Work Header

your love is holy

Chapter Text

Bro Strider is a force to be reckoned with.

Back when the Alternian Empire first took over, he wasn't able to resist; he was caught off-guard, somehow, by its appearance and subsequent takeover of the world. He was just a Texan porn dude with an excess of swords, there was no way he could take on a tyrannical alien government by himself. He had nobody to back him up except his kid, who has been missing since half a year ago. His single-minded mission has been to kill the Governor of Alternia, the Grand Highblood, and reclaim Earth for humans, via a revolution that he's been planning for a couple of years, now.

Today, he's got a good - and perhaps only - chance: Makara has organized a parade to celebrate his wriggling day, because he's a narcissistic piece of shit.... or maybe because he's trying to goad the Revolution into making a move. Whichever one it is, Bro's not going to miss his window of opportunity.

A shadow falls over the fabric top of Makara's palanquin, Bro jumping from a nearby building to land with a roll on top of it. With his sword he cuts down through the top, springing on Makara in an ambush from above.

Highblood Makara has been looking forward to his wriggling day parade for weeks. The preparation and subsequent organization drove him mad with boredom, and he beheaded a couple of indigos that tried to ask him too many questions, but the day is finally here, and the chucklevoodoos pounding through his head tell him that the mirthful messiahs are pleased with the offering.

The rebellion has been particularly rowdy the last few weeks, but Makara is unconcerned.  It’s nothing his guards can't handle, and it's not like he’s against getting his clubs dirty. He reclines in his palanquin, sipping a glass of wicked elixir and feeling the revelers' excitement and fear slipping into his mind.  He lets his guard down, and that’s his first mistake.

When the human vaults down through the top of his palanquin, Makara’s more shocked than angry.  He stares down in slow amusement as the creature struggles to break his thick skin. Grabbing a handful of the human's shirt, he lifts him up, staring deep into his eyes.

"What are you doing, motherfucker?"

Oh, fuck. Shit. This motherfucker is bigger up close, and Bro's never felt chucklevoodoos before, so his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth for a moment. In lieu of answering, he draws his sword back and thrusts it towards Makara's face, aiming for his eyes. That's the most vulnerable part of him, right? Besides his bulge, but that's not really accessible right now.

He's got guts, for a human. Most humans have their brains turned to mush at the very hint of chucklevoodoos, and he's staring Makara straight in the eyes.

Makara grins and bats the sword away effortlessly. It clatters to the floor, and a hulking indigo bodyguard pokes their head in, weapon drawn. Makara waves them away and raises a hand, turning the human's head this way and that, observing his face. Fascinating. He’s resisting.

He releases his hold on the human's mind and waits for an answer. He’s interested, and that doesn't happen often. Leaning back, he smiles wider, flashing every last one of his sharpened fangs.

Bro's cheeks squish between Makara's massive fingers; his hand is bigger than Bro's whole damn face. He's huge compared to Bro, and Makara may or may not feel the twang of a thrill going down the human's spine that that realization causes, before Makara lets go.

"Trying to kill you," he hisses, his eyes fading back into orange, instead of the faint rainbow flashes that the 'voodoos tend to cause. He shudders a little at the fangs, but another sword jumps into his hand from his sylladex, and he wastes no time trying to stab Makara in the crotch

Because he's an asshole, and also because Makara deserves it.

Makara grabs the sword by the blade and snaps it in two, letting the halves fall to his lap.  His skin remains unmarred by the razor-sharp edge. He laughs and plops Bro heavily into his lap, knocking the wind out of him.

"Gonna have to try harder than that, motherfucker." The initial excitement of having someone surprise him is pooling in him in a wonderful way, and he thanks the Mirthful Messiahs for his miracle of a wriggling day gift.

Bro has to take a moment to recover, and then he realizes what Makara must think, and his face crumples in disgust. "This isn't some sort of black solicitation, you stupid piece of shit clown tyrant," he spits, kicking away from him and punching him in the nose, palm-ways, to try and break his nose and shove the pieces into his fuckin' thinkpan.

Makara lets him strike him, chuckling low in his chest and letting a pleased rumble run through him. He trails an enormous finger down Bro's spine and tugs at the pants around his waist, testing the give of the waistband.

"Who said anything about a solicitation, brother? You wandered in here on my wriggling day - a little miracle, dropped down into my royal motherfuckin hands. You don't gotta solicit a motherfuckin thing.  You're mine now." The last sentence comes out in a growl, and Makara clipps a metal cuff around Bro's left wrist.

Bro’s breath hitches in his chest, his eyes widening for a second, before he narrows them and clouts Makara upside the fuckin' temple with the thick cuff for daring to suggest that a Strider belongs to anyone. "I'll never be yours," Bro snarls, yanking his wrist away. He's absolutely willing to dislocate his thumb to get away; he's done it before.

Makara snatches Bro's other wrist and clamps a matching cuff down around it, grabbing at the chain between the two and dragging Bro along behind him as he rises from his seat.  He swings Bro up in a sweeping motion, presenting him to the crowd.

"THE MOTHERFUCKIN MESSIAHS HAVE DELIVERED!"  The crowd cheers in vicious adulation, and Makara lets out a bellowing laugh, dropping his pants to the floor and wrapping a hand all the way around Bro's waist.  He strips Bro of his clothes with a single razor-sharp claw and licks up the back of his neck.

God, Bro feels so fucking tiny next to this asshole. He hates the way he swings next to him, his feet leaving the floor entirely as he's yanked up by his arms, dangling in a way they haven't since he was a kid. He makes a huffing noise of panic, soft but just loud enough for Makara to hear. His heart is hammering against his ribcage. He hates this so much. He hates Makara so much. This is humiliating.

He thought it couldn't get any worse, but when he's exposed in front of the crowd, his hands bound and his hips in the grip of a horny clown, he lets out a quiet, mortified noise, his whole face turning bright red. This is the absolute worst. Deeply erotic, somehow, but also deeply embarrassing. He brings his arms up to elbow Makara in the face when he licks the back of Bro's neck, shuddering in disgust.

The tip of his orange bulge is just barely sticking out of his vent. Juuust barely.

Makara tucks a hand under Bro, between his legs, giving him a seat to sit on.  He can sense the tremble of anticipation wrack through Bro's body, and it makes him grin wider.  His tongue twists and writhes across Bro's shoulders, and he nuzzles up into his hair, being surprisingly gentle.  The fear in Bro's mind can't hide the arousal, and Makara knows he knows it.

Makara teases the edges of Bro's nook with his finger, trying to coax the human's bulge out fully. It’s so much sweeter to take them once their bodies betray them, and he’s so close to that sweet betrayal.

"You're so fucking disgusting," Bro protests weakly, his voice carrying a bit more of a whine than he ever would have liked. "Get your damn tongue off me." Why is he being so gentle? Bro has heard about how he's ripped people apart with his bulge alone and then fucked the corpses; he has no delusions about him being an exception. It occurs to him, a cold shiver racing down his spine, that he might definitely be about to die via meter-long dick.

When Makara's fingers tease him, he can't help the soft, "Ah," that escapes him, his neck going red to match his face. "S- stop. Stop it."

"You won't think I'm so disgustin’ when you're beggin’ for me..." Makara purrs into Bro's ear, feeling the wetness between his legs.  He bites down gently on Bro's shoulder, breaking the skin and spearing him on a long, thick finger as he does so.

"Like I'd ever- mn!" He scrunches his eyes shut; he's still getting used to how sensitive his nook is. It has always been worse for humans, since human genitalia is just simply not as sensitive. His nook clenches down on Makara's finger involuntarily, and his bulge slowly slides out, curling close to his vent in the open air. He tries to squirm his way off of Makara's hand, trying to get away from him and off his finger.

The exquisite pain from his shoulder is not helping. He's always been into pain, but this is a horrible time for his masochism to rear its ugly head.

Makara releases his hold on Bro's shoulder, lapping at the bloody spot and sliding the tip of his dastardly tongue into the holes in Bro's neck.  He begins to move his finger inside of Bro, chuckling and kissing along his neck. The crowd cheers again, and he reels at the force of their adoration and respect.  Hoisting Bro up a little higher, he takes a step backwards and plops his ass back on his makeshift throne.

"You ready, slave?" He asks, feeling mighty merciful in the face of the Messiahs’ kindness.  He removes his finger and holds Bro up as though he weighs nothing, dangling him above his massive, writhing bulge.

Bro looks behind and beneath him, and makes a tiny, terrified noise. That thing is exactly as big as the rumors say, and although it's probably gonna kill him…  He kinda wants to see if he can take it, just as a personal "fuck you" to Makara. He thinks he can get Bro to break on his bulge? He's got another thought coming.

"Bring it on, asswipe," he growls, bringing his foot up and back, trying to actually kick him in the bulge, like the asshole he is.

Makara smirks and grabs at the chain binding Bro's wrists, looping it around his hulking neck and tangling it in his hair. The slight prick of pain from it pulling tight against his unruly mane just fuels the fire, and he wraps a hand around each of Bro's knees, spreading his legs wide and sliding the tip of his bulge into Bro's waiting nook. He lets out a desperate groan and clutches tight around Bro's waist, careful not to snap his ribs.  He would never forgive himself if he broke his gift from the gods.

Being spread open like that makes Bro jolt and jerk away from the crowd's leering gazes - and back into Makara's chest, unfortunately. He bites down on his bottom lip to keep a moan stifled, even as his nook flutters like it's practically welcoming Makara's bulge home. It's so thick, right from the outset; it feels much bigger than it looks, and he dreads the second their hips actually meet, when Makara's got his bulge sheathed down to the base. It hasn't happened yet, but it's going to, and it's going to be both terrible and amazing, he knows it. The worst part is, he also knows he'll never be able to go back; nobody else is this size, not even some of the adult bluebloods.

He won't beg. He won't. But god, does the slick slide into him feel so fucking good .

Makara holds him there, easing him open gently and slowly but persistently pressing him down onto his bulge.  He stays agonizingly still, his bulge halfway sheathed into Bro's tight nook. Letting out a breath, he brings his teeth down on his other shoulder, leaving another angry mark.

"Feelin good, motherfucker?" he giggles, pleasure and 'voodoos pounding in his skull

Oh god, he wants it, he wants it, he wants it so bad . It's like a switch was flipped in his head and he went from dread to unmitigated desire in less than a second, and it was Makara's voice that did it. His thighs tremble, and the weak, pathetic cry he gives in reply slips out of him before he can stop it. He's so full. He's full, but he wants more , he wants everything .

"Y- yeah, oh, fuck ," he confirms, and it's a fucking whimper , making him duck his head with an unhappy moan.

Makara moans at the desire in Bro's head and slides him further down his bulge, hitting some hard stop and frowning.  He’s not done, he needs more. The tip of his bulge twists slightly, feeling around until... there. He presses forward, slipping behind Bro's seedflap and instantly dropping him down another three inches.  He places his hand on the bulge in Bro's stomach, squeezing his own bulge through the taut flesh and groaning at the sensation.

"Fuckin miraculous," he wheezes. Fear spikes through Bro and Makara touches his mind gently, soothing the worst of it but keeping his autonomy. He needs to feel this one squirm.

When he sinks down, his sharp cry reaches the crowd, earning him another round of cheers and jeers from the gathered trolls. As they pass, the crowd is affected, some of the trolls following their lead and ending up on the ground, every bit as exposed as Bro. The parade turns into an orgy, all concerns of public indecency having flown out the window. Who the fuck is gonna arrest or blame them when the Grand Highblood is doing it right in the middle, where everyone can see? Nobody, that's who.

Bro's back arches, and his head hits Makara's collarbone with a soft thunk , his breath shuddering through him in stops and starts. He's starting to lose his goddamn head, and he can feel that Makara's the source of it, but that doesn't make him any less susceptible to the 'voodoos keeping him compliant. He moans, and it trails into another whimper, his bulge thrashing against his stomach and smearing orange over his skin as he fails to keep himself quiet.

His pride won't let his mouth ask, but his mind unfurls in a plaintive supplication for more.

Makara bathes in the crowd's attention, moaning as he finally seats Bro fully onto his bulge.  It’s been sweeps since a living subject has taken his bulge to the base, and he’s thoroughly impressed. He lets his pleasure flood through Bro, making sure he knows just how happy he is with the show he’s putting on. He wraps his hand snugly around Bro's bulge and gives an experimental shift inside of him, forcing his muscles to relax. As he does, he turns Bro's head, sliding his foot long tongue into his mouth.

His mouth opens easily for Makara's tongue, his teeth coming down slightly in weak nibbles that he can't put any real animosity into.  Makara's happy, and- and- Bro's putting on a good show, and- he-

His mind skips like a broken record, trying to fight the influence, and he shifts in Makara's lap, growling softly into the kiss, before biting down sharply enough to make Makara bleed. He recoils, and hisses, "You don't own me."

Makara throws his head back and laughs, thrashing his bulge hard inside of Bro in retaliation.  He loves a feisty bottom, and this one is incredibly powerful if he’s able to overcome the 'voodoos. They’re going to have a wonderful motherfuckin’ time.

He begins to set a rhythm, twisting and coiling inside of his nook and releasing Bro's bulge.  If he in't going to play nice, then Makara will just use him and hang him up wet. He shoves his fingers into Bro's mouth, coating his tongue with his own slurry and making a point as he opens him from both ends.

"Sure I motherfuckin do. And everyone knows it."  He points with his free hand, directing Bro's attention even as he takes him apart.  A small group of humans in the colors of the rebellion stands at the edge of the parade, gaping at their leader seated on the cock of the Grand Highblood himself.  He waves at them, and takes hold of Bro's mind, forcing him to look to them and smile.

The first thrash gets Bro to cry out, just loud enough for Makara to hear, but it's muffled by the troll shoving his ungodly thick fingers in his mouth. Despite himself, he automatically sucks on them; his mind is still trying to fight the 'voodoos off, and they're just making it so easy to submit. But he won't.


Until Makara overpowers him through sheer force of will, and Makara can feel when Bro's hatred for him really coalesces and solidifies into sheer ebon, like a dorodango made of charcoal. It's at the exact moment that his mouth curves upwards at Makara's command, the smile being forced out of him like it's his own brain telling his body what to do. He's been shunted into the passenger's seat, but he's fighting like hell to regain control, clawing at the edge of Makara's mind.

Makara feels his climax stunted a bit by the fighting in his mind and raises an eyebrow, glancing down at Bro and releasing his mind.

Bro immediately headbutts Makara, using the chain and his arms around Makara's neck to both pull himself up and yank Makara's head down. His head impacts Makara's nose with a nasty crunch. Hell yeah, maybe he broke his nose this time.

To the rebellion members, he screams, "Leave me behind and KEEP FIGHTING!" He leans forward as much as he can, tears in his eyes, because god damnit, he didn't want anyone to see this. He didn't want any of them to see this.

Makara growls angrily at the sudden spear of pain in his face before the 'voodoos calm him back to amusement.  The Messiahs want him to enjoy today, and he won't enjoy a thing if he accidentally rips his new toy in half. He gestures to the City Enforcers, who charge towards the group of humans, rounding up all but a few stragglers and throwing them in chains.  Makara giggles at the rage and desperation in Bro as he continues to fuck him, driving him close to the edge.

And he reaches back into Bro's mind, holding off his orgasm. "Mmmm, I don't motherfuckin’ think so," he growls, holding Bro right on the edge of release.  He finds Bro's pulse and sucks on it, feeling the adrenaline and pleasure and rage pour off of him in waves as he finally tips over. His bulge gushes slurry, and Bro's gut bulges farther and farther, too plugged up with bulge for the liquid to release from inside him.

The hopelessness Bro feels as he watches his friends, his comrades, get rounded up is crushing, and when Makara reaches back into his head, he lets the 'voodoos pull him back under, pleasure coiling in his gut as he forgets why he was even crying in the first place. Probably pleasure!

The denial of his orgasm yanks at him, and his bulge feels like it's cramping; it seizes up while curled in on itself, dripping tiny drops of slurry, but unable to release. Makara's lips on his neck feel like lightning, making him gasp, his head jerking to the side, away from him. The unholy amount of genetic material dumped into his genebladder fills him to the point where he feels like he's gonna burst, and though he can't make himself say it, his mind begs Makara for release, any kind, please .

"Beg me, motherfucker."

Well... At least if he's asked later by his friends, he can say he was under mind control.

"Please," he whimpers, rolling his hips down against Makara's bulge, despite the fact that he's down as far as he can go. "Please let me cum, Grand H- Highblood!"

"Tell me you're mine," he gasps, riding through his orgasm and digging bruises into Bro's weak, fragile hips.

The pain just drives him further up the wall, making him gasp and tremble. "Yours," he repeats, almost dreamily. "I'm yours, I promise, forever . Only yours. Please ."

"That's it," he whispers, and releases the hold on Bro's mind.

The scream he lets out is audible over the sounds of the crowd. His head falls back, again, his back arching as a flood of purple is released from his bulge, Makara's cum flowing out before his own. They mix in a heretical swirl of bronze-y orange and pure purple on the floor of Makara's palanquin, and even after he's done cumming, his genebladder retains some of the mixture, rounding out his stomach around Makara's cock.

Makara sighs happily as the double layers of their orgasms and the climaxes of the crowd ride through him. He releases his hold on Bro, letting him dangle from around his neck as he stands to face the crowd. His legs are streaked with purple and orange, and Bro slips from his bulge as it begins to retract, slurry gushing from him like a fountain as he dangles from around Makara's neck.

"PRAISE BE TO THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS!" He shouts, resting a hand gently on Bro's head.

Bro is so tired. He can barely keep his head up as he hangs, his shoulders straining. His eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and eventually, he just goes limp against Makara, passing the fuck out.


Chapter Text

Bro wakes up on a luxuriously soft platform of some kind.  The pillows underneath him threaten to pull him back under to sleep, but a spike of adrenaline has him jolting awake. He sits upright and immediately moans in discomfort. Some... thing is tucked up inside of his nook, forcing his bulge out of its sheath, and his genebladder is completely full of slurry. He hisses softly in discomfort and reaches down to dislodge the object - and stops short, his hands restrained.  Whatever surrounds his wrists and keeps them together is soft, not resembling the metal cuffs he had worn before in the least, but still firm and unbreakable.

He looks around, trying to get his bearings, and realizes he’s in some sort of consort chamber.  A recuperacoon sits, recessed, in the corner, and there are chains and sex toys on the walls and tables lining the room. His eyes fall to a toy laid out on a nearby table that’s even bigger than the Grand Highblood's bulge. It makes the one in his nook look like a fuckin' pencil , and he can’t help the twinge of panic that runs through him.

He tests out the cuffs on his wrists, and judges that they're probably leather, given their softness and lack of give. They're tied behind his back, but his knees aren't spread with a bar, and his ankles aren't tied down, so he works on getting his foot up towards his nook, sticking his tongue out of the corner out of his mouth. He can get this toy out, if he tries.....

Ah! There we go, he's got his toes against the toy. Now all he has to do is try and get a grip and pull it out. It's harder than he thought; it's pretty slick, and his nook doesn't seem to want to let go- but then he tries to push it out with his nook muscles, and he has a bit more success that way.

At that moment, Makara pushes open the door, a plate of decadent food and a bucket in his hands. He rushes forward when he catches sight of Bro, effortlessly tugging his foot away.

"Whoa, there, motherfucker, don't make me tie the rest of you up, ‘cuz I will."  He places the platter on the bed and drops the bucket to the floor. Placing his hand on Bro's forehead, he reaches out to feel his mind. The Messiahs have left him for a span, as they often do after large favors. He needs contact for his ‘voodoos to work. "How you doin’, my brother?" He doesn't pry for answers - instead he just waits, an open receptacle to Bro's emotions

A wave of exhausted resentment and hatred greets him, and Bro glares at him, huffing a little from his efforts to get the damn toy out of his nook. He makes it known to Makara exactly what he thinks of Bro being owned by anybody, and several graphic scenes of exactly what Makara can do with all of these toys, including - jeez, wow , he really hates him. Bro wants him to choke to death on his own sex toys, to ram them so far down his windpipe that his fuckin' lungs rupture. That's some volatile shit.

"I. Hate. You," he spits, his voice trembling with barely-suppressed rage. "I'll fuckin' kill you."

Makara nodds thoughtfully, removing his hand from Bro's head and reaching up towards the cuffs on his wrists.  He hesitates briefly.

"That's some intense motherfuckin rage you got up in that noggin of yours, brother," he says.  Jolts of anger spike through him as he touches Bro's wrists. "Can't say I blame ya, considerin’ the circumstances all up in here."  He pauses. "I wanna let you get that slurry all up outta ya nook, but somethin’ tells me you ain't gonna be to keen on lettin’ me help ya. I don't wanna drown your thinkpan with the 'voodoos but I will if it keeps you from hurtin’ yourself.  You gonna be chill?"

Confusion is written all over Bro's face, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't caught off-guard by the complete change in demeanor. What's Makara's angle? Where's the ruthlessness and assholery from the parade?

After a long moment where Bro squints suspiciously at Makara, he nods, tersely. He doesn't speak.  

Makara nods, feeling for a lie and finding none. He shifts the plate to a table and releases Bro's wrists, massaging the angry red welts from the metal cuffs he had worn only a few hours prior.  He offers Bro a hand.

Bro's still angry, but confusion and curiosity are quickly threatening to overcome the anger, at least for the time being. Why is he being so nice? He takes the hand when offered, scooting to the edge of the bed and standing up. "We gonna do this in the bathroom, or what?" He gestures to his crotch with a grimace.

Makara chuckles and moves the bucket between Bro's legs.  "Didn't know if you could walk that far." He puts a hand around Bro's waist - even full of slurry, he can still nearly swallow his width with one hand - and runs his fingers lightly against Bro's bulge.  "You gotta relax or this is gonna motherfuckin hurt. Let me help?" He grips the base of the toy plugged up inside of Bro and gives him an almost shy look.

What the fuck. What the fuck??? What the fuck!!

Bro nods again, his trepidation and confusion apparent in the way his jaw tightens and his eyebrows furrow. He grips Makara's shoulder for support. He will absolutely deny it if asked. "Just do it," he grits out, widening his stance to make room for Makara's hand.

Makara reaches out and touches his mind, gentle and questioning instead of the overpowering control he had used the previous day.  He keeps his eyes on Bro, and Bro's legs and lower body go pliant and completely weak. Holding him up effortlessly, he tugs the toy out and allows the gallon of slurry to pour out of Bro's nook into the bucket, not spilling a drop.

He immediately releases his hold on Bro's mind, letting him regain his balance and procuring a silk cloth to wipe the remaining slurry off of his legs. He sits him down on the bed and steps back.

"That better?"

Bro bites his bottom lip to keep his sigh of relief down, but Makara can totally feel it in his head. Once it's all out, he lets Makara sit him down on the bed. None of this is making him less confused. "...why are you being so fucking nice to me??"

Makara raises an eyebrow.  "What do you mean, brother? Someone's gotta take care of you now that you're all owned up by my shit."  He reaches forward and touches the bite mark on Bro's shoulder. "Not gonna let you just lay here in pain, that'd be a pretty sick motherfuckin’ thing to do to a motherfucker. You hungry?"  He plucks the plate off of the table and holds it up, picking up a piece of food - surprisingly edible looking - and offering it to Bro

Bro leans forward, face scrunched up in bewilderment. Nothing about this makes sense! "You just- I- what? No! You're an asshole! You're the fuckin- you're the Grand Highblood , you don't- argh!" He curls his fingers in his hair and pulls at it in frustration. "You don't own me, no matter what I said during the parade! You're a fucking tyrant, and my mission is to- rhgh !" He wants to fucking throw shit! This is not at all what he expected! "You murder shit, you don't- you don't act like this! None of my intel ever indicated that you're at all like this ! What fucking gives?! What's your angle?!"

Makara sighs and sets the food back on the plate, leaving it within Bro's reach. He shrugs and gives him an apologetic grin. "Don't got an angle, brother. I done got born into this station and I gotta do my job. Sometimes the chucklevoodoos get all tied up in my thinkpan and I get so... so angry, and I gotta do what I was born to do. But no motherfucker works all the time. I gotta take motherfuckers like you, gotta own ‘em and make ‘em mine, but I don't gotta make ‘em hate it. Most of those motherfuckers prefer the silence and the fuzzies the ‘voodoos can give, but I can tell that ain't you, brother, and I respect that."

He stands up, towering over the bed.  "I don't wanna tie you back up, so don't go motherfuckin breakin shit or nothin’."  He crosses to the door and stops, turning back to look at Bro. "What's your name, brother?"

This is so infuriating. What the hell? This is just - just a job, to him? But... clearly, he's got some issues. Issues that Bro's going to have to be dealing with, ugh. The worst part is, despite knowing Makara has to go down in some manner in order for the revolution to succeed, Bro doesn't... know if he wants to kill him anymore. He's undecided. Still hates his guts, though.

"...I go by Bro." No way is he going to trust Makara with his first name that quickly. "No promises on the not breaking shit."

Makara grins - a goofy, lopsided thing that makes him look like a kid.  "Fitting, ain't that?" He steps out of the room, the door falling shut behind him with the click of a lock.

Bro reaches out for his sylladex, hoping that they didn't somehow manage to take it from him. It isn't attached to anything so trivial as his clothes, thank god. He’d know if they took it from him, the main node is implanted in the skin between his index finger and thumb, but still. It’s good to check.

He sighs in relief when he’s able to pull up his phone in his Array Modus- because really, while hashmap is fun, he needs the convenience of being able to access anything at any time. The phone plops into his hand, and he wastes no time messaging the rebellion on their secure server. They're... understandably upset about what's happened to him. He is, too. He tells them to keep going without him, to elect new leadership, and he'll handle distracting the Highblood.

They unhappily approve, and he logs off, just as he hears Makara's footsteps outside. He shoves his phone back into his 'dex and busies himself with eating.

Makara opens the door, making a pleased rumble as he spies Bro digging into the food.  He crosses to the bed and sits, watching Bro eat with a distant look on his face and maintaining the happy rumbling sound.  After a moment, he places a hand on Bro's leg, sharing the emotion with him without overriding his own. He catches the ping of nervousness and adrenaline and his brow furrows, but he doesn't pry to find the source.

"I gotta hold court in a few hours, Bro. ‘Til then, I figured you might want something to cover up your mad self with."

He brandishes a set of silken robes, the same deep purple as his blood.

Oh hell no. "As much as purple goes amazingly well with my skin color and hair, I'm gonna give that a hard pass," he mumbles around a mouthful of food. "I'm not gonna be wrapped up in your colors, dude, that's the same as painting a big neon sign over my head saying you own me. I want normal clothes. Shirts, jeans. Underwear."

Why is he so STUBBORN? Can't he see Makara is trying to protect him?  This act of insubordination makes him want to... want to…

Makara takes a deep, measured breath. He carefully severs the mental bond with Bro, so as not to scare him, and sets the robes down on the bed. "No can do, I'm afraid, brother. You gotta dress like a member of the motherfuckin’ royalty, or I gotta put you in chains. You're safer than a wriggler up here in my royal chambers, but I take you out these doors, and my color's the only thing that’s gonna protect your peachy skin from gettin’ busted up something fierce. You can stay up in here ‘til court, I don't have no mindin’ one way or the next, but I just thought you might wanna stretch those legs a yours before all that mess."

He narrows his eyes at Makara. "Not everyone bound to be here is as freakishly immune to swords as you are," he replies coolly. "I can handle myself, Makara. Did just fine for myself until you happened."

Makara shoots him a frustrated glare.  "You don't seem to be full of under-motherfuckin’-standin’ about what's going on here, Bro. You wanna leave this room, you leave it in robes or chains.  Slave or consort. Your motherfuckin’ choice. Lemme tell ya, that's a hell of a lot more choice than anyone else has had. It ain't just about protectin’ you. I gotta protect me and mine, ya hear? And if I gotta bend you with the 'voodoos to do it, I will. You go breakin’ the status flow in this motherfuckin’ palace and we all gonna face the irons. I am the motherfuckin’ irons, and I don't intend to feel my own wrath, ya hear? Now you wanna come and get a look see at your new home or you wanna stay locked in here ‘til your appearance?"

Because Bro's a bitch who can't do anything the easy way, he leans in to get up in Makara's grill, stuffs another piece of meat in his mouth, and says around it, "If you wanna get me to cooperate with you outside of these doors, you're gonna have to make me. My status quo , motherfucker, is that I'm supposed to be the one that killed you, and I've got a fuckin' reputation to uphold. That reputation - and my personal sense of pride and fuckin' dignity - doesn't involve bein' your goddamn consort, and if you wanna get me in chains, I will fight you every step of the way, even if the fight is futile."

Makara reaches up to forcibly submit Bro to his will, and comes to a moment later, his face contorted in rage and Bro pinned beneath him, food scattered across the sheets. He immediately jumps back like he’s been stung, feeling the chucklevoodoos retreating back into the space where they hide in the back of his mind.


He stands without a word and leaves the room, closing the door gently behind him.  Bro can hear his raging shouts echoing down the hallway, and the screams of workers as they scramble to avoid him. Then, it goes quiet.

Completely naked, Bro follows him out into the hall, sword in hand, and screeches, "Motherfucker, come back here and fight me! That wasn't a fuckin' flirtation, it was a god damn promise! Fuck you!"

The hall is filled with blood in various cool shades.  It climbs the walls, coats the ceiling, and pools at Bro’s feet. Corpses litter the walkway, and at the end of the hall stands Makara, club in hand, chuckling eerily.  He turns around and flashes a wicked grin.

"You'd better be gettin back in that motherfuckin room, brother, or you ain't gonna like what comes next."  His voice drips murder, and his eyes stab holes into Bro's mind.

" Weh, weh, not gonna like what comes next ," he mocks, rolling his eyes and grinning. It's not a nice grin. "I don't like anything that comes next, when it comes to you. Motherfucker, I don't like a single damn thing about you. Fuck. You. Do you need any more of an invitation? Do I need to write "fucking pail me" in these fuckers' blood, on my stomach, for you to get a fucking clue? This is a black solicitation!" It's easier to fill that quadrant than figure out whatever fucked up weird feelings he's got for Makara, at this point. He can do hate. Hate is easy. "If you think I'm ever gonna do what you want me to without kickin' up a fuss, you're a fuckin' moron."

Makara shoves probing fingers into Bro's mind, taking control of his limbs and turning him around, forcing him through the doorway and back to the bed. He moves Bro like controlling a puppet, easily looping his pliant limbs through restraints and leaving him there, spread open and exposed.  He grins down at him, dripping blood onto the floor and cackling like a madman.

"BLACK? You think this is fucking black ?  You don't WANT ME BLACK , MOTHERFUCKER.  Now you're gonna play nice or we gonna have a motherfucking FIELD DAY UP IN HERE, and I don't fancy cleanin up your ORANGE BLOOD when I RIP YOU IN HALF."  He leans down, streaking a blood-smeared hand down Bro's chest and wiping the fluid between his legs, like a brand. "I'll be back for you for court. STAY PUT, SLAVE."

And with that, he’s gone. The door hangs open, letting a cool draft blow through the room. Bro is alone.

Fuck! God damnit! Fuck! Shit! Now he's legitimately horny, and Makara doesn't even want him when he's literally telling him he wants to ride his dick? Fuck!

God, the thing he did with the blood was so nasty, and so fucking arousing. Fucking hell .


Makara reenters later to a horny and frustrated Bro trying and failing to fuck himself with his own bulge. He's managed to get it in and get a good rhythm going, but every time he thinks he's gotten somewhere, his bulge cramps, or he gets tired and has to stop. He's been unintentionally edging himself the entire time Makara's been gone.

Makara growls and tugs Bro's bulge out of his nook forcefully, pulling a set of metal cuffs and chains from his sylladex. He clamps a collar on Bro before he can protest and gets to work affixing matching cuffs to Bro's ankles and already-sore wrists. None of the kindness from before can be read in his movements, and Bro can feel the irritation and anger rolling off of him in waves. He clips chains to the cuffs and releases him from the bed restraints, holding the chain in one fist like a leash.

"Let's go, motherfucker.  Time for your first court appearance."

Bro stays put exactly where he is, like a stubborn motherfucker. He glares at Makara. He's not bitter about being rejected, no. He's above such petty things. He's just mad that he hasn't been able to get off.

Makara simply shrugs and starts walking, dragging Bro behind him without even a strain in his muscles to dictate effort. Bro falls to his knees, the chain too short to allow him to stand.

Bro switches positions and digs his heels in, tugging with all his might against Makara's insistent dragging with his hands as well as trying to prevent him from going further with his feet. However, once they get out into the hall, he just slips and slides on the still-wet blood, and gives up with a groan of exasperation. "Asshole."


Chapter Text

Dragging Bro along like a balloon on a string, Makara strides with single-minded purpose to the court block. The crowd jeers as he enters, and shouts as he drags Bro before them. He pulls a deep purple object emblazoned with his symbol out of his pocket and presents it to the crowd before grabbing Bro by the throat and lifting him into the air.

He shoves the object into Bro's nook, his mind pounding with the support of the masses. The blood from the hallway lubricates it enough to slide in easily, but it can’t be comfortable. Bro's bulge hits the air, forced out of its sheath, and Makara breathes in his pain with a giddy laugh.  A pair of indigos take Bro from Makara's hands, buckling him into a spreader bar, on his knees and on display at Makara's feet. On his other side kneels Executor Darkleer, who glares daggers into Bro as Makara rests a blood-streaked hand in his blonde hair.

Bro does his best not to give Makara a reaction, but it's hard when something half the size of Makara's bulge just got shoved with no ceremony at all up his most delicate of places. He can feel it plugging his seedflap. It's very uncomfortable when he can't do anything about it.

Bro glares daggers right back at the Executor. Does Darkleer think he wants to be here? He'd happily let Darkleer take his place, if he could, but noooo , Makara seems to like him too much to let him opt out. Fucker.

Makara addresses the crowd with a booming voice.  "TIME TO PAY, MOTHERFUCKERS. BRING THEM FORWARD."

The first supplicant is a tealblood boy with curly horns, who is tensed as taut as a piano wire. He's clearly just after his adult molt, and avoided conscription by fleeing to Earth and faking his ID.

Makara shifts slightly forward on his throne.  "Motherfucker, you know your crimes, and I know your crimes, and the great MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS know your MOTHERFUCKIN CRIMES, but why don't you be about to share with the whole class?"  He brushes Bro's knee with his foot and a wave of insanity and rage nearly bowls Bro over from the second of contact. Makara doesn't even look down - his energy is entirely focused on the tealblood.

Bro is left shaking and wide-eyed from the brick wall of emotion he just got slammed into. He scoots away from Makara a little to decrease the chances of that happening again.

From the right side of the throne, Darkleer speaks.

"Grand Highblood, if you would like, I would be more than happy to read the list of charges to-"  

Makara cuts him off. "I wanna motherfuckin hear him say it."

The tealblood swallows hard, and bows. "A- avoiding conscription, Your Highness. I offer no excuse. I thought I could get away with it."

Makara tosses back his head and laughs. "Thought you could get away with it! That's motherfuckin’ insulting to me and my ruffiannihilatin’ bros over there. And I DON'T TAKE WELL TO MOTHERFUCKIN INSULTS!"  He explodes to his feet, grabbing the troll by the arm and swinging him through the air, slamming him to the ground repeatedly until the arm detaches from his body and his body goes flying across the block. Makara returns to his throne, no longer seeming to care one way or another about the boy except to use his arm as a pointer.

"Who's motherfuckin’ NEXT?" He’s coated in blood, the teal soaking into his clothes. Behind his loose pants, his bulge writhes. He’s excited.

Eugh. Even the trolls in the block look a bit uncomfortable; the Highblood seems agitated, and that doesn't bode well for anyone present. The next accused steps forward, a rustblood with a pair of horns shaped like arrows pointed inwards, like a target. "Acaste Vemide," he announces himself, his chin held high. "Just get it over with, sir. I'm honestly surprised I even made it in front of you, and that I wasn't culled before I arrived."

Makara lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. "It's pretty motherfuckin impressive. What did you do to get stuck facin’ my glorious self this miraculous day?"

Acaste makes an "ooh" sort of grimacing face, and starts counting in his hands for a long moment, eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. Eventually he looks back up with a look like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and dutifully reports in a sing-song voice, "31 counts of grand larceny, 50 counts of petty and-or non-petty vandalism, 6 counts of unintentional property damage beyond vandalism, aaand I don't think it's technically a crime, but I slept with the Chief Enforcer's matesprit." The Chief Enforcer makes an enraged noise, and Acaste turns with surprise. "Oh, you didn't know about that? My bad, I thought that was why you were after me in the first place."

Makara hears Bro stifle a soft giggle.

Makara giggles back like a kid in a candy store, his demeanor completely changed from the irritation-driven murderousness he’s been displaying. An impressed grin lights up his face, and he places a hand on Bro's head, his amusement coursing through Bro like the world's greatest joke.

"Diiiid you now, motherfucker?" he laughs, observing the rustblood with mirthful eyes. Instead of a giant murder-clown, he holds himself like motherfuckin Santa Claws. "You got some motherfuckin’ guts to come up all in my court block and swing those numbers round my thinkpan.  How long you been causin’ trouble for my friends? How long you avoided gettin’ snatched up?"

Bro can't help the wide grin that plasters itself over his face, the hissing snicker that squeezes from behind his teeth. Honestly, at least half of the mirth is his own, but the expression of it is abnormal, for him. If asked, he'll claim that he definitely isn't leaning into Makara's hand like a cat pleased to be pet.

Acaste grins, rather pleased with himself. "Ain't like I had much of a choice in it, sir! Believe you me, I would be making those numbers bigger if I hadn't gotten caught! I've been evading detection for a good long time, at least five sweeps!" He's barely eight. "And if it weren't for this darn thing, I'd be getting away right about now." He flicks the psionic dampener around his right horn, mostly hidden by his curly hair. "I've got a bit of a boost when it comes to stealth, you see."

"Mother fuck , that's impressive." He gives the rustblood an approving grin, like they’re sharing an inside joke. "How bout you, me, and the messiahs make a little... wager?"

"I'd love that! Worst that happens is that I die, right?" Acaste bounces on the balls of his feet, still grinning. "What are the terms?"

Makara looks around, searching for something, and his eyes stop on the severed arm in his lap.  "You manage to get half this thing up your motherfuckin nook? I'll get rid a that bitchin’ suppressor and give you a fair chance to skip out this block." He tosses the arm at Acaste, and it falls with a thud onto the ground at his feet. "We got a deal?"

Acaste makes a grossed-out face and nudges it with his foot with clear distaste, but eventually shrugs and picks it up. "Sure, I guess. I've fit weirder shit up there. Can I do it, like, behind the throne, maybe, while you murderificate - or spare, I dunno the mood you're in - some other supplicants?"

Makara shakes his head.  "Nah, brother, I wanna see you do it.  Put on a show for the court. Show em what you motherfuckin got."  He grabs the chain between Bro's hands, dragging him to the front of the throne and face-first into his lap.  His bulge slips out of the confines of his pants, only halfway out and already nearly a foot long. The chain he wraps around his waist, and Bro ends up chained an inch from the tip of his bulge as it probes against his mouth.

Darkleer makes a disgusted, angry noise and turns his eyes away from the sight. His face is flushed a deep blue, and his hands clutch the shattered remains of his bow. Makara doesn't even look at him; his eyes are trained on the rustblood, and his hand strokes amusement and arousal through Bro every time he touches him.

Bro has slipped under the waves, at this point, his will eroded to nothing over the constant contact, and he opens his mouth obediently for Makara, sucking the tip into his mouth. He lets it explore his mouth and cheeks, his eyes fluttering shut and his tongue swirling over the sweet slick surface of it. His bulge curls lazily in time with the pokes and prods, his own pleasure pressing up against Makara's in response, like a cat greeting its owner.

Acaste's cheeks flush red, but out comes a bottle of lube from his 'dex, and off come his clothes. While some of the trolls gathered look away, several of the purplebloods catcall, and Acaste flashes double-pistols and a wink, hiding his nervousness. He bends over to pick up the arm and wiggles his butt in their direction, giving them a show like Makara asked. More cheering greets the sight. Then he crouches down, positioning the hand fist-up. He spreads lube over the hand, and spreads his legs, lowering himself onto it with a soft moan that somehow echoes through the block.

Makara groans happily at the sight and the sensation of Bro's mouth around his bulge and grabs him by the hair, forcing his bulge down Bro's throat and thrashing. He suppresses his gag reflex effortlessly with the 'voodoos but slides the rest of his control out of Bro's mind to revel in his response to the treatment.

Bro slides down without protest, and even leans into the 'voodoos as they leave, a tiny audible whine escaping him. His throat works around the bulge in his throat, milking it for all the pre it's worth.

To his left, Darkleer's throat ripples with effort.  His whole body is dusted a light blue, and he can't seem to keep his eyes off of Bro.

As Acaste works the arm into his nook, Makara lets out a chuckle. "Motherfuck, my brother, you got that right up in you so simple like. You might make a better bulge sheath than my new little toy here. Sure you don't wanna stay here with me?"

Acaste flushes deeper, and before he can answer, Bro's eyes snap open, glaring up at Makara. The chucklevoodoos flash in his scleras, turning the white into a rainbow, but his irises and pupils are lucid and livid . Makara feels Bro push into his mind, for a second, snarling a single word:


Makara jolts at the sensation of the 'voodoos reacting to Bro's lucidity. He feels the jealousy and possessiveness course through him and moans, coiling deep in Bro's throat for a moment before pulling out entirely.  He needs to think.

"Come here, motherfucker," he growls huskily, beckoning Acaste to him.

Bro growls hoarsely, glaring up at Makara and struggling to escape his cuffs so he can fucking- fuckin'- fuck! He can't think clearly, he wants to shove himself down on Makara's bulge and give him hickeys he won't get rid of for weeks, how dare he proposition someone else. How dare this other fucker make himself so appealing.

Acaste doesn't dare disobey, keeping the arm in him with sheer force of his nook muscles as he gets up and waddles over. "Yes, sir?"

Makara strokes his thumb down the side of Acaste's face gently, grinning at him happily, and reaches between his legs to tug the arm loose.  It slides out slowly, and he hands it to Darkleer. The Executor accepts it with a swallow, struggling to hold onto it while it's slick with slurry and blood.  Makara gives him another gentle touch and slides his hand up to circle his horn - and crushes the suppressor in his fist.

"Get the motherfuck out of my block, brother," he whispers, just loud enough for Bro to catch it.

Acaste nods and flickers out of existence, blinking out of sight and away from any sort of detection. He's fuckin' gone.

Bro is vindictively pleased, but still angry, his cheek resting against Makara's massive thigh. An undercurrent, a mantra of " mine, mine, mine " surges through his mind, and Makara can definitely feel it through the connection.

Pleased, Makara looks around at the court. "I think that does it for today, motherfuckers."  The chucklevoodoos waver in his mind, and he feels queasy with it. Bro's constant reassurance keeps him planted in reality, but he needs out of the court block. Trying to track down the little rustblood will keep the City Enforcers busy enough for the day, he’s sure, and no one’s going to argue with the Grand Motherfuckin’ Highblood. He unchains Bro from his waist and snaps the bar between his knees.

Darkleer winces at the sound and remains in his place, kneeling beside the throne like he is waiting to be dismissed. Makara does not dismiss him.  He turns and starts out of the court block, his head reeling.


Chapter Text

Bro gets to his feet and follows Makara, ignoring the remains of the bar that are still cuffed to his thighs, except to prevent them from cutting him. He barely glances at Darkleer or the rest of the trolls, his attention on Makara. He looks like a smug pet, next to him, though he’s unaware of it. The plug sits heavy in his nook.

Makara seems to have forgotten that Bro is following him. He wanders the halls of the castle blindly for some time before entering a giant ablution block. The block is scaled to purple-blood proportions, and it’s clear he’s familiar with it, as he’s already halfway to drawing a bath before he takes notice of his actions. He shrugs and poured an entire bottle of - is that bubble bath? must be - into the water, and sinks into the foam, clothes still on. He seems distant and a little lost.

Bro manages to bend over and get the thigh cuffs off (with effort), and once that's over, he follows Makara into the bath, sliding in next to him. There's more than enough room. He lays his head on Makara's shoulder, not saying anything, but trying to reach out and get a grasp of what Makara's thinking and feeling.

Through the contact comes overpowering confusion and pain. The chucklevooodoos are gone, leaving an empty ache in their place. It’s a familiar feeling- that much Bro can read, from the resignation settled in his skull- but it’s no less exhausting and soul-rocking. Makara barely registers Bro's presence. He can feel the heat of the water seeping into his clothes, but can't wrap his mind around why he’s still wearing them. Nothing makes sense, and he just wants to cry. But he can’t. The tears just won’t come. He’s too…. empty.

There's a moment where Bro wants to be angry at Makara, just for existing, and he reminds himself of the shit Makara's done, the shit he just pulled, but...

But he can't. 

He's never really understood what trolls mean by "pity" as a basis for a quadrant, until now. His heart aches and drips with it, bleeds with it, and he makes a soft, wounded noise. He struggles with the cuffs, eventually slipping them off due to the soapiness of the water, and puts them in his sylladex for later. His fingers move on their own to get Makara's clothes off for him.

"I've got you," he murmurs, nuzzling Makara's neck and kissing it gently. He lifts up Makara's shirt, getting it over his horns and off of his listless arms, leaving his chest naked. Then he scoots back and pulls on Makara's waistband, kissing his chest before leaning back and rolling his pants off. The shirt and pants fall over the side with a wet slap, and Bro scoots into Makara's lap, peppering his face with kisses. "You can cry if you need to."

Makara shakes his head, denying himself that simple relief, and takes a handful of soapy water.  He begins washing the makeup off of his face, methodical and slow. Wet locks of hair curl around his fingers, and he wrests them free. Before long, he rests barefaced and hurting in the water. The surface is covered in an oily slick from his makeup, but he doesn't seem to mind.  He reaches out for Bro, pulling him snug against his chest, and breathes in deep and slow, nuzzling into his hair.

Bro's heart feels like it's gonna fuckin' melt in his chest, and he even helps Makara get his makeup off, his soft washcloth (thanks, sylladex) gathering up greasepaint and dead skin. When Makara pulls him against his chest, he doesn't fight, curling up.

"Always like this..." he mutters.  "I'll be fine. Sorry. Feels so empty." The confusion is starting to leave him, and guilt crashes through the bond.  He remembers everything that just happened, and he feels guilty - not for the murder, that’s normal, he’s numb to it - but for hurting Bro. He misses the joy of the 'voodoos and dreads it all at once.

"It's okay," he soothes, tucking his face into Makara's shoulder. "You gotta cry sometime, dude. 'S good for you." He wraps his arm around Makara's neck, holding himself close.

"You ever cry, brother?"

"Yeah, sometimes." He pauses for a moment, then mutters, "Lot more, since I lost my kid. You ever lost a family member? Descendant? He ain't dead, but I can't find him. Might not ever see 'im again."

Makara shakes his head.  "Not really a thing round here, Bro.  I was lucky - got to meet my descendant, keep him outta a mess a trouble, yknow? Highblood privilege. Access to the motherfuckin records on this shit. He lives in the castle." He holds Bro a bit closer when he feels the pain of missing Dave rock through him. "Could help you find him, y’know."

"Don' trust nobody not t'hurt him," he sighs. "He's a free spirit. He'd die if he ended up like me." A slave. "Kill himself, if it didn't kill him first."

"Trust me not to hurt him?" He pauses. "Trust me not to hurt you?"

"....Maybe. On the second one. He's a li'l smartass, he'd piss you off."

"You piss me off, brother.  Haven't killed you yet."

"Nah, that's 'cause you like me too much," he replies, tone smug. "...I ain't scared'a you, not really, but I don't know if I really trust you. Or - hm." He huffs and squints a little, putting his thinking face on. "I am pretty fuckin' wary of you, I guess. You could literally crush me with one hand, fuckin' break my spine or somethin'. That's scary. But like. I ain't scared, really, 'cause you won't. Probably."

Makara grins a little. "Might still, if you push the wrong buttons." His grin fades. "Don't want to, though. Nice to have someone to talk to. Been a motherfuckin long time since I had a decent bit of banter with a motherfucker."

"God, same."

He strokes Bro's back gently, careful not to scratch him. One finger trails between Bro's legs and comes across the plug in his nook. "Want this out?"

Siiiigh. He lets his head loll back against Makara's tree trunk of an arm. When Makara touches the plug, it shifts, and he makes a pleased noise, his bulge reaching down to curl around his finger. "Only if you replace it with your bulge." He lifts his head to eyebrow wiggle, then lets his head fall back down. "Otherwise, no. 'S too empty without."

Makara lets out a small chuckle and raises an eyebrow, a little shocked. "You seem to have changed your motherfuckin’ song, Bro. How ‘bout you and me make a little agreement, hm?"

"Mmmfuck you. You don't own me. Just 'cause you're the best fuck I've ever had doesn't mean that. But sure. Hit me with the terms."

"Well, first fuckin’ shit first, Bro - I wanna know your motherfuckin name.  I like to know where my bulge is goin’. Second, you gotta stop tryin to hide the true words in that thinkpan a yours - you like bein’ owned and you know it.  Like knowin you're motherfuckin mine." He pushed the toy into Bro like punctuation.

The tiny noise he makes echoes in the tile-covered bathroom, and he glares halfheartedly at Makara. He bats Makara's hand away, or, at least, he tries to. "I like sex," he clarifies. "I don't like bein' nobody's fuckin' sex slave, unless it's short term in a roleplayin' environment. I like bein' dominated, not owned."

Makara sighs and moves his hand, stroking his fingers gently all the way up to Bro's shoulder.  He leans in, pressing his lips to the side of Bro's neck and whispering in his ear. "I can motherfuckin feel you lyin, Bro.  You ain't just lyin to me, you're lyin to your motherfuckin self and that ain't no way to be."

Ohhh fuck. Makara's lips and voice send shivers through him, his whole body shuddering. His bulge manages to disturb the water on the surface with how hard it lashes, spreading orange through the water.

"S- stop," he whines. He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. His heart is starting to pick up its pace. He protests weakly, "'M not lying...."

Makara prods at the edge of his mind, prying back the stubbornness gently.  "Say that again motherfucker. Try to mean it."

He clings tighter to it. He has a sense of pride, dignity, even, that just won't let him say it. "Nnnh. Stop the mindfuckery. Whatever I say under the influence isn't true." It can't be true. He won't let it be true.

"Bro," Makara says, staring down into his eyes.  "Ain't no influence to be showin’ you the wicked truth.  But I ain't gonna be draggin’ it out of you." He releases Bro's mind and kisses his neck again.  "You never did give me your motherfuckin name"

"....You gotta give me yours, too, if I'm gonna."

"Not sure that's safe info for you to know, brother, but you wanna know?  I'll tell you. You first."

Bro looks away, suddenly kinda shy. Everyone just knows him as "Bro"; he hasn't gone by his first name since before Dave was born.

"'S Dirk," he mumbles. "Dirk Strider."

"Dirk," Makara purrs.  He peppers kisses on Dirk's neck and rumbles happily - this close, it’s obvious that the rumbling is a deep, broken purring.  "I like that."

Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh no. That's so cute, what the fuck. Fuck. He makes a flustered little sound, pushing Makara's face away gently, and insists, "Now you."

"Mmm, gotta promise me you ain't gonna go spreadin’ this round the castle or to your lil’ motherfuckin’ friends."

"I promise." He's sincere about it, Makara can feel it. He has no reason to, anyways.

"Gonna hafta soundproof your room, though, if you haven't already."

Makara chuckles, and nods. "Got that noted up in my mind, Dirk. My name is-"

"Kurloz, are you alri-" Darkleer comes rushing into the room, his face awash with concern. He freezes in the doorway at the sight of Bro, curled in the highblood's lap and gazing into his eyes.  He pales and clutches at the wall. It crumbles under his hand. "I- my apologies, Highblood, I did not intend to interrupt your... your... you. To interrupt you." His eyes are dark with carefully-hidden emotion. "I'll just be leaving then.  Back to my block. If you need me."


But Darkleer is gone, only a pile of crumbled stone left to note his presence.

Well, then. Bro raises an eyebrow at the pile of stone. What's that dude's problem, anyways?

"Kurloz," he repeats quietly, letting it roll off his tongue. He repeats it, and then again, before he nods. "Pretty. I love it." There's a pregnant pause, before he clears his throat and asks, "Uh. What's his deal? He your ex matesprit or something?"

Kurloz flinches at the question, and discomfort and confusion flicker in his mind.  "I'd rather not motherfuckin talk about it if it's all good with you, brother. Lots of skeletons in that wardrobe and all."  He nuzzles into Bro's neck, and a few hot drops of liquid land on Bro's collar.

He hums, stroking Kurloz's cheek gently and nuzzling his temple. "Okay," he murmurs. "If that's what you want. If you do wanna talk about it, you can. Ain't gonna make you, though." He takes Kurloz's hand, his thumb tracing little circles over his knuckles.

"Let's go back to my chambers. This water is motherfuckin cold." He stands up, picking Bro up effortlessly in his arms, like a doll, and leaves the ablution trap full and his clothes strewn on the floor as he carries Bro to the bedroom.

Bro lets himself be carried, rolling his eyes a little. "It wasn't that cold." Dirk could have stayed longer, at least. Sigh. A thought occurs to him, and he grins. "Can I brush your hair?" It's so tangled. He bets it'll be super soft...

Kurloz lets out a surprised sound.  "I motherfuckin’ guess, my brother. If you wanna."  He steps into the bedroom, placing Dirk on his feet and pulling out a towel the size of a bedsheet and soft as velvet to wrap him in.  He drapes it over Bro's shoulders and digs through drawers, desperately looking for a hairbrush and finding nothing. Turning to Bro, he flashes him an apologetic look.  "No brush."

Bro brandishes a bright orange brush from his sylladex, smiling. "I've got one." It's big enough for their purposes. "No wonder it's so tangled," he tsks, sitting Kurloz down on the floor next to the bed and sitting down on the bed itself. "You don't ever brush. Do you...." He pauses, considering whether it's a good idea to ask. "Not have a moirail to do this stuff for you?" This is pretty pale, isn't it. Whoops.

Kurloz trembles a bit at the question. "I did." The unspoken meaning hangs in the air, thick and heavy.  Kurloz begins to unweave the bones from his hair, placing them gingerly in a pile beside him and finally leaning his head back into Bro's lap. He chuckles a bit when Bro's displaced bulge twisted into his hair.

Fuck, is there anything about him now that won't make him pity Kurloz more? Bro doubts it.

He blushes, sliding the plug out and setting it aside so his bulge can retract. Once he's sure all of the decorative bones are removed, he gets a good handful of Kurloz's hair, starting to brush from the ends inwards. He's patient and gentle, humming under his breath without even realizing he's doing it.

Kurloz starts up his happy purring again and nuzzles into the brush a few times before realizing that it makes the whole process that much more difficult. He sits still for Bro, kneading at the thick carpet with his claws and tapping his foot to the song Bro’s humming.

"Hmmm, hey Dirk?"

"Mmyeah?" Aw, he's like a big kitty, that's so cute. Bro gives his horn a light rub - he's heard that moirails do that, to relax their partners - and returns to the brushing.

"I hate to put a kill on the buzz we got buildin’ in this motherfucker but I gotta go on a trip tomorrow." His purring hitches to a higher pitch as Bro rubs his horns, and his back relaxes.  "Can't bring you along so I gotta trust you to be alone round here without breakin shit or gettin yourself killed. Can a motherfucker trust you or do I gotta leave you locked in here to know you gonna be safe?"

"Yeah, I'll hold down the fort here," he promises. "Sure I can't come with? Is it top secret shit? Or are you gonna see Her Imperious Condescension?"

Kurloz flinches violently.  "Don't say her motherfuckin’ name, Dirk, it sounds like a pile a nooklickin’ filth comin’ out a your squawk gaper. I gotta go dish out some motherfuckin’ justice on some seadwellin shitstains, so unless you fancy getting ripped apart by twenty violets up in your miracle of a nook you gotta stay here.  I'm gonna have Gamzee give you the check in and show you round the place if you promise to wear the motherfuckin robe I brought you."

"I was plannin' on it." Sigh. Part of him likes wearing Kurloz's colors. He wishes he had some proper clothes for walking around in, not just the robe. "Don't really want to fuck things up too badly while you're not here, after all."

"Hmmm good..." Kurloz mutters sleepily.  The sensation of hands in his hair calms his mind, and he can feel himself starting to nod off.

Dirk pats the bed. "C'mon up, let's sleep." It's been a long day.

Kurloz nods and stands, placing the brush on the floor next to the bones. He starts to climb into bed, pauses, and crosses the room to lock the door. He tucks the key away into his sylladex and shoots Dirk an apologetic look.

"Not that I don't trust a motherfucker but..."

"'S fine, whatev." He's already made himself comfortable in the absurdly soft bed, curled up in a burrito of silky sheet and downy comforter. "C'mere. Cuddles time."

Kurloz snuggles up into bed, shyly.  He seems unsure of himself - splitting Bro open on his bulge is natural, easy, but this… this is outside of his wheelhouse. It’s easily been three hundred sweeps since he's had a moirail to hold. He carefully reaches for Bro, pulling him against his bare chest and wrapping him in his body heat.

Bro fits perfectly - alarmingly perfectly. He wiggles a little, getting situated, and mumbles, "G'ni'," before slipping into sleep, easy as breathing.


Chapter Text

Bro wakes to muffled, angry voices.  The door is still shut, but Kurloz is nowhere to be found - or so he thinks, until he hears the now-familiar voice growling from the other side of the door.

"I told you, Horuss, I got a motherfuckin’ place to be and I don't quite trust a brother not to act rash while I'm away from this bitch. Gamzee can do the motherfuckin job just fine, and you gotta stay up in my good mirth by stayin’ the fuck away from this chamber and my slave while I'm not present. Do I make myself motherfuckin clear?"

"Loud and clear, Grand Highblood. My apologies. I was out of line."

"Would you CUT THE MOTHERFUCKIN HIGHBLOOD BULLSHIT, HORUSS, AND TALK TO A MOTHERFUCKER?" His voice booms through the room, even through the closed door.

Ooooh shit. They've definitely got some history. Bro knows well enough from the display yesterday that Kurloz doesn't really like deference for the sake of avoidance or cowardice. 

Does Horuss.... not like him? Is he jealous ?  He might be. Dirk is Kurloz's favorite, and he'll stay that way as long as possible, for multiple entirely good reasons. Horuss can have him back when Bro's dead or gone.  He sits up, the sheets rustling softly as they pool around his waist.

"I'm not sure what you'd like me to say, Kurloz.  I have offered myself to you in this exact... arrangement... in the past.  You insisted you did not need a moirail, and I dropped the issue. I was not aware it was an issue with me, and not the arrangement, that you held.  I will admit, my presence here today was more personal than business, but I can see that it was a mistake to trouble you."

"Horuss, this is different."  

A deep laugh cascades off the marble.  "I thought it was I who clung to self-destruction. What will you do when his short life is snuffed out? Have you thought so far ahead? Or do you do this to punish yourself for him ? To punish me?"

Oh, shit. Bro winces. Now he feels bad for thinking what he just did, about, well. This situation. Damn. He gets off the bed, sliding onto the floor as silently as possible. Finding his robe, he puts it on, folding it around himself and tying its belt tight so it doesn't unfold or slip off.

He wonders, though. Is Kurloz not interested? Surely Horuss would be a better match, if not for the deference thing. He's stronger, larger, and less... fragile. There's nothing wrong with Bro - he isn't going to make this into an ego thing - but it is kind of confusing, why Kurloz would pick him over Horuss. 

"Horuss, you're toeing a MOTHERFUCKIN’ LINE, BROTHER."

"I was just leaving.  I will make sure the chaufferadicators prepare your coach as you like it."  Heavy footsteps pound down the hallway, and the door creaks open. Kurloz shakes with rage, but it’s a clean, lucid anger, not the throes of the chucklevoodoos.  His eyes fall to Bro and he flushes at the sight of him wearing his colors.

"Dirk.  Sorry to wake you.  Had to deal with a motherfucker."

"It's fine," he replies, smiling up at him. He tugs Kurloz down to his level, smooching his cheek and rubbing his horn gently. "Too bad we don't have time for a pile. You look like you could use some time to chill out."

Kurloz moans at the feeling of hands on his horns, and Bro realizes that his bulge is thrashing against the inside of his pants. Something about the energy in that conversation has Kurloz a desperate, horny mess. Now that they’re touching, Bro can read the desperation in him as strong as his anger. The shaking is his attempt to hold himself back and not rip Dirk in half, with his bulge or otherwise. How... interesting.

"Do you think we have time for a quickie, then?" He practically purrs the words, nuzzling Kurloz's neck and nipping it mischievously. He likes to tease; it's nice to know he can affect someone, especially Kurloz, who can so easily control him.

Kurloz trembles at the sensation of teeth against his neck, and picks Bro up, throwing him onto the bed with a growl. He grins down at him and undresses him, first with his eyes, and then with his hands. Leaving the robe draped along Bro's arm, he pulls it open and grabs his knees, pulling him up so that he hangs upside down and shoving his tongue deep into Bro's nook. 

"Oh, f-" Dirk bites his tongue to keep down the cry that almost slips out, his fingers curling in the sheets for a handhold. His bulge is practically shoved out into the open, but he doesn't mind in the least; his nook is full, and that's what matters to him. His hands grasp at the blankets, and he whimpers for Kurloz to keep going.

Kurloz twists his tongue as deep as it can go, stretching Bro open with the force of it, and once he’s satisfied, he drops him back to the bed, shoving his pants down and mounting him. He doesn't hesitate to slide the tip of his bulge inside, moaning loudly as he does.  He’s firm but gentle, not stopping to give Bro time to adjust, but not ripping him open with the force of it. Teasing Bro’s seedflap open and moaning his name, Kurloz slips in the last half foot with a wet squelch.

Bro almost forgot how being so fucking full felt, and he sighs happily, shuddering in relief. It feels like an itch that was just beginning to come on has been scratched before it can become a problem, and it's absolutely divine. His seedflap opens for Kurloz easily, almost sucking him in, the muscle tight around the purple bulge and his genebladder already filling with slurry to eagerly meet it.

Kurloz sinks his teeth back into the angry, swollen mark on Bro's shoulder - clearly a mark that he wants to scar - and writhes inside the tight heat. Bro's stomach distends as he starts to fill with precum, and Kurloz laps at the fresh blood on his shoulder with a cool tongue.

"You're motherfuckin MINE , Dirk," he snarls, thrusting his hips once, hard. He pins Bro to the bed by his throat, cutting off his air supply.  "Say it."

Dirk’s back arches when he's bitten, a sharp cry bursting from his lips, and his bulge slaps against his stomach, smearing orange over his skin. It only gets more agitated when Kurloz wraps a hand around his throat, the orange tentacle curling and uncurling rapidly. Dirk's mind opens up under him, just like his body, and it screams yes, yes, yours, forever, 'til I die, even if he can't say it with his mouth.

Kurloz explodes inside of him, releasing his grip on Bro's throat and digging claws into the bed, shredding the mattress. An unholy noise, like a swarm of insects, tears from his throat, and he shakes, his pleasure pounding through Bro's head as his slurry pulses into, through, his body.

Purple slurry mixed with orange gushes out of Dirk's bulge, and he can't help but cum at the dual sensation of that and Kurloz's orgasm in his head. The moan he gifts Kurloz's auricular clots with is hoarse but heavenly, and he keens Kurloz's name as his nook flutters weakly around him. "Mine," he mumbles, reaching up to grip Kurloz's horns like handlebars. "If I'm yours, you're mine. You have to be."

Kurloz chuckles, sadness in his eyes. "I ain't belonged to a motherfucker in hundreds of sweeps, Dirk.  Might take me longer than this to open up to that wicked plan." He shifts inside of Bro, forcing a bit more slurry out of him and reaches down, taking some of their mixed slurry on his hand. He licks it off, eyes locked with Bro's.

Dirk groans softly at the sight, his bulge pushing out another pulse of slurry of its own accord. "I can wait. God, you'd be fucking worth it." He's gonna miss Kurloz when he's gone. "Don't be away for too long, alright?"

Kurloz's bulge slides out of Bro, pouring excess slurry onto the bed. Bro looks nearly pregnant with slurry, and Kurloz feels a pang of arousal and fondness clutch his bloodpusher. He looks down at the mess they made, purple and orange staining the soft fabric of the robe. He grins.

"You should wear that while I'm gone."  He gestures at the stained robe. "Send a motherfuckin message."

Oh, fuck. He looks down at the mess, and flushes bright red. "It would," he agrees, begrudgingly. "Dunno if it's gonna be very comfortable, though. Do you have another one?" He at least will have to wait until it dries, because no way is he wearing a wet robe. Gross.

Kurloz nods and procures a stack of robes, all in Dirk's size.  He drops them onto the side table and climbs off of Bro with a huff.

"I gotta be gettin out of this motherfucker.  Long as you're wearin’ your robe, no one should touch you.  Can't say the same for the chains though, my brother, so I would be recommendin’ you steer clear.  Don't leave the room without one or the other, or you gonna get your squishy ass killed, and not either of us be wantin’ that scenario. I got my lil’ motherfucker gonna check on you tomorrow, make sure you're fed and watered and not tryin any funny business, so don't give a brother too much grief.  And uh." He pauses. "Keep him outta the sopor, wouldya?"

He listens carefully. He doesn't like the necessity of the robe and chains, but he understands that they are, in fact, necessary. "I will," he promises. "I'll do my best to keep out of trouble, but you know me." He grins and winks. "I'll see you later, Makara. Have a good trip."

After Dirk empties himself out into a pail (with no small amount of embarrassment), he cleans himself up with a towel from his dex and pulls on a robe. On goes his collar, for good measure, but... well... He kinda likes it, not that he’d ever admit it. Something about collars and other restrictive gear makes him feel secure, and safe. It's a nice feeling.

He heads out into the hall cautiously, his bare feet making soft noises on the stone floor. The hallway has been cleaned since yesterday, thankfully. Bro has no idea where the kitchens are, and his tummy's a-rumblin', so he searches until he finds it.

The kitchen is full of hustling bronzebloods, who flinch away from him when they see the color he's wearing.  None of them speak directly to him until the head of the kitchen, a man with enormous horns, shows up, carrying a platter of food. He sets it down and eyes Bro.

"Hungry, are you?"

"Yes," he replies bluntly. This dude has a huge rack, heheh. Heh. He sticks out his hand to shake. "And you are whom?"

"Name's Torkai.  You must be the new pet.  Hope you last longer than the last one."  He stares at Bro's hand, but doesn't touch him.  "What do you eat? Got a fully stocked kitchen."

Well, that's kinda rude. And the pet comment is.... Whatever. Bro drops his hand. "I'm Bro. Anything is good, honestly. Y'all seem pretty busy, so I don't wanna take up too much of your time. Just point me at whatever's not off-limits."

Torkai looks pointedly at the purple robe, raises an eyebrow, and gestures at the entire kitchen.

...Right. Deep breath. "...Alright." He shuffles over to the pantry, getting out of the way of anyone who crosses his path. Eventually he gets a meat and cheese platter arranged for himself, and tells Torkai he'll give the plate back later, wandering off into the halls. It's... uncomfortable, being deferred to without having earned people’s respect. It's all fear. Bro already dislikes it; no wonder Kurloz hates this job.

Dirk wanders the halls of the castle mindlessly, nibbling on his food and secretly a bit pleased with how delicious it is. Those he passes either whisper to each other or ignore him completely. None of them will touch him. He steps towards a tealblood suddenly, to test his theory, and she about leaps out the window to avoid him.


After an hour of random twists and turns, Bro finds a staircase that leads downwards. It’s dark and silent, and his adventure senses tingle a bit. Still carrying the plate of food, he follows the staircase downwards.  His eyes take longer than he would have liked to adjust, but eventually he realizes he’s found his way to a prisoner holding pen. He turns around slowly, taking in the rows of cages, and realizes with a start that the cages lining the far wall are full of humanoid figures. Walking forward, he focuses on the creatures. His blood runs cold.

"Strider?"  His right hand man, Jake, sits hunched in the cage, eyes boring into his with a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck, no. His fight or flight instincts kick in, and he... freezes. He nearly drops his platter, which honestly would be not the biggest tragedy here, but a tragedy nonetheless.

"Jake?" He swallows, mind racing as he tries to figure out how to reassure him - them - that he's not on the Condesce’s side, but... there's really no way to make this look good. Like, at all. At all .

"I have absolutely no excuse. But I am gonna get you out of here."

"Are you..." Jake rises to his feet, grabbing the bars of the cage.  "Is that a fucking COLLAR, Dirk? The robe is enough, but a collar? They've turned you into a prim and proper pet, and you expect me to believe that you're going to flounce on out of here and bring back a locksmith?"  He spits at Bro's feet. His eyes are fire. "It was bad enough to watch that... monster... at the parade, but to think that you... you liked it?" Jake bares his teeth in a painful grimace. "It's good we told the resistance you were dead. It's better that way."

Dirk takes it silently, because he deserves it, even though his dignity is now as broken as his heart. He doesn't justify himself to Jake, because he can't. But he can let Jake leave, and do the good that Dirk can't do, now. Not without leaving Kurloz behind, and he… can’t. Won’t.

"You're right," he says, in the flat tone of voice Jake knows he uses when he's trying not to let anything show. His face is just as blank. He goes over to the wall, searching for the ring of keys that'll get his... ex -comrades... out of here.

Jake watches him warily as he retrieves the keys. "And what do you propose we do, Strider?  Waltz on out of here like we own the place? I prefer being caged only slightly more than being dead, but there is certainly a preference.” The prisoners echo their agreement.

"The benefit to being the Grand Highblood's pet, as you so pleasantly put it," he replies, "while he's out-" jingle jingle go the keys. "I can do whatever the hell I want until he gets back, and nobody's gonna have the balls to stop me. Nobody'll even fuckin' talk to me." Like he deserves. He stifles a sigh, and lets Jake out first.

"Just tell them I'm being mind-controlled or something when I'm publicly flogged for insubordination," he tells Jake, a small, sad, tired little smile on his face. "It's only true half the time, but." Shrug. "What can you do, I guess."

Jake stares him down, his face awash in pain. He steps out of the cage and snatches the keys from Dirk's hand.

"I had always thought, after all this was over, we..." He grits his teeth. "But I guess that doesn't matter. I thought I meant more to you than this. I was clearly wrong." Jake pops the locks on the cages, carrying two heavily injured rebels on his back and supporting a third. He looks at Dirk, all business.

"How are you so sure we won't be killed as soon as we step foot out of this madhouse? Your oh so elevated status cannot protect us out there."

"I can't leave and cover you. He'd tear apart the city looking for me if I did," he replies. "I'd be a liability, at best. Do you have your sylladexes? Strife specibi?"  He can’t tell Jake that… that… well. It doesn’t really matter anymore.

Jake laughs dryly. "Dickens, Dirk, you think they left us with our things? We're sitting ducks out there. Unless you have a way to contact the damn resistance and send backup, this is a fucking suicide mission. For us, anyway."

"I'll find them," he says, ignoring Jake's cynicism and sarcasm. Jake wants to hurt him, wants to fight, for once. His energy would be better spent on fighting his way back to the base.  "And yes, I do, actually." He pops his phone out of his dex and into his hand, taking a quick headcount and messaging the members of the resistance that aren't captured to come as backup. They ask for Jake's confirmation, since Dirk is no longer entirely trustworthy. Dirk logs out and hands Jake the phone. "Here. You tell them the deal while I go get your shit. Try to keep the shit-talking until you get home, yeah? Since this is time-sensitive." He heads back up the stairs.

While he's walking, he uses the wardrobe function of his sylladex to stow the robe- but keep the collar- and change into his favorite jeans and polo match. The shirt collar, he pops. His feet? In Converse- uncomfortable, but stylish. He styles his hair with his fingers into an appropriately spiky 'do, pops the trademark shades on, and feels...

Well, he still feels like a pet. But a more rebellious one. He feels more like himself.

Dirk makes his way down the hall, and the eyes on him now are heavy. No one averts their gaze, and the collar around his neck is a magnet for attention. He makes it roughly a hundred feet before some blue-blooded asshole pins him against a wall.

"Mmm, looks like the barkbeast is off his leash..." He growls, dragging a pair of sharp teeth along Dirk's jaw.  "Not so hands-off, now, are you? You made a mistake, pet, and I'm gonna teach you just how bad of one." The trolls in the hallway whoop and holler, crowding around the pair as the indigo tucks a claw under the hem of his shirt and shreds it clean off.

The collar's still on, and Bro tilts his head a little, before shoving a sword into existence inside the dude's ribcage. It just jumps straight into existence from his sylladex into the indigo's heart. "I'm just as hands-off as I was. I don't need the Highblood to handle me twenny-four seven, sweetheart; I've been handlin' myself pretty good so far."

The indigoblood spits blood down his chin, dropping to the ground at his feet with a gurgle.  In an instant, more trolls are upon him, claws and fangs bared.

Bro is exactly the badass he was before all this happened: he is a force of nature. He is a lightning-quick swordfighter, incapacitating, hamstringing, and straight up murderificating pretty much anyone who comes for him. The residents of the hall who don't come for him or are running away, he spares, but anyone who makes a move at him is dead meat almost as soon as they lunge.  He is covered in troll blood, shirtless, and best of all, he feels alive .

A loud voice bellows down the hallway, shocking Bro to a stop.

"WHAT IN THE BLAZES IS GOING ON DOWN HERE?"  Trolls part before the hulking figure of Darkleer, who rushes Bro and picks him up by the collar. 

Bro goes limp in Darkleer's grip, because he knows Darkleer could snap him like a twig. "Self defense, sir," he says dutifully. "I was randomly assaulted in the middle of the hallway, despite wearing my collar, as I was told."

Darkleer glares at him, clearly enraged. "Where are the highblood's colors?  Where did you get this... filthy fabric?" He pinches the edge of Bro's pocket, watching a drip of cool-hued blood drip to the floor.

"It's denim. Have you seriously never heard of denim? Also, the highblood's colors are here, duh." He points to the collar. "He said collar or robe, and I chose collar."

Horuss made an affronted noise.  "He also told you that walking the halls in a collar without his colors would lead to an unsavory ending, did he not? He seemed quite lucid when he departed.  I can't imagine he would have forgotten that tidbit, as he seems quite... fond. Of you." Before Bro can answer, Darkleer straightened up, noticing their audience.  "Come. We need to talk. Elsewhere."

He takes off, snatching Bro's sword from his hand and leaving it sticking out of a corpse.  A warning.

After some time, they enter what looks to be a smaller, less elaborate bedchamber. It’s neat and organized, except for the worktables along the far wall. Multiple projects in various states of completion sit upon it. Darkleer grabs the chair from the desk, places it gently in the center of the room, and drops Dirk unceremoniously into it.

"What were you thinking?"

Hm. Very nice bedroom. Horuss likes to keep things tidy, apparently. Alright.

"I was thinking," he says, "that I wanted to be an independent person for a fuckin' single day, and havin' only a god damn robe coverin' my junk isn't really my jam. Havin' the robe on top of my polo an' jeans doesn' look badass. Plus, I can handle my damn self. I was doin' pretty good, until you showed up."

Darkleer drops his head to his hands, letting out a dramatic sigh.  His face is a stormy ocean. "Listen, um... What was your name? It would be rather... uncouth of me to simply call you 'slave,' despite that being your station, I believe."

"Thanks for the consideration," he says, dryly. "I go by Bro. You can call me Strider, if you feel like Bro is too weird for you."

"Strider.  Alright. I will be blunt - the scene that you just made is going to take ages to clean up, and I am not referring to the blood.  You have caused quite a stir in your short time here. Now, I know Kur - the Grand Highblood - and I know that he makes decisions frivolously sometimes.  His decision to keep you does not appear to be a frivolous one, and it would be in your best interest to respect the situation you find yourself in. You should have been killed. You still could be killed.  And I would not weep for your passing." He looks up and catches Bro's eye.

"I would not, but The Grand Highblood would. And you are making it very difficult for me to ensure your safety while he is away. Until you are more well-known in this castle, wandering the grounds without the Highblood’s colors makes you look like nothing more than yet another human consort. And when you DO wear his colors, every action you take reflects back on him.  This... tantrum, that you are throwing, is going to take days to smooth over, an I will not be the one to answer to the Condesce if she chooses to come see what the commotion is about. Do you understand what I am telling you?" He leans forward, his sneering face inches from Bro's.

"I am telling you that I do not care for your life in the slightest, but I care for the Highblood. If killing you would protect him, then I would not hesitate. I know you do not want to be here, and that is unfortunate for everyone involved, but you are here, and if you put him in danger, you will no longer be anywhere. Understood?"

Bro listens, impassive.  And then, he says, "I'm gonna die, aren't I." He is so fucking screwed. Please let Jake and the others escape.  

"Look, I-" Deep breath. "I care about Kurloz, too. I do. I really fuckin' do. Dunno why I do, it’s not like he’s given me a whole ton of reasons to. I think I pity him?" Dirk shakes his head, scowling and getting onto his feet. "But I think you need to understand that my loyalties have not ever, do not, and will not ever lie with the Empress, or anyone who works for her or loves her. She's a fucking monster, and I will gladly die if it means she does. My first priority is my people. Your first priority is Kurloz. I respect that." Another deep breath. "He's going to be really fucking upset. Even if I don't die, he's going to be upset with what I've done."   God, he hopes Jake and the others have gotten out of the mansion and to backup by now.

Horuss growls.  "Do you think I spare any love for the Condesce? She is an impassioned monster, so detached from lesser beings and their lifespans as to see them as playthings.  However, she is also the most powerful creature in this universe, and as long as I am here, working for her, I must obey her or die. I'm sure that's something else you can respect.  I care for my people, but I can help no one if I am dead. I can help even fewer without The Grand... Kurloz. Without him, I have nothing. To answer your question, no. You are not going to die. Not now. But if you do not swallow your pride and stay within the bounds that are set for you, you will certainly perish, and there is nothing I or Kurloz can do to prevent that.”

"And yes.  He is going to be VERY upset.  Worried. Furious. I will do my best to keep him lucid, but I cannot guarantee the safety of anyone in his vicinity when he returns. I would recommend you stay in his chambers that day until I have calmed him down."

He nods. "Okay." He extends a hand. "I'm not gonna say sorry for what I did today, but I accept the consequences, and full responsibility for my actions." Haha, wait until Horuss finds out exactly what he did. He's so screwed. "No more "tantrums.”  A pause. “It's Dirk, by the way. I figure that it's only fair we both know each others' first names."

"If I share my name with you, you may not refer to me as such unless we are in private - either my chambers or Kurloz's."  He refuses to refer to their shared bedchambers as Dirk's as well.

That's fine, Horuss can be jealous all he wants. "Alright, Horuss. I can do that." Smirk.

Horuss jolts back.  "Excuse me? Where did you..."  His shock turns into anger. "If you refer to me with anything less than my title in the presence of others, I will be forced to kill you to maintain my honor and position.  I feel it only fair to alert you to this point."

Bro snickers, and then doubles over with laughter, snorting in between giggles. That was fuckin' priceless. He gives Horuss a thumbs-up to indicate he heard, because he's still busy wheezing. What a little bastard.

Horuss glares daggers into him, rising to his feet.  "Are you quite finished?"

Bro nods, trailing off into giggles, then snickers, and then calm. He cleans himself off with a towel, and then puts the robe from earlier on. The clean one, that is. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks. Sorry, that was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I'll be super formal in public, I promise. Is there any way I can help you smooth this out?"

"Yes, there is.  Stay out of trouble. Wear the highblood's colors. Act recalcitrant and chastised, at least, and I will try to spin this into a true moment of defense. Most of the witnesses are dead, and the rest are easily bribed." He sighs and hangs his head. "I'm going to be working overtime for weeks."

"Sorry, dude." He pats Horuss's shoulder gently. "I'll do that." Little do they know...

After much kowtowing and acting apologetic and airheaded, Bro finally gets to go back to his room, and he entertains himself with sewing Kurloz's color into all of his shirts, as well as his symbol, all big and obvious. He'll get Horuss to approve it later. For now, he sleeps.