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Wylla hissed.

“You’re here to make sure nothing untoward happens,” Aegon’s voice drifted over her, followed by the soft thunk of boots on the rug. “The bed’s big enough; I can wake the other ladies to join us.”

“She just fell asleep-”

“Is she alright?” Aegon’s voice was softer and closer all the same, and Abby felt the bed dip as Aegon climbed on top of the covers behind her. The warmth of him was like a fire, soothing and comforting as he pressed up against her back, effectively keeping her contained between him and Wylla. She turned her head slightly and Aegon’s lips tenderly grazed her temple.

“She will be.” Wylla’s hands squeezed hers and Abby sighed, finally able to drift fully asleep.

Sleep had eluded Aegon, and he had woken far too early for his tastes, the murky gray light that signaled the coming dawn creeping in through the windows. The maid who had come to stoke the fire had stared at him, wide eyed, before dropping into a curtsy and hurrying from the room. He rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to Abrogail’s temple before dragging his stiff body from the bed and slipping quietly out onto the tiered balcony. He reached up, fingers caressing the wisteria blooms he’d sent back with Ser Simon all those months ago. Abby adored them, and he wanted to bring a piece of their garden here.

His father had ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong.

Jace had said little after the revelation, speaking of what he’d overheard, his voice harsh and cracking between breaths and in Aegon’s hands lay the admittance that his sister had truly sired bastards by the tongue of her own son. Jace had put the lives of his family in his hands then, amid his gasping and tear filled eyes. It was the moment that Alicent Hightower had been waiting for all these many years…and Aegon only kept a hand pressed between his nephew’s shoulder blades, sat beside his childhood companion, and simply sat there with him in the dark.

By rights, Aegon should hate the boy beside him. His feelings for his sister were a tangled knot of Helaena’s embroidery thread that joined the ribbon tied through his ribs. A piece of him that he would never be free of, for Aegon didn’t know how to cut himself free of it. It was not his sister in the crypt that Jace had heard, however. It had been the king, sire and grandsire, the head of their family. The man who looked past Aegon as if he was a specter that was too painful, and then the moment where those eyes focused and for those fleeting heartbeats, Aegon thought the king saw the son that he had.

His own hand held the blade - or in this case, lit the match - and it occurred to Aegon then how obvious it felt. Targaryens believed in a cleansing fire. Their house words spoke of this, Fire and Blood. Fire and Blood had come for House Strong, not a powerful wave crashing against the towers like some suspected Lord Corlys to have been responsible for it. His weak father had taken the accusations personally, and defended his daughter with the same sort of viciousness that Mother had defended Aemond. The same sort of viciousness that he never bestowed upon them.

Too weak. King Viserys was too weak but it was not weakness, Aegon thought, to spare a child. Had Rhaenyra admitted what had happened, he doubted anyone would have faced death. Ser Harwin would have gone to The Wall, Rhaenyra’s sons disinherited. Maybe Aegon would have become her heir then. Not that he wanted it, but Aemond would have even at that age, and that might have been something.

No. Instead, the king spilled blood through the sort of schemes he disdained of.

Harrenhal was too unfamiliar for Aegon to make his way through quietly. It was early enough that he wasn’t bothered, but it meant that the murmured conversations of the servants were his to overhear.

“They say it’s a Second Great Council,” a voice had said to their companion; two servants scraping out the great hearth that had burned low through the night. “I heard that the king will name his son heir at the wedding.”

“He didn’t name him in King’s Landing,” the other voice had pointed out.

The first voice laughed. “But more are coming to the wedding. You can see the tents for miles!”

The court had whispered those rumors the whole of Aegon’s life, every time his name day came around that it would be the year that he would supplant his sister as heir. Rumor that would chase along the whispers of court each time Rhaenyra gave birth to another brunette boy.

He wants me to inherit nothing! He wanted to scream at them. They all saw it. They all saw over and over again how little King Viserys cared for his long sought after first born son. The boy he stopped caring about as soon as Precious Rhaenyra’s little Jacaerys came.

Jacaerys Velaryon, who looked like Ser Harwin and always had, who shared the same dimpled smile as Abrogail. Jacaerys, who the king doted on and spoiled and paid more attention to than Aegon.

Jace, who had come running to him when he was small, crying because something had frightened him. Jace, who tagged along after him when Aemond rolled his eyes and stuck his head in a book.

The castle was already bustling as Aegon made the long walk to the stables, Kostōba already saddled by his request. He reached up to rub his palm along his face while he fed the horse a carrot for his good behavior and left out the main gates and down the trail west, away from Harrenton and towards the roost where Sunfyre and the other dragons had nested.

His father had ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong in order to cover up for his sister’s indiscretions.

Sunfyre rumbled beneath him as he climbed on, chittering and confused, watching him with great, golden eyes and trilling softly; a whistle of a song. Dreamfyre was curled up a ways away, Vermax chittering beside her while Moondancer perched up along the jagged rock of the ruined tower that made up the dragon roost. They all watched as Aegon and Sunfyre took off and Aegon let his stomach drop, the wind from the ascent pull tears from his eyes and tried to escape into the nothingness of the sky.

Did he even want to be king?

He had meant it when he said that he would not contest Rhaenyra’s claim. Kingship looked exhausting, with everyone demanding and expecting and pushing and pleading. He already dealt with the favor seekers and the clout chaser amidst court, preying upon him to aid their own desperate grabs at ascent. Cassandra Baratheon had been a more dangerous indulgence; the comely heir of a Lord Paramount with eyes set on something more. He wasn’t a fool. He knew that allowing her to think she could get her claws in him had been a risky move, and one that he was pleased had worked out for the better. She had not been the only one, nor, he knew, would she be the last.

Sunfyre let out a loud shriek and swooped down, the flotilla of previously peaceful ducks floating languidly upon the still waters of the lake now a frenzy of frightened calls before the dragon let out a pleased groan and scooped a mouth full of the water fowl into his mouth, belly just skimming the water, tail splashing in the sudden descent and quick ascent to avoid crashing into the depths. Water splashed up, the droplets catching into colored streaks of light in the early morning rays. He shouted in surprise and delight, Sunfyre shaking water from his head as he indulged himself, successfully pulling Aegon from the spiral of uncertainty that he had found himself in.

He did not want to be king, nor did he want to hide himself away amidst the ash and bone of the past the way his father did. He wanted to wake each morning buried balls deep in his wife, senses filled with her to erase away the haunted dreams of loneliness and pain. He wanted to greet the day upon dragonback and watch the sunrise; a streak of blue as vivid as Abrogail’s eyes, streaked with pink and orange and purple, the rays turning Sunfyre more golden and brilliant than ever. Where the world was quiet and peaceful, where nothing chased and demanded and clawed. Aegon wanted a life away from the harsh demands of King’s Landing. How peaceful it was here at Harrenhal. Yes, he missed the sound of bells from the Great Sept, the bustle and crush of Flea Bottom, but it was not a longing that bred contempt. Aegon knew that in his bones. It was an ache of appreciation, of thankfulness, because the quiet here, unexpectedly found as he and his dragon danced above the God’s Eye, was a gift he had not realized he had needed, let alone wanted.

The Isle of Faces was shrouded in the morning mist and the high, bone white boughs of the weirwoods reached up through the fog, the sprays of vivid red leaves like drops of blood against the snow. Sunfyre kept a distance away and Aegon did not urge him closer. He knew little of the island except that it was the last home of the Southron Weirwoods, a sacred place of worship. He squinted towards the island, the little outcropping that jutted out into the water, and startled as something moved.

The antlers caught his attention; the twist of the them at first fooling him for branches of a tree before the figure moved. It was no beast, at least, not one that Aegon had ever seen before. It was a shadow in the mist, a figure of some great height but he could not tell if it was what adorned its head or if the figure was truly tall. It moved out of the trees, the damp swirling around it as it stepped into the streak of morning light that lit up the little outcropping, shrouded in shadow.

Aegon’s ears pricked as a strange sound met him. A loud but low humming seemed to emanate the closer they came to the island. He had never heard such a thing before and although it was a distant sound, it reverberated in his bones, vibrating along the back of his neck.

His father had Lyonel Strong and his son were killed to protect Rhaenyra from further accusations.

The accusations had not been erased, and Aegon had seen the way Ser Simon had looked at the boy, eyes wide, the man who was so quick with words stunned speechless.

Everyone knows. Just look at them.

He craved the sweet rush of Arbor Red down his throat, or the taste of Abby’s cunt on his tongue. He craved escape and with an anguished shout, he urged Sunfyre faster, letting his roar claw at his throat just as Sunfyre joined him, the sensation of his dragon a comfort in his chest. The pair of them yelled together, Aegon breathless and lightheaded, his throat protesting at the scream he let out.

Sunfyre let out another trilling call and took off higher, the end of his tail slapping against the water and Aegon craned back to watch the figure as it grew smaller and smaller in the distance. The feeling in his stomach was one of uncertainty; an unsettled sensation that roiled in his belly like a sloshing ale tankard. He leaned over the horn of his saddle, running a gloved hand along Sunfyre’s scales. Another strong beat of his dragon’s wings, and Sunfyre sped faster into the dawn sky, the cold of the clouds hitting against Aegon’s face, cooling the perpetual heat of his skin and stinging his eyes. Yet he inhaled the smell of petrichor and let it course through his body and wash away the odd sensations and the thoughts that plagued him.

Still, it stuck.

His father had his wife’s father and brother killed to protect his sister. His wife’s other brother had a hand in it.

His sister, Aegon would never forget, who stood in the face of their brother’s maiming, the grievous injury that could have killed him; an ugly and long, painful death from infection and agony, to change the focus to her, and the perceived injustices against her, to the expense of the rest of them. Instead of punishing her children in any sort of capacity, she turned it into something completely different. Cruel and unnecessary; no one had been speaking of it. It had to do with Vhagar, not an attack on Rhaenyra herself. But she had run with Jace’s quiet words of a foolish child, bringing in what wouldn’t have been on the table had she not been fucking Harwin Strong and trying to pass his children off as Laenor Velaryon’s.

The king had eagerly gone along with it, further than even Aegon expected. King Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, was mild, milquetoast, and so averse to conflict that he and Aemond would start muttering, “Oh no, my indigestion! Oh no, my ulcers!’” every time some sort of disagreement or conflict began to rise at whatever familial occasion came about. Their sire, who yelled and railed when he wished to be contrary to exercise his desire…had ordered the deaths of his Hand and the man’s heir—the man who his heir was fucking.

Three children too late, of course, but the king had been backed into a corner and had snapped and spread his wings to show he could be just as dangerous as Prince Daemon. Aegon knew that much about his father. Even if none knew how it had happened, did Rhaenyra know what their father had done for her? Aegon could not know her mind, but he knew if it had been himself, he would have raged at it.

He would have gone into the king’s room and torn his heart from his chest. This fool of a king who waited too long, acted too late to do anything and left them all here: fractured and broken with no hope of anything but blood across the throne.

Was Rhaenyra not also a dragon? Or had she rolled over and showed her belly in the face of their father’s twisted adoration?

Alicent Hightower’s children. Never brother nor sister..

Aegon had no choice. There was no world he existed in where Rhaenyra was not his sister. She had enough luxury to put distance between them, and how aggressively she did. Her shadow loomed behind him, and he knew that his own dogged her. She was not coming to this wedding for him. She was not coming to share in his incandescent joy to finally be bound to the one he loved. She was coming to assert her place, to remind them all that she was their father’s favorites, their father’s chosen.

What would she do in the face of House Strong who saw Jace’s face, and would soon see his brothers? What would the king feel compelled to do? Would he set the rest of the house ablaze to erase whatever physical similarities would undermine Rhaenyra’s claim? As if three sons of his own weren’t enough to undermine her? Take their faces instead of their tongues.

King Viserys despised nothing more than being made to look like a fool.

It was never just Mother who railed at what was plain to see. It was never just her.

‘Do you think Rhaenyra’s sons will be your playthings forever? When she ascends the throne, your life may be forfeit. She could move to cut off any challenge to her succession. You are the challenge, Aegon! Just by living and breathing!’

Sunfyre rumbled beneath him, the chirping purr he made one full of confusion and concern, his great head turning to look back at him. Aegon remained slumped over the saddle horn as the dragon flew aimlessly above the God’s Eye and the rolling hills of the Riverlands. It would be so easy to unhook his belt and let himself roll off and plummet into the depths below. To escape the machinations and lies and secrets of his family and replace it with the depths of blue would be a simple escape. Whatever violence his mother and grandfather saw in the future, could he simply… make it go away? If he went away?

He could not. He would not. Not now. Not when he was so close. He could not leave Abby here alone in this world; he would not abandon her the way she had been left behind by everyone else. He’d promised and he meant it.

Aegon looked up from his staring at the pink frills along Sunfyre’s neck to blink up, eyes stinging, as a warbling, undulating call echoed from the east. It echoed over the rolling green fields and the forest that hugged along the banks by the castle. It was a distant sound that sent a shiver down his spine, undulating and unnerving. His stomach swooped and dropped uncomfortably, and the half bottle of wine he’d drunk last night threatened to slosh up. Sunfyre rumbled beneath him, a growl in his throat as he whipped towards the east with a screech.

There was only a single dragon in the sky; his sister must have gone further to meet the carriage that held the children and the Velaryons. The blood red of Caraxes’ scales glinted like garnets in the morning light. The distant sound of laughter joined the dragon’s call as the red pitched and turned north.

Sunfyre’s warning call screamed louder across the sky. He didn’t need to be told; Sunfyre simply knew. They bolted after them a heartbeat later, racing towards the hulking, melted spires of Harrenhal, thoughts of oblivion, of glutting on lake fish forgotten. His friend might not be quite as old as Caraxes, but he was just as big, and fast, if not faster. A screech let out, a flash of hot light expelled from Sunfyre as they gave pursuit, but the wyrm merely dropped down and another laugh echoed back. Something hot burned in Aegon’s chest and Sunfyre shuddered beneath him.

The command rested on Aegon’s tongue, tempting as a fresh bottle of wine, as his winsome lover spread upon his bed. It was from a deep, feral place in his chest, where Sunfyre’s presence glowed warm and molten through his veins. He bit his tongue and Sunfyre screeched for him. The need to take the other man and his dragon in his jaws, rip and rend and shake the bits of them as blood sacrifice to the gods, was near consuming. A rage inside of Aegon that had built over the years threatened to bubble up. The hot tang of blood rushed into his mouth both from dragon dreams and the fact that he’d bitten himself to keep from shouting. He was desperate to do something with this rage that had nowhere to go, and the idea of rending Daemon Targaryen limb from limb, offering him as sacrifice at the feet of his mother to free her from the strangling fear that turned her angry and desperate.Aegon would take the threats of their family, prove to Aemond that he too was capable of standing up, bold and strong. To show Otto Hightower that he was not the feckless fool he sought to puppet. To prove to Abrogail that she would never have anything to fear, ever again, and that their family would be safe.

To show Rhaenyra that she could keep her claim that she so desperately wanted, but that she would not come for them, lest she meet the same fate.

To show his sire-king, the decrepit old man he was, that Aegon would defend them with fire and blood too when he would not. To force King Viserys to see him and know that this was the creature he’d turned him into; that he’d turned this family into. Where his mother had turned cruel and desperate to protect them, where Aemond was angry all the time, where Aegon lived each day with a sword above his head, wondering if that morning would be the day the king did not wake, and the dragons would scream.

Another laugh echoed as the pair ahead swooped down to skim the water before bursting back up, amused and uncaring of the screaming dragon that gave chase. Daemon was enjoying it. He howled as that rage took him, and Sunfyre screamed along with him. They were nearing the great curtain walls of the fortress now, the sun to their right casting their shadows along the glimmering blue of the God’s Eye, the antlered shadow on the outcropping long forgotten. The wyrm banked further northwest to the dragon roost and Aegon hissed.

“Lilagon, Sunfyre,” he commanded, and Sunfyre danced. The dragon glided effortlessly into the turn, coming up up along the inside as they circled Harrenhal and used the momentum to burst past and rocketed straight for the broken tower. Sunfyre let out a warning cry, banking around and rising up, wings spread. Aegon had no thoughts, no words, except to protect. This was his, and this laughing man and his strange dragon wyrm had chosen already.

Like Viserys, Daemon had chosen his side, more dangerous than the rest of them.

The dragons below in the pit started shrieking in response to Sunfyre’s call, but Moondancer shot up, her calls far less distressed, the verdant green of her scales glimmering as she twirled in the air. At the little dragon’s approach, the wyrm circled towards her, the elongated neck ensuring that Caraxes’ eyes did not leave Aegon and Sunfyre, warning him away.

“Sȳrī tymptan!” came the distant shout. Aegon felt Sunfyre shift. “Aōha kepa avy dīnagon ozūndegon amastas! Rhaenyra aderī kesīr ulza.”

Dreamfyre was ululating from the ground in response to Sunfyre’s warning and Aegon glared towards his uncle.

“We’re fine,” he murmured to the dragon, scratching at the scales along his neck. Sunfyre huffed his displeasure but did not cry out again. Dreamfyre was still making sounds, but the distressed call had stopped and the two of them lowered to the ground, Moondancer still above and circling. The Dragonkeepers were rushing about, and Ser Arryk was holding onto his horse’s bridle, the stallion stomping its feet with fear at the shouts of the dragons. Aegon could see a wheelhouse in the distance, another Kingsguard stallion leading it ahead.

He undid the hooks on his saddle and slid down Sunfyre’s wing before the dragon could settle properly, his golden eyes fixated on the other dragon settling himself away from Dreamfyre. His breath was quick and his skin felt overly hot, prickly, like he was about to let out his own flame. Daemon Targaryen was far more fluid; lazy, even, as he swung himself down, the fall of the man’s hair and his long limbs a familiar sight. There was a strange moment when the man turned and cocked his head, that Aegon thought he was looking at his brother, and wondered in a terrifying moment, if Daemon Targaryen was Aemond’s future.

The last time he’d seen his uncle had been at Laena Velaryon’s funeral. A figure seen occasionally during his childhood, Daemon Targaryen was more a staple of stories and sneers than what Aegon would consider an actual uncle. He’d holed himself up on Driftmark with the Velaryons and the twins before he married Rhaenyra, and the pair of them had refused to come to court since their marriage. The man had changed little over the years. Tall and silver haired, Daemon was a figure of health compared to King Viserys, still recovering from the long trip up from the capital.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Prince Daemon,” Aegon said, a final, gentle pat against Sunfyre’s neck, the dragon’s head turned to keep his golden eyes on the Blood Wyrm and its rider. Aegon lifted a hand, tugging his glove off with his teeth before pushing his tousled, wind tangled hair from his eyes. He would not be intimidated. He would not let the whispered threats of what Daemon Targaryen would do if the opportunity found him overtake him. This was his home, and Aegon was still the king’s son, and the prince was a guest. He’d made his loyalties clear years ago.

He remembered with such startling clarity running after his sister, shouting her name, begging her to wait for him, struggling to get his coat on and tripping in his haste. “Nyra wait!” She was striding down the hallway, the sun catching on her long silver hair, like Visenya reborn, waving to Daemon and Laena Velaryon. His sister had paused and looked back at him but it was Daemon’s sharp, cruel smirk that had stopped Aegon short as the man reached for Rhaenyra’s shoulder and drew her attention.

“He is of no importance.”

More who did not want him.

Aegon stumbled slightly as he felt a huff of warm, sulfuric breath hit his back, followed by the gentle bump of Sunfyre, the warmth of his purr vibrating inside the hollow between his ribs and through his limbs. There was a gentle chirp, like a bird song, and Aegon turned to press his hands against the dragon’s warm snout, pressing a kiss between his flared nostrils. “Lykirī,” he murmured, calming them both. Another pat against his warm scales and Aegon shoved his gloves in his pockets. Ser Arryk was watching him from his post near the stone cottage where the Dragonkeepers were staying. The elder man’s brows were slightly furrowed, his face impassive, but his gaze flitted to Daemon’s briefly before looking back to him.

“Your Grace,” Ser Arryk said. There was a question in the simple greeting that came from the years that Ser Arryk had been his sworn shield. It was nothing specific and sometimes it caused a prickle of uncertainty and self-doubt, different in the self-conscious feelings that Ser Criston stoked.

“I’m sure the prince would appreciate the quiet solitude of the carriage ride,” Aegon said on his approach, his gaze darting towards Daemon as he stalked towards them. The carriage would be there shortly, back in sight after the bend around some of the boulders that marked the border of the shale caves here along the lake. “He does spend much of his time surrounded by the babbling of children.”

“How thoughtful you are. You certainly don’t get that from your mother.”

Aegon ran his tongue over his teeth, jaw aching with a pain that was not his own, Sunfyre still rumbling beneath his skin. The bait was blatant, so low hanging that he could kick it should he so wished. How he wished to take it and pummel Daemon with it. His mother’s hands may have left scars upon him, but she was his mother. His defender even when he disappointed her. These last few months were strange and hopeful in a way he didn’t know how to handle. Her touch had been gentle across his brow or upon his shoulder, her smiles tentative but there, the furrow between her brow easing.

His mother who cuddled him when he was small and afraid when she was pregnant with Daeron, that he would lose her, who cared about the small folk in her sponsorships and initiatives she was so busy with. Nothing Aegon would do was ever good enough, but sometimes? Sometimes it was.

The response to Daemon was on his tongue, ripe and juicy as a grape. “And we know you get nothing from yours.” Cruel and barbed and hooked, his own teeth bared if Daemon Targaryen was so eager to see what he was made of.

“I did not realize you and the queen were so close for you to recognize what qualities I did or did not receive from her,” Aegon said instead, wan smile and cursory look in the elder’s direction. “If you were wondering, I do get my good looks from her, and a taste for honey cakes.” He shrugged, reaching over to stroke the velvet softness of his stallion’s nose. “The hair is, of course, from my father, the king. I notice Baela wears the same displeased expression you wear. As well as your nose.”

The smile he gave Daemon was a bit brighter this time as the carriage pulled up, Ser Marbrand on his steed. The door opened unexpectedly and Baela herself came out, silver braids swinging and the gold bands shining in the light. He had spent enough time around his cousin over the past few months to see the same uncertain tension in her shoulders that he frequently saw in Aemond as she took in her father.

“I heard Caraxes,” she said by way of greeting, the deep greens and blues of her riding leathers scored with seahorses and dragons. Daemon’s attention swung to his daughter and Aegon ignored the rest of the conversation as it turned into High Valyrian, rapid and ancient, their accents markedly different from how he spoke with his own siblings. A raw feeling struck hard inside his chest, and he watched them for another moment before his attention swung to further movement at the carriage.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Prince Daemon,” Larys Strong’s voice carried unexpectedly well given his low tone. “Forgive me for not getting out - it is rather difficult for me to move here.”

Daemon’s face was impassive at being addressed by the lord of Harrenhal and Aegon looked at the soft, torn up ground that the carriage had stopped in. Baela gave Aegon a nod before pulling her father’s attention, her Valyrian flowing easily. “I thought we could go riding. Just you and I.”

“Another carriage is on its way, your Grace,” Ser Marbrand said. “I shall stay here, Ser Arryk.”

Kostōba pawed at the ground and without being asked, the footman tied Aegon’s horse to the back of the carriage. Aegon bristled, opening his mouth to demand the servant cease until Larys’ voice came once more.

“Join me in the carriage, my prince. We are going to be family soon, and it’s so difficult to get time together.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed a touch, long lashes hooding his eyes as he turned his attention back to the footman who had handled his horse. He could hear his uncle and cousin still conversing in rapid Valyrian, their words muffled just enough, so easily flowing between them that Aegon couldn’t keep up. The horses knickered and whined, pawing at the ground with the proximity to the dragons.

“Of course, Lord Larys. We will indeed.” Aegon gave him a tight smile and gestured for him to enter the wheelhouse first. The ones from the capital prioritized privacy with their screened in windows. The ones belonging to House Strong were more easily opened, the windows with little, folded shutters and fluttering linen curtains; far more open and far less like a cage.

Larys tapped the handle of his cane against the roof of the wheelhouse, and with a gentle jerk they headed back. Aegon leaned back against the plush pillows of the bench, stretching his legs out before him. In the small space, it was a sight to see how tall Larys Strong was. He was a thin man, much like Aemond, but while Aemond walked as straight as a blade, Larys made himself small. A sick feeling curled in the pit of his stomach as the understanding washed over him; the feeling of seeing one in the mirror. Aegon did the same thing. Curled shoulders and slouching to avoid the gaze of those who would bite at him.

The only difference, Aegon surmised, was that Larys’ desire to be undetected did not come from something as childish as his own desire to be unnoticed.

The soft sound of scraping drew Aegon’s gaze down to peer at Larys’ metal boot.

“When you take your seat here, my prince, you should know what you’re up against,” Larys said softly, his dark eyes pinning Aegon like one of Helaena’s bugs to the board. “You handled the council meeting well, as the squabbles of the Blackwoods and Brackens are exhausting to us all. Of course, Grover Tully approves of you. He may have sworn oaths to your father’s chosen successor, but make no mistake that he will raise banners for you. His grandson, Elmo, on the other hand…”

Aegon recalled the elder man with a wash of inferiority. Elmo Tully was tall and broad, with dark, auburn hair and piercing eyes that shifted from blue to green, he recalled, because it had unsettled him. ‘Lucerys’ eyes,’ Aegon remembered thinking when he first sat across from the man at the small council table.

“Aunt Celeste isn’t your mother, is she?” Aegon’s brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile the woman who had helped raise him with how she could bear this giant of a man. Ser Harwin let out a sad sounding laugh and shook his head.

“No, my prince. My mother was Lysa Tully, granddaughter of Lord Grover. I squired in Riverrun before my father became Master of Laws for your father.” Ser Harwin shook his curls from his face, reaching to tie it back to keep it from his face. “She died when I was a little sprog, barely walking.” A distance took his eyes and Aegon averted his gaze to offer the man privacy.

“He supports Rhaenyra,” Aegon finished, not wishing to dance around implications.

“He will, if only because he views the Hand and your mother as overstepping the crown’s wishes and the contract between the throne and its people.”

Aegon frowned at this, arms folded across his chest. “Speak plain, Lord Larys,” he said with his own hard look. Aegon understood games, he understood doublespeak, but there was much left to the imagination and he would not be made a fool of. “The throne provides for its people. What imagined overstepping is he so worried about? He’s simply sore that he lost Harrenhal to me.”

“He’s concerned about the dragon this marriage placed in his lands.” Larys shrugged softly and leaned back in the seat, the carriage jostling over a particularly large bump. “Harrenhal of course is a boon, but not in the way you might think. A comely bride is merely an additional perk, not the prize as it was for you.”

Aegon hummed softly in a way that reminded him of his brother and curled his fingers into his arms to resist the need to pick at the skin. Aemond had said something similar over the course of his nameday. How now all would see how vulnerable he was, and the way to wound him most grievously. Aegon, on the other hand, had sneered at that. Abby was not a weakness to him. To lose her would be to lose himself, yes, but it would not destroy him like Aemond tried to imply.

Of course it wouldn’t.

“They’re here to discuss the marriage contract. Lord Elmo is here on behalf of his father since Lord Tully is abed back at Riverrun. Several of the other river lords are with him, wishing to hammer out the details the crown and I worked out in regards to the inheritance of Harrenhal and jointure, the dowry, and the fact that Lord Elmo sees your placement in the Riverlands as a threat that you will take the Paramount seat from him should he not support you.”

Aegon’s face twisted in confusion, nostrils flaring at the insult at being accused of something he had no desire for. He leaned forward, a hand reaching up to the handle along the roof of the carriage to balance himself.

“He accuses me of coveting his seat?” Aegon hissed. “Just as these lords think I’m plotting to steal my sister’s throne. Why are they so quick to think ill of me? To accuse me of villainy and brand me traitor when I’ve done nothing of the sort. I plot no schemes or collusions—”

“You were born,” Larys interrupted with a soft and earnest voice. He too leaned forward, mimicking Aegon’s position. “You are the first born son of a king who murdered his first wife in the hunt for a healthy, living son, Prince Aegon. You did not choose this mantle, you did not choose to be born the son of the king, and I did not choose to be born with my own struggles. But these are the lots we have drawn in life and we must make the best of it.”

This close, Aegon noticed how he looked a bit like Ser Simon, who himself looked like the ghost of Lord Lyonel. Larys’s features were sharper than the rest of his family, he and his sister both, likely from their Frey mother. But the dark eyes reminded him of the amber glass eyes that stared out of the mounted stag heads and bear heads that lined one of the small halls in the Red Keep.

“Your own struggles?” Aegon snarled. “Like murdering your father and brother so you could have the seat instead of skulking about the Red Keep for the rest of your days?”

Aegon leaned back and so did Larys, who dropped his hand to grip the handle of his cane. He looked out the window silently, his jaw clenched, fingers tapping against the amber bauble on the cane. Larys did not ask him how he knew.

Caraxes’ whistling shriek echoed high across the lake valley. There was an even more distant answer: the long absent cry of Syrax that he hadn’t heard in years.

As Larys Strong’s dark eyes found him, Aegon felt like the elder was peeling away his skin as methodically as he peeled fruit, or the flesh of the convicts in the torture cells of the Red Keep. Aegon watched the twitch of his features and the shadow that passed over his gaze.

“Prince Aegon,” he said slowly, words measured, pausing for a moment before he finally continued. “The death of my father and elder brother was a tragic accident. It was never supposed to happen that way.”

Aegon’s mouth went dry. So what Jace said was, in fact, true;that Aegon had blurted it out to the man accused was of no matter. The bottom of his stomach dropped out with an unpleasant swoop.

Larys’ can thumped softly against the floor of the carriage. “It is not something that was done out of greed, or selfishness. Nor was it years of resentment. I loved my father very much. While a lesser father would have cast a babe born as I was aside, to dash their heads against the stone and write the babe off as another loss in a long line of tragedy, he fed my appetite for learning. He taught me how to hone my mind the way my brother honed his blade. He offered to send me to the citadel if it was what I wished, just as he attended in his youth before his brother, Tristafer, died and he became heir. When I declined to go to Oldtown, he helped me find a place in the world where I could excel.”

“Then you killed him,” Aegon said, voice low, brow slightly furrowed. “A man you claimed to love, who had done so much for you, and you burned him alive.”

The other man looked down at his cane, impassive in the face of Aegon’s words. He took a breath, a slight shake of his head, then met Aegon’s eyes once more. “Princess Rhaenyra kept my brother at her side and my father, love him as I did, he did not stop it. He could have. He did not.” Larys paused and his eyes went downcast, sweeping across the floor, but Aegon did not think he was truly looking at anything. “The king saw a threat to the stability of the royal family and made his wishes clear. When the king wishes something, it will be done. Your father wanted to silence the whispers. I would not let some assassin come after my family. We all make sacrifices in life, Your Grace. Often, that is in response to…,” Larys met his gaze, “...the actions, or inaction, of our fathers and our siblings. Duty and sacrifice are tenets of your mother’s, so I know you understand. I sacrificed them to salvage what I could of our house, and to save my sweet sister who was meant to return here as my brother finally came to take his place as future lord.”

The silence was oppressive, the air thick from it, as Larys held his gaze for several more moments before releasing him to look out the window. Aegon had nothing to say and instead looked out his own window towards the lake and the trees along the shoreline. Larys had given him much to consider and it was a new experience to not have it all blamed upon Rhaenyra or even the fleeting implications in the complacency of the king. Larys had implicated his own father and brother; a mess made of the four of them.

Aegon recalled the pale, silent ghost that Abby had turned into after the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin, barely remembering the discussion of her returning to Harrenhal. His mother had been quiet too and locked for hours in the sept. Aegon had thought she had been grieving with Abby, had grieved the loss of the relationship she had had with Lord Lyonel. Did she too know about this?

It was so much. It was too much for him to think of all right now and he didn’t want to focus on it. The danger at hand now was the presence of Elmo Tully and the other lords who were raising an issue and trying to prevent his marriage. The anger at being misjudged and assumed that he was coming for things he could not give two shits about, that took the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to be king and he didn’t want a Paramount seat. He just wanted his dragon, and Abrogail, and whatever family they made for themselves.

Well. That was a season. This chapter got so damn long that we've had to split it in two, which at the end of the day is a good thing. I'll get to flesh out the second half and start moving us into a couple housekeeping things before we launch into the long awaited family dinner, a spicy spicy chapter, and THEN THE WEDDING! As an FYI, I'm starting a new job on Monday! I will no longer be WFH, so my writing time is going to be a helluva lot different moving forward, but we're still sticking to the 'at least once a month' chapter updates. And with the next chapter now half down, I'm hoping to get back to a small buffer. Thank you all for being here, and I always always love to hear from you. If you're not sure what to say, a reblog lets more people read this story! My askbox is also open! Thank you for reading <3

[Next Chapter]

[rotworld]

1: Growing Shadows

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

on your homeworld of decretum, the nights are growing inexplicably longer. an imperial scholar arrives to investigate and comes to the conclusion that you know more than you're letting on.

warhammer 40k; original mandrake character/reader. explicit; contains dubcon (coercive/transactional), graphic depictions of violence and gore, murder, gangbang, non-human genitalia, non-consensual exhibitionism, ambiguous fate for the reader.

Theron is waiting for you in the Emerald Markets. He pretends he isn't. Pretends, like always, that it's just a happy coincidence your paths have crossed again, slinking out from the shadows of a stone arch. 

“Shall we walk together?” he asks, as if he isn’t already following you. 

It’s easy to be charmed because he is effortlessly charming in his sleek black coat with a stiff collar and silken cravat, smiling, clean-shaven, short hair parted down the middle to frame his handsome features. He speaks the sharp, precisely enunciated Gothic they teach at academies in the heart of the Imperium but he’s far friendlier than the usual Administratum census-taker or bureaucrat who occasionally visits. His interest in you is obvious, wandering gazes and lingering touches that make you wish he wasn’t spending all of his time holed up in the library. 

He looks at you knowingly, a sly glance out of the corner of his eye when he catches you staring. You feel his hand settle lightly on your lower back. 

“It was a lovely day while it lasted,” he says, looking up at the sky in dismay. “Does it really not bother you? All this dark? A mere four hours of sunlight hardly seems conducive to one’s emotional wellbeing.”

You shrug. “I think we’re all just used to it. The sun is nice but so is the moon. And it’s really not all that dark.”

“No,” he says with a laugh. “Not here, anyway.”

Walking the crowded streets of the market is like plunging into an open kaleidoscope, all color and crystal. There is food, of course, smoked meats and fresh fruits, spices overflowing from burlap sacks. There are hand-woven baskets and ceramics arranged on tiered shelves, tassel-edged tapestries and embroidered scarves, but more than anything, there are lanterns. If an artisan has dared to dream of it, it can be found here: round and angular, pyramidal and teardrop-elongated, simple four-sided boxes and dizzying geometric masterpieces with dozens of glittering faces. Decorative brass frames cradle panes of painted glass, tendriled metal latticework slicing the light into patterns as intricate as lace. Everywhere you look, they stain the night with spills of finely dappled watercolor, the dark rainbows of an oil slick. 

“They really are something,” Theron marvels. “Did you know that Decretum’s lanterns are famous throughout the Imperium? My mentor has one in his office. Just a small one. Six-sided, with a rounded dome on top. Beautiful, but truly awful if you’re trying to read. I think it makes even more shadows than it chases away.”

You did know that. They’re your planet’s most profitable export. Nobles, governors, and wealthy socialites will pay a premium to get their hands on one. “You’re not really meant to use them for reading,” you tell him. “They soften the light, make it gentler. Much easier on the eyes.”

“A light that’s not meant to be bright,” he muses. “Curious.”

Movement catches your eye at the mouth of the alley. Three children huddle around a small orange lantern, giggling as they dart back and forth in front of the spotted light washing over the wall. They take turns holding their hands out, casting lopsided shapes with their splayed fingers and curling thumbs. A little boy holds up his fist, his other hand making a ‘V’ with two fingers that he wiggles back and forth. A girl, slightly older, presses her hands together, one splayed, the other limp. On the wall, the shadows of their outstretched hands look like the silhouettes of Decretum's wildlife; a snail and a spined, gaping lizard.

Theron slows his pace, watching the performance unfold. “What are they doing?” he asks. “Shadow puppets?” 

You nod, pausing beside him. “It’s a game. ‘Shadow Eater.’ We all played it as kids.” 

The girl curls her index fingers, making the lizard’s mouth gnash open and shut. She lunges forward, eclipsing the snail, and the boy makes a dramatic death wail, half-scream, half-gargle, leaping out of the lantern’s light. A different boy steps forward, this one far more ambitious with his movements. One hand first, downturned, index finger pointing—a branch. His other hand shapes a perching bird, a glaring eye formed in the space between an arching index and middle finger. “Ah, I see,” Theron says. “You have to keep thinking of something that can eat the last animal.” You think he’ll keep walking but he stays, hands in his pockets and head tilted, his curiosity unsated. The shadow bird suddenly takes flight, the branch vanishing as the boy loops this thumbs together to form a beak, both hands flapping. It descends on the lizard, mantles it with its jagged wings. The girl lets out a warbling death cry that makes the others laugh and scurries away.

“I was going through the planetary archives again today,” Theron tells you, keeping his voice low. “Decretum’s nights have grown incrementally longer over thousands of years. The increase, according to my calculations, is negligible. Fractions of a second. Hardly noticeable, until those fractions accrue into more easily measurable amounts. It’s not a normal, natural change. There are no local or astronomical phenomena that correlate with this particular trend, nothing about the atmosphere, the weather patterns or the nearest star. No other planet in the system has been affected the same way. It doesn’t make any sense.” 

The youngest boy returns and makes a fox. One hand shapes the grinning head, two fingertips raised into tiny ears, while the other bends into paws and a curved body. It sneaks forward, ears flicking, and then it pounces. The older boy playing the bird warbles theatrically as he wrenches his hands apart. A frigid wind whistles through the alley and you shudder, rubbing your arms through your long sleeves. Theron adjusts his coat. The children holler excitedly and their game starts to go faster, the girl rushing back to the spotlight to make a larger canine shape. Both hands form a head, a scowling mouth, a protruding ear. Her wolf seizes the fox by the throat with a triumphant howl.

“Stranger still, I’ve noticed a secondary pattern. There are years where the change is larger than normal, the usual fractional increase insufficient to explain just how much longer the night becomes. The difference is quite stark. Whole seconds, sometimes. I don’t know what to make of it. But what truly confounds me is how unbothered you are about this. All of you.” Theron’s gaze shifts subtly as he speaks, watching you from the corner of his eye. Looking, you think, for a particular reaction. 

You look back at him, trying to ignore the sick, anxious feeling in your chest. “We can’t control the sun. We can worry ourselves sick or we can keep living our lives.” You gesture at the children, laughing and shrieking playfully in their dance of predator and prey. “When I was their age, the nights were already long. Milliseconds or seconds, it doesn’t make much of a difference. It’s all we know.”

Theron studies your face in silence for a long, tense moment. There’s a wounded look in his eyes, something almost pleading. Guilt bubbles up in your chest. 

It’s the older boy’s turn again—the last turn, you suspect. Most games end with the animal he makes. He holds one hand sideways, the other rearing atop like antlers. Theron watches wordlessly as the shadow puppets scuffle, clumsily miming a battle of claw and hoof. The wolf howls weakly, silenced with one final stomp. The glow of the lantern flickers briefly and the children cheer. “Shadow eater! Shadow eater!” they cry, dancing in snakeskin dusklight. “He eats us all up!”

“I suppose you’re right,” Theron says finally, his tone lightening somewhat. He starts walking again and you let out the breath you were holding, resuming your ambling pace. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t vent my frustrations on you. I’m accustomed to a bit more urgency when studying the Imperium’s myriad anomalies.” 

“I’m sorry we’re not all more excited, or succumbing to mass panic,” you say, smiling when you manage to pull an amused huff out of him. “We’ve always been like this, I think. They say the earliest settlements on Decretum were plagued by all kinds of misfortune. Not much scares us. Definitely not the dark.”

“Everyone is afraid of the dark. It’s in our nature.” 

You shake your head. “That’s because you think it’s full of monsters.”

“Isn’t it?” Theron asks.

“I don’t think so.” 

You pass more lantern shops. More handicrafts. A livestock seller with scrappy blue chickens clucking in their wooden cages. Another group of children acting out another game of Shadow Eater, a squirrel fleeing the grasp of a screeching raptor. They wave when they see you, the light of their pale blue lantern bathing them in cold, wintry light. 

At the edge of the marketplace, the neat tile path becomes bumpy cobblestone. A waning moon shines weakly through a thick gauze of clouds. The crowd thins as you venture further from the business district to the quiet neighborhood where Theron is staying. The few people you encounter are little more than a shift in the shadows, silhouettes that bow their heads and mutter greetings. A few carry lanterns, dim like dying stars, but many don’t. Theron stumbles sometimes, his toe catching on uneven stones and his gait thrown off by unexpected dips in the path. You’re much steadier. You can’t see very well but you don’t need to. You know the churn of the shadows here, the sounds they make, the thickness of them in your lungs. 

You’ve never told Theron. You know he wouldn’t understand. 

“That was a strange end to the game earlier,” he mentions. “That was a local species of cervid, wasn’t it? Surely they don’t eat wolves.” 

You laugh. “No, there are a few variations. The kids are always making up new ones. Sometimes it’s about which animal is the cleverest. Sometimes it’s about which one is the strongest.” 

There’s someone walking behind you. They’re some distance away, far enough that you’d have trouble spotting them if you turned around, but you can feel them, can feel how the dark shudders around their shape in displeasure. “Fascinating,” Theron says. “And what about the best at concealing things? The best liar, perhaps?” Someone steps into the path ahead. Several someones, their footsteps loud. You hear the creak of leather; the clink of metal. You freeze and Theron stops beside you, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “I didn’t want to do this. I have given you every opportunity to admit the truth and you’ve squandered them all.”

You tear out of his grasp and he lets you. There’s a hiss; a blade unsheathing. Then a crackling, a dull hum, a white hot glare searing your eyes. Theron holds a sword in his hand, the blade coursing with luminescent energy. It would sever your limb and cauterize the wound in the same swift stroke. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, your throat constricting with fear.

“Taking you into custody,” Theron says. Gone is the charm and the warmth and the kindly demeanor, replaced by sharp coldness. The light of his sword is nothing like a Decretum lantern. It is harsh and untempered. The shadows shrink back from it warily. “You weren’t responsive to gentle questioning, so I must resort to something more intensive.” 

“Questioning? For what? What did I do?” 

“Does the name Lyra ring a bell?” He cocks his head at your blank expression, his lips curling into a contemptuous scowl. “No? What about Petros? Asherin? Willem?” 

“Theron, I don’t—”

“Those were my colleagues. Lyra would have told you she was an artist studying Decretum lantern designs. Petros, a student of rural Imperial architecture. Asherin, a governor’s son on vacation. Only Willem openly declared his authority. He was always fond of the heavy-handed approach. Overconfident.” Theron unlatches the first few buttons of his coat, just enough to peel back his lapel and expose something glinting and metallic affixed to the inside. A crest, you realize. A symbol. A long line like a stake with a leering skull in the center—

Your pulse quickens. You didn’t recognize it at first because of the stylization, the curling scroll adornment, the wings atop the skull. That’s a Rosette, symbol of the Inquisition. 

Theron lied to you, too.

“Ah. Now you remember,” he says. “Once, perhaps, you could’ve gotten away with it and escaped without further scrutiny. The Imperium is vast and paperwork is excruciatingly slow. But twice? Four times? This backwater you call a civilization has made Inquisitors disappear, and each time, the planet’s nights grew longer. I know the taint of heresy when I see it.”

He steps forward and you bolt, ducking beneath the clumsy grasp of someone who tried to sneak up behind you. Theron shouts in anger and you hear a gunshot, feel the hiss of something whizzing past you. A roaring bloom of heat and light shakes the ground and steals your breath, sends you careening, rolling, shoving yourself back on your feet. You don’t know if you’re hit, can’t tell if the fire licked the skin off your ankles or shards of shattered stone lodged in your calves with adrenaline numbing everything but the fear.

There are more of them and they move with the coordination of a wolf pack, anticipating your movements and cutting off your escape. Another shot goes wide in the dark, a blink of sizzling dawn that turns burns dancing spots into your vision. Your shadow sprints at your side, stretched tall by lanterns perched on porch steps and warming darkened windows, stretched and contorted with each small explosion. Silhouettes stir behind drawn curtains, watching and waiting. Knowing you will do what must be done. 

You hold out your hands. A simple one to start: all fingers facing up, spread apart. Grass swaying in the wind. The shape is clumsy and jittering as you run but you hope it’ll be enough. “See me,” you whisper desperately. “See me and come to me.” You round a corner, stumble, throw yourself forward on scraped hands and knees. A lantern looms atop a fence post, throwing light across the ground. You see a rabbit, flat and shadow, cast by something that isn’t there. It darts between your feet, too precise and perfect to have been formed by hands. “See me,” you say. “See—”

Another shot, loud like thunder, and this time you know you’re hit. You’re warm. Burning. Your shoulder throbs. Slickness dribbles down your back, following the curve of your spine. The pain is distant but it’s gaining on you, an ache sprouting sharper edges. Theron is careful. He keeps his aim low, non-lethal but easily maiming. One wrong move and you’ll lose your legs. 

Your hand shakes when you hold it up, thumb tucked in, index and little fingers bent at the knuckles. You use your arm, the bulky material of your sleeve to make the body. A cat, ears perked, tail wiggling playfully. The answer flies on the wall beside you, sleek and avian. This one is nothing like the stiff, crooked lizard-eater the children made for their game. It’s a fearsome thing with a hooked beak and great talons, shedding ashy clumps of feather-shaped darkness in its wake. 

The night grows colder. Your breath trickles from your lips as pale smoke. 

Another flash illuminates the street too brightly, everything pale and overexposed. But there is shelter. Darkness. An open alley—a chance. A risk. You dart for it, fire and death at your heels. A pair of lanterns sit against one stone wall, one warm and dawn-colored, one cool like the deep sea. Theron’s followers appear at the other end, blocking your exit. Your hands are trembling, fingers tingling with warning nips of frostbite. Your shapes become rudimentary and crude. One-handed cave snake. Limp nose-fingered steppe camel. Drooping, hideous Decretum greater spider, your hands too stiff to articulate proper movement. 

But the game goes on, each movement conjuring a new, monstrous response from your unseen partner. The beasts grow larger, less familiar, more horrific with each passing turn: a dripping mirebeast. A segmented dross worm, as thick as your torso. A writhing, churning, too many mouthed nobody-maker, devourer of bones, souls and names. These are not animals found on Decretum. They are not found anywhere that has ever known the kiss of sunlight, however briefly.

And then a blast—an earth-shaking sound and sensation that knocks you off your feet and steals the breath from your lungs. Theron is close when he pulls the trigger. You see him briefly illuminated in the flash of fire, the burning golden-red of engulfing agony crackling like the glow of a bonfire against his face. You’re half-turned when the explosive round immolates everything below your knee. The pain turns your thoughts to hot wax, shapeless and leaking from the screaming terror in your mind. Is your leg still there? Is it gone? Melted into a bubbling slurry of liquified flesh and quivering tar puddles of what was once muscle? You don’t know, can’t tell, can’t feel it. Can’t feel anything through the pain boiling your blood, the rawness of scraped palms and wheezing, smoke-filled lungs. 

But the game. The calling. It’s not done. One more, you think. Just one more. There is one beast that trumps all others. One way that it always ends. You try to turn over onto knees that might be shattered. The ground is blackened. Uneven. Speckled with blood. Someone smashes the lanterns. Kicks them over and stomps on what’s left. The lights gutter out and shadows eagerly fill their space like swarming carrion birds to a corpse. 

“That was a warning,” Theron tells you. “I only need enough of you to answer my questions. I can keep you alive with far less than this if I have to.” The sword in his hand thrums softly with power. Its glow is unsightly. Powerful. It fills the alley. Everything caught in its spotlight glow casts a long, sharply defined shadow. Even as you’re surrounded on all sides by inquisitorial agents, it’s easy to find your hunched shape among their legs in your silhouette doubles along the wall. Your vision swims. Theron’s cold sneer turns blurry. You pitch forward at his feet in a deep bow, your forehead pressed to the ground before his boots. He inhales sharply. Almost a laugh. He thinks you’re groveling, about to beg for your life. 

But you’re not. You’re playing the game. Humans have bested the nobody-maker. Not always. Not without great sacrifice. Like the canopy moose of Decretum’s most treacherous forests trampling a wolf to save its young, this is not a battle one ever hopes to fight and it is never won without scars. 

“See me and come to me,” you say, your voice a hoarse, ruined whisper. You know you are heard. You know, when the darkness ripples like the surface of a lake, that you are answered. Theron takes a cautious step back. You’re too weak to lift your head and follow his gaze but you know this coldness. This darkness. This feeling, like the night is a beast come to roost.

There is a shadow on the wall. An extra. One that should not be there. Monstrously tall and spindly, the shapeless thing looks nearly human until it moves, predator-graceful and uncanny like a nightmare glimpsed in the twilight between waking and sleep. It slithers across the alley wall into the thicket of shadows caging you in. Theron cries out a warning but he’s too late. His voice dies to a strangled croak. 

Meaning spreads in your mind. Not sound but its aftermath, like the cosmic scream of a star long dead. Your mind makes it into words but some of them curve and fractal, shattering into multiple concepts all spoken at the same time. “Hello,” it says, but also, “Greetings misfortunes night eternal.” Its name, too, is like the color that pours from a prism lantern, a blur of ceaseless beauty. I Am The Darkness Ever-Growing, but Ever-Growing also means Changing in its language, also Covering, also Devouring. Once, you heard it speak its name and it sounded like I Am The Shadow Devouring, so that’s what you told the others. That’s still the name they know, however shortened, however calcified by human language. 

Shadow Eater comes closer, passing through the unmoving throng of Theron’s retinue. It doesn’t touch them; only their shadows. Each time it eclipses them, covers their featureless doubles in its own darkness, they start to shiver and bleed. 

“Dusk-speaker,” it addresses you. 

“Chosen,” it hisses. 

“Lover,” it sighs. 

“By the Throne,” Theron whispers. “A mandrake.” 

A torrent of blood spatters the ground beside you. One of Theron’s men clutches his throat and the gaping wound splitting it open, a red, glistening maw oozing over his scrabbling fingers. He’s choking. Something bulges under his skin, in his neck. You see darkness in the folds of the wound between slippery soft tissues. Clawed fingers the color of night, tearing him apart from the inside. 

“This land,” Shadow Eater says, “this world, planet, garden. Long have you defended it. Long have I aided you. Closed prying eyes. Lopped off thieving fingers.” It steps closer. Another man screams like an animal caught in a snare. Blood gushes from his eyes, his nose, between his teeth. It trickles from his ears and stains his clothes in heavy red shadows like sweat. “They do not understand. Outsiders. Sun-scourged. Light-drunk and drowning-in-day—”

“You made a deal with it?” Theron hisses.  “It’s an abomination. Do you understand what you’ve done? It’s devouring your world!”

You try to sit up. To raise your head, at least. Everything hurts too much. Sprawled on your side, you crane your neck to peer at the wall and find Shadow Eater gazing down at you. It bends down, crouching in front of your writhing, miserable shadow. When it reaches out, you swear you can feel the soothing cold of its palm on your sweat-soaked forehead. “To be eaten is to be sheltered,” you say. “To be embraced. Ever-growing.”

“Do you hear yourself? This is madness! You’ve doomed all of Decretum.” Theron clutches his sword in his shaking fist, jaw clenched in simmering rage but you see fear in his eyes. He hasn’t moved. He can’t. There’s the slightest quiver in his voice, easily missed if you hadn’t heard so many Inquisitors break before him. “If you kill me, the full force of the Inquisition will be at your door. Ordo Malleus is well aware of the strange occurrences on this planet and word will spread. My death will hasten your destruction.” 

Shadow Eater turns towards him slowly. Someone retches, heaves and vomits. Bile, blood and bits of intestine slosh across the ground. “Perhaps,” Shadow Eater says. In words this time. Out loud, so Theron can hear and understand it. “Perhaps it will. Your death could bring more death. Annihilation by wrathful brightness. Weapons of night-killing. My garden, turned to ash.”

You inhale shakily. Shadow Eater’s clawed hand caresses your shadow’s face and you feel it, firm, possessive, wanting. The steady touch of an old lover who knows you better than anyone. 

“Or,” it purrs, “perhaps they will come here and find nothing. Only darkness and echoes. Only the hungry maw of the void.”

They’re dying all around you. Collapsing to their knees, cupping the gruesome spill of entrails from open bellies. Bruises bloom beneath the skin and the bulging outline of some voracious thing presses against their flesh from the inside. Theron’s stony expression crumbles with every pained whimper and gurgling gasp. “Don’t do this,” he says solemnly. “Surely you know, deep down, that this is wrong. I don’t know how you came into the service of this beast or how many came before you, but you could be the last. You could save this world. The children of Decretum deserve lives bathed in the light of the Emperor, not this wretched darkness—” 

“The sun,” you correct him. Theron gapes at you, too stunned to reply. “It’s the sun that lights this planet four hours a day. The last time Decretum felt the light of the Emperor was ten thousand years ago. He brought war. He vaporized cities and killed millions. Decretum came into the Imperium through bloodshed.”

“And this is the answer? More bloodshed? The deaths of billions more?” 

You shake your head. “You’re afraid of the dark, Theron. We haven’t been for a very long time.” 

Shadow Eater laughs like a death rattle and the grating of metal. You see slopes of lean muscle in its arms, wisps of hair spilling over its shoulders, the pointed ends of unnaturally long ears. Unnatural light throbs in swirling patterns across its body and glitters in the shape of eyes narrowed in sadistic glee. The eerie green glow does not weaken the shadows but makes them darker, more solid somehow.

“You called. Summoned. Pleaded. Needed, and shall receive,” it says. “If you can pay the price.”

You hesitate to ask. “What’s the price?” 

Its hand moves. Lowers slowly. You watch it touch your shadow’s neck and feel its cold fingers on your throat, testing how hard it can push before you choke. “Everything,” it says. “All of you, love of mine. Body. Mind. Soul. For that, I keep my garden. For that, I save your world.” 

“Don’t!” Theron begs. 

“This is how it ends, isn’t it?” you ask. 

Shadow Eater laughs but more softly this time. It’s the creak of a door that has not been opened as long as anyone can remember. The whispers of ice underfoot before it breaks and cold water swallows you whole. “Yes,” it says, its palm over your heart. “This is how it ends.”

“In devouring?” 

“In shelter,” it promises. In remaking, it means, in wholeness and in eternity. It trails its claws up your arm and your sleeve comes apart like flesh beneath a scalpel, the fabric split cleanly all the way to your shoulder. Underneath, your skin is adorned with the same patterns marking its shadowflesh. In the dark, they glow the same lightless green.

“Shadow Eater,” you say, just as you have so many times before, “I will pay this price.” 

All across Decretum, night roils like a stormy sea. The darkness is a tangible, hungry thing that grows and deepens, seeping from every corner. Lanterns flicker, die and flare to life once again in the same haunting shade of green no matter the color of their glass. The clouds eat the moon piece by jagged piece. The dead and dying around you begin to bloat and contort, shadows spilling from their gashes and wounds thick like sludge. Claws crack open rib cages and scrape through flesh as mandrakes emerge from each broken body, not mere shadows but real and solid.

Their hair is silver like the missing moon and their faces are jack-o-lantern smiles, glowing green features carved from the darkness that change in blinks and flickers. Shadow Eater speaks words not meant for you, animal calls and echoes that make your head spin. The other mandrakes creep closer. One pushes you upright too quickly and you hiss, trying to shift your weight off your knees. Another trails its frigid fingers along the underside of your leg—still there, you only realize now, but badly burned and oozing. It collects your clotted blood and pus on its claws and brings the mixture to its mouth, a long, green tongue curling around the digit to taste your pain. 

They all speak at once, a cacophony of threats, sweet nothings, insults and seduction. You are beloved and you are despised, a treasure, a whore, a shadow at twilight. They call you dusk-speaker, sun-touched, most wondrous in moonlight, most coveted of consorts. One plasters itself against your back and shoves its hands into your clothes, caressing your skin with greedy hands. Another presses its mouth to yours, each teasing lick and nip leaving tingles of frostbite on your lips. Another slides its fingers between your legs and rubs too rough, too fast, making you whimper and squirm.

You lose count of how many there are—five? Six? They blur into one another, shift and meld and split apart. One spreads your legs, a claw on each of your knees holding them apart, while another eagerly fills the space between them. Your clothes turn to tatters, exposing all of your markings. They are vivid now, a deeper green than you remember, giving off the same lightless glow.

“Shadow Eater!” you cry. You’re afraid. You’ve always known the name of the dark, but suddenly it’s become a stranger.

“Yes, dusk-speaker?” it answers. Its voice comes from everywhere at once. Behind you. Beside you. In your own head, a whisper between your thoughts. The mandrake kneeling between your legs cups your cheek and its touch is firm. Familiar. It urges you to look at the flickering green flames of its eyes. Is it Shadow Eater? Are they all the same mandrake, the same shadow split seven ways? You don’t know. Maybe you never will. One of them bites your neck hard enough to draw blood and your pained whine excites it, makes it pant hungrily into your skin. Its tongue feels like the press of an ice cube, too cold and then soothing. 

“Have you always known it would end this way?” it asks. “Have you longed for it?” 

They devour you every way they can. Your pain and your pleasure, your thoughts and your senses, your body and mind. Pressed between them, you become nothing more than a vessel for mindless sensation. Your hands tangle in snow-white hair. Your legs lock around straining, pistoning hips, meeting frenzied thrusts.

Shadowflesh is not the same as a human body. The things they conjure between their legs to fuck you could be any shape and any size, changing whenever they see fit. You take something long and flexible, thighs quivering as it wriggles deeper than you expected, deeper than should be physically possible. You kiss a cold, greedy mouth with two tongues. More hands than you can count hold you, cushion you, reposition you. Time loses meaning. There’s only the dark, and the green, and the ecstasy that only a shadow can give you.

And Theron. 

You jolt in sudden realization. He’s right there. He’s staring right at you. Still frozen, still clutching his useless sword, the pulsating glint of its energy sheath starting to fizzle and dim. Shadow Eater stands beside him. Towers over him. Large, monstrous claws frame his face, never letting him look away from your body in the grip of countless mandrakes. It makes him watch as you are taken again, and again, and again.

“One final kindness. A gift you do not deserve,” it hisses in his ear. “I am in you, seeker of forbidden answers. In your darkness. Your hidden places. I know what you desperately try to conceal, and here it is. What you desired and what you never could have had. Never. Do you understand? They were mine before you even learned their name.” 

Defiant to the end, Theron says nothing. He hides behind the wall that every Inquisitor builds all around their minds and hearts, stone cages of distance and misery. His lip twitches just once, just slightly. A cry stifled. He swallows hard. He doesn’t even try to look away. A twinge of sadness and pity makes your chest feel tight but the mandrakes don’t let it linger. One catches your chin between its claws and you are kissed by the night that eats Decretum one imperceptibly small bite at a time, dying the same little deaths. The darkness deepens and the shadows grow until there is nothing else.

Theron’s sword blinks and flickers and finally dies. It is the last light that will ever shine on Decretum. There will be searchlights someday, the whirling lighthouse beacons of voidfaring vessels in search of a planet that is supposed to be there, but they will never find anything. Sometimes, when the crew cycles shifts and an officer returns to their quarters for rest, they will receive a transmission that has no discernable source. Nonsensical, mostly. Just interference. Indistinct hisses of static. 

But somewhere in there, they’ll think, it almost sounds like the voices of children playing a game.

[mommybard]

Aren't ranches mean to animals though?

No. Well, I can't say that for every ranch, cause I have met some people who should not be working with animals, and corporate operations are their own monstrosity. But the average ranch? Not at all. You gotta remember that its still humans working those ranches, and humans will pack bond with anything and everything. A lot of people who work on them love those animals. They care for those animals. Hell, you would not believe the number of times I or someone else would have full on conversations with the cattle. You end up kinda treating the animals like...like a mix of your co-workers (that you actually like and are excited to see, not fucking Eric in HR), but also your friends dog that you just KNOW favors you more. You need that relationship too. If you're going to be working with the animals all day, they need to be able to recognize you and trust you. That way they'll actually listen to you and feel comfortable when you're around. Plus then you can get cow snuggles which are top tier 10/10 would recommend. There's also two big incentives to treat the animals well. For one, these are massive animals. If you are a dick to them, they will remember. They'll avoid you. They'll ignore your calls. You will get charged at. You will get kicked. They will injure you. They can, potentially, kill you. The second? If you're stressing your animals out, making them scared and worried and anxious, that leads to issues. Anxious cows might not take when you try to impregnate them. Stress is terrible for their pregnancy and can lead to miscarriages. Their health can suffer from it and led to higher medical costs for the herd. Animals who've suffered tend to have worse quality meat so you won't be able to sell as high when that comes time. You'll spend more time repairing your fences cause the cattle keep trying to break out. It costs you far more to be a dick to the animals than it does to treat them well.

[keefechambers]

drop the rabban/piter ship manifesto Please

okay okay okay okay okay all right here we go

point the first: dave bautista and david dastmalchian are hot and therefore we are fully justified in wanting to smash them together like ken dolls

point the second: the 2021 scenes

rabban and piter never interact on page in the original books but denis made the choice to have them in scenes together because narratively they kind of fit as opposite sides of the spectrum of house harkonnen and that is fun. their canonical film scene having the vibe of "this fucking guy" on both of their parts fits the characters and belies a necessary amount of shared history, which is interesting.

plus, things that were deleted: bautista describes a scene where rabban is essentially trying to intimidate piter (i'd guess after their sauna scene with vlad). dastmalchian says there was a short scene of piter and rabban together where he's torturing a prisoner. this is probably the same scene. torturing a prisoner in proximity is basically a date for a mentat i think.

the choice to extend their screentime (even if for the pragmatic reason of not having to cast feyd until he'd have more than a minute of screentime and because denis loves his daves) creates a dynamic that is really cool! the slavering, entitled, shrieking manchild of house harkonnen and the coolly sadistic mentat? it's very hot to think about.

(please see this fanart for a summation of that Vibe)

point the third: narrative functions.

isn't it hot when foils kiss?

within the realm of dune, not speaking to the prequels/graphic novels, just the first book, rabban and piter essentially function as the top tier of baron harkonnen's operation - they are equal opposites, like real actual narrative foils. piter is a mentat and assassin and therefore serves a more subtle, back-end function while rabban is front-facing; he's the older of the nephews, he's a count and he's been ruling arrakis for a while.

the baron literally has an evil plan that involves taking back arrakis, installing piter as the ruler and then killing him and putting feyd in his place. when piter dies, he just does the same plan but with rabban. he treats them as interchangeable despite how different they are. they're at the top of vlad's list of "guys everyone fucking hates" together!

piter is also power-hungry. it makes sense that he'd see the most susceptible to manipulation harkonnen as an appealing target to sink his claws into. piter would absolutely treat rabban like a meat shield against the baron and, conversely, i think rabban would try to use piter to figure out how to keep his uncle happy. neither would succeed, but they would absolutely get wrapped up in each other trying.

additionally, they can't kill each other. neither of them have that boundary with anyone else, and could murderfuck their way through giedi prime, arrakis and lankiveil and the baron probably wouldn't care. but piter can't kill his boss's nephew, even the stupid one, and rabban can't damage his uncle's property. so even if they did hate each other, they would kind of be trapped in this state of flux where they couldn't do anything about it, anyway, so why not just fuck about it?

plus, with piter being a spice addict and rabban nominally in control of arrakis, there's a certain amount of poetry in the idea of piter being attracted to the source of his vices.

i conclude the manifesto with this excerpt from the novel:

like the baron thinks rabban is afraid of him but he's actually angry at him? come on.

[circeyoru]

How would the Overlords react to the collector being stressed or sad? Have they even seen them stressed/sad?

This is for {Collection of Overlords}, check MASTERLIST for the work

Interesting questions. Simple answer. The Collector/You don't get stressed or sad.

It's not that you don't get stressed or sad; you can, but there was never a situation or circumstance in which you do feel stressed or sad. You're more of the calm and collected one, whereas Trick would be hyper and chaotic (when they were once Noir, it was the opposite, somewhat).

The most you've shown your Overlords are pride, proudness, disappointment, and anger. Maybe happiness, if you want to put it that way, but it could also be seen as amusement most of the time. You really don't tend to show much feelings and expressions to them because you see no need to, if it was something that major, they wouldn't be able to help you anyways and you'd be dealing with it alone in the end.

You need to remember that Overlords aren't the top tier in terms of power, if you needed anyone's help in something troubling, you'd call for the Sins' help. Why you have the Overlords as your personal collection is cause they have potential to grow, but even at their full potential, they are nothing to

If you do express those, it's more like a prank to get a reaction out of them, or a test even.

Zestial — He's knowledgeable enough to know you're not actually sad or stressed in any way. Rather than comfort you, he'll ask to see if there was anything you wanted from him or if you were trying to get a reaction out of him. The former is a test, and the latter is a prank. So it's either work or fun for you. That's something he can't tell since you have a tendency to be mysterious to the point there was no understanding of what you'd do next.

Carmilla — It would fly off her radar that you were playing and/or testing her. She'll immediately try to consolidate you in any way she can. It can range from her showing off her various new weapons, her upcoming projects, some business plans. Oh, too formal? Well, she can always arrange a nice gathering with her daughter together and just chat together. Surely that would take your mind off of whatever was troubling you. Know that she wouldn't ask what it is, but what she can do about it, like is there someone she needs to torture or kill.

Rosie — Similar to Camilla, but she goes straight to the chatting and gossip tea party. She'll tell you all the latest juicy subjects and cook you some lovely meat (demon of course) and tell you how much Cannibal Town and its residents missed having you around. Why not a party tonight? A feast to brighten your mood. Naturally, she and the rest of the Cannibals will fight and destroy anything that stresses you out or saddens you.

Zeezi — Doesn't have the mind to think it's a prank and takes it all too serious. But at the same time, thinks that her performance in your eyes is not enough in some way. Tries very very hard to change it. If it was a prank, you really need to tell her after you got the laugh you wanted. Or not, doesn't matter cause it turned to a motivation and reason for her to be better so... Win-win.

Alastor — A mixture of Zestial, Carmilla and Rosie. Naturally, to him the first order of business was to make sure it was serious or not, so test or prank, but there's one more. Is there an order for him to follow. If it was a prank, you got him on his best behaviour, malewife level, he'll make your favourites and is at your beak and call no matter what. Even if and when Charlie calls him to do anything, his ears don't hear it, and he's only attentive to you. If it was a test, seriously, he passed with flying colours. Now, it were some indirect way of giving him an order, he got it and will immediately act on it, no questions asked and nothing to consider.

(for the Vees, I'm writing their state as before the events of Hazbin Hotel and this series)

Vox, Valentino, and Velvette — To be fair, they wouldn't even be tested, let alone pranked by you. Because you don't see the point in visiting them when they were that lacking. When they are like that in meetings (Part 4-5), you can imagine and see how they act outside of those meetings and needless to say, you're very very disappointed to the point of not wanting to deal with them. You won't even show them real emotions because you know they don't care nor will they do anything. Compared to the rest of the Overlords, why would you go to them for business or fun?

[swan2swan]

So. In final thoughts:

My goodness, "Hidden Adventure" was a blessing. The actual possibility of experiencing a fatality on the kids made Tarbosaurus feel like a top-tier enemy (as well as several other menaces), and the decisions and arguments they made really added weight to the fact that they survived: obviosuly, making the Right Choices leads to survival, but the interactive nature of the adventure gave a certain respect to the fact that the kids did survive. Even a decision as simple as "Do we leave now, or do we wait to feel it out?" could have life-or-death consequences...and somehow, the kids made the right choice for six whole months.

The premise was so simple but so effective: a disaster struck, the kids are short on food, and they have to go find it. It really taps into the decisions that they would have had to make on the island, and just how far they would ultimately have to go to make it...because with all the main restaurants and fridges smelling like T. res pee on account of her marking her territory, and all off-site food stores rotting after a month or two due to power shortages, relying on nature and dwindling cans of food just isn't enough for six growing teenagers! Of course they would have to take advantage of every wild lead and crazy clue they find in order to survive! None of them know how to farm! They're not ready to hunt and kill dinosaurs to steal their meat, they're not the Animorphs! Yes! That happened! The Animorphs ate a dinosaur to survive one time! It was great! It was weird! It traumatized at least one of them for life! I should finish that series! But the simplicity of its premise made the stakes so believable, that who could help but buy into it?

The characters also shined throughout it, and got to have multiple moments that we didn't see in the main series: Yaz having an apologetic disagreement with Sammy. Ben reassuring Darius that everything will be okay. A choice for Darius to help the group or to help Kenji--and Kenji's reaction to whatever decision is made. Maybe Sammy tries to get Yaz to put a comforting arm around her. Maybe she agrees with Yaz's taste a little too quickly. Ben wants to do what he can for Bumpy; Brooklynn mocks Darius in one moment, then puts all her trust in him the next. The entire story is driven by the kids and their choices, and honestly, that's kind of powerful.

Then there are the dinosaurs, who all appear in ways that feel completely natural. Darius wakes up in a nest, spurring the events of the story, and finds himself stalked by a monstrous beast. A clue from the nest draws the CampFam to the Velociraptor Pen, which Blue still has not fully abandoned; you then decide whether to enter the lair of a far larger, deadlier beast, or to wander into the tunnels and risk getting caught between two titanic rivals. The route to the destination requires following the path of enormous Brachiosaurs, and making it there without being stepped on is not a guarantee. Ultimately, Darius has to figure out how to outwit and elude a ruthless would-be mother of a predator, in an adventure that ends at sunset...but that only means that a new one begins at dawn.

It truly lends itself to the notion that this could have been a serialized show with a new adventure every week, and even though we didn't get that...this felt Close Enough.

I'm going to miss you, Hidden Adventure. May you find a new home somewhere, sometime.

[sadistic-kiss]

House of Alphas Chapter 39: Gambling King

🐺House of Alphas🐺

(Jujutsu Kaisen Omegaverse )

Summary: Waking up in a world that was not your own was problematic enough. Being the villainess was another. However, the possessive alphas might take the cake.

Disclaimer: Angsty but I ain’t Gege

Omega!Reader x Alpha!Sukuna x Alpha!Gojo x Alpha!Toji x Alpha!Nanami x Alpha!Getou

Chapter 39: Gambling King

~

“Alright…” you huddled with your alphas standing on the opposite side of the cave.

The opposing team stretches and flips their weapons cockily, grins to match their attitude.

You released a little scoff looking at your group, “…Tell me about their abilities… everything you know.”

Nanami nodded toward the lead alpha, “Hakari is known as the master of fists. He’s close range.”

A fighter.

“Also…” Gojo began with slight irritation, “…he has a lucky dragon talisman.”

A fighter with a shit ton of luck…

You hummed rubbing your chin. Most fighters had good strength and defense but their resistance couldn't be too high. The problem was that talisman. Any dragon item was top tier. For a moment you second-guess this match. An item such as that was end game. Was Hakari that strong? You did hit him with your shadow blast and he did get a sneak attack in so there was no telling how strong the man was without seeing the little boss bar at the top of your screen followed by boss music.

Perhaps if you could get him surrounded and get a good hit off on him then you could win. But then there were the others. “What about his mate?”

“Gravity.” Sukuna muttered- A sorcerer…“…they can affect the gravitational pull on the targets they mark. Bringing them together or apart.”-so don't get touched.

“And the others?”

“Pawns.”

“Pawns are still soldiers. I need to know what they do.”

“ I got you...” Getou began, “B.J. is good with a bow, Spades is a sword user, Ace axes, and Jack works with javelins. I heard that their team has a hard time against elemental runs so they normally stick to strength matches.”

That would explain why all the gear Hakari sells is normally for raw armor and weapons, they normally don't have good magic items. Cool. A well-rounded team that doesn't do well against magic. You shut your eyes for a moment trying to imagine the battlefield in ‘game’ form. What would you do if you were fighting a team with a strong captain? Defeat the add-ons. That's strat 101.

You opened your eyes with a soft nod, “so…here’s what I'm thinking… If we can get rid of the pawns we can focus on Kirara and then Hakari. I don't think any one of us can go toe to toe with him and actually defeat him. Sukuna if you can dance with him for a little that would be good, shoot at him do whatever just keep him busy, don't exert too much energy though. Toji and Nanami I need you front line handling the big guys. Getou if you can help them with that, that would be great, summon Kirin, the chain lightning can assist in dispatching the meat shields and stunning them. Gojo and I will focus on Kirara and after that, we take care of Hakari… Any questions so far?”

“Yeah, why am I dancing with the opponent.”

“Sukuna... You are faced with someone who is faster than you and super lucky at that.” Which calls for easy crits- no wonder why he took everyone else out with one hit. “…you aren't going to beat him with brute force. I know your strength out matches his but one wrong move and he gains the upper hand. We need to counter luck right now and to do so is to higher our chances when we all attack him. We can lower his speed and guard, but only if we work together. Teamwork makes the dream work.”

“What does my team have to do with my dreams?”

“Uh, we help them come true! Duh!”

“You haven't the slightest idea what my dreams consist of.”

You sighed, “Listen! We gotta work together to defeat our enemies. This is important for any battle we get into. We are strongest as one, and it's especially important to understand when the enemy can outclass you, it doesn't mean they are better it just means you need to think of a counter, a different path. Understood?”

Toji grinned, “I love when you get all commander on us.”

“She’s so cute when she does that.” Gojo agreed.

You felt heat touch your face, “Uh~ well I like strategy games you know. You gotta learn how to make your disadvantages your advantages. Hakari’s team is strong but they also underestimate us. Let’s play them right into our hands.”

“Yes…she makes a good point Sukuna. ” Nanami is also pleased with you.

“Yeah yeah, whatever you say war chief.���

Getou snickered, “Oh you must join Nanami and me in a game of chess, it would be nice to go against an opponent that uses their brain for once.”

“Oi! What does that mean?”

“Nothing my sweet boy.”

You chuckled at Getou and Gojo who was making a pouty face.

-“Heeeeey~!” Hakari called for your attention.

Looking over your shoulder you watched the alpha jump around like he was Goku getting ready for the funnest fight of his life. Kirara on the other hand, looked forever bored like you guys were beneath their time. “Are we ready to do this?!”

“We were born ready!” Gojo yelled back, but truthfully Hakari and his pack only found anything your guys said or did amusing. Not even Sukuna’s glarey eyes were doing anything. It was like you were little pups trying to beat the elders.

You must gain your respect! “Hmph! Let’s wipe the battlefield with them.”

“Agreed.”

Your team spread out to get into position, you were in the center, Toji and Nanami took the front line, Sukuna and Gojo were to the left and right, and Getou was beside you.

Hakari and his pack hollered as they got excited.

“FINALLY”!

“Thought you guys were getting cold paws hm~!”

You kept your mind on the prize, ignoring the taunting words.

“I’m going to fuck them up…” Sukuna growled under his breath.

It was obvious their words were irritating your alphas. Especially so when…Hakari pointed a finger toward you, a wide grin on his face, “You're mine princess.”

What- he’s targeting you.

Toji stepped in the way, blocking you with his body, “Keep your filthy hands away from her.”

“I’m going to rip his arms off.”

Shit…

...

~

~Read More~

[triplenoided]

Alright, tell us everything we need to know about Vrekos and Dvorik.

dvorik is a tiny little pain in the ass, a rustblood with the typical telekinetic powers and spiritual communication abilities. he likes abrasive music (favorite artist is Death Grubs) both as its fitting to his abrasive personality and he uses out to drown out the pestering voices of the dead. his lusus is a mutated anthropomorphic beast that looks like a big malnourished gnome that has two heads, sets of arms, and three legs, called two-face by everyone. his lusus frequently swaps between displaying a gentle paternal personality and a harsh, relentlessly punishing one. his lusus, when in asshole mode, gouged out dvorik’s eye when he was 9 sweeps, leaving him a cyclops with a nasty scar. dvorik often times ponders killing twoface but is hesitant due to his connection with the gentler side of the beast. dvorik lives in a large clearing/meadow in a densely forested island called ayubov. he makes some money and passes most of his time by slaying beasts and butchering them in his meat shack, smoking and curing and drying the meat for consumption and to trade/sell. he has a close connection with rabbits (hop/lopbeasts) and his best friend is the spirit of a dead rabbit named Krol. his other main hobby is sculpting small vessels and rabbit sculptures out of clay, using a kiln in his meatshack. he weaves baskets at times. dvorik is aggressive and antagonizing to everyone he comes across at first, and can take a while to open up to others as he fears vulnerability. he is a hairy and aggressive little motherfucker and his voice claim is christopher from the sopranos. dvoriks god tier if it ever came to it would be seer of doom.

vrekos, on the other hand, is a violet seadweller with a mutation giving him white hair. he is a trans man and performed his own top surgery due to his very high pain tolerance. vrekos has spent most of his life isolated in the harsh desert climate of Thaneria, a continent near ayubov. he lived by an oasis with his bizarre and overbearing lusus, who is sort of a large bat/shark hybrid. vrekos was unable to leave his hive for most of his life because of the controlling nature of his custodian. he spent most of his time reading and surfing forum boards to get into debates with other users over moral dilemmas and such. he is a bit of an edgelord. his complete isolation and unstable home environment left him initially confused about emotions and how to tell what he was feeling at any given time. his lusus would leave to kill lusii and bring them back for vrekos to eat. this situation became more dire when the lusus started killing other trolls and forcing vrekos to eat them.

dvorik and vrekos met over trollian, and initially did not care for each other. dvorik found vrekos obnoxious as vrekos liked to play mind games of asking dvorik hypotheticals surrounding topics of cannibalism and “what would you do…” type scenarios. dvorik referred to him as a “sick fuck”. when dvorik used his spiritual manipulation to hijack a spirit inside vrekos’ hive and take a look at him (as he tends to do to freak out others for his entertainment) he became flustered by the violet’s appearance, and developed a fascination for him. the two continued talking and eventually softened up to each other, leading to the two sharing red feelings towards each other. they flirted and beat around the bush for a while.

when vrekos’ lusus began bringing him dead troll and forcing vrekos to engage in cannibalism, vrekos and some of the others hatched a plan that vrekos needed to escape. dvorik aggressively took charge of this initiative, fearing for vrekos’ safety and wishing to free him. the rescue mission was led by dvorik and his kismesis auster legins, who is a purpleblood with very high strength abilities. dvorik frequently bickered with his rival, auster, over the mission, insisting he was in charge of it all. eventually dvorik, auster, and a few others (reglai perrii, metzli apomah, leivai attihn, and paziiz gonmak) left for thaneria to rescue vrekos. the group ended up slaying the lusus. auster and a couple others got some good blows in, limiting the beasts mobility. dvorik then snapped after seeing vrekos get hurt and nearly killed himself, pushing his abilities as far as he could. he ended up lifting the beast in the air and ripping it in half with psionics. after the beast was slain, the group split up to return to their respective hives.

dvorik and vrekos ended up taking reglai perrii, a gold blood who’s psionics had exploded during the altercation and nearly killed it, back to its hive. reglai recharged with its lusus as vrekos and dvorik stayed in reglai’s respiteblock. the two fags hadn’t had a chance to really talk or discuss where they stood romantically— or interact in person much at all — until this point. after a while of awkward tension, dvorik confessed to vrekos his red feelings and to the surprise of no one, they were reciprocated. the two shared a kiss and fell asleep holding each other.

vrekos and dvorik established their quadrant and after they assured reglai was okay and recovering well, they returned together to dvorik’s hive, where vrekos would now be living for the time being. vrekos spends much of his time reading and analyzing an old water damaged journal he found in his old hive (belonging to his ancestor, which he doesn’t know), and updating his blogs containing his findings online. dvorik spends most days out in the meatshack preparing food for the two and goods to trade.

the two live on a smaller planet that was claimed by the alternian navy called ichorav-13. it has three moons. i will answer any questions you have.

[theboxleitnerarchive]

What food pairs well with Grilled Cheese

Well… it depends on what you want.

Im guessing that you mean inside the sandwich, because I can’t come up with any ideas for side dishes lol.

I think that a great starting point is adding the ingredients you would normally add to a pizza (I’m not sure how to feel about pineapple pizza though…), that instantly upgrades any plain old grilled cheese sandwich.

Another possibility is adding meat to it, for example shredded meat is top tier in my opinion.

I should make shredded meat more often… but it takes so long to cook, maybe I should get a pressured cooker… orrr I could figure out a more fun way to cook it heheheheh.

Sorry, got off track there! Lastly, if you want to keep the classic grilled cheese formula you can just add seasoning to the cheese (or maybe try different types of bread, such as the ones that come pre-seasoned) like oregano, garlic powder, pepper…

Any of these options are instantly better (and cooler) if you use nuclear fission to grill the sandwich, it always gives you the perfect consistency hehe.

Hmm, all this food talk made me hungry, I should make myself a grilled sandwich right now, thanks for the idea anon.

Re-reading this has made me realize how much I actually talk wow.

[boytumms]

Okay so, I’ve had this one fantasy for a long time (probably since my sexual awakening lol) and it’s a double whammy of stuffing and pregnancy. A very vain person is kidnapped and told that the only way to leave is to clear the massive dining table of all the food on it.

They protest at first, they have an intense and strict diet and exercise regime and the food on the table is all fatty meats and buttery sides and carbs and sugary desserts. But their captor persists, giving them water spiked with appetite stimulants, and eventually they relent and try a bite. They’re so hungry at this point that they start gorging themselves, and even when they start to be in pain and really want to stop eating, they can’t. It’s like their body has a mind of its own as they eventually make their way through all of the food.

By the end their stomach is red and sore, they’re rubbing it desperately to try and find some relief but it’s like every available inch of space is taken up. Eventually, their captor enters the room and taunts them with how much weight they’ll gain because of this binge and the vain person is absolutely horrified. Then, the captor gives them an alternate option. Instead of gaining that weight, they can become pregnant with a child that is the equivalent weight. Best of all, they’ll give birth within the week and then they can just lose the leftover baby weight.

The vain person agrees immediately. They know pregnancy won’t be great for their figure but it’s better than having to work off fat. And how much could one stuffing like this cause? Five, at worst ten pounds? Easier to birth than exercise away. What they don’t realize is that the amount of food they ate was the equivalent of 30 pounds of weight gain and they are going to give birth to a toddler sized child in a week.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, stuffing + pregnancy is so top tier and they need to be combined more often!!!

What if, to make it worse for the poor guy, he agrees to the pregnancy thinking that the baby will replace the food he just ate, but instead, he get's impregnated on top of his fully stuffed stomach. While he wont gain the weight from the food, it's still in his stomach and has to be digested while the baby grows in his belly at the same time. Since he was forced to eat so much, it takes ages for his gut to process the food, so while he's still so overly stuffed, his tummy continues to swell even bigger with the huge soon to be 30 pound baby.

In a matter of days his belly doubles in size, becoming so large and heavy that he can barely stand on his own two feet anymore. The baby's growth is only aided by the copious amounts of nutrients from the food, so it grows big and strong extremely fast. It kicks and punches, twisting and turning in the poor boy's tummy, making him feel sick as his stomach cramps from the food it's still trying to work through. He spends his time trying to rub and sooth his restless belly, whimpering and trying to keep the baby calm to stop it from beating his tender tummy.

By the end of the week he's absolutely exhausted. His mountain of a tummy is so big it pins him to the ground, skin red and tight, so full now he can't even rub the painfully taut surface anymore. His massive toddler sized baby rolls and kicks within him, tenting the too tight skin and making him cry out in pain. Each movement threatens to rip through the paper thin skin of his swollen mound, and all he can do is clutch his bloated sides and pray his belly holds together.

The week is finally up and his captor excitedly waits for his labor to begin. After 7 days of torturous agony, the boy will finally be free, that is if he can survive giving birth to a gigantic 30 pound baby. His contractions start and his baby squirms inside him, eager to be born, but it still takes hours for his waters to finally break. By the time they do, he's already moaning and screaming in pain. He throws his head back in agony as the pressure heightens to the point he thinks he's really going to pop, when instead he feels something burst inside and a rush of hot fluid soaking his trembling thighs.

His captor laughs at him as he shakes and thrashes, arching his back and throwing his contracting belly into the air. He feels his captor place his rough hands on his squirming tummy, rubbing and squeezing his sides and making him choke out a garbled scream. Despite his weak pushes, the baby inches down towards his ass like it's trying to crawl out on its own. His canal stretches around the massive head, it's so big it feels like it's the size of a small melon.

Hours of pushing later it reaches his hole and begins to ram against the tight ring of muscle. The boy's voice is ragged from screaming, but he can't help by let out a torn cry as the baby spreads him wide. Slowly the head begins to emerge, stretching him further and further until he feels the skin begin to tear. He kicks and thrashes in pain, begging his captor to help him, but they laugh and tell him there's nothing they can do even if they wanted to help, which they don't.

The baby's head comes to a crown, and to the exhausted boy's horror and dismay, comes to a complete halt. He pushes and strains as hard as he can against the pain, but it's useless. His baby is stuck stretching him at it's widest point and he simply doesn't have the strength to force it to move. wailing in despair, he thrashes back and forth, trying to spread his trembling legs wider, clutching at his sweaty deformed belly, anything to get the head unstuck. Nothing works, and he falls back panting and moaning.

His eyes flutter as his vision blurs. He's too tired to push anymore and his head rolls back on the floor, letting the contractions rip through his body with his mouth hanging open in a silent scream of pain. Suddenly, his body jerks and his belly jumps. His eyes widen and his hands fly to his tummy, crying out as it jerks again. He looks down at his quivering belly in fear, watching in horror as it jerks over and over, pulling his body with it with each lurch. A sudden crack and he weakly cries out, feeling a rib break.

He realizes what's happening, his baby is trying to kick its way out of his belly. It's strong arms and legs push and kick at his insides, and cracking his ribs in the process. Each kick sends his mind spiraling with pain, arms wrapped around his tummy as far as he can reach in a desperate attempt to stop it's movements. He sobs and babbles incoherently as his baby forces its way out of his body, beating his insides to a pulp and tearing its way through his entrance.

With one last kick, the head bursts through his hole along side a gush of blood and fluid. His body convulses as the baby wriggles and writhes the rest of it's body out, leaving him gasping and wheezing, no longer able to scream anymore. The baby slides out between his legs and he hears it take its first breath and begin to cry. It's a miracle he's somehow survived giving birth to a baby the size of a two year old.

Standing over the boy, his captor picks up the crying baby. They look down at him and smirk, lifting their boot over his still swollen tummy and placing it right over his stretched out belly button. The boy seems unresponsive at first touch, but his captor drives their heel deep into the bloated, puffy flesh of his tender belly, immediately eliciting one last gargled shriek from the boy. Fluid spurts from his torn hole as the heel twists and digs into the poor boy's tummy, forcing the placenta out with a sick splatter onto the messy floor. His eyes roll back in his head and his tongue lolls out the side of his mouth, vision finally fading to black as his mind finally blacks out.

He should have just gained the 30 pounds