#Legion Brewing

[boozedancing]

Legion Brewing Juicy Jay Double IPA Review

We’re headed to #Charlotte, NC for a taste of #JuicyJay Double #IPA by @LegionBrewing. Click the link to hear our many thoughts about this delicious beer. #beer #craftbeer #beerreview

It’s been quite a few months since we’ve dipped our toes into the IPA waters. Thanks to a little care package from Charlotte, North Carolina’s Legion Brewing Company, we’re diving head first into a bigger, badder version of their flagship IPA which they call Juicy Jay. Here’s a bit of information about the standard issue Juicy Jay: Our interpretation of an “East Coast IPA” focuses on hop flavor…

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#A Tasting at the Murder Table #Beer #Beer review #Booze Dancing TV #Craft Beer #IPA #Legion Brewing #Review #Reviews

[wizardandworms]

happy julie jmonday!

#dbd #the legion #dbd legion #julie legion #julie kostenko #my art #art #dbd fanart #this one has been brewing for a while

[bruisedconscience]

WILL THE FOLLOWING SPY KIDS PLS REPORT TO THE LATENT PSYCHIC ABILITIES SEMINAR… ok… hear me out but….

Like father like son, instructor for the young and gifted?

#[ ohhhh an au… it is brewing ] #note to self #legion fx #[ kris liveblogs spy kids 2 ] #ooc #study: david

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: eek not a request but an idea that wouldn't leave me alone! thus... we embark on a mulan-esque story that i hope u will enjoy <3 big thank you's to @strangerstilinski who listened and helped immensely as i whittled a hunky idea down to a plot

word count: 2.9k

synopsis: Someone in the Illryians Mountains has been making a name for themselves— a bastard like Azriel and his brothers, ruffling the feathers of a war camp's Lords. But they seem to have no loyalty to the fighting legion, or much to anyone for that matter. fem!reader

— CHAPTER ONE :: STRANGERS

Frost was everywhere.

Despite all the eerie memories that tainted them, the Illyrian Mountains were hauntingly beautiful, even Azriel could admit that.

Pine trees stretched up tall, their timber trunks hidden beneath the snow-leaden branches. It was a sea of swirling frost. Snowflakes eddied down from the frozen sky, a soft blanket of white draped across the landscape.

He was sure that some, maybe the likes of Feyre and her artist's eye, could see that beauty easier than he could.

Beautiful, Azriel thought bitterly, but fucking freezing.

Normally, dealing with the likes of the war camps that riddled these mountains was left to Cassian. He had that raucous, fiery way about him that was far better suited to it. Enough pride to challenge the warriors and more than enough eager attitude to back his taunts if need be.

But Cassian was currently very much occupied— and highly unsuited to crack the whip against some rowdy Illyrians in his current state.

Azriel couldn't help the smile at the thought of when he'd last seen his brother.

Freshly mated Cassian looked as though he had tiny hearts circling around his head at all times. He resembled a puppy following his nose, always that wicked grin on his face as he trailed after Nesta. His adoration was impossible to miss.

Cassian had more than earned the time off. He deserved to celebrate properly, to have a couple weeks with no badgering worries, with no bickering Illyrian warriors to deal with (beyond his usual two).

So, as a mating gift to his brother —and partially to escape a house filled with intolerably mated couples— Azriel had taken over his duty temporarily. To oversee the war camps he detested so much.

Today, he was to investigate the rumoured stirrings amongst the camps and assess the level of threat it posed. More often than not, these sorts of stirrings were simply whispers of rebellion but nothing more.

There was an easy fix; a visit from one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history, or even from Rhys himself. It always made the Illyrians a little nervous and those whispers of a coup would sweep away with the wind in a matter of time.

This time, however, the network of spies that operated under Azriel had not come back spinning such rumours.

Instead, there was talk of Lords with ruffled feathers. Lords with bruised egos due to a single bastard warrior, rising in the ranks and not playing by the rules.

The familiarity of the situation was almost too ironic, Azriel thought. He had half a mind to tell Rhys what he had learned and leave them to it. Cauldron knew these brutal camps needed a bastard to challenge their ways from time to time.

But still, there was always the potential for such a warrior to pose a threat in the future. Azriel could not leave a possible danger to brew. No stone left unturned.

The snow beneath his boots was beginning to melt.

He had been standing in the cold and peering up at the war camp ahead, barely seen through the heavy snow falling, for too long now. Snow was gathering on his wings, tendrils of ice shooting through their sensitive membrane. Find the bastard.

Shaking off the snow, he began to walk.

—

Gods forsaken males and their egos.

The bone in your forearm ached, having taken the brunt of your initial fall in the mud. It's covered in it too, the muck of the ground that always seemed to linger. Always a layer of dirt beneath your fingernails. Truly, one of the many incredible appeals of the Illyrian mountains was never actually being clean.

You'd probably hate it more— if it didn't do such a good job of masking unwanted scents.

But right now with a jagged cut that tears up your left arm, all the way to the elbow, you're cursing the mud. It's likely festering with uncountable grim diseases. You'll have to flush the wound to properly clean it before it begins to heal.

That means water. That means energy that you don't particularly feel like summoning to fetch it. You cast your glance to the window.

Outside, the Mother's Kiss howls loudly.

The southerly chilled wind current that Illyrians don such a precious name is quite fitting for their backward ways — to expect a kiss from your mother to have such a sting on the face.

Tonight, the current seems particularly fierce. The windows of your shelter rattle in warning. A storm had blown through camp rather unexpectedly and you'd caught the worst of it, tangled up in a snarling fest against Brudam.

Brudam, who is responsible for the current state of your arm. Your lip curls at the mere thought of the arrogant male. Your wings bunch up tightly and you huff quietly to nobody.

He'd caught wind of the broth you had made that had filled the stomach of three ravenous bastards in the camp. It had been just enough to keep them on their feet. Tonight, you know that one hot meal might very well be the difference that helps them survive the night.

But Illyrians are a tough breed— and they don't take kindly to people giving handouts, as Brudam had put it.

You preferred the term leveling the playing field.

As if Brudam and his Lord father had ever experienced to ache of starvation. Ever had to sleep in the snow with nothing but their own wings for warmth against a blizzard.

Another deep pain twinges in your arm and you hiss, drawn out of your thoughts. If you have to pick your wins, you can at least admit you're glad he had only found out about the broth— and had seemed none the wiser to the healing tonics you were slipping the freshly-clipped girls.

It ached to see them and their quivering wings. The way the muscles in their backs buckled when they tried to spread their wings, a cut too deep into the wrong nerve. It ached to see it, yes, but beneath that pain was an ocean of bitter and furious fire.

But your righteous anger would not help these girls.

You were not the most proficient healer and the tonics you were attempting... it was hard to say if they would make any difference in saving any females' wings.

You were gathering knowledge as best you could though, scraping together herbs that scarcely grew in the frozen climate. It was a poor imitation of something that might work.

Whether it would be enough... that was up to the Mother. But you had to try.

You assess the wound on your arm once more, wondering about the reserve of water you had in your small hut— whether you could both clean your wound and have enough to hydrate.

Another glance out at the wintry snowscape outside. You grimaced. If you didn't, you would have to bear the blistering chill of the Mother's Kiss to get more.

Weariness weighs on your bones. You hadn't been prepared for the fight, hence your almost embarrassing injury, and it drained you more than you expected.

You stand with a sigh and drag your feet toward the tiny cauldron filled with melted snow collected earlier in the day. It hangs over the fireplace, the embers within long since snuffed out. Your motion stirs them up.

For a moment, you stare into the fireplace. The water in the cauldron shimmers. The shelter creaks around you, bending in the wind.

It's covered in soot, marred by the flames that usually lick it from beneath it. The lip of it, however, is still clean enough to see your own reflection. You peer into it.

And in that reflection, you find a tall figure with massive wings looming above their shoulders standing behind you.

Your heart spasms in shock and you have to swallow your gasp of surprise. Your eyes dart up, frantically hunting for a weapon. You grab the closest object you can, your hand closing around a kitchen fork. And before they get the chance, you twist and lunge, arm raised.

The floorboards groan as your boots slam into them, darting forward to attack. But the male dodges you easily, your strike passing through empty air.

You don't stop, turning and striking for him once again. The male sways back again easily to avoid your swing and you scowl.

Quickly feigning one way, you watch as his hands, weaponless, move to defend his gut — and you change direction, fast. Neck exposed, you snarl as you sink the fork deep into his shoulder.

The male hisses in pain.

You falter for a moment at the noise but it's a mistake. His hands move so fast you barely see them, gripping your wrist that holds the fork and twisting it down to the ground, immobilising you from using it.

You snarl again and tug against him fruitlessly. A swell of panic begins to rise within you as you tug again, again, again. His hold doesn't falter.

"Stop," The male commands you quietly.

This time when you tug, he opens his fingers and you fly back onto your ass, wings flaring out a moment too late to catch yourself.

You expect him to trudge forward, to beat an attack down on you now that you're less defended, but he doesn't move from his spot.

In fact, you realise as you stare at him, cheat heaving, he hasn't attacked you at all.

His weapons, which there are many of them, stay strapped to his side, glittering against the snow's reflected light. You spot the siphon on his hand, a churning sapphire colour — and clock the matching one on his other hand.

This was not just any Illyrian warrior in your home.

Faintly, your panic subsides as you realise that if this male meant to hurt you —to kill you— he very well could have done so by now.

You let your eyes trail up, taking in the face so hidden in shadow, and recognize that the darkness swirling around him is not ordinary shadow.

The revelation has you sitting up a bit straighter, the bindings around your chest pulling tight. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

What do you say to one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history —one who served on Rhysand's inner circle, friend of the High Lord of the Night Court— when you've just stabbed him with a fork?

As if your thought had reminded him, the male —Azriel, you know his name to be— shifts and reaches for the utensil still sticking out of his shoulder. He yanks it out without a noise of complaint.

Then he says, "Considering your choice of weapon, it's no surprise Brudam cut up your arm."

You scowl at him but at a closer look, you can see that his expression isn't condescending. No, with his raised brows, he almost looks... impressed.

"I wasn't expecting visitors." You bite back defensively.

Azriel's eyes dance with amusement. He throws the fork onto your table with a clatter. "That's how you greet visitors?"

"Uninvited ones, yes."

His amusement fades, the planes of his face shadowed and yet still handsome. Like most Illyrians, there's this incomprehensible sense of elegance to him, an alluring pull tied to his very demeanor.

But looking at him now, even in the dimness of your shelter, you could see Azriel went beyond to type of beauty that usual Illyrians had. An unparalleled grace, an unmatched Adonis.

He is the most beautiful male you had ever seen—and you had just stabbed him with a fork.

"Sorry," You mutter eventually when he doesn't say anything.

You shift onto your knees to stand, your hand coming to cup beneath your elbow— the ache of the injury had begun to bleed back in now that you weren't focused on fighting off an intruder.

"You're forgiven." He says. You can see lightly, through the dimming light, the faint blood on his neck you've caused.

"You fight well," He comments, with the air of a compliment. Something like amusement is in his eyes when he says, "Even with your unusual choice of weapon."

You glare at him as you climb to your feet and all but collapse into a chair. You don't even have another to offer to him. Buried beneath your leathers, your chest aches in pain — a reminder that it's been bound for far too long. You ignore it and tilt your chin towards him.

"Why are you here?"

You're actually sure that even if you offered Azriel a chair he wouldn't take it, given how stiffly he stands before you. He takes a moment to answer, his gaze flitting around the small room you both stand in. Calculating, categorizing.

"There were rumours of a warrior turning up trouble here."

He fixes his hazel-eyed gaze on you. You steel yourself beneath it. "A couple days in your camp and it became clear who the outlier was."

A couple days? For some reason, you can't believe that he's been surveying this place without detection from anyone. Another glance at his shadows, the dark masses that hang around his shoulders, and you can believe it a little more.

Besides, it's hardly as though the Lords would deign to tell a bastard like you anything important.

You clench your jaw but don't say anything.

"Brudam mentioned you feeding some warriors." Azriel continues, his tone unreadable. Though something, you couldn't tell what, glittered in his eyes. "Not very in the spirit of Illyrians."

You scowl at him again. Even if he had once faced these conditions before, you wondered if his time away, spent Cauldron knows where, had softened his memory.

"It's not against any law."

"No, it isn't," Azriel says. His eyes narrow. "But making healing tonics without a Healer's jurisdiction and selling them to young females is."

Your heart stops for just a moment. How could he know that? The last batch you had dropped off had been over a month ago.

Without thinking you snarl back, "I'm not selling them, you prick."

Something blooms on Azriel's face, surprise and a hint of smugness.

Your mouth snaps shut as you realise what you've done. You curse yourself. Slumping back in your chair, your wings sag with you and you let them droop onto the floor, uncaring. He could very well be here to kill you, given the knowledge of what you had just admitted.

For a long moment, there's just silence.

You stare at the floor and wonder which version of the High Lord is true; the Court of Nightmares whose power ripples through these camps and keeps them in line. Or the rumours of a softer side, a dreamer.

You wonder, more importantly, which of those this male before you is friends with.

Something in the floor creaks when Azriel finally moves. He crosses the room swiftly to the fireplace and gathers two logs from the stack of firewood beside it, tossing them onto the pile of ash.

You watch, perturbed, as he hunches over the fireplace for a quiet minute— and when he pulls back, a small flame is burning on the wood. It dances on the log, entrancing and amber-coloured.

Heat begins to fill the room. You pick your wings up and stretch them towards it, grateful for how they begin to warm. You hadn't quite realised the extent of your chill until right now.

It's such a kindness that hasn't been shown to you in many years. Surprise and silent gratitude bloom in your chest.

Azriel turns back to face you. You school your surprise away.

"What's your name?" He asks, his voice gruff.

It's been a while since anyone asked that either. Bastard. Mongrel. Imposter. There are a thousand other words that have become your name whilst growing up here.

You can't tell him your name. In the same way you can't tell anyone here your real name without revealing too much about yourself.

So you shorten it and tell him that instead.

Azriel nods. Doesn't repeat it, doesn't blink at your hesitance. Instead, he just says, "Like I said, you fight well. You could be better though."

You frown at the backhanded compliment, something in you sneering at the jab at your fighting skills. Worse, you know he's right.

If you had weapons suited to your size, exercises that focused on your agility more than your brute strength... There's a good reason you have to work twice as hard as every other warrior in camp.

Azriel looks at your arm, no longer bleeding and beginning to stitch itself up. Shit, you really need to clean that first.

"Clean that and get a good night's rest." He orders, not meanly. Then he crosses the space of your shelter in a few paces of his long legs, heading for the door.

"You—" The question dares to come out of you. "You're not going to turn me in?"

Azriel pauses, one hand, one scarred hand you can now see with the fire going, on the door. So, the rumours of that were true.

"No," He says lowly. He sees you staring, and as if on command, the shadows swirling around his shoulders dart down to cover his hands. They and the doorknob in his hand disappear from sight completely.

You evade your eyes back up to his hauntingly beautiful face. His expression is stony, unreadable. He stares at you for a long moment, the dancing fire reflected in his hazel eyes.

"I'm going to train you."

[NEXT PART: ALLIES]

#ahhhh!!! i'm very excited for this one!! #pray i can do it justice !! #azriel #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel fic

[wilbursoot-updates]

Lovejoy are your new indie-punk obsession

Lovejoy is in this article!

There’s an undeniable link between Lovejoy and the internet, not only because the band’s reputation and success were built digitally, but due to the platform that frontman Will Gold had built from his streaming days. There, Gold developed a devoted fanbase and gained the trust and admiration of people who enjoyed who he was as a person. Gold then started premiering his original solo work on his Twitch channel, dipping his toes into the music scene while remaining afloat in his streaming career. Eventually, he founded Lovejoy.

But Lovejoy are so much more than Gold and his Twitch platform — it’s a combination of people and different tastes in music, perspectives, and understandings. Each member plays a pivotal role in the band, outside of playing instruments. “We’re all pooling different batches of influences. None of us like the same music,” bassist Ash Kabosu explains. The hardcore influence comes from Kabosu and drummer Mark Boardman and their desire for “more moshing” at their shows, whereas the love of funk-pop stems from Gold and lead guitarist Joe Goldsmith, mixed with Gold’s mutual adoration for Arctic Monkeys from an early age. The band’s fun, friendly relationship with each other bleeds into the one they have with their fanbase.

It was the middle of the pandemic, and while the streets were empty, and the news played distantly in the background, something big was brewing in the U.K. During those quiet days, Lovejoy, a Brighton-based outfit, would emerge. With an intoxicating sound that channels alt-rockers Arctic Monkeys and the Killers, Lovejoy also incorporate elements of hardcore music throughout their tracks. In the band’s words, they “find the sounds that we like and then elevate those ideas.”  

Playing under pseudonyms in undisclosed venues and working furiously in studios, they became Lovejoy. Gold and Goldsmith founded the band after meeting in another folk group. Kabosu was later recruited in a Smashburger, and Boardman was hired on Fiverr, before being asked to officially join. The chemistry was immediate, Kabosu explains, “The very first day all four of us were in one place was when we were recording [debut EP] Are You Alright?” Their sense of humor was identical, and they were on the same wavelength. With Gold’s memorable past as a streamer and an already dedicated legion of fans, Lovejoy quickly rose from the chaos of the pandemic. 

After their experimentation with different pseudonyms, this year showcased their first shows as Lovejoy. With a U.K. tour during March and an impressive festival run from all over Europe to the US, totaling over 15 individual festivals, earlier this year, the band are gearing up to finish the year off with an EU/U.K. tour featuring Good Kid, an indie-rock band from Toronto. The tour has already sold out — and Lovejoy haven’t even released an album yet. “Hold your breath. It’ll be worth the wait,” Gold insists.

The excitement over this quartet is palpable, as their addictive rock blend consists of double-kick drums, chugging basslines, and smooth melodies. While Lovejoy are neither technically hardcore nor punk, they tap into heavier techniques due to Kabosu and Boardman’s interests in bands like Linkin Park and Bring Me The Horizon. Kabous found Linkin Park as a kid and was “mindblown,” “My friend Jamie had just gone on holiday to the States, and he came back, and he was losing his mind over this CD that he and his dad had bought. It was Linkin Park’s Hybrid Theory.” And has been influenced ever since.

Their latest EP, Wake Up & It’s Over, showcases a blend of upbeat, angsty emo and emotional indie-rock tracks. “It’s not intentional, and it’s not specific,” Kabosu remarks about the blend of genres. The first track on the record, “Portrait of a Blank Slate,” was originally written by Gold as a way to distract people from COVID-19 and other recent disasters. “I tend to write about what I’m feeling, and what I know. I think life is just poetry happening. All around, I see it more as a reflection,” he says. The moody, dark bass introduction to the song sets up for the four-to-the-floor kick drum, riding the high hats, and intense cymbal thrashing in their chorus. “Call Me What You Like” discusses the eggshells in the beginning stages of a relationship, where both are unsure of their emotional commitment. With Gold’s poetic songwriting, painting pictures and imagery to allude to the true meaning of his words, the tracks show that Lovejoy have an ear for good melodies. “I think it’s just stuff that’s innate in us,” Kabosu elaborates. “Because it’s all that some of us listen to on a day-by-day basis.”

Yet, only two months before the release of Wake Up & It’s Over, Lovejoy released a record under the alias Anvil Cat. The EP, which featured rerecordings of songs off 2021’s Are You Alright?, was a forewarning, juxtaposing, the quiet, delicate nature of Anvil Cat’s EP and the crash and bang of their upcoming project. “At the time, we were about to release our third EP,” Kabosu explains. “We were building anticipation for that and getting people excited, teasing bits here and there. I felt like it would be a weird step to drop an acoustic EP.” But it was beyond just that acoustic EP — it’s for the future. “It’s nice for us to have this additional moniker, which is a separate entity, where if we wanted to try something a little bit different or make acoustic songs, we can put it over there,” he adds.

The relationship the band held with their fans was once considered unheard of. Consistently reaching out and engaging with their fanbase, realizing the power of their fanbase’s “clever” and “quick” intelligence and passion, and rewarding them with puzzles and QR codes — it’s all there if the fans choose. Anvil Cat’s acoustic EP is just an extension of that. “It’s for the people who are die-hard fans and really want to hear everything we do. It’s there for them,” Kabosu says. In modern times, that kind of friendly, open relationship between artists and their fans is common — something that was unachievable 20 years ago.

With a dedicated legion of fans already stacked in Lovejoy’s corner, developing during the midst of the pandemic, they’re barreling toward a future full of investigative fan interactions and shows around the world. COVID tested the band, and now, the positive outcome is touring the world.

#wilbur soot #lovejoy #ash kabosu #mark boardman #joe goldsmith #articles

[huramuna]

a maid's folly - chapter 1.

dark aemond x maid ofc minor aemond x floris baratheon work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

previous | next

summary: a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

word count: 2k

i got a few requests for dark aemond x maid / servant / lowborn so here is my amalgamation of all of those! this will be a mini series!

warnings: smut (eventually, will add further tags on chapters with smut), power imbalance, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

guilded lily - cults • christmas kids - roar

It was an eve of spring, a gentle breeze whistling through the corridors of the Red Keep. A particularly strong gust rippled the bandanna atop the maid’s head– she slapped a hand to the crown of her skull, pulling it taut once more.

She shouldn’t be getting knocked over by a mere gust of wind– in the South, no less. The newly appointed maid was a young girl of nineteen name-days passed. She was known by Rosemary; Rosemary Stone. Originally from the Vale, more specifically, she was raised in the Eyrie. Her mother was a handmaiden to Lady Jeyne Arryn– the two women were particularly close and Jeyne took Rosemary under her wing as if she were her own after her mother passed. Rosemary knew there had been a deep love between her lowborn mother and the Lady of the Vale.

Rosemary’s mother spoke little of her father, if at all– she had heard rumors swirling around the Eyrie that it was a bannerman of Lady Jeyne’s, but she paid no mind to it, it didn’t matter to her either way. She was raised as well as a bastard could be and received much love from Lady Jeyne and her mother.

“Rosemary, you must listen to me, my dear,” Lady Jeyne had said just a few moons prior, “The world is changing. You’ve grown in the safety of the Vale, but I fear that… you are unprepared for your future. You’re a young girl, beautiful and you could become something one day, something beyond your name,” she paused, taking Rosemary’s hand in her own, “You must leave the Vale.” 

Rosemary blinked, recoiling slightly as if she’d been hit with a physical blow, “W-what? What do you mean, ‘leave the Vale’?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly, “All I know is the Eyrie— all I know is you, all I know is… is…” she sniffled, clenching on Jeyne’s hand tightly before letting go. 

Jeyne let out a small sigh, getting a bit closer to her, their knees touching, “My sweet girl— that is exactly my point. I… cannot in good conscience let you live out the rest of your life here. You’re young, you have no titles, no land,” she paused, “No blood relatives keeping you here— you may see your bastardry as a hindrance and in some ways, it may be— but you have more freedom than anyone else in this Keep. More than I have, more than your mother had.”

The girl wiped the tears now pooling at her lashes, “I don’t wish to go— I don’t know anyone, and if… if I do, where would I go?” 

Lady Arryn took Rosemary’s hands in her own once more, rubbing small circles on them in a soothing manner, “I’ve been corresponding with King’s Landing— I believe you may be a good fit in the Red Keep, mayhaps as a handmaiden or a servant. I will make the necessary arrangements,” she let out a small sigh, “Between you and I— I’ve heard that King isn’t well, and that it is the Hightowers who sit the Iron Throne now. The Vale is impregnable— but it is also where information goes to die. I shan’t be uninformed, up here in the Eyrie with none the wiser if a war is brewing right under our noses— I wish for you to send me letters of anything you deem noteworthy. We are safe from legions of soldiers but we are nothing against dragons— Maegor saw to that.”

Rosemary’s brow furrowed, “You wish for me to… spy?” 

“In a way— think of it as your secondary goal,” Jeyne hummed, “Your priority is socializing, getting acquainted with other people and mayhaps finding a nice lover or two along the way, hm? You shan’t find any of those in the Eyrie, dear.”

The girl cracked a smile, albeit a small one. Slowly, she nodded. She didn’t wish to disappoint Jeyne. In a way, she was another mother to her, and she felt a strong desire to please her. 

But she still felt a deep pit in her stomach— she didn’t know what to expect in King’s Landing.

Rosemary was pulled from her reverie by a tap on her shoulder. It was Magelle, one of the older serving ladies. 

“Wake up, girl,” she whispered in a harsh tone, “Take this tray to the prince.” the older woman shoved a silver platter of hot water and tea leaves at her.

“The… prince— y-yes, the prince,” Rosemary stumbled, “Which one?”

Magelle rolled her eyes, “Do ye see wine on this tray? I told ye— the older prince only drinks wine. I’ll be rolling in my grave when that boy asks for tea. This is for the younger prince, Aemond. Remember what I told ye— no eye contact, especially with the second son. Ain’t a pretty sight none anyhow. Now get goin’.” she huffed, swatting the younger maid on the bottom, practically spurring her into action like a horse. 

Rosemary stumbled through the halls with the tray, getting lost a few times— what was the point of all of these damnable hallways? 

Eventually, she found her way to Maegor’s Holdfast, where the royal apartments were. She counted, Aemond’s chambers were third from last.

A gentle knock on the door was heard as she walked up to it. Her hand was shaking ever so slightly as she adjusted the hood of her kerchief , pushing up a single, errant hair. The teacups rattled on the tray she was balancing with her other hand. She was to serve the prince– the second prince, to be clear. If she were to serve the first prince, she would’ve just had to come with a decanter of wine and call it a day. But this prince– Prince Aemond ‘One Eye’-- was an enjoyer of tea, apparently. Rosemary thought it a much better choice than wine— she found the liquid to be sour and unappealing. 

“Your g-grace,” she murmured, then cleared her throat, enunciating once more, “Your grace– your tea.”

“Enter.” a voice said– it was quiet, but something about it made her want to prick at her nail beds.

She opened the door with her shoulder, scurrying into the room with her head down. As a servant of the Red Keep, she was taught to not make eye contact with her betters unless addressed, especially Aemond, as Magelle had warned.

“Do you require sugar or cream, your grace?” Rosemary asked, putting the tray to the small wooden table, looking down at her feet. 

She heard shuffling from her right, the creaking of leather and light footsteps growing closer. The scent of sandalwood and fire permeated her nostrils— it wasn’t unpleasant, just different.

“You’re new,” Aemond said, not even facing her. He walked past her to the table she placed the tray upon, pouring the rich brown liquid into his cup, “Are you not?” 

Rosemary put her hands together, sinking her thumb nail in the soft of her palm, “Y-yes, your grace,” she replied, blinking profusely, “I’ve just come from the Vale less than three days ago.” 

“The Vale?” he hummed, “Hm,” he dropped two cubes of sugar in his cup, stirring it, tasting it, before adding another two cubes. 

She watched from below fettered lashes, her eyes landing upon his hands— they were large and calloused. She heard that he was a proficient swordsman and rode the largest dragon in the world— and yet he took his tea with four sugars. Quite curious.

“If… you needn’t anything else, my prince,” she bowed slightly, “I will leave you to your tea.” Rosemary began to move, eager to escape. He was quiet enough, but something about him unnerved her— as if she was being taken apart in his head. 

“Wait,” his voice broke through the silence like a whip, “Come here, girl.” 

Her heart stopped in her chest— she was surely dead. She must’ve done something wrong, and he was to execute her. Rosemary was not an optimistic thinker. The maid turned towards him, head bowed. 

“Eyes up, little lamb,” he murmured, his already quiet voice rasping slightly, like flames licking at his throat. His hand, calloused and all, tucked under her chin, tipping her head up. 

Rosemary, ever diminutive, raised her eyes to him— her two deep, brown eyes met his one violet. She wasn’t breathing, her fingertips shaking ever so slightly. 

From her briefing about the royal family, she thought she was to look out for the older prince, Aegon, as he was known to be handsy with maids and servants alike. But no one had told her of Aemond except the warning not to look at him— and if they had, they said he was reserved, quiet and broody. 

Magelle said that he was a sight for sore eyes— and after looking at him now, she wondered if the old bat was blind. He had chiseled features and a pleasantly shaped mouth, like a taut bowstring. She glazed over the nasty scar over the right of his face, but didn’t pay it much mind. 

“Your name, little lamb?” he asked then, turning her head to the side, up and down, back and forth, as if appraising her like a slab of meat. 

“Rosemary, my prince,” the shaking maid replied, so quickly and quietly that she thought that she almost didn’t speak at all. 

The only indication that she had spoken was the tug of the prince’s upper lip in something akin to a grin. “Fitting. Lamb goes well with rosemary— or so I’ve heard.”

She felt a bead of sweat fall from her brow, “I don’t much like lamb, your grace.” 

He snorted at that, “You valemen, or valewomen, raise sheep, do you not? My uncle once said that the sheep of the Vale are prettier than their women,” he let go of her face, but not without looking at her a bit more, “He never had any taste, truly.” 

Rosemary felt her hands twitch as they came back together. What on earth did that mean? Was he calling her a sheep— more beautiful than a sheep? Was he calling her ugly? She was truly puzzled by the prince’s words, but said nothing of it. 

“Thank you for the tea. You may go now.” he hummed, turning away from her, attending back to his tea. 

A sigh of relief was felt throughout her body as she curtsied— it was still shaky from her nerves, but she managed to keep herself upright. “Have a good evening, my prince.” she murmured at last, leaving his chamber. 

She heard him once more, emitting a small ‘hm’. She could practically see the twitching sneer on his face like before. 

As she descended down the hallways, she unwrapped her kerchief from her head, her light cream colored braids falling out of their delicate shape and strewing across her back. Something about Aemond unnerved Rosemary so completely and her skin crawled as she left. 

She had never met a dragon before— how could she have? — but she felt as if he was an embodiment of one, bones made of obsidian and ash. And she was just a lamb in the face of a dragon. 

Descending back to her room— a chambered closet with a straw filled mattress— she curled into her bed, tossing her apron and dress aside. One of the things she brought from home— if she could even consider the Eyrie ‘home’ anymore— was a quilt sewed with thick, blue threads. It had depictions of the stars and moon, with little lambs and nightingales and dusk roses, sewn by her mother— with contributions from Jeyne— before her birth. Her hands traced the stitches, eyes filling with tears. The hem was frayed slightly from her habit of doing this very thing over the years. 

It was the only thing she had left of her mother, both of her mothers. Her chest ached at the thought that she would likely never return to the Eyrie, never see Jeyne again— never have her hands held by her, never have their knees touch, never have her kiss her forehead and tell her that everything would be okay. 

She was alone. A lamb alone in a castle of vipers and dragons. 

How truly precarious. 

Her sleep, when it came, was fitful. Tossing and turning, she dreamt of nightingales and lambs being torn limb from limb between dragons, some black and some green. Her skin was charred ash, her chest skewered by a stag’s horns until she bled out, wolves coming to feast upon her corpse. 

tag list: @watercolorskyy @queen--kenobi

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #the maid's folly #aemond x servant

[jinwoosungs]

{ 129 }

sleeping to dream about you.

(p)inocchio x reader

{ fell out of bed, butterfly bandage, but don't worry | you'll never remember, your head is far too blurry }

"pinocchio! where are you going?!"

your voice calls out to the automaton with dark locks of chestnut hair. a storm was brewing in krat, and the needle like rain that was felt pelting against your skin was making it harder for you to breathe.

you were chasing after him, watching his back as he kept on retreating even further away from you. your heart was hammering within the confines of your throat, filling you with a sense of despair.

because you knew that the moment pinocchio left you, then you would never see him again.

you tried to chase after him, but his figure forever remained just a mere inches away from your grasps; and each time you called out to him, you found that your voice grew smaller and smaller in tone. it became much worse when you were suddenly rendered unable to speak.

with a helpless cry, you continue to chase after him, reaching out to him with a desperation felt festering within the deepest depths of your soul-

you wake up with a gasp, suddenly finding yourself at the edge of the bed, with your arms flailing precariously as you lost your balance. seeming to sense your distress, pinocchio sits up from his spot in bed.

his calm voice calls out to you, but it was too late. you were already making your descent, falling out of bed with the least amount of poise you could muster. yet before your back could meet with the harsh coldness of the marble floors, pinocchio manages to place you within his embrace.

the puppet ends up taking the brunt of the fall, with you resting against his cold, hard chest. a grunt of pain manages to escape from your parted lips, and you felt the blood rushing through your ears while struggling to focus.

for the longest time, you and pinocchio just remained settled on the floor of your shared bedroom, your beloved puppet not saying a word. you could feel his non-legion hand gently caressing at the back of your head when he asks, "what's wrong?"

letting out a shaky sigh of his name, you meet with pinocchio's gaze, relishing in the true blue quality of it before gently touching at the freckles that littered his cheek. "it's nothing, love. you might think it's stupid."

he says nothing, merely placing a hand behind your head while holding you close. you could feel his body twitching in response, his soft voice telling you, "it isn't nothing. you looked genuinely terrified the moment you fell out of bed."

you cling to him, hiding your face within his chest before admitting to him. "i had a nightmare that you left; that you had gone somewhere... a place i knew i could never follow you to."

the last sentence comes out in a whisper, as if your fears would come into fruition the moment you said those thoughts aloud. yet pinocchio remains the same as ever, never once letting you out of his surprisingly gentle embrace.

after a few bouts of silence, he finally spoke.

"i'm still here."

"i know."

"i'm not going anywhere."

"i know."

"i won't leave you because you need me... and i need you."

his sudden confession makes you lift your head to look at him- really look at him as you caught sight of his phantom smile, being so small that you would have missed it had it not been for the fact that you knew pinocchio like the back of your hand.

he was kind and loving;

and him being a mere puppet would never change that.

when he sees you returning his smile, pinocchio picks you up while standing back to his full height. not daring to even let you go, he keeps his arms gently wrapped around your form, pushing up the covers of the bed before laying back down on it with you in his loose embrace.

your heart began to race slightly, feeling drowsy once more as you cuddled closer to him.

"pinocchio...?"

"hm?"

"thank you, i love you."

with those words lingering in the air, you finally fell back asleep, feeling pinocchio's cool lips pressing against your forehead as proof that he had heard every single word that you said.

a.n. - i have missed writing for lop!pinocchio so much! 🥹 this isn't anything fancy, but i hope you readers enjoy it all the same ♡

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

#lies of p x reader #lies of p x you #pinocchio x reader #lies of p #lop x reader #.stories

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: mentions of Child SA, allusions to the witch trials

Words: 3.1k

[A/N: Sorry for making the bishop so annoying I made myself angry proof-reading this lmao (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

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II.

Noon had started to crack, and Viktor sat still at the edge of his bed, his left leg throbbing with a persistent ache and guilt consuming him as he grappled with the weight of his recent actions. His mind swirled in a tumult of self-condemnation and regret as the looming certainty of facing Father Isidore when he would eventually be called up to the kitchen for lunch weighed over him.

How could he, entrusted with the guidance of others, find himself so lost in the labyrinth of his own sin? It was so easy, too, to feel like the absolutions he offered were hollow, his own inability to forgive himself casting a shadow over the sanctity of his role. And amidst this turmoil, the relentless ache in his left leg—probably due to kneeling for a prolonged stretch of time, but that in the wake of what he had just done felt more akin to divine punishment—served as a reminder of his frailty, both physical and spiritual. 

But pain is purification, suffering gives way to redemption, and penitence is salvation, so isn’t pleasure the correct response after all? If martyrdom is the ultimate act of love, then why shouldn’t agony be met with enjoyment? That was the lie Viktor soothed himself with before deciding to be a step ahead of the altar boys and make his way to the kitchen. 

-----------------------------

His leg protested with each step, but it seemed insignificant compared to the stinging feeling on his back now that he had the rough fabric rubbing against it. What lingered wasn’t nearly as pleasant as before; however, he felt undeserving of making a fuss about it, it being a punishment—ironically—for a self-inflicted punishment that he shouldn’t have delighted in. 

As he entered, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that clung to his robes and clashing with the uninviting presence of Father Isidore, who sat at the table, steaming cup in hand. 

“Viktor, my son,” he exclaimed in a voice that sounded sweet and as sticky and treacherous as molasses, “I trust you have...repented.”

Viktor clenched his jaw, a wave of trepidation washing over him as he felt his judgmental gaze on him. Viktor severely disliked the special way Father Isidore enunciated; emphasis on certain words never seemed like enough for him; he always made it a point to hiss and spit; his lips thinned out and tense like he was holding in a growl. It didn’t match his childlike guise, and this made Viktor weary of him ever since he was a kid. 

“I have,” he replied tersely, taking a seat opposite his superior’s robust presence. 

"It seems, however, that some of us struggle more than others with the concept of self-control," he remarked, his words dripping with a subtle veil of aggression.

Viktor's stomach churned with resentment. "I am aware of my shortcomings, Father," he retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness. 

“Don’t misunderstand me, son. It is never my intention to prohibit your studies or peg your enthusiasm for learning; you know our monastery has always valued knowledge of the great arts.”

“Until it challenges one of your universal truths, that is.”

“Precisely, are you trying to imply we should challenge the dogma?” 

Viktor stayed silent. 

“Tell me, do you think you are above us all?” 

“Of course I don’t, father.” but he did, and this whole lecture was starting to get old. 

“Then you must clearly think you are above sin. So holy and pure that you are able to read such heretic words and not be tempted by them?” He said this as he got closer to Viktor, his face slowly turning beet red: “unde et corda filiorum hominum implentur malitia et contemptu in vita sua et post haec ad inferos deducentur.”

And then he did the same eyebrow raise he used to do when Viktor was a child, and he was testing his knowledge of the scripture. Viktor sighed, partly in defeat but mostly in annoyance. 

“‘Hence the hearts of the sons of men are filled with malice and contempt in their lives, and after this they are brought down to hell’,” he answered as he instinctively leaned back on the chair, the scorching sensation reminding him why it was a terrible idea. 

“I can tell you are in pain; why must you still be so stubborn, even when you are enduring your penitence on the flesh?” 

“I see no malice in curiosity.”

“Even when you intentionally seek the words of miscreants, knowing full well the danger it presents?”

“I don’t seek dangerous ideals; the universe is, and I simply try to understand it.”

“You are lost, Viktor.” Father Isidore’s lips curled up into a grin of contempt, a show of mockery that made it clear his concern for Viktor’s soul came from a place of scorn. 

“Temptatio vos non adprehendat nisi humana, something something, and God will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear and, eh, I forgot what comes after,” Viktor recited, quiet but defiant. 

“To me, you are nothing but a test of resilience, Viktor. If I have to tear you down myself to build you back up as a God-honoring servant, I will.” He said this as he visibly struggled to disguise his frustration. “Come, I would like you to meet someone.”

--------------------------------

As they made their way through the narrow streets of the small town, the bustling activity of the market greeted them. Vibrant stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their displays of fresh produce and handmade goods drawing Viktor’s attention. All the while, he wondered who this mysterious person and possible weapon of torture would be. 

Father Isidore walked with an air of authority, his presence commanding respect as he exchanged warm greetings with anyone who crossed their path. Soon they came upon an elderly woman sitting by a small table, adorned with a meager assortment of goods. Her weathered face bore the deep lines of a life well-lived, yet her eyes sparkled with a warmth that belied her frailty. She smiled weakly as they approached, her gnarled hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Good morning, Father!" called out an elderly woman, her face lighting up with a smile as she approached. "Blessings be upon you." 

He gave back a smile that could've fooled anyone, but Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that there was something calculated in his demeanor. "And to you as well, my dear," Father Isidore replied, his tone tinged with a hint of forced sincerity. "How are you faring today?"

"Oh, just getting by as best I can, Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Times have been hard, but the Lord provides."

"Indeed, He does, and speaking of such, have you been able to fulfill your tithe to the church this month?”

The elderly woman's smile faltered slightly, her gaze dropping to her lap as she fidgeted with the worn fabric of her apron. "I... I'm afraid not, Father," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Things have been tight lately, with the harvest being poor and all."

His expression hardened imperceptibly, though his tone remained gentle as he pressed the issue. "I understand, my dear," he continued. "But you must remember the importance of supporting the church, especially in these trying times. Perhaps there is something else you could sacrifice to ensure your tithe is met."

Viktor watched in silent anger as the elderly woman's shoulders slumped in resignation, her eyes downcast as she nodded in reluctant agreement. Despite his own discomfort, he couldn't help but feel a surge of rage at the ease with which Father Isidore exploited the vulnerability of this woman for the sake of the church's coffers.

“If I may, Lucida,” Viktor interjected. Different from his superior, he knew the members of their community; he had taken time to know them and had offered his friendship along with his guidance. “You must be forgetting; your daughter has already come to offer lithe on behalf of your family.”

This was a lie, but be it because Lucida’s age was betraying her memory or because she had taken the hint of what Viktor was doing, it didn’t matter. Her mouth shaped into a round O as she nodded at both of them. Father Isidor looked at Viktor with suspicion but did not press the issue any further either, simply dragging Viktor by his free arm to continue on their way. 

A modest house was nestled along the path. Father Isidore announced himself with a drawn-out knock on the solid wood of the door, and the figure of a weary woman appeared as the door peered open. When she saw the men, her feeble demeanor swiftly morphed into visible uneasiness. 

Viktor knew her; she had been at the cathedral at least once, and multiple times she had made herself present at Viktor’s masses in the small town parish. She had never reacted this way to him before, so Viktor knew it was the man beside him who was causing this woman concern. 

“Father Isidore, I’m sorry; I did not expect to see you here,” she cried out, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. 

“Fret not, dear; I haven’t come to collect her yet; I simply wanted Viktor to meet her.” He scrutinized the inside of the house from where he stood before gently pushing the woman aside to enter the house, uninvited. Viktor gave her quiet apologies and small awkward smiles, following close behind him when she gave him a sign to invite him in. 

The woman took them to the other side of the small house; there, the threshold of what seemed to have been a door in the past separated this expanse from the rest of the house. In the dimly lit chamber, a young teenage girl sat on the edge of her bed, her long black twin braids cascading down her shoulders like a dark veil, so dark that if you looked at it under the right light, it might even look blue.

Her posture was slumped, and her slender frame seemed to wilt under an invisible weight. The room around her felt heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of her shallow breaths. She looked up to look at them as the three entered, but her once vibrant eyes, now dulled and distant, gazed blankly ahead, unfocused and unseeing. 

“Darling, Father Isidore has come to see you; will you say hi to him and his friend?” Her mother asked delicately as she sat down on the bed next to her. Viktor was stumped; he didn’t remember seeing this girl at any of the functions before or around the town as he ran errands. The girl’s hands lay limply in her lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the faded bedspread as she looked at Father Isidore. 

And very subtly, her once empty gaze welled up with noticeable rage. 

“What do you want, sheep?” Her voice sounded so sweet, yet her words were so filled with venom.

“Careful now; I’m not here to take you yet, but I might change my mind if you decide to get nervy with me.” 

She squinted slightly before giving Father Isidore an empty smirk and snapping her head quickly to look directly at Viktor. “Are you in trouble too? I’m only ever used as an example.” 

“I-eh, I’m not sure.” Viktor pondered her words for a short second: “An example?”

“For what not to do.” She scoffed; she now seemed unaffected by their presence, giggling at Viktor’s confused expression, like he had told her a joke. “What did you do? Illegal medicine?” she asked, and she continued when she received no response. “You’re a priest; did you lay with a woman? Oh, oh, oh, a man, perhaps?”

The amusement in her tone was not enough to cut the tension in the air. Viktor wondered why no one seemed to care about what she was saying, but he figured Father Isidore was attempting to make a point out of this, and her mother was too afraid to do anything that might upset the bishop. 

“I would ask you if you touched a child, but they care considerably less about that than they do about banned...That’s it, isn’t it? You—” She said, now wiggling her feet like she had reverted to an earlier stage of her life. “—are a man of science; I can see in your eyes that you know what heliocentrism is.” She giggled her way through those words and looked at Viktor with wide eyes, awaiting a response. 

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft shuffle of feet on the worn floorboards as the mother stood by the door, her expression wrought with fear, while Father Isidore's features were etched with thinly veiled frustration.

Suddenly, the girl spoke, her voice soft but tinged with defiance. "You can't stop me, fawner," she said, her words cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. "I won't let you."

Father Isidore's eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, as he shot the girl a warning glare. "Enough," he admonished. "You know the consequences of disobedience, and you know what awaits you; don’t make an effort to rush your departure."

With a sense of urgency, the mother hurriedly ushered them toward the door, pleading and apologizing on her daughter’s behalf, and in the onslaught of their departure, Viktor felt a small object slip into his hand. Startled, he glanced down only to see the girl’s swift fingers pressing something into his palm and a pair of brazen eyes that quickly snuck back onto the bed, unnoticed. 

He didn’t dare to look, not as long as he had eyes on him, so he clenched his fist around it, as if something told him he ought not to lose it. Viktor's mind raced with questions, his confusion mounting with each hurried step as they silently walked the path back to the parish. As they climbed the small steps to go inside the building, the bishop spoke. 

“She is being taken to undergo a trial for witchcraft, but I’m sure what you saw made that evident.”

“She doesn’t look like a witch.”

“What do witches look like, son?”

“Wretched, evil, hateful...”

“And is it not evil to go against the dogma of our faith? Is it not wretched to seek deranged ideals like ‘heliocentrism’ and ‘geokinesis’, mad, truly mad things for someone who is fearful of God to believe, and especially wicked for a woman to believe?”

Viktor did not answer. 

“God has great plans for you, Viktor. Do not stray from your path, and you’ll be able to avoid an end like hers” He said, punctuating the last word with a hefty—and ignobly intentional—pat on his back. 

The wounds, still fresh and tender, protested vehemently against the sudden contact, each movement a reminder of the agony that plagued him. He visibly winced and took a sharp breath through gritted teeth, doing his best to suppress the urge to cry out in pain. But it wasn't just the physical discomfort that gnawed at him. Beneath the surface, a simmering anger had been bubbling. 

-----------------------------------

Alone again in the confines of his quarters, Viktor sank to his knees in front of the small wooden crucifix that adorned the wall. His hands trembled as he clasped them together in prayer, his lips moving silently in fervent entreaty. 

“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…” He began automatically, but he didn’t know what he had prayed for. 

When the prayer ended, there was silence.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…” He started once again, perhaps a mother would pity him.

Silence. 

Anger burned within him like a smoldering ember. The rotund face of Father Isidore plagued his inner thoughts. How could a man of God, a shepherd of the faithful, wield his power with such callous disregard?

But beneath the anger lay a deeper, more insidious emotion: guilt. Guilt for his own weakness, for his depravity, for his inability to rise above the turmoil and find solace in his faith. With a frustrated sigh, Viktor bowed his head lower, his hands clenching into fists as he fought to contain the tempest raging within him. 

"Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silence of the room. "Why do I pray, day after day, only to be met with silence? Have I been forsaken, abandoned by the very God I serve?"

But as the echoes of his words faded into the darkness, there came no answer, and in that moment of profound solitude, Viktor felt more alone than ever before, until he remembered the small object he had managed to slip into his robes. 

A brass coin, small and thin enough that he could break it with his bare hands if he was not careful. It appeared to have worn off with time, the original color having faded into a dark green, corroded shade. As he held it up to the dim candlelight, the symbol etched into its surface seemed to shimmer—a circle with small letters around its circumference that he couldn’t read. In it there was a smaller circle, and inside of it, even smaller, a strange swirly shape with five triangles on its flat top and a cross in the very center. 

He knew, deep inside, that he recognized what he knew to be the symbol of a creature of darkness and forbidden knowledge. His instincts screamed at him to cast it aside, to rid himself of its tainted influence, but a curious fascination held him captive. In a surge of frustration and desperation, Viktor closed his eyes and clasped the coin tightly in his hands, his lips moving in silent prayer.

“God has failed me; let this be the time I am acknowledged.” For a long moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft whisper of his own breath. But then, just as Viktor's hope began to wane, he felt a strange warmth emanating from the coin, spreading through his fingertips. 

Like a heavy shroud enveloping the room, suffusing the air with palpable tension, the atmosphere shifted, thickening with an otherworldly energy that seemed to hum with ancient power. A chill ran down Viktor's spine when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. As he summoned the courage to gaze upon the figure behind him, he found himself confronted by a sight that defied all comprehension.

The figure of a woman, alluring and terrible but terrifyingly familiar, stood before him. A surge of primal terror mixed with a morbid fascination compelled him to stand his ground, and then he heard her voice. 

“Curious, very curious.” She whispered. 

#viktor #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane #arcane au #legion

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

There is a new Heresy Brewing, when @incorrect-primarchs-quotes hand strikes, it shall strike with the force of a Legion.

Elaborate?

[multiplicationdivision]

Human duplication was as controversial a process as science could come up with. It wasn’t true cloning, far from that shit that popped out babys that always diverge from their progenitors. That shit had been nearly accepted, despite the conservatives whining as ever about natural birth.

Human duplication had reasons for its near illegality. It could create carbon copies of a person, down to the mind. There was a price though. All that base tissue needed to come from somewhere and artificial or animal-based cells wouldn’t suffice. It required a full sentient person to convert, creating a double in exchange for a human sacrifice.  Paramount to murder, but politicians had screamed bloody murder to hold it in their destructive toolbelts. Convinced the country that it was a way to reform the worst people, converting them into more brave soldiers and intelligent geniuses. Multiply the best of the country at the price of the worst.

It was complete nightmarish eugenics word salad, equating the unwanted to a resource. Just another way to abuse the disenfranchised.

There were two groups that had access to the drug needed to convert a person. The government and the punks. Cody was proud of their resourcefulness in that regard. He hadn’t been the driving force of their discovering on how to synthesize their own variant of it, but before long it had been dished out to every person with the willingness to infuse their DNA into it.

The fascists were using it to build their armys so the punk little queers had decided to fight fire with fire. It was hardly the most moral solution to the problem, but morality falls to the wayside when you watch your friend be converted into the legion of identical cops patrolling the streets. They barely even pretended to have a reason to dose you up with the drug these days, the pigs converting anyone they could isolate into privacy. You’d watch a drunk college student get snatched into an alley by an old pig and watch that pig emerge with another of him in turn.

It made Cody enjoy watching those same fascists panic as his crew jumped them. Shout and swear violence on them as Cody shot them up with his own brew. He hadn’t given much thought to the idea of duplicates, but anybody was better than these filth.

They continued shouting and spouting vulgar threats as their variant worked its way into their veins. Their punk smarties had made it only activate through this specific violent thought, some special cocktail of murderous intent. Highly effective against these brands of killers, unsurprisingly enough.

Their twisted snarling grins smoothed as their cells restructured. Buzz cuts and bald spots sprouting his dirty blond hair in abundance as the cell turnover kicked into rapid speed. Bloodshot eyes draining into his own peepers, their dilated pupils losing focus as if they were windows to see Cody’s neurons overtaking theirs.

Cody found himself fascinated as his tattoos traced across their arms. This shit was almost supernatural in its ability to replicate. Cody was sure his tats weren’t in his genome, but so wasn’t his hair length. Everything perfected down to the pierced holes in his ears, no imperfection left out of the picture.

He was left with two new bros, cringing at the uniforms they wore. Rapidly shirking the blue off, preferring to be naked in the warehouse they’d lured those idiots too rather than looking anything like a nazi. Made Cody smirk in pride at the reformed men, being proud in both their identity to the cause and their shared killer bodies. It wasn’t every day that you could see yourself like that without a mirror and Cody preened at his copies.

They’d prepared for this moment, the copies already heading to the van that Cody and his crew had stocked with matching outfits. They likely remembered buying the shit.  New jackets and boots to make the three of them so identical that it would confuse the shit out of surveillance. The police was still unaware that they could even utilize the substance and boy was it fun to abuse that incompetence.

They were proper duplicates by the time the other two got dressed and Cody found himself far too into it. Dressed to the nines in triplicate, already treating each other as extensions. His crew calling for plans and one of the new hims speaking up before he did, giving exactly the words Cody had been planning on saying. One of his duplicates handing him a cig before he could realize he’d been craving it, knocking shoulders as they watched the others set fire to the evidence.

Cody could sympathize in one regard with the pigs. This was sounding to be a lot of fun.

#identical #copy #clones #duplication #shapeshift #male shapeshift #personality change #male tf #mental change #male transformation #fascist to punk #punk tf

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Calls of the Lost

Author's notes: Smyith's debut in Mermay And Poor Unfortunate Souls AU!

Warnings: None I think? Let me know if I need to add more

Summary: Smyith is with some younger brothers and cousins as they are out on a patrol. He notices that a

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @kit-williams, @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k

Tagged Again: @sleepyfan-blog and @whorety-k

Smyith thanked the All-father and counted his blessings, he knows that it's a rare thing to have lived when he'd thought he'd be torn apart by that wretched Demon Arvax, may he rot and die eternally in Hel and be denied entrance to Valhalla. He has been swimming in this mixed shoal of Loyalists Legions and Chapters- helping the youngsters hone their skills and sharpen their skills and teeth, while keeping his hone to proper sharpness. He eyed the skies of Ancient Terra and scents the wind, calling out to the younger cousins and brothers a warning.

"A storm's brewing, time to swim deeper beneath the waves," Smyith tells them. "My nose tells me a storm approaches."

With that he puts his helmet back on, some of the youngest grumble and whine a little, but with a light smack to the back of the helm they settle down with some minimal sulking. One of the youngsters in bright blue and gold, an Ultramarine asks him with curiosity in his voice and posture.

"How can you tell a storm is coming Elder Cousin?"

"I have lived on many worlds for several hundred years," He starts his explanation, "And I've learned how to tell that the weather is shifting for the worse by scent and the way the clouds and winds interact with the skies."

The younger ones are now huddling closer to him and peering up at the sky popping their heads up try to see better, and figure out what he meant by that. He hears some more questions and tries to answer them the best he can, mostly confusing the younger space marines more and he just says, "Experience and age."

They follow after their elder brothers, when that same young Ultramarine seems to be lingering above the water, looking in a particular direction. He sighs and pops his head up and says, "Lad, back down in the deep."

"Sir- there's a baseline ship a few hundred meters that way," The youngster says.

Smyith heaves a sigh and looks in the direction the youngster is gesturing and notices the ship and the way that the base line humans seem to be puttering around on the ship, and unfortunately, from the way the ship is moving, the base line humans haven't noticed, yet that there is going to be a nasty storm that's going to churn the ocean waves quite viciously in a few hours. Granted, base line humans aren't as acute in their senses. And there is much that the Ancient Humans of Terra do not know about.

"I'll warn them," Smyith says, "You head back with the rest of the pod back to the temporary base."

"Yes sir," The young Ultramarine says with a nod as he turns and swims with the rest of the mixed shoal of space marines, of chapters and ages alike.

Some of the space marines from the far future are... terribly strange and almost incomprehensible with their differences. But they likely think the same way of those of them from earlier times, especially much earlier. He can't help the way his lips twitch in a teasing grin as he thinks of how the King of Fenris would react to some of the youngest of the space wolves, and from the furthest in time's reaction to "nine primarchs". Which is blatant revisionism. Also, with how they've almost turned Father into a God, and has very much turned the emperor into a deific figure. That has him wincing, by the Throne on Terra, he'd like it not at all. Although some of his ranting would be really entertaining. Also, Leman's reaction to The Imperial Regent being the 13th Primarch would be, at turns, entertaining and annoying to deal with. He's glad for his new lease on life, even though he misses his first pack and brothers like someone's ripped one of his hearts from his chest.

"Humans," He calls out, hoping they speak one of the base line languages he's learned a little of.

There's some excited chatter in one of the near countless languages, they are all speaking rapidly as he patiently waits for one of them to approach them. Humans could be so skittish, yet most on Ancient Terra could be very Bold, or at least Very Bold for the standards of base line humans from the time that he's come from. Thinking about time travel is something for Rune Priests and Nerds. Kark, could he use a drink.

"Storm approaches, head to land," Smyith says carefully, slowly in one of the Ancient Terran languages.

"Our instruments don't say that one's coming," One of the humans says with a mild frown as they look at something and then at the sky.

"I can smell one coming; it will arrive in a few hours." Smyith says trying not to growl. Base line humans could be so... frustrating to deal with at times. "Heed my words and live, don't and die during a storm. Your choice."

With that he sinks below the waves and out of the sight of the base line humans. He's still able to watch and hear them. He's not actually not going to let any of the idiot base line humans die if he can help it. A couple of the little shits that he's traveling with have come swimming over to him peering up to watch the human’s squabble amongst themselves.

"We'll save them from themselves if they don't make the safe decision," Smyith tells the youngster who nods and swims off to inform the rest of the group of his decision.

At least the humans take their boat and start to head back to shore, which is nice, he and a few of the pod of loyalists shadow them, hidden and unseen from under the water as the humans make it back to shore before the storm starts going. He and his pod swim back to where the base is. Storm watching is fun, and interesting to see from underneath the waves. It can be terribly dangerous, but something every Aspirant of the Space Wolves was dared to do to prove their worth.

#warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #adeptus astartes #warhammer #mermay #mermay 40k #mermay 2024 #poor unfortunate souls au #poor unfortunate souls #oc: Smyith #space wolf #space wolf oc #astartes oc #space marine oc

[wrenhavenriver]

When I was serving in the Legion, if there was a mutiny brewing in one cohort, the Legate in charge wouldn’t waste time finding the bad apples among hundreds. They just divided us into groups of ten, made us draw straws, and whoever drew the short straw had to be executed by the other nine. Didn’t matter whether he’d done anything wrong.

#the forgotten city #theforgottencityedit #gamingedit #indiegameedit #kgifs #kgifs: misc vg #first gifset i've made in almost two months good god. send help #anyway i just started this game and the terrible foreboding of this line is just oughghgh

[hallison-bre]

Erik Petersen of Mischief Brew and The Orphans performs The Day The Nazi Died (originally by Chumbawumba) at the American Legion Basement in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. 6/3/2000

Erik, by his fans, is dearly missed.

— Video credits to Andrew Wellbrock on YouTube —

#mischief brew #folkpunk #anarchism #diy punk #chumbawamba

[blowflyfag]

SUPERSTAR WRESTLERS : February 1995

DIESEL & MICHAELS!

Trouble brewing?

[Diesel is the brawn of the team.

Michaels has the brains.]

Is there trouble brewing between Shawn Michaels and Diesel? If we listen to the WWF announcers, one may get this impression, but according to those involved nothing is further from the truth.

“People are saying things about us because they are jealous of our success,” says Michaels. “They realize that Diesel and I will never be beaten inside the ring, so people are making up stories about us.

“Hey, we’re a team. We've been a team for years, but we just never wrestled together because the Intercontinental title took up all our time. When I had it, Diesel used to watch my back, and then when he won, I did the same for him. Now that we’ve got the tag team belts we are really tight. I know everyone of Diesel’s moves, and he knows all of mine. When you have teamwork like this, there is no way for you to lose. Come to think of it, we may even retire with the belts.”

[Diesel dispatches his opponents with frightening ease.]

Although Shawn Michaels claims that he and Diesel are on good  terms, their actions inside the ring tell a slightly different story. Several times the two nearly came to blows after Michaels inadvertently slugged Diesel instead of their opponent, but every time cooler heads prevailed.

When questioned about this, Michaels replied, “This could happen to anyone in the heat of battle. But Diesel and I are cool. What you see is just emotion getting the best of us, but we know better than to ever let a little misunderstanding get between us. We’ve been together through thick and thin. Guys like the Bushwhackers, Men on a Mission, the Stinkin’ Gunns or the Smelly Headshrinkers will never get between me and Diesel.”

[Michaels has shown signs of jealousy when it comes to his “partner.”]

As a team Diesel and Michaels have to be the smoothest championship combo in the WWF since the days when the Legion of Doom ruled the federation. Diesel provides the brawn; Michaels provides the brains. Together there isn't a move that these two haven't mastered. They’re fast, quick, agile, strong, smart and daring. If they could find a way to beat you, they will. The only drawback is that both men have huge egos. If they could keep themselves  on an even keel, however, they will never be beat. But, if one of them starts to think that the other is not doing his fair share, they could be doomed.

So far this hasn't happened with Michaels and Diesel, but it;s a common occurrence when you have two strong-willed individuals for differences to arise.

Right now Michaels and Diesel are the hottest duo in the WWF–but just as quickly as they rose to prominence, they could come crashing back down to earth if they aren’t careful.

[Diesel kicks away mercilessly at the back of the “Bad Guy.”

Diesel has Razor Ramon in the sleeper hold.

Today, they are on top. Tomorrow, there could be trouble between them!

Right now, Diesel and Michaels are the hottest duo in the WWF.

Big Daddy Cool holds up the WWF Tag Team Championship belts.]

#shawn michaels #hbk #heartbreak kid #diesel #big daddy cool diesel #razor Ramon #magazine scan #magazine transcript #wwf #world wrestling federation #ringing a dinner bell for Jo rn love ya girl

[captain-price-unofficially]

Ex-NZ soldier fighting in Ukraine unexpectedly liberates one of his Ukrainian friends who had been held in Russian captivity for months.

Source: kaneactual - https://www.instagram.com/p/CpqPrh6o5Hc/

Backstory:

This is the surprise conclusion to my last few posts. Unexpected to say the least. We hit a Russian position a few days ago and after a quick battle and breach we started clearing the bunker and basement. "Ya Ukrayinets!" (I'm Ukrainian) a voice said from the stairwell, I stopped the lads from tossing a grenade in and pushed some Ukrainian's forward to interact with the voice. Skeptical, we felt a trap brewing, we pushed forward and I started to go through the search process. I got on him and searched his body and tossed him to his front. Then his eyes met mine "New Zealand! New Zealand!" I looked down. I recognized him, it was my friend who I thought was killed by the Russians when they invaded his house. Heavily starved for two months and forced to drink anti freeze for entertainment, he barely looked like the man I knew a couple of months ago. But it was the best thing to happen to me in this God forsaken war. To be able to save your friends is something that almost never happens but I'm thankful and feel blessed that it was us that could pull him from that Hell hole.

Additional info: His name is Kane Te Tai (code name Turtle), and he is a member of the Foreign Reconnaissance Unit, which is compromised of highly-trained foreign volunteers (separate from the Foreign Legion).

#modern #Russo-Ukrainian War #combat footage

[nevesmose]

Perturabo was silent for a long time, his attention completely focused on the disassembled objects spread out before him.

"No, Fulgrim," he said eventually. "I am not fun at parties. Why do you ask?"

The Primarch of the III Legion smiled. "No reason in particular. I merely wondered if you'd like to take advantage of so many of the family being close by."

Fulgrim stepped away from Perturabo's worktable, elegantly avoiding the discarded parchments and empty grey plastek sprues littering the room.

"Goodnight then, brother. I shall leave you to your..." he paused briefly, for once unable to find the right word. "Figurines," he finished.

"They're miniatures," the Lord of Iron said bitterly. Fulgrim gave the briefest of shrugs and left the room.

Oh, Perturabo, he thought fondly as his brother's door slid closed. Don't ever change.

"I told you he'd say no," a rough, low voice called from further down the hallway. "If it was anyone but you he would've started throwing things."

"Very comforting, Ferrus." The two primarchs walked together for a few moments in a close, pleasant silence. With anyone else Fulgrim would have found the quiet oppressive, felt the need to speak, to act, to perform in some way.

It had never been like that with Ferrus, and in his introspective moments he treasured that quiet as something uniquely theirs.

"How goes the process of civilising our newest brother?" Ferrus asked.

Oh, Konrad, Fulgrim thought. Please change, even just a bit.

"He has been a challenge," Fulgrim admitted. "More so than I expected."

"Really?" Ferrus asked, amused. "I thought you relished a challenge."

"Not this one," Fulgrim answered. "Have you ever considered the logistics of bathing a fellow Primarch?"

"I could be persuaded," Ferrus said.

Fulgrim gave him a pointed look. "Not like that. I mean someone of our size and strength who adamantly refuses to even consider basic hygiene. And our father wants me to turn this... being into a capable leader of his own Legion."

Fulgrim sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"At the moment it's a miracle if he sleeps through the night without some kind of outburst. His latest development is wandering the corridors to scream at every mortal he sees about the exact time and nature of their deaths."

"You must be tired."

Fulgrim laughed bleakly. "Tired," he said, as if it were some arcane alien concept. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Come in, then." Seemingly without intending to, they'd arrived in the hallway outside Ferrus's chambers.

"The Gorgon of Medusa invites me to his quarters," Fulgrim said archly. "People will talk. What scurrilous rumours they might spread."

Ferrus shrugged. "Let them."

The room was cool, sparsely lit and, with the exception of Forgebreaker in pride of place on a wall rack, minimally furnished. The opposite of his own in every possible way, but at times like this Fulgrim found the contrast refreshing.

Ferrus flung himself down onto a primarch-scaled couch as Fulgrim's gaze was drawn to the incongruous sight of a rectangular open-topped frigerator unit containing ice and several glass vessels.

"And what might this be?"

"Oh, that," Ferrus said. "One of the latest archaeo-tech recreations based on analysing residues from ancient Terran artefacts. It's an alcoholic drink somehow brewed with crystals."

Fulgrim took a single delicate sip and wrinkled his nose slightly.

"Apparently it was extremely popular on old Earth, but only for a very short time before something else replaced it. Magnus would be able to tell you more."

"I imagine he would," Fulgrim said, turning his attention back to Ferrus. "But with the greatest of respect to the Primarch of the Fifteenth, I don't particularly care about Magnus just now."

For a long moment neither of them said anything. Then Ferrus slid back on the couch, legs parted, and patted a hand on the seat just in front of him.

"Come on, sit down."

Fulgrim quirked an eyebrow.

"Did I stutter, Phoenician? Sit down. You need to relax."

"If you insist," Fulgrim said. He moved to sit cross-legged in the space between Ferrus's legs. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned his full weight back against Ferrus.

"There you go," Ferrus said, starting to run his hands through Fulgrim's long hair. "You don't have to be perfect every single moment of the day."

"Perhaps," Fulgrim replied, closing his eyes. "But then what would I be instead?"

What is this called, he wondered, sudden and cold. What are we doing? The idea threatened to ruin everything if he dwelt on it. To ruin this, whatever it was that he and Ferrus had.

We're Primarchs, he thought. There isn't any existing human word or concept for what we are or choose to be, other than what we decide for ourselves. Like the first ancients naming the stars.

A single cool metal finger poked him gently in the back of the head. "You're thinking," Ferrus said. "I can tell."

"Congratulations. I knew if you saw other people do it you'd eventually start to recognise the signs," Fulgrim replied without any real malice, tilting his head back as Ferrus's hands resumed their movement through his hair.

He felt Ferrus's chest move behind him as he laughed. "You wound me, Fulgrim. I'll withdraw from society to weep and write poetry."

"Anything but your poetry, I beg of you," Fulgrim said quietly. "The galaxy isn't ready for that level of pain and suffering."

#AND THEN THEY FUCKED #it's primarch fluff and cuddles time #fulgrim is the kind of person you can just throw in a word or two here and there and let him talk for half an hour #ferrus “emotional support” manus #stroking someone's hair is genuinely one of the most intimate things you can do imho #trying to broaden my range by writing about nice things #you can have a few memes as a treat #CERVEZA CRISTAL #divider by @squishyowl #fulgrim x ferrus #fulgrim/ferrus #fulgrim #ferrus manus #wh40k #warhammer 40000 #horus heresy #warhammer 40k #wh30k #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #best way i can describe it is fulgrim is an ADVERBS person and ferrus is a STATEMENTS person #neves writes